Loved the movie, but I found it a bit disorienting that so much time went by so fast. I greatly enjoy the relationship between Maleficent and Diaval, but they don't really address the fact that the two of them have been together for sixteen years. So this story is my attempt to draw out the movie into the full sixteen years that it truly is. It'll be told from Diaval's perspective, from his first encounter with Maleficent to the very last scene of the movie, and will focus on the relationship between the raven and the fairy. After all, constantly being within shouting distance of the same person for sixteen years is bound to breed a unique understanding of one another, and this is my attempt to explore that.

The first snow had come as a surprise to all of the farmers. Light, watery and superficially cold, its ominous nature lay in what it signaled to come, not in the actual snow itself. Winter was arriving, insistent and cruel to the tail end of autumn that still managed to cling stubbornly to what pride it had. A few leaves still hung on the trees, but the night of the first frost had left them brown and brittle. The in-between time had come quickly and powerfully, and it had thrown the farmlands of the border into an uproar.

The birds, of course, had no such surprise; the cold had been building upon the horizon for days now, and the excitement of the scuttling two-legged farmers only served to whet their appetites. The harvest had been given a sloppy beginning, and the flittering shapes overhead had sharp claws and eager beaks to await what came next.

The conspiracy had settled onto a barn roof that morning, eyeing the nearby field of barley with hungry, clever eyes. The sun was well risen when one brave female of their number abandoned her compatriots and attempted a raid at the unthreshed grain, but the busy humans peppering the field waved her off before she could snatch anything substantial. She returned with ruffled feathers, but the only thing bruised was her pride, especially at the laughter of another raven, a glossier one, male, farther away, alone and different from the thick of the conspiracy but close enough to caw.

Squawking indignantly, she folded her wings and hopped closer to the others, shooting a challenging glare at him over her shoulder; she had at least tried, after all, instead of simply laughing at another's failure.

Her onlooker shuffled to the edge of the roof, then, in response, peering at the farmers that had gotten back to work in the field. There was a small human perched on the fence, watching the conspiracy warily. It was he who had pointed and shouted at the she-raven, followed by the farmers' sharp, waving tools. The small-farmer's eyes landed on the searching raven now, cautious and waiting. The raven, in turn, kept an eye on him, too.

There was a rhythm to the threshing. Stalks were bundled by one farmer, then cut by the other. A third would take the bundled grain to a pile, watched over by the small one. Bundle, cut, carry. Bundle, cut, carry.

The raven dropped from the edge of the roof and spread his wings, climbing high before the small one had cause to point and shout. There he circled, watching the farmers bundle and cut and carry. The small one watched him, but did nothing.

He tucked his wings and dropped like a stone from the sky, coming into a tight swoop over a bundle of grain that had not yet been cut. He grasped at it before he had even come to a complete halt, beating his wings and digging his beak into the stalks for the heavy heads of seed that remained there. One, two, three grains, more; he stabbed and pecked and gobbled them down fiercely, even as the small human shouted and pointed. He heard the farmers with their voices and metal tools rushing through the grass, but he had left the bundle long before they reached him and was beating his way back into the sky.

He returned to the conspiracy on the roof, neck fluffed proudly as he settled back amongst the other young ravens with a full stomach and a full beak. The she-raven that had tried and failed shook her shoulders haughtily, but he was not dissuaded––instead, he hopped closer and deposited the uneaten grains that remained in his beak at her feet. Others cawed and shoved each other to try and get closer, but the she-raven snapped the grains up and fluttered away from the roof. The one who had given them to her spread his wings and followed, even when she dipped and banked and cut through the air at dizzying speeds. He was unshakable, and was quite proud of it; after all, he was the fastest raven in the conspiracy. In all conspiracies, if he'd any say about it.

She circled back and eventually came to land back on the rough shingles of the barn roof. Other ravens were mimicking him now, trying to snatch at the uncut bundles, but the farmers had become wise and were shooing them away. There was a shuffling as the female claimed room, then as he followed. He had hardly set his feet on the wood before she was turning and hopping, this time towards him with a cheerful glint in her eye. She cawed, he cawed back, then he jumped back off of the roof and into the air, with her following closely behind.

He stretched his wings and soared, diving through the buildings of the farm. He dipped and rolled theatrically, clipping thatch with his claws and almost skimming walls with the very tips of his wings. There he saw an unattended cart, and so he tucked his wings and swooped underneath, between the wheels, belly almost scraping the dirt, and emerged from the other side without stopping. He flapped once, twice, reclaiming altitude until he could settle himself comfortably on a stone chimney and turn to look for his companion, who was not nowhere to be seen. A moment's search and he saw her in the distance, above the buildings, circling in confusion; her wings were no match for his, and she had been unable to keep up. As he watched, another bird rose to meet her, too large to be female, and dipped playfully in the wind underneath; a suitor, one that did not have his good wings.

Miffed, the raven abandoned the chimney and quickly crossed the distance to the female, cawing for attention. She glanced at him, but the other male soon became more concerning; he squawked aggressively and sped up, snapping his beak and pivoting to hover in between the female and the competition. This new raven was larger, and surely older, but his wings were fat and slow and his feathers weren't nearly so glossy and well-tended as his more agile opponent. Where the younger had been playful, the older was serious in his suitorship––he was courting with deeper intent than the youth, who did not see the female as worthwhile cause a fight. He was young and far too beautiful to worry about nest-building, and so he surrendered his altitude and dropped from the courtship.

He had thought that to be the end of it, until sharp claws came to score his back.

Cawing in pained surprise, the young raven looked up. The elder had descended as well, snapping viciously as he slid past with long, grasping claws. The younger was immediately inclined to look behind him––what on earth had that brute done to his feathers?––but there was no time; the other was coming back for another go.

Flying higher, the young raven did his best to distance himself from his aggressor, although it was too sudden and unexpected for him to be particularly graceful about it; his opponent recovered before he did and rose to meet him, driving the younger higher and farther from the farm and female.

Indignantly, the younger pulled his wings and dove, clipping the brute on the top of the head in warning. He didn't want the female that badly, not nearly as badly as the brute seemed to; there was no reason to battle!

But the brute would have no reason, and now their positions were reversed; he had the high wind, and the young had the low. He remained aloft, vocalizing warningly, but did not dive; he stayed high, pushing the young raven through the farmlands and away from the usual flights of the conspiracy. It wasn't until the last farm faded into flat scrubland that the elder relented, wheeling above and back towards the farms while the glossier male continued on.

With the sky now unbarred, the creature rose back up, taking note of the warning glares from the retreating brute. To return to the conspiracy would surely ignite another fight, at least tonight; the shimmering raven might never have courted with the seriousness of the larger one, but he had observed pairings enough to know that the aggression would not last forever. A day of separation, and the unrest would almost surely die down enough for him to return. And besides, he had filched more than enough of the farmers' grains to be content for a night; he had no need to return to the conspiracy. Ravens were more solitary than social beasts, anyway; his dislike for trouble did not outweigh his desire for company.

With that decided, all that remained was to find a place to roost the night.

Beyond the farmlands lay a jagged spread of rock and dirt and grass, distressingly free of trees or crags that might give shelter from the early-winter wind. And he certainly wouldn't want to return to the farms prematurely; the sun was descending, but there were still enough hours left to find something.

He was very high indeed before he managed to spot the telltale spike of something made by human hands, deep into the scrublands. A once-castle, now ruined and skeletal under the steady hands of time and weather, but solid and arching and certainly a more pleasant roost than open rocks. The only catch was that it did look awfully far, and the hours were passing by; he picked up his pace and angled towards it. He wanted to reach the place while there was still warmth; winter nights made his feathers stick together unpleasantly.

He made it just as the last strip of sunlight vanished below the horizon. His wings were the only sound in the vastness of the stone ruins; there were few creatures that ever visited this once-castle, even in passing. Perhaps it was the barren land, or the height, or the lingering feeling of hollowness that seemed to have always been there. Perhaps it was the fact that even the fairest of days could not alleviate the gloom and shadows. Perhaps it was any combination of such reasons. In any case, it was not a place any creature lingered for long, but the raven didn't need to linger. He could rest for a night and be on his way, and with the pleasant certainty that no other beasts would disturb him.

With night quickly growing and in no mood to remain aloft for longer than he had to, he spilled air from his wings and cawed to announce his presence. He didn't particularly expect any other creatures to respond, but it was only polite to do it anyway. He came into a low, controlled swoop to the once-windowsill of a once-tower, the roughened brick course and cold beneath his feet. He fluffed his feathers, folded his wings and hopped deeper into the darkness of the stone walls, where the wind would be less vigorous and where his feathers would keep him warmer.

In doing so, however, he was incredibly surprised to discover that he was not alone.

Company stood on the other side of the tower, where the wall was thicker and less weathered, watching him with gleaming golden eyes. He cocked his head and peered at her; she was woman-shaped, with high, gliding cheekbones and skin the color of milk. From her head sprouted brown hair, and from beneath the hair sprouted two proud, spiraling horns, dark and ridged and decidedly not at all human, although she was certainly not beast-shaped, either.

Before he could think any more on the matter, the air around the woman swelled with something other than wind. The raven cawed indignantly and hopped backwards as something else burst from inside the tower, something rough and primal and magical that burst in a distressing display of color at his feet, pushing him to the edge of the windowsill. Well, he was certainly not going to share the tower with such rude company! Cawing in righteous distress, the bird forsook the perch for the open air to find somewhere more peaceful to roost.

He didn't look, but he could have sworn he felt a gaze on his back as he retreated.

In the end, the raven found a higher, less sheltered but altogether more agreeable perch in the skeleton of a short, scraggly tree that had taken root in one of the courtyards, where he settled comfortably and ruffled against the wind. He tried his best not to puzzle over the woman in the tower, over why such a creature had found herself in the most hollow and desolate of places, nor why one of the Fair Folk might be so far from the Moors. It wasn't his puzzle, and besides there were more pressing matters to attend to. Like what the brute raven had done to his beautiful feathers.

Although the journey had wearied him, he was not one to leave wrong things unrighted, and he took the time to peer over his shoulder and survey what the fight had wrought, squawking in distress when he saw the scored vanes and bent barbs. His beautiful back had been absolutely mangled! He immediately dug his beak into the mess, straightening and organizing; everything was out of place and hideous, and he wouldn't stand for it. Those two were crossed, that vane had been split far too many times, that one was so disorganized it could have been mistaken for a downy feather. All these he took, one at a time, carefully and caringly, pushing them back to their proper places and sliding them through his pinched beak to smooth down the irregularities. He didn't intend to rejoin the conspiracy the next day, but that didn't matter; no matter where he went, it just wouldn't do to be anywhere without every feather in the best order. It was a careful, time-consuming task, and the moon was well over the horizon by the time he had finished it to his satisfaction; he tilted his shoulders this way and that, watching the light glint and shimmer off his iridescent back until he was absolutely sure that it was in pristine condition, continuous and unblemished. Only then did he finally settle, shifting his feet so he could squat and cover them from the cold. The wind howled, but in his shelter he was protected rather well; he'd always preferred trees to ledges, in any case.

With his feathers in order, and with his day complete, the raven let go of any farther worries and drifted into sleep.