(What’s madness but nobility of soul At odds with circumstance? The day’s on fire! I know the purity of pure despair, My shadow pinned against a sweating wall. That place among the rocks—is it a cave, Or winding path? The edge is what I have.)
It's desperation that escorts him over the threshold of these dark woods, and dread that is his companion beneath their boughs. How could they not? Lea knows Maleficent, knows her in a way that hardly needs them to have been formally introduced. He knows her reputation well, and has seen the consequences of her deeds. He's seen her speaking with the King, and the uncharacteristic tension that gripped the little mouse; the impotent pain and rage that had burned in Mickey's eyes had been almost unreal.
He knows what Maleficent is capable of--and deep in his heart, still young and new and fragile, he's afraid.
Lea doesn't let it make his steps falter or slow, though, doesn't let it lower his head or bow his back or darken his gaze. His stride is long and sure, and the small smile touching his lips speaks of lazy, effortless confidence. He remembers what it is to be heartless and brazen, and act like he was on top of the world. If he pretended hard enough, he might even believe it--it might even come true. He glides through the forest like a spectre that belongs there, hood up and cloaked in black, all but disappearing in the gloom. He climbs the steps of the castle, lifts a hand, knocks at the great double doors that confront him. He can't turn back, so he won't hesitate, no matter how much he doesn't want to be here facing her--the others need him to do this.
They need him to be cunning, and they believe him to be strong. He can't let their faith in him be misplaced. Now, as always, he'll do what must be done.
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At odds with circumstance? The day’s on fire!
I know the purity of pure despair,
My shadow pinned against a sweating wall.
That place among the rocks—is it a cave,
Or winding path? The edge is what I have.)
It's desperation that escorts him over the threshold of these dark woods, and dread that is his companion beneath their boughs. How could they not? Lea knows Maleficent, knows her in a way that hardly needs them to have been formally introduced. He knows her reputation well, and has seen the consequences of her deeds. He's seen her speaking with the King, and the uncharacteristic tension that gripped the little mouse; the impotent pain and rage that had burned in Mickey's eyes had been almost unreal.
He knows what Maleficent is capable of--and deep in his heart, still young and new and fragile, he's afraid.
Lea doesn't let it make his steps falter or slow, though, doesn't let it lower his head or bow his back or darken his gaze. His stride is long and sure, and the small smile touching his lips speaks of lazy, effortless confidence. He remembers what it is to be heartless and brazen, and act like he was on top of the world. If he pretended hard enough, he might even believe it--it might even come true. He glides through the forest like a spectre that belongs there, hood up and cloaked in black, all but disappearing in the gloom. He climbs the steps of the castle, lifts a hand, knocks at the great double doors that confront him. He can't turn back, so he won't hesitate, no matter how much he doesn't want to be here facing her--the others need him to do this.
They need him to be cunning, and they believe him to be strong. He can't let their faith in him be misplaced. Now, as always, he'll do what must be done.