Archive of Our Own ^beta

Fairy Godmother does not do permanent magic; she doesn't do creation or casting or curses. She does alterations— layers of illusions and temporary transformations. Small magic. Light magic. Magic made of those everlasting wishes that humanity clings to. 

She, like those before her, serves the moment of hope. Nothing more, nothing less— a pumpkin to carriage to escape, a cobweb to dress to acceptance, a shard of mirror to glass slippers to freedom. 

 
There are Heroes, now. Larger than life rulers who took hope and twisted it into victory. And their world is growing larger, the borders of each victory starting to chafe against the next.

There is the trembling beat of war on the horizon— egos too large to concede, stories too fantastical to ignore, populations too many to contain.

And Fairy Godmother holds her breath, gathering her strength for the siege she is sure will happen, knowing the world will need hope, will need a light in the dark, more than ever before. She is old, but she is not Old, and the Old ones speak of war with cobwebbed memories. The last war was before the era of Kings, before the era of Empires. The last war was back when it was the era of Gods.

And it is now the era of Heroes. 

But if there are Heroes, there are Villains. And nuance has never been humanity's strong suit.

So the Heroes drag their Villains out into the light.

Disgraced and disfigured and dissenting beings driven from their relative safety, from the prisons where they were enjoying being forgotten, from their homes and families and friends, dragged into the public eye.

And then, the Villains— a word that curdles on her tongue, but she's always been more human than her fellows, quicker to see where the dust will settle and know how to find hope, which is the same as survival—are forced to battle their heroes. 

They call it battle, call it fair.

The Villains and the Heroes, the ones whose stories are whispered with awe and fear the same, they have some desperate fool magically restore all their ages and health to their primes— usually when they last faced each other.

Kings are returned to their youth, knights have muscle and stamina restored, bitter men are again suave and sleek, scared women go back to angry girls. 

And then they fight. 

It's public, it’s spectacle, it's a farce. 

The game is rigged, and Villains fall but do not die. They are set aside for a new punishment, a new humiliation, a new depravity. 

But the Heroes are sated; their egos accept alliances and agreements; the weapons are sheathed.

The war does not come. But Fairy Godmother thinks she wished it did. 

From the remnants of the Heroes glory rises an untied land. Kingdoms with representatives aligned under the High King. And so they do the only thing they know how to do as Heroes—they vanquish foes.

Their first collective act as the United Kingdom Alliance of Auradon— just Auradon for short— is to create the Isle of the Lost.

Fairy Godmother supposes it is better than calling it the Island of Losers, which she is sure was suggested.

Their next act is to send all Villains and villains (now defined as anyone who sided with the original Villians, anyone who opposes the status quo, anyone who doesn't belong in the new world order) to a hunk of rejected land that rests just across the bay from the High King's castle. 

And so this is how Fairy Godmother finds herself standing on a balcony overlooking the island prison where the Villains are to be banished. 

She was invited — commanded— to attend a gathering of powerful magical beings. She knows her magic pales in comparison to the other beings here, and it itches at her.

But she is here because she does not want to be labeled a villain, as shallow as that is. Or maybe it's self-preservation— she could not live long among the characters they've condemned, mainly because most are beyond hope. Their spirits are broken, their magic is twisted and tainted, their souls are heavier than anything she's ever seen. The Old ones are afraid, are urging their Children to cooperate, to survive.

So she stands in her most human form, no wings no sharp teeth no sparkling aura, in a room full of others also concealing themselves. But magic has a feeling, is a sixth sense, and the hum of the others' magic against hers is salt in an open wound. She has always been more human than the rest, can swallow her otherness with a smile, but she is surrounded by her true fellows and she longs to be honest.

The council of representative Heroes from the combined kingdoms trickle into the room behind her— she can recognize the warmth of the young girl she helped so long ago, Ella of Chamburg, much younger than she should be thanks to the manufactured confrontation.

Fairy Godmother had not watched Ella face down her abusive step-mother, could not bear to see the face of the girl who stayed kind despite years of degradation stare into the eyes of her own personal demon. But she had held that girl afterwards, barely 19 years of age once again, as she sobbed and sobbed and sobbed. 

Fairy Godmother swallows her discomfort, shrinks herself to be palatable for human company, and rejoins the room. She regrets it. 

There is to be a barrier. A barrier surrounding the Isle of the Lost to ensure the permanent entrapment of the Villains and villains. 

It will control the weather and day cycles.

It will be penetrable only by designated vessels bearing supplies and new inhabitants.

It will strip each inhabitant of any magical ability.

It will prevent any magic from being used, conjured, cast, etc.

It will undo the death of any inhabitant in any iteration. 

It will not prevent the presence of fertile soil and fresh water.

It will not prevent inhabitants from living their day to day life as they choose.

It will not prevent the repeated deaths of its inhabitants. 

It will not prevent the birth of new lives.

That is not all. 

Once the barrier has been erected, once magic has once again solved problems that these Heroes created for themselves, magic use will be formally banned in Auradon.

The ban allows the existence of magical beings, allows things that are essential to their livelihood. But the active practice will be against the law.

There is a registry already in existence, broken down by magical creature. It is active and accurate.

Any shapeshifter, ogre, goblin, were-creature, or other magical creature whose fellows once sided with a villain will be immediately rounded up for deportment to the Isle.

The dwarves will surrender their metals. The wizards, witches, sorcerers, and enchantresses will agree to wear magic dampeners. The merpeople will not be allowed above the ocean surface. The djinns will place their lamps in the care of their direct rulers. The talking animals and familiars will go silent.

The fae will maintain human form exclusively, place all of their magic into a physical vessel to use only at the command of their direct ruler, or never leave the Moors again.

Any being caught breaking this law will result in immediate deportment to the Isle.

Fairy Godmother allows herself to vomit just once the night she returns from the gathering.

She returns home to her cottage on the edge of the Moors, enacts her protection spells, and daintily kneels on the tiled floor next to the toilet. And then she heaves and retches and spews until her physical form is trembling and sweaty. Then she leans back, flushes the toilet, washes her face and mouth. She changes her clothes, checks her garden. 

Then she goes to the Fae Council. 

The others who were also at the gathering are already there, the panic and fear only present in their non human traits— the wings that won't unfurl, the twitching tail, the fangs that won't shorten enough to speak coherently. The Council itself sits still as stone, as they always do, observing their constituents with neutral faces. 

Fairy Godmother is the last to arrive, which speaks more to her distress than anything betrayed by her body. 

As soon as the branches of the weeping willow drop behind her, the room is silent, the breath of the Council members barely audible.

"We Know. And We Have Only One Answer. Survive. Endure So We May Live On."

And then the Council vanishes in the blink of an eye, leaving the rest of them to hash out details.

There are escape routes planned, refugee sanctuaries established, extractions performed, rebels assuaged, fear soothed, anger tempered, sacrifices accepted. 

Fairy Godmother has always been closer to human than her fellows. She is elected— chosen — sacrificed— as the Magical Creature Liaison, commanded to serve directly under the High King, as so many other fae snarled in fear and in disdain, as his magic pet. She will be allowed access to her magic, though it will be in a vessel he controls and its use will be determined by him and him alone.

It is an honor and a disgrace to accept this role, but she is the magic of hope. And knowing that she has any kind of power, political or social or magic, is a kind of hope.

She leaves the gathering that night with many a sympathetic look at her back and a stack of gifts— protective tokens, healing salves, non-magic potions, wards for every scenario, a shard from the same broken mirror she used all those years ago for Ella—on her doorstep the next morning.

The current leader of the Dark Fae, the one who has been leading since the capture of their true queen, and a god who has been condemned to the Isle approach her the next night with an offering and a wish.

They stand in her doorway, unsure, the fae’s feathered wings in twitching aggressively and the god’s ember in his throat flickering like a heartbeat.

The fae speaks in low tones, the sound of a rock tumbling into a canyon, bracketed by the god’s deadly hush. It is more melodious than it should be.

"We can offer a casting of a secondary vessel for your magic, so it might not all be controlled by the mortals."

Fairy Godmother invites them into her home. 

The barrier is set with the help of over one hundred magic users. It shimmers, glistens, slides over the hunk of rock Auradon's greatest enemies are standing on like a child blowing a bubble. The iridescent dome encircles the Isle, and Fairy Godmother feels the pain of a thousand magical beings losing their magic. It aches, burns, claws at her throat, but her placid smile does not falter.

She is hope, she is dreams, she is warmth in the cold. The wishes of the Isle will be heard by her, even if she cannot act on them. But she will hear them, and she will know them. And one day, magic willing, she will grant them.

Jane takes her first breath the same moment Mal does.