3/7

      He was scared. Nowise was he going to admit that, on pain of death, but the mere sight of that cat put him in a cold sweat. He sniffed the smell out the second he sat down at the table — more precisely, the second he was seated at the table; the ginger beast must have discovered him even sooner.     He also disliked Queen Ingrith — and he knew he was not alone in that.     Humans really smile quite differently — and one should count on a raven to catch that. The pretence on the aging pale face was as visible as on paper: her lips curled as they uttered disgusting things, and the raven was sick. How come no one else was having a dreadful knot in the pit of their stomach? He glanced at Mistress, whose composure was also bursting at the seams; he glanced at Aurora, who understood nothing — but what was there to understand? Poultry on the dishes, iron cutlery, a cat promenading literally behind him, all these terrible passive speeches… The queen was ready to tear them to pieces, no less. And only Maleficent began to realise it.     How heinous. The fried meat smelled unpleasant — although few would believe the scavenger. The seat he was clutching with one hand — the other was holding the goblet to convulsively slurp from — was covered in furballs. Their owner jumped right onto the table, dangerously close. Queen Ingrith and Maleficent were aiming: a sharp eye against a sharp tongue.     It all happened quick. He only had time to consider recoiling from the cat, and pacifying Maleficent, and quenching the emerald flame under her palms, and pecking that Queen Ingrith's tongue unless she bites it—     —and the flame engulfed everything. And the king collapsed.     He peeped at Aurora clinging to King John, at her stunned face. Maleficent tried, she tried, of course, to no avail — nothing good was coming out of this. Another second — and he was a raven whizzing through the newly broken stained glass.     He loved the girl. Of course. Of course. But right now — right now Maleficent, his mistress rushing towards the ocean, needed him. Together they would fix everything, he just simply needed to overtake her as she was flying towards the sea, he simply needed to, needed to—     —and suddenly he was falling, falling, falling.     Screaming.     The wind whistled, and the bird plummeted as if never taught to fly, like an arrow fired incorrectly. He fell headfirst, crashing into—stumbling over—leaves, dust, his own body.     He was a human.     Why was he human? Why did she turn— she couldn't have turned him. Something was wrong.     Diaval leaped up, but nothing could be seen behind the green hedge. Even as he climbed higher, leaden heavy black skies stared back at him. Mistress… she disappeared. There was no silhouette of her wings ahead, not even to the side — there was nothing, nothing at all, save for pitch black emptiness, save for clouds and dark waves — and not a trace, not a trace of her, as if she had never existed.     But he was a man. Something must have happened to her.     He couldn't sprint to the sea — it was far, beyond the maze, beyond the fence, miles ahead — but run he did, and something wet smeared across his face. He tried to shout — mistress! mistress! come on! — but she never answered. He called out her name like a spell, but the silence rang in the air like a stretched bowstring of a crossbow. If she fell into the water, he would never reach her. He was a bird, he could not swim, he could not pull out, if something dumped her, he — he could not help her, could not even find her, but if she was there — if she was drowning right now—     He was alone. The royal castle loured like a Devil's throne, formidable and militant, behind him; the inky sea raged and roared before his eyes. The wind threw his disfigured cloak from side to side making it pick up the gusts and cover his face, as if trying to knock Diaval to the ground. He wanted to fall himself. Aurora was abounded to her enemies, and he would not be allowed back. His mistress — mistress, Maleficent, queen, sister, beloved — she — where was she? He was a human. Was she gone? She may be gone. She couldn't, but what if she was? If she was gone…     Alone. He plodded to the Moors, cursing the cloudy weather, and this day, and his life, and his helplessness. He endeavoured returning to the sea — surely if he plunged, even with grave darkness underwater, he could still… but he walked. The Queen left the Moors, and their guardian… He was alone.  

***

      Aurora returned in the dead of the night, when he had already scoured and sweeped all corners of the Moors. It made no sense. She was flying to the sea — he remembered her wings flapping far ahead the first twenty? thirty seconds? She would not have reached the Moors even if nothing had happened. She couldn't be here, wish he that as he might. Yet not a single acre remained unchecked; his hands and back were burning from climbing trees, in vain.     He begged the queen to stay — he needed at least someone — but Aurora returned in the dead of the night only to stay for a few minutes. She learned of Maleficent's absence and forthwith decided to go back to Ulstead.     He had hardly ever been that angry with her.     They had a quarrel. He refused to hear anything about Ulstead and was ready to lie down in front of her horse if necessary. The girl played deaf: she spoke of Phillip, of the cursed king, and blamed his mistress. He retorted that this was nonsense, that they know Maleficent and know that her spells are not cast wordlessly. He himself was clinging to this thought: she was innocent, Queen Ingrith was lying. All these speeches: about a witch, about a child — did she truly find Ingrith clueless? She ferreted everything out, she provoked Maleficent on purpose, the spell was rigged and now nothing will stop her — Aurora objected to the statements, but he did not let her interrupt him — nothing will stop her from striking the first blow. And to remain in the enemy's lair when your people are in danger, when the main protectress of the Moors… was missing, gone, vanished — is the worst betrayal a ruler is capable of.     His voice broken, he echoed that it was his duty to protect her, which was impossible with her being so reckless. Except the mind instilled: defending your mistress was your duty as well, and look how that went. The girl wouldn't listen, and he gave up. Burying himself in her shoulder with her soft arms around him, he beseeched her to beware, to keep an eye out, not to succumb to anything; she uncertainly bleated she was going to be alright. Hands would not obey — the girl was one step from disappearing into darkness, like his mistress, like his love, leaving him alone, on two legs, forevermore. Aurora broke her embrace first, mounted her horse — and her white figure melted in the distance to blur completely — Diaval's eyes were wet, and his world got dim.       He wanted to find Balthazar, to tell at least one soul, to seek advice, to flay his skin. His soul longed to soar and inspect every inch of land until he would find a winged figure, smell flowers, until he would catch the starlight of green eyes. But skies were black with coal and tar, and the Moors were asleep, hiding from the thunderstorm, deaf to his silent pleas. His throat was sore from all the screaming and shouting, from raising his voice at Aurora — for the first time in his life — and breathing through his mouth. His heart stuck there, beating wildly, ready to slip and fall, bloodied, in his palm. Would he feel it if she died? Or was he feeling it right now already? If she was alive, what should he do now? If dead, what should he ever do in this life?     The roots of the old tree, which had been his home for many years, served as a lodging place: from there he could see Maleficent's Rowan Tree, and he pierced it with a gase, seeing what was not there, until his eyelids dropped by themselves. And still, he woke up with a start in the middle of the night to the rustle of a gray drizzling rain and could sleep no longer.  

***

    It was the new routine. He would think she was dead. But then he would ponder how impermissible and unworthy it is of him to think so if she was still alive, and he would try not to. To no avail.     It would be much easier to live, he mused, if they could communicate mentally. He would have summoned her and waited for an answer like providence — not much better of a fate, yet not as desperate as sitting at a loose end, straring into the void hoping for a miracle. And the feeling that he hears her voice somewhere would have leastways some explanation.       Conversing with pixies was useless and humiliating, and Diaval came to Balthazar. He did not waste a minute and, formidable and silent as ever, promised to inquire into all the talk that was in the air. Trees grow everywhere, after all, and their connection could help. And wouldn't it be a good idea to calm down, because the wise phlegmatic spirit of a magical creature, as if having already seen everything in the world and twice, could comfort anyone — yet his hands were still shaking and his head was buzzing. Diaval awaited news from Ulstead, but neither a messenger, nor a letter from Aurora, nor a handful of soldiers to arrest the evil sorceress' henchman reached him. Of course, there were no flapping of wings behind his back either, as well as conversations, or disputes, or smiles, or transformations. He had been human for over a week.     Notwithstanding, the weather was jarringly good, and he tried to console himself with it. The weather, he noticed, always had some connection to his mistress. But in the evenings, when the bloody sun set over the horizon losing the last remnants of warmth, and the first stars sprinkled on the darkening sky, he desperately wanted to howl.  

***

    Aurora was getting married. Diaval sullenly wondered whether she had thrown his words out the window altogether, but the anger was petty, superficial, and therefore fleeting: one look in the eyes of Queen Ingrith would have been enough to see her direct intervention in everything that was happenning…     The pixies, buzzing and whistling, were attaching feathers to the collar of his miraculously unaffected camisole, nagging about him needing to sleep and eat more, because his face was sallow. Diaval, on the other hand, caressed the feathers that once belonged to him with a mute gaze. One wretched week — and nothing but the dull pain in all limbs suggested that it's not always that he walks on two legs and grabs objects with fingers. Why did he become human when Maleficent's magic was gone? He thought about it at night to no conclusion, or rather, he did not like the conclusion he came to.     The pain was equally frightening, yet absurdly encouraging — maybe he wasn't a man at heart, and Mistress was simply far away and her magic was working in peculiar ways. The explanation sounded flimsy at best, but he gripped it the same way he would grip a branch with his claws, or with his beak — someone's dainty fingers.  

***

    He was angry, which was good — that was, at least, a feeling.     Never before had he had to climb a steep wall, but there's a first time for everything.     He had never seen any other winged and horned fairies before, either, but that didn't matter. They all looked great — some with feathers as bright as rainbow itself, some as black as his own wings — and yet none of them looked like… She was not there… But such a coincidence could not just happen; he knew, he allowed himself to believe that she was somewhere there and, gawping like a boy, flounced in search, unable to take wing.     And then shots rang out. The fairies began to disappear, as if a red cloud took them along and turned them into nothing. The earth was shaking underfoot, the air smelled of metal, fire and dust. Diaval could do nothing again, and his mind was racing. Was he looking for Aurora? Was he looking for his mistress? Was he looking for anyone?     Whoever he was looking for, he did not find them — he was found. Sweet Aurora pleaded for help, and he tried with all his everlacking might to break the door of the chapel, clouds of red smoke hovering over its windows. Diaval was choking at the thought that half of the Moorfolk were now on the verge of life and death — and then he was choking from being thrown to the ground. Half a dozen warriors coming from nowhere decided that he was the most dangerous creature on earth and piled all their pounds of metal on his back, knocking him face down. Dirt and grass got into his mouth, unabling any movement, any breathing, and they pressed harder and harder, and l—     —and he began to grow. At first he understood nothing, and then there was no time to understand. He despised these guards, and that was the end of it, and he was ready to shatter and shake each of them out of their armour like a gift from a box, and break down all the castle walls, not to mention the suffocating chapel, because if he was a bear — if he was shifted — then magic — then Maleficent — his mistress — was here, alive, alive! He tried to look up, letting magical creatures through the gap in the wall, but he saw nothing in the dazzling radiance of the sun. He only felt magic — evil, green, so be it! — permeating the air, and seemed to breathe easier.     When he did see her, he fell in love all over again. Sparkling in her jade glamour, the fairy rushed to knock down enemy fortifications, ropes and hooks; the red flowers of death were blooming left and right, but she seemed immune to them, inviolable. Like a dart, her figure crashed into the top of the tallest tower, and he lost sight of her.     And then scarlet sparks rained down from the bastion—     And he became a man—     —and lost his heart.     He dug his nails into the ground, squinting futilely toward the white keep, and seemed to hear Aurora's screams from there — or his own.     Now this was the end. He felt, like never before, magic in his body — only because it was slowly disappearing, as if flowing out during bloodletting. There was no magic, their last connection, there was no mistress, his best friend, his companion, mother of this beautiful girl who remained there, alone with this bloodthirsty — he rose to his feet — he had to reach her — no more of his beloved, his life, his very heart — he stepped forward, gaping at the scattering cloud, and could not even breathe, as if before he had breathed only her.     Hair came in his eyes, and he felt sick, and, when it seemed that his legs would break down and collapse, something in his heart blossomed.     He lifted his head to witness a large black spot absorbing everything around. He squinted — again there were sparks in his eyes, and hotness, and water — and saw a bird.     Of course, goddamn it. Leave it to her to turn into a huge phoenix at the very last moment.     He looked at her the same way he had looked five years prior in the King Stefan's throne room at her winged, beautiful, magical figure, at the triumph of justice and beauty, once again feeling his heart melt in admiration and relief. He tried to see the black wings, the wriggling tail, and the face — a bird! she's a bird, damn it, she'll never hear the end of it once she gets here, and he'll hug her, he had to hug her to make sure she was alive, or else—     She was falling. Why was she falling?     Aurora. Aurora was tumbling down.     Not again — just like the last time, only then it was he who caught her as a dragon — why does the poor girl always fall from towers — catch her, Maleficent, please don't crash—     The raven rushed towards them with newfound strength — and then rushed away to save his own life. Like a comet, Maleficent went prone, and in a second all around Diaval was dust and grass. Coughing, stumbling, heart in his throat, he ran to their collapsed — but alive — please, be alive — bodies.     Phoenix fluttered her wings. A bush of blond hair emerged from under the inky feathers. The winged fae slowly, with genuine reverence, proceeded to bow their horned heads to the magnificent bird. Diaval exhaled. He's had enough for today — and for whole life in advance. Three times a week — three times in one week his heart toppled into the abyss. He longed to cry, either from happiness or from nerves. And to sleep. But first, to hug both of them.     She said she missed him. He dared not answer anything serious. But his hands were trembling, and, perhaps, his face was swollen, otherwise the fairy might not have noticed. He read it on her face: she was about to ask — but they were separated: it was time to declare peace in the whole wide world, and the kingdoms' unity, and to sign papers, to restore the ruins, and to turn despicable queens into goats. The latter the servant still didn't consider quite enough.     But everything Diaval was planning to do, he did — later, at the lovebirds' wedding, postponed, since no one had the heart to celebrate so soon after the death of dozens of Fae. But one good thing about weddings is that it was not shameful to cry, not strange to watch his mistress smile and to smile in return, knowing she was real and standing right here in front of him. So he dropped a couple of tears. He hugged Aurora — eventually he was even allowed to dance with her, albeit not clear on what grounds, but everyone was clearly very moved. And he hugged Maleficent, too.     Very tight, apparently, because she had to ask if everything was fine.     The raven shook his head a little fanatically and loosened his grip ever so slight. But he did not let go, and neither did she. Three times a week, he breathed into the crook of her neck — and then she herself held him tighter.