Maleficent & Diaval: A happily ever after?

One-shot :)

So be it.

Green flames sweep her up into their familiar embrace, and then she's gone.

There are more things I have to care about.

———

'Have you seen her?'

'No one has.'

'And that bird of hers?'

'Circling up above the Moors.'

Diaval caws from the skies, scattering the muttering crowds like they're clusters of mice fearful of being eaten. He's awfully protective of his mistress; everyone knows that, the way he stands guard at night, as sleek as the darkness itself. The way he circles near her whenever she's on the move, gliding soundlessly — the Moorfolk are neither blind nor dumb. It hardly takes effort to guess that where their guardian goes, her loyal pet follows, too.

Which is really helpful, considering no one has seen Maleficent in days.

"The borders." Balthazar finally grunts, after staring into the sky for ages. "The raven circles near the thorns. She must be near the borders again."

The borders, those terrible thorns of Maleficent's that loom high above them, stretching into heavens that used to be so near, but are now further than ever. Thorns that are impenetrable, every bit as prickly as the ones that surround their guardian's heart, draining blood from it with every puncture hole ingrained into the scarlet of her heart. No one ever dares to stray by the borders anymore, for fear that all the darkness radiating from the spikes might somehow find a way to bury itself into them.

No one except Maleficent.

The faerie seems to find comfort in wandering by the thorns. The darkness of the brambles are harsh against her pale skin, the skin of the Fair Folk, and yet when she leans near, they seem to align with the angles of her cheekbones, the sharpness that always made her feared. Once, she might have believed that it was reverence, but—

It was never reverence.

She traces the side of a thorn with her finger, feeling the bumps of its rough texture against her fingertips, threatening to spill blood.

It was only ever fear.

The needle point of the thorn drives deep into her index finger, and the fae stares at it as warmth trickles down her skin, a moisture that stains as her finger bleeds itself paler.

Does it matter, though?

The thorn snaps.

If I isolated myself from these feelings...

Golden mist swells by the wound, and the blood must have been an illusion, for it hurts no longer, and nothing remains of the wound, nothing but a microscopic scar.

No one can ever hurt me in a manner that matters. Never again.

She twists her fingers in the air, flicking away the golden mist, which turns to threads as they wrap around the raven that approaches.

"Mistress." Diaval croaks, unused to his voice after spending a week as a raven. "The Moorland folks are asking around for your whereabouts. They know you're at the borders, and they're, well..."

Speculating?

"Let them think what they want." She answers him, not bothering to turn back. She may be their protector — and now, their self proclaimed queen — but she does not have to report to them her daily whereabouts. Her roles do not account for a daily play-by-play of her life.