A Familiar Gleam

By Eirian Erisdar

Diaval is an enigma.

Once, his world had been divided in a clear-spun line of invisible silk. The horizon cleaved the ground from the endless sky; the sky brought freedom and flight, and the ground brought food. Simple as that. Days and nights were equally ordered; sunlight limned his azure-sable wingtips with gold, and moonlight wrought his feathers with silver. He had no care for clothing or riches, for what were the temptations of men to one born in the glorious raiment of a Raven Prince?

It was perfect, in a strange sort of way. In the manner of one who does not wish for more because he had heard, but did not truly know there could be more.

Into a man.

He had thought it a minor inconvenience, is all, when Maleficent changed his form into that of a human's with an idle flick of her fingers. To be honest, he was more occupied with a sudden surge of – gratitude? – for her saving his life. That emotion had been a revelation, and brought a torrent of uncertainty with it. He had smiled and bowed and swore servitude with the graceful poise of one used to flight, yes – but he had been unprepared for the emotions that plague the lives of men, for the sudden need to form bonds, for companionship and friendship. It is all too different from the constant rivalry of living in a murder of ravens. Even his natural-born raven's intelligence paled at it. It wasn't predictable. It wasn't logical.

Diaval had thrown himself into servitude to his Mistress Maleficent with a determination born of an insatiable need to understand. He had always listened well, being a raven; now he is her wings and her ears, and he goes where she commands, never questioning save for an idle jest or two. They had become bickering brother and sister, in a manner of speaking.

And so, by listening to words unspoken as much as voiced, Diaval understands the grief of the self-made queen he serves, and the joy of the child that somehow blossomed into a young woman before he could stop to preen his wing. When they were formally introduced, he had kissed her hand in the manner of a commoner greeting their queen – and in a certain way, it was apt indeed.

In the long years, he had turned each new emotion over in his fingers, until they all resembled smooth river stones worn with experience and warmth. He will never truly be a raven again; even when he is his feathered form, he retains that human longing for companionship.

And now, it is with this knowledge that the man with raven hair knows this moment is one he will forever cherish and regret, the two emotions colouring the very memory of it gold and scarlet.

The sunlight streams in through the diamond-barred window, turning the dust-motes of the air into waltzing couplets of stardust, and alights upon the golden locks of the sleeping young woman. There she rests, her hands clasped over the folds of her dress, framed by the heavy cloth of the unfamiliar, four-posted bed. A sleep like death – but Diaval does not think her grey, or withering, or lifeless; she seems to him as though she rests in the soft minutes before awakening. He has never seen anything more beautiful. A sleeping beauty; as Diaval steps out from behind the changing partition, his footsteps uncharacteristically silent on the flagstones, he supposes – he wishes – that any moment now that golden head would rise from the pillow, and her still-warm lips would part in that brilliant smile she had sent his way when she was first introduced to him, and that crystalline laugh would fall through the air like cleansing rain to the cry of "Pretty bird!"

But she is still, unmoving.

And Diaval wonders. That airheaded boy-prince's kiss had clearly been useless, and it is hardly a surprise; he does not think the two of them have exchanged more than ten words alltogether. Of all the emotions Diaval had experienced and catalogued in his human days, the hardest of all to understand is love. Is his desire to see Aurora laugh all the days of her life an extension of this? Something new seems to be unfolding from the sudden knot lodged in his ribs, born of his understanding for the emotion but wholly unknown. It almost frightens him with its intensity; and fear is not something a raven knows. This is the most human he can ever recall being.

And he supposes…if he, himself, were to step to her bedside and kiss her, would not sixteen full years of devotion and servitude mean something? He has long since heard from his eavesdropping on humans that their kind see love as something that has to be shown and not said; and he would truly, truly do anything, anything at all, to save this wonderful girl from a not-life of everlasting sleep.

He pauses, then, between one step and the next, overwhelmed, grasping for courage from whence he knows not. And then–

And then–

The mistress he serves moves from his side to bow her head over the closest thing she has to a daughter, and Diaval stands frozen, watching the liquid trail trickle down Maleficent's deathly pale cheek.

He nearly starts forward, but there is something all too private about the way the long-nailed hand brushes the strands of gold off slumbering forehead; and so he hesitates, and stands there, silent, as Maleficent speaks to her adopted goddaughter.

"I swear no harm will come to you, so long as I shall live." She crouches to kiss Aurora on her forehead.

And I, Diaval adds silently. And I. He would forever rest on her windowsill, watching over her where Maleficent cannot, until his feathers turn white with age and the caw from his throat turns to a croak – A lifetime for another, watching the living breath enter and leave her sleeping form. He would never tire of it. It is all he can do without telling her he lo–

He sees it first; Maleficent had turned towards the window to hide her tears, and so missed the beautiful, silent moment when the young woman's eyelids flutter and open wide, revealing irises as glimmering blue as the water-lilies of the Faeries.

Diaval actually takes a half-step towards her before remembering his place. It is all he can do to incline his head and smile at Aurora, the grin crinkling his eyes and the scars at his temples, and rejoice and mourn all at once.

Maleficent's joy is beautiful to behold; it is as though twenty years of shadow falls away from her shoulders. Diaval smiles for her, too, as goddaughter and godmother embrace.

He does not move from his spot, rooted onto the flagstones like a caged bird.

Cherish and regret.

Later, he would wonder if it was all a dream.

Diaval smiles as he lounges in the dappled shadow of a flourishing sycamore tree. The grass of the aerie is bright around him. The united realms of Faeries and Men spread out below him in a patchwork of harlequin and emerald, scarlet and crimson, azure and cerulean. He tilts his head back and glances upward at the arching sky above, through the veined curtain of rustling leaves; the sky is cloudless, perfect, inviting.

He could transform at this moment and dart up to the heavens, if he wanted to. Maleficent had bestowed on him two gifts upon laying aside her crown: the ability to change from raven to human form at will, and his freedom from servitude. The first gift he had accepted graciously, the second he had refused. His untraditional friendship with Maleficent defines too much of him. Not that it matters much in the grand scheme of things; there is less to do, now, that peace has come to this part of the world.

Diaval closes his eyes and breathes in the scent of the tiny blue blossoms that flourish here, in the variegated shade. The warm afternoon light casts the ridges of his scars in half-shadow. This is part of what he loves about being human; his sense of smell might be a dozen times stronger as a raven, but he cannot appreciate the delicacy of it in that form; his raven-senses label flowers as not-food, nothing more.

He senses her before he hears her steps sound through the earth by his ear. When she was crowned new queen over both kingdoms, the forest had recognised her, acknowledged her. So as she paces up the hill without a care in her muddy satin slippers, hidden ripples rush through the grass, and the trees creak as they half-bow as she passes.

Not that she sees this, of course; she might suspect, but no human can see how the forest bows to her as a creature of magic can. As Diaval can.

Tinkling laughter, above him and to his right. "Hello there, pretty bird."

He feigns surprise as he opens his eyes and rises to bend over her hand. "My queen."

Aurora slaps him on the arm. "Don't tease," she says gamely, eyes twinkling as she settles into the shade. He remains standing, leaning against the tree; if her frequent trips out horse-riding with Phillip are anything to tell by, it would be good for Diaval to keep his distance.

For a long while, they watch the breeze run through the joined realms below.

"You've known me for a long while, haven't you, Diaval?" Aurora asks suddenly, with that infernally adorable abruptness she has had since she was a child.

"Does that even need asking?" he answers, wondering where this could possibly lead.

She laughs again. "I suppose you're right. I need some advice, that's all."

"At your service," Diaval replies, mock-seriously.

He keeps his gaze on the view, but he feels her ice-blue gaze searching him as she asks, "How do you know if someone likes you? Much like in the stories, I mean."

Diaval finds himself speechless for a long, long moment; his gaze snaps down towards Aurora, only to find her staring fixedly at the hem of her dress as she picks at a blade of grass with her fingers.

She obviously takes his silence as incomprehension, as she elaborates, "I think Phillip likes me." The words are accompanied by a cherry-red blush that makes her face look as though it were a tomato topped with golden leaves.

Oh.

For a moment there, it had seemed–

Diaval has not spent so long in the service of a Faerie for nothing; he schools his expression with barely a thought. "Shouldn't you go to Mistress Maleficent about this?" he says quietly.

Aurora squirms slightly. "I think this subject holds pain for her. She didn't say anything, but I can see it."

Diaval barely restrains from breathing a laugh at that. She is observant, indeed – but so blind in another aspect of her life. "Very well, then. Why do you think he is fond of you?" he says, voice sounding odder than he would want. He curses internally. Keep yourself in control, man…raven…whatever I am–

Aurora looks up at him, earnest. "Well, he smiles at me all the time, gives me gifts without occasion, and seeks out my company day after day – and he speaks more sweetly to me than to anyone else."

"Don't I do that?" Diaval murmurs, hoping he sounds as humourous as he intends.

She reaches up to flick him on the elbow, the highest part of him she can reach from where she sits by his feet. "Well, yes, but you're supposed to! You're one of my closest friends!" she says indignantly. "I know you – you know I can recognise you in any form simply by the gleam in your eyes. It's familiar."

"Hm." Diaval doesn't think he can manage any other response. "I'm glad I'm so predicable, Aurora." Don't sound bitter, don't sound bitter…

"That's exactly it," she sighs, dropping the blade of grass. "You're such a steady presence. I turn around and you're always there. But I don't know what to do with Phillip…I can't predict what he'll do next. What…what should I do, now?"

Phillip is not a bad person by any accounts. A tad airheaded, if Diaval's conversations with him are anything for him to judge by – but good-hearted and well-meaning. Simple. Predictable.

But not to Aurora, it seems.

Diaval watches the emerald shadows of the sycamore leaves crown her hair with emeralds, and manages to conjure up a smile for her. "Well, that's simple, your ladyship," he answers. "Find out whether you are fond of him."

"Is that really it?" she murmurs, frowning. "That simple?"

"Yes," Diaval says plainly, feeling the rough bark of the tree dig into his back. "If you do love him, then I wish you two all the best. If you do not, then tell him. Gently. Remember, Aurora – you are not obligated to care for him in that manner simply because he does for you." You're not. You're really not. Not for anyone. "You may choose to remain friends, if you wish."

There is a horrible moment of silence when he fears he has pushed her too far; but then that brilliant, beautiful, mesmerising grin adorns her face once more, and she jumps up to kiss him on the cheek. He reels internally, so much so that he nearly misses her next words.

"Thank you so much, pretty bird. I knew you would know what to do!" And with those parting sentiments, she darts off down the hill, flinging a final laughing "I'll see you at dinner with godmother, birdie!" over her shoulder as she dances through the grass, fading into the forest like the fleeting warmth of Spring.

He watches her go.

A while later, Diaval moves over to where a pool of dew had collected into a large leaf beneath the tree, and studies his reflection. The warm spot on his cheek appears unchanged; scars still ridge his jawline.

It occurs to him he has kissed her hand before, and she now has kissed his cheek. It seems a form of exquisite irony that they have kissed each other and yet not.

He moves out of the shade of the tree to the spot of sunlight before the drop-off of the cliff. A sudden gust of wind has the tree weeping sycamore seeds; they spin on their twin wings, each carrying new life, delicately balanced on two points as they waltz to the hidden melody of the breeze.

Some seeds fall among the blue flowers – the tiny blossoms of forget-me-nots, swaying in the whispering grass. Some are carried over the skirling edge of Diaval's long black coat and drop off the edge of the cliff in a breathless fall, carried on the currents of air until perhaps they would alight in the castle garden, far away, and grow into a new tree there.

Diaval remembers that dusk in the castle, when he had hesitated before Aurora's sleeping form. If she were still here, perhaps she would have noticed that the gleam in his eyes is not wholly dry; but the next moment, he has transformed again, and the wind rises under his wings and brings him closer to the sun.

She thinks she understands him wholly and truly, and is grateful for his steady presence; but she does not understand why he chooses to be there. It should be enough to make any man weep; Diaval does not. He is not wholly human, and he is glad for it. He is stronger.

Perhaps she would never look at him and see the gleam in his eyes for what it truly is, the words hidden behind each mock-elaborate bow he makes; but she smiles, and laughs, and is happy, and that will content him.

No – he is not content. He will never be content. But as Diaval rises on an invisible thermal and scouts the road ahead of the laughing young woman who darts through the hidden paths of the forest, he knows that no harm will come to her – not even if she chooses that boy – for as long as Diaval shall live, her steps will never stray into shadow.

He is not truly content, yes. But for the moment, it is enough – enough to know her and to laugh with her, and to spend his days keeping her from harm.

Diaval stretches his glossy wings and dances through the air.

EDIT: Due to popular demand, this will now be a series of stories based primarily on Diaval and Aurora, but will also feature Maleficent, Phillip, and other characters. Yes. This means there will be more. :)

So much wasted potential. Disney and their need to adhere to tradition, ugh. Phillip was the singularly most useless side character ever to appear in any of their movies. I hope I presented Diaval's character well enough here; I would be very grateful for any suggestions and comments you may have. Thank you for reading.