A Game of Riddles – Part 1

Sunlight glimmers on the parapets of the castle, glancing over the turreted towers to cascade, laughing, onto the sleek slate below, edging Diaval's steps with warmth as he paces along the edge of a small garden.

As his path turns under a trellis wound with honeysuckle, Diaval reflects that this is a welcome change; too long had this place been a fortress against one man's immaterial fears. For sixteen years the maddened king had barricaded the world from sight, cleaved the dusty corridors from light, until the shadows of his mind grew and clawed their way out of him, darkening the very air within into a miasma of rotting breath. It had almost been enough to cause Diaval to gag on each occasion he had slipped into the castle to observe its inhabitants during King Stephan's reign. And that was in raven form, as well; he grimaces to think what the stench would have been like for a human's more refined palate.

Diaval had been told this particular garden was once a favourite of the Queen; it had fallen into disrepair after the birth of her daughter, seeming to wither away with the same torturously slow illness that took the Queen from life.

Naturally, Maleficent had only needed to take one step onto the castle grounds to breathe life into the gardens again, to pave the lifeless surface with a carpet of harlequin grass. Diaval had circled high above the citadel, watching as starbursts of fragrant blossoms danced into being, and as the old crooked ash tree hidden in a corner straightened nobly to bow at his new queen. Aurora had reached out to grasp the ash's long-twigged fingers, her face a picture of delight and her voice a finch's melodious trill of laughter–

Diaval pulls himself out of his memories as he registers that he is passing by a little wrought-iron table set under that same ash tree, and the person sitting there has called his name.

"Lord Diaval!" Prince Phillip repeats, rising to bow in greeting. His young face is all too oblivious to the Diaval's twitch at the very human title.

Pausing in the cool shade under the gently swaying boughs, Diaval makes the boy – man? –a bow in return, adding just a hint of a flourish. Even after all this time, it is hard to judge human ages. This one, he muses, could probably be called a man, if he were to show a trifle more cunning.

The thought makes him smirk inwardly.

Ah. But no more musing. Prince Phillip is expecting an answer.

"I am no lord, your highness," Diaval answers dryly. "We have no distinction between nobility and commoners in the Moors. All faeries are born equal – and I was born a raven. Having a name is more than enough."

The prince smiles in acceptance. "Oh, of course! 'Diaval' it is." He seems to consider something. "Well, since you prefer that I address you by your name only, I suppose it is only right that from now on, you call me Phillip."

"Whatever you prefer," Diaval answers, just as mischief strikes him. "Then you wouldn't mind if I called you Phil?" he chuckles.

Phillip's perfectly schooled diplomatic expression falters ever so slightly, before snapping back into a small smile. "If you prefer to do so."

This reply is enough to cause a little spike of guilt to rise in Diaval's chest; though said guilt is mixed with an ample amount of amusement, as well. The boy-prince is so utterly, innocently courteous. It's not that Diaval isn't cordial with others, per se, but he has learned enough human mannerisms to know how to refuse something in a manner that would not insult the other party. Phillip is clearly uncomfortable with the shortened version of his name; perhaps it is too familiar for someone as used to the pomp and circumstance of court as he is. And yet, he has accepted it anyway, out of simple kindness of heart.

It would appear the situation needs remedy. Diaval gives minute sigh before plastering a grin on his face. "I meant that wholly in jest, Phillip."

"Oh! Oh, right." Phillip's smile makes its entirely unsubtle return. Diaval muses that this smile is not like Aurora's; Aurora smiles as though joy were brimming out of her in uncontrollable waves, but Phillip smiles with simple contentment, like a child brought up in such a sheltered, peaceful place that he knows no sorrow or regret.

Which, Diaval supposes, is probably an exact description of his childhood.

"Wouldn't you like to sit?"

Diaval snaps back to the present moment, berating himself. He really should stop himself from slipping into memories of Aurora. It would appear that every time he does, he loses his usual sharp-eyed observation of his surroundings. A quick glance reveals Phillip gesturing him towards the other wrought-iron chair, set at the opposite side of the small circular table.

Well, this is a surprise. Diaval raises an eyebrow. It would appear the prince would like to participate in…what is the term? Small talk. A most curious pastime; the folk of the Moors simply clasp hands in greeting and get to the meat of the conversation. Diaval reflects that even Aurora is slightly faerie-like in that respect; she has a certain way of announcing her presence with a peal of laughter and launching into a dozen curious questions at once.

Unknowing of what the invitation has inspired, Phillip waits for the raven-haired man to sit on the other side of the small circular table before speaking. "I must say, it is a pleasure to see you here. I thought you would be at the Moors, with the Lady Maleficent."

"Mistress Maleficent has charged me with accompanying the queen, wherever her duties might lead her," Diaval returns, deciding not to mention that Maleficent would certainly not appreciate being called a Lady. "I flew ahead to scout. Aurora should be here soon."

"Yes," Phillip enthuses, unexpected warmth in his voice. "I'm waiting for her here. We promised each other we would have a game of riddles."

Diaval has to physically quell the rush of aching pain that wells up from somewhere in his stomach, stilling his tongue. It is well that this is not his original form; a raven's face is a black-feathered mask, with the gleam of dark eyes the only window to emotion. In a certain way, Diaval has always lived in a masquerade; so it is without much effort that he wipes his features as blank as the unchangeable façade of a raven.

A game of riddles.

Of all the possible things…

It would have been a perfectly normal pursuit, were riddles not a favourite pastime between himself and Aurora. So many afternoons sat by one of the misty ponds in the Moors, on the windblown heights by their sycamore tree, in the calm of a forest glade – throwing one witty exchange at another, often degenerating into truly terrible puns that would make even the silently watching Maleficent smile ever so slightly.

For her to share this with another man…

Diaval turns towards Phillip again, to find the prince thoroughly absorbed in instructing a passing manservant to bring refreshments to the garden for when Aurora should arrive. Sunlight glitters on one of the prince's sleeves as he gestures; every inch of his clothing is covered in intricate embroidery and strips of silk and velvet and organdy, wrought in triple layers to his royal house's crest of arms, sewn invisibly onto the left of his sky-blue tunic. It must be a terrible bother to move in; the thickness of the cloth alone would impair movement.

Even looking at Phillip's choice of wear makes Diaval wince. He cannot even begin to imagine wearing anything similar – the weight of the fabric alone would cause him to feel trapped, unable to transform at will…

The raven glances down at his own raiment. If the prince's clothing is a summer sky, Diaval's can only be described as a moonless night. The supple, sable length of his long coat pools around his worn boots, its ragged edge nearly indistinguishable from his noonday shadow. Blue-black feathers line the high collar that frames the scars running down his pale collarbones; but really, all his clothes are like a second skin to him, as though they are gossamer wings that could lift him up into the sky at spoken command – which, he supposes, they are.

It occurs to him that even in this form, he cannot be recognised as anything other than what he is – a raven. Phillip, though, in his pastel shades of cerulean and white and emerald…he would not be a raven. He would be–

–a peacock.

The image is so gloriously fitting, and so utterly satisfying, that Diaval actually snorts out loud before he can rein in his reaction.

"Are you quite all right, Diaval?"

The prince actually sounds somewhat concerned; Diaval valiantly attempts to stop his the corner of his lips from twitching. "Pollen," he explains, deadpan. Don't laugh, don't laugh…

But his natural-born propensity for mischief gets the better of him.

Phillip the Peacock. The Peacock Prince. Come one, come all! See Phil the Peacock Prince! All fluff and no brain!

It is extremely fortunate that Phillip chooses that moment to idly fix the buckle of his sword-belt, or he would have seen a very peculiar expression pass over the face of the raven-turned-human sitting opposite. As such, when Phillip raises his head again, Diaval's face holds nothing stranger than his usual, gently knowing grin.

"Diaval."

The prince's suddenly serious tone immediately captures the attention of the other man. "Yes?" Diaval ventures, tilting his head. Now this is an unexpected turn.

Phillip seems altogether uncomfortable, half-murmuring his next words. "Well, do you…that is…do you think I would be a good king?" he blurts. The shade of the gently swaying ash tree hardly covers the flush of embarrassment on his cheeks.

"I'm sorry?" Diaval returns, slightly incredulous.

"Well," Phillip continues, his words rushing together as he stumbles over them, "There's been…talk…that I'm not a good choice for my father's throne. That I'm not of the stock rulers should be made of. I'm on a diplomatic mission here, so it would be inappropriate for me to ask Aurora, let alone one of the court advisors…"

"So you chose to ask a raven?" Oh no, no – Diaval isn't just slightly incredulous now – he might be hovering on the precipice of utter disbelief.

But the prince opposite him seems perfectly serious. "Yes. Aurora tells me you're her closest confidant, almost, save for the Lady Maleficent, and she's…well…"

"Intimidating?"

"Yes." Phillip's relief is all too evident. "So…what do you think of me? As a person, I mean."

Well, there's a question. Diaval mulls over the various responses he could give, and decides "I really shouldn't answer that, because I spent the better part of a day hauling you about by your collar like you were a festival balloon of some sort, and so my opinion would be rather unflattering" wouldn't be quite…right.

"Do you want my honest answer?" he sighs.

"Yes, yes, of course."

"You mean well. Most of the time."

"I…mean well?" Phillip's confusion forms a frown on his young features.

"You would never intend to hurt any around you. That is something to be respected."

"Oh." Then: "Would you mind if I asked another question?"

"Not at all." The pain in Diaval's chest is still there, like a thorn in his heart he cannot pull out. The prince's innocent conversation is certainly not helping; as Diaval sees it, there is nothing about Phillip that merits hating at all. And that makes it somehow more…difficult, that Aurora allows this boy to court her.

"As you may have noticed," Phillip says slowly, "I've been courting Aurora. And I would like to know…I would like to know if you feel for her, too."

Wait. What?

Surprise actually numbs the ache within him for a moment, but it is only a temporary respite. When he is sufficiently recovered, Diaval returns Phillip's slightly worried gaze with a harsh, bird-like stare. "Has it ever crossed your mind that you perhaps should have asked me this before beginning to court her yourself?" The usual musical lilt of his accented voice grows rougher, like a mockingbird's call morphing into the grating caw of a raven.

Phillip, apparently, has the grace to look abashed.

Diaval has not spent near twenty years at Maleficent's side for nothing; he lets the silence hold for a long, long minute, freezing the air between them, lining the curved iron table between them with ice, before finally speaking.

"It doesn't matter whether I feel for her or not," he says slowly. The thorn in his heart is twisting again, further, deeper. He ignores it; he is not a nightingale. He is a raven. "This is not some competition to be won. Aurora will marry whomever she chooses."

Phillip frowns. "But–"

"I know you respect her, Phillip," Diaval continues. "You hesitated in kissing her on that day, after all – and don't bother asking me how I know."

The prince appears to choke on the hasty words before changing tack. "But you never did answer my question," he insists. "Are you courting her?"

A penetrating stare, with eyes as black as ink. "Does it matter?"

"I…" Phillip flounders.

Diaval ignores the burning in his heart and opens his mouth. "Don't fret," he sighs, allowing his voice to fall back to his usual low musical tones again. "If Aurora does choose you, then I wish you both well." Phillip relaxes at these words, but jerks back fearfully, when the raven speaks again, in an entirely different tone. "But," Diaval murmurs conversationally, kindly, "Should I see you lose that respect you had for her…"

"Then what?" From the prince's tone, he seems to want to laugh whatever this is off.

Diaval shrugs, glancing up as a stray cloud covers the sun, darkening the garden in the sudden chill. "Quoth the raven," he says simply.

"Nevermore?" Phillip's voice comes out in nearly a squeak.

"Quoth the raven: what a bore," Diaval says humouredly, rising and clapping a hand on Phillip's shoulder. "In all seriousness, Phillip – I could do with a good game of riddles. But I shall leave you and Aurora be. I'll take my leave of you now."

With that, he turns to meander through the scattered flowerbeds, stooping to trace the edge of a blood-lily before crouching on the spot in preparation to change into his raven form–

–and perhaps he would have took flight, had a young queen not bounded out of the entryway to tackle him with a hug. Diaval embraces her lightly in return before pushing her gently to a more discreet distance.

"Pretty bird! I knew you would have arrived first! How long have you been waiting?" Aurora cries delightedly, as Diaval, per his custom, bows and raises her hand to his lips. He nearly forgets to let go of her hand.

"Not long." Diaval knows he may be speaking less than he should, but he does not trust himself with lengthy words. Not at the moment. His heart must surely be bleeding, dripping down his coat to stain the perfect harlequin of the grass by his feet–

He catches himself, and alights upon a solution. "I was just speaking with Phillip, actually. You were planning on a game of riddles?" He had not meant his voice to catch; and it doesn't, not really, but Aurora still glances at him strangely.

Happily, Phillip trots over right at that moment and presents a welcome distraction as he greets Aurora. Diaval is pleased to see the prince does not kiss her hand, but simply bows.

"Riddles, yes," Aurora says, turning to her friend again. "Oh!" a smile blossoms on her face, like sunrise on the horizon. "You have to join us!"

"I would really rather–"

Then Aurora gives him that look, the one that causes even Maleficent to soften at the corners…and Diaval finds himself saying, "If the prince would not object…"

She turns. "Phillip?"

Diaval is somewhat gratified to see someone else suffer under that earnest look. Aurora's wide blue eyes have the same affect on the prince, apparently, for a moment later, she is crowing victory and dragging both men by their sleeves over to the table, where a manservant is laying out a series of sweetmeats and cold pitchers.

A three-way game of riddles, it is then. Diaval does not know whether to be happy or worried.

As you probably can tell, this is going to be a two-shot; riddles galore next chapter, with raven, prince, and queen pitting their wits against each other. I referenced a famous short story here; congratulations to those who saw it. Reviews are gold; I always make an effort reply to everyone who reviews. Thank you to all the wonderful people who reviewed the last chapter. I hope you liked this.

Replies to guest reviews:

Guest 1: Thank you very much for reviewing!

Guest 2: Have I used the prince well? XD Those ideas of yours might happen sometime; still, it might be a while. Thanks for reviewing!

Elizabeth: As much mischief as that plan would need, Diaval is too upright a person to do such a thing, I think. You almost wrote a story in that review! Go write it yourself, if you wish! You sound as though you have many ideas. Thanks!

Blossom: Thanks for reviewing!