Work Text:
Maleficent doesn’t like babies. They’re noisy and they smell and they grow up to make more. She doesn’t like mortals in general. The ignominy of having one best you in a game of wits is something never lived down.
Fairy godmother is not a responsibility to refuse when the queen of the faeries is doling out punishments for being on the wrong side of the latest battle for the golden throne, but Maleficent sees no reason to make things any easier for the humans. Her compatriots’ thoughts do not run along those lines, with their cozy-looking cottages in cheery sunlit forests, well-traveled by mortals.
She creates her castle in a forbidding mountain range, surrounding it with a labyrinth of ravenous, ever-shifting hedges and populating it with lean wolf-like vargen, whose bite can turn a man into one of them. She makes certain the various nobles all know precisely where she is, so that they cannot claim they did not know where to send her invitations to the inevitable christenings she will have to attend. She doesn’t mention the castle’s defenses.
Her fellow exiles are not amused. Flighty creatures that they are, they adore babies. Indeed, babes will often go missing from peasant houses too near their forests. The new religion says “stolen by the devil, donate all your money to absolve your sins.” The old one says “leave cream on your step and turn three times widdershins to avoid attention.”
Neither works.
The nobility is off-limits to these predilections. They have made a bargain with the golden throne for this immunity, but all of the exiles know there are ways around it. The fortunate have the manpower and wealth to seek out the various faerie in exile and invite them to christenings to see the new babes. The less fortunate barter favors and debts with the more powerful families to get their invitations delivered.
It is, after all, impolite to steal a child after attending a party in its honor.
It is an excuse for a to-do, and her compatriots love it. The covert mayhem from so many mortals in close proximity gives them a fierce joy, and the babe itself is usually too dosed with mandragora to fuss much. And should the nobles fail to uphold their part of the bargain, there is the amusement of punishment.
Her Book of Names keeps her updated on the aristocracy’s new births. She finds it odd that families are naming their children all the same names, until she realizes the devious things are naming their second and third children after the firstborns whose christenings have already taken place, to avoid throwing another party and having to invite faeries yet again. She wonders how long it has been occurring, and whether her compatriots have noticed that the more clever of the nobility have more children than christenings. If it means not having to see more babes, she will allow the mortals their deceit.
A pet mirror keeps her informed of when christenings are due to take place, as well as the struggles the messengers experience in her mountains. The vargen ranks have expanded, the former men’s various paraphernalia littering the false trails, even as their horses are devoured by the hedges. She makes note of whose men they had been and turns her attention upon their masters.
Weeping follows her visits.
She cares not. The bargain was an invitation to see the babe, to stave off faerie capriciousness. Her gift has guaranteed their child sixteen healthy years, far more than many mortals get. They would have the girls married off long before then; she does not see the call for weeping. Mortals should be used to death by now. They go through it often enough.
At one such event, she bumps into an angry Merryweather. The blue fairy had been overlooked in the letters of invitation and is irate over the slight, especially when she notes Maleficent's presence. She turns the entire castle- guests, buildings, and all- into a flower garden and vanishes in a flutter of blue morphos.
Maleficent sets things to rights, though she leaves her hapless host and his family as Merryweather made them, as her own invitation to the christening never made it to her. She has them potted, magically frozen, and delivered to Merryweather. The ice serves the dual purpose of allowing them to live forever- mortals do so love to wish for it- while also keeping Merryweather from killing them from neglect.
Merryweather sends her the messenger back in the shape of a frog, the spiteful thing. The raven survives the transformation back, so she marks it as a point for herself. Transformations are always tricky.
Her visits to the nobles who think to avoid their faerie bargain go differently. Those who chose poorly in messengers she gives time to attempt to evade the curse they have brought down upon themselves. Those who lack even those manners she gives no time to attempt reparations.
A new raven joins her aviary with every visit.
They are a pretty, musical unkindness, though few are particularly clever. Her compatriots’ christening gifts carry over, but her fellow exiles are as addle-minded as the mortals they have chosen to waste their magics on and never give the babe anything useful. The useless magics the ravens have no use for she transfers out of them, saving the power for a later time. What does one do with a raven that no man can best in single-handed combat? A raven has no hands, nor cause to fight a man. The ones who keep their trivial charms- beauty, song, and grace are numerous- entertain their fellows without causing much ruckus over having retained their gifts while others did not. The ravens seem none the worse for the loss.
Possibly her compatriots will be bothered by the slight draw on their power, but that is their own fault.
Only once has she ever received an invitation in time for the christening.
Her entire reasoning behind the mountains filled with vargen and flesh-eating hedges was to avoid both visitors and godmother duties, while still remaining true to the letter of the law handed down by the golden throne’s queen. She dislikes interruptions. A questing knight knocking on the castle door is such a thing.
The figure at her door wears dented armor, a kite shield on one arm, and uses their sword pommel to pound on the door hard to be heard through the thick oak. She waves a hand to open the door to let the person in. Hopefully they will get lost and eaten by one of the creeping darknesses that inhabit the castle’s lower levels.
Several hours later, sans helmet and sword, a red-faced woman makes her way up to the chamber Maleficent has not moved from. A raven rests on one of her shoulders and Maleficent sends the cheeky bird a glare. It croaks noisily at her, but does not move. The other ravens in the room croak at it reprovingly.
“I have a letter to deliver, dreadful lady,” the woman says, voice tight to keep from panting. “Queen Leah invites you to attend the christening of her and King Stefan’s eldest daughter, Aurora.”
“I recognize that name,” Maleficent says, going over the list in her head of christenings she has attended.
“You cursed Princess Leah to be carried away by wolves upon her sixteenth birthday, dreadful lady,” is the prompt reply.
“I see,” Maleficent says slowly. She does not often check in on the subjects of her curses. Perhaps she should do so more often, if only to guarantee the curse falls upon its intended victim.
“King Stefan and his knights had been cursed to ravage the land as wolves until true love’s kiss freed them,” the messenger goes on, correctly guessing her line of thought. “I believe most of his knights are still under the green fairy's spell. The king has allowed them the run of his forests to discourage poaching.” She fishes an awkwardly-wrapped thin package from underneath her armor, unwraps it, and presents a pristine envelope, addressed to Maleficent.
“And how did you get past the vargen?” Maleficent asks, taking the envelope and passing it to the nearest raven.
“They are man-eating wolves, dreadful lady,” the woman says impassively, though the corners of her mouth twitch into a smile. “They paid me no mind.”
“And the flesh-devouring hedges that move whenever you turn your eyes away?”
“A little birdie showed me the way.” The raven on her shoulder croaks noisily, freely admitting its guilt. Maleficent briefly wishes she had not ensorceled the hedges to refrain from attacking the ravens.
“And what did my bird ask of you in return, I wonder?” Maleficent asks.
“Safe passage back to my kingdom to find a princess to kiss. I promised to ask you, but I cannot guarantee a willing princess.”
“Calling in your boon, I see,” she addresses the bird. It gives an odd gurgling croak and hops unsteadily. “I shall have to promote a new raven to chief. I will allow you to take the bird with you,” she says, returning her attention to the messenger. “I will also grant you one boon for your good manners and skill in finding my castle.”
“Safe passage back to my land for myself and the bird,” the woman responds promptly. “The hedges may have been restrained by the raven’s presence, but they still did the best they could. I would like to make it back in time for the christening as well and cutting my way back out will like as not have me too late for it.”
Maleficent laughs. “A prudent wish. Very well, you may return to them when I attend. Provided you can find your bird again.” She waves a hand at the raven and it takes flight, unhappily croaking, and circles their heads before speeding in the direction of the aviary. Two others flit after it.
The woman stares forlornly after the bird, but wisely does not speak.
“And your name, clever climber? What shall I call you?”
The woman quirks her lips. “Leah the Younger, dreadful lady.”
Maleficent is not surprised by this revelation.
“You have free run of the castle while you are my guest here. The ravens will escort you. I advise you not to touch too many things. Many of them do not take kindly to it and will touch back, with great prejudice.”
“You are too kind, dreadful lady,” the woman says, bowing deeply and backing out of the room. It is the most common sense Maleficent has ever seen in anyone, mortal or otherwise. The woman has no magic save for the sword she has misplaced, so it must be a natural gift. How marvelous. Mortal breeding finally showing good traits in their offspring. But no, the christening is for her niece, not her daughter. There is no guarantee the sister or her spouse have the same prudent way of thinking. Or that even if they did, the babe would receive it.
Prudence would be a good christening gift for the baby, she thinks. Too few mortals were practical, or ethical. Nor did they show any understanding of such things when they saw them in use. And perchance if she gifts it soon enough after the celebration starts, the others will have to think up better gifts than grace and song. Their curses were always far more inventive than their blessings, and forcing them to be creative in such matters would be an excellent way to tweak their noses.
She hopes the babe grows up as interesting as her aunt.