#but like i simply love the idea of angry and red being there for varian when no one else can

[guardiansofthemadness]

So, I don’t know if anyone has already came up with this idea yet, but I was thinking about @snowprincess-artist Exiled AU, and a thought came to me!

What if at some point after Rapunzel had sent Eugene and Cassandra to check on Varian, he ended up running into Angry and Red?

Since both girls are thieves who are traveling and living on their own without an actual place to call home, it wouldn’t surprise me if at some point during the AU Varian ends up meeting them! Like maybe Angry and Red could of found the old cabin that Varian was living in, and probably either assumed that no one was living there so they went inside to take shelter or of course, maybe went in to see if they can find something valuable to steal. But instead, once they go in they discover this beaten up and weary teenage boy living there all on his own!

And like, what if after meeting him and seeing the type of condition he is living in, both Angry and Red decides to be there for Varian and permanently stay with him?

After all, Varian at this point is an orphan like they both are and since he probably isn’t that much older than them, the girls most likely wouldn’t be as distrusting of him as they are with adults. Granted, the trust will need to be developed on both sides since Varian obviously wouldn’t be as trusting of them either, but maybe he could have calmed down a little bit after Eugene and Cassandra’s visit and like since Angry and Red are younger, Varian wouldn’t be too much in guard around them?

Plus, I don’t think that the girls would hate Varian or treat him harshly over what he did to Corona, especially since they are both thieves after all. If anything, I could imagine that they both would be very understanding and even sympathetic of him, even if neither girl knew what it must feel like to be desperate enough that you will do anything to save a parent. But because they had experienced having someone actually care for them and wanted to try and make life better for them, I wouldn’t be surprised if Angry and Red would eventually decide to try and do the same for Varian. Even more so, especially after seeing how Varian is fairing all on his own and the way he even reacted when he first met them, which no doubt consisted of him pointing his bow at them and possibly even trying to shoot at them in alarm.

Varian is all on his own after all, and if anyone understands what it means to be all on your own and was rejected, betrayed and kicked to the curb by others at such a young age, it would be Angry and Red.

Plus, can you imagine these three living together?

Angry and Red would so teach Varian everything they know about thieving and survival! Which is something he is going to need, especially considering how he was treated once he had been exiled. And like, even if Varian refuses their help and tells them that he is fine or just doesn’t believe that he deserves their help, the girls especially Angry, are stubborn and so they would no doubt insist on helping him. Even if Angry may get a little fed up with him, Red could convince her to help and in the end they will do just that and eventually, all three could be living in the old cabin together.

Plus, can you imagine how happy and in relief Rapunzel would be if she hears that Varian isn’t alone anymore? Heck, Eugene and Lance would be thrilled to hear that not only is the kid okay, but so are the girls! They would even be proud to hear that the girls were doing something good by being there for Varian, because honestly not only does he need it, but they do too.

Honestly, this idea is so random but like I kept thinking about it because it would really be cute to have our three youngest characters living on their own together and be there for one another. They can all bring out a lot of good if together and I wouldn’t doubt that by having Angry and Red around, Varian could just possibly find his old self again.

[crystal-moon-101]

I saw a couple of things of people having the idea of the Celestial Stones being living beings of some sort, so I thought I'd give it a try too, with my own headcanons and fake study on them! I also threw in the Starshard because I wanted to expand on the idea around it.

Celestial Stones: One thing is for sure, is that these stones are not from earth, nor is their magic, which is highly powerful and extremely dangerous, especially in the wrong hands. However, not much is known about these strange creatures, their homeworld or even their history. But there are many theories and studies on them. There's also the idea that there might be more than the two, whether their other Moonstones and Sundrops, or different kinds of stones, but no one has seen another, or where they come from. Some say the heavens, and some say another plant.

These creatures have a strange way of communicating, in that they don't actually speak with words. Instead, they talk through thoughts, feelings, emotions, memories and dreams. They can speak like a human, but it appears to be difficult, or they use the images of a person to speak through (As evident by Rapunzel's dream of one of them talking through a vision of Varian). They can recite their incantations, or pick up on certain words to speak with, like names. For a human, this way of communicating can feel strange or confusing to understand, often missing the message behind what a stone is saying.  

Celestial Stones appear to be somewhat shapeshifters, able to craft a body of their design around their core. They are also genderless, their voices and sounds varied, and often come across as simply alien-like.

Demanitus himself theorises that there might be a war going on where the Celestial Stones come from, as evident by the Sundrop and Moonstone crashing to earth, parted from one another and weakened when they first landed.

Sundrop: Being the more friendly one of the two stones, the Sundrop is a gentle being around humans, having been not too picky when it came to a host. However, it has been noted that it does behave a little condescending towards people, treated humans like exotic animals or children, no matter their age. Though it's never malicious about it, the Sundrop just tends to view people like that, as a result of being a powerful entity. But it is willing to help out if a human needs it, but only if it deems the situation too troublesome for an average mortal to handle.

The Sundrop has no sense of personal space, often picking up objects, animals or people, examining them with excitement, but tends to put them right back when it's done, being gentle a possible. If it grabs you, the best you can do is stay still and want until their done.

They also rarely attack, mostly using defensive tactics in a fight, unless pushed far enough. It takes a lot to get the Sundrop angry, but you better run and hide if you somehow do piss it off. It can construct and burst magical rays of blinding light, able to break down almost anything it hits, even creating a nova of energy when distressed. And, of course, it has the ability to heal and bring almost anything back to life, something many craved to have as their tool.

Moonstone: They are very much the opposite of the Sundrop in many ways. Cold, quiet, harsh, not particularly fond of humans, especially the ones that try and touch it. There have been a couple of people that peaked its interesting, but never enough to make them their host, wanting to be alone in its search for their lost light. They don't like to get involved in human problems, leaving them to deal with it on their own, as it takes a lot to convince the Moonstone to help in any way. That being said, it doesn't actively go out and attack humans, only when it is disturbed or one is in their way.

The Moonstone actually hates Cassandra, as the only reason she could become its host was because she caught it off guard. The stone was opening itself up to bond with the Sundrop again, which is also the same way they merge with a human, so Cass took in at the right moment. However, the Moonstone did not accept her, meaning they didn't fuse entirely, being the reason why it wa mostly had control over it, there were small moments where the Moonstone rebelled, like making a simple slip up back in the fight in the black rock tower, lowering its defences so it could be cracked, not wanting to harm its Sundrop.

When the Moonstone does attack, it uses its black rocks, forming them from the ground or off its body. The rocks allow it to spread its range of magic, able to perform the decay incantation through them or changing them into red rocks. Its also how it can scout and explore, able to sense through them.

Sundrop/Moonstone: It is well known that the two Celestials Stones are connected, having a desire to be united again. Their relationship is described to be very loyal and deep, some even saying it might be romantic in nature. Demanitus theorises that, if there are other stones, that the need to pair up could be part of their biology. It is unknown whether their connects are made at birth, or a bond needs to be formed to create one.

When the two were separated, the Moonstone began to search right away, being the more open one in their protective side over their lost half. The Sundrop decided to try and use a human host to take them back, as their powers had no way of making their way to the Moonstone on their own. The two were desperate to be together once more, and would combine their powers to be able to be sent back to their homeworld.

The two can fuse or separate at any time when close enough, able to form into an even stronger being when needed. When they reunited after Zhan Tiri's defeat, whatever damages they received from falling to earth were wiped away, now returning to their true forms.

Starshard: The odd one out, being the first artificial Celestial Stone ever created, by a human no less. With strands of magic from both the Sundrop and Moonstone, crafted together by science and other magics, the Starshard is rather strange, even by alien standards. To put it simply, it didn't understand what it was, only having bits and bits of traits from its doners, not knowing what it was supposed to do or who it is. This is one of the reasons why it refused to work for Demanitus and other humans for a long while.

Then it found a host in Varian, but it was still behaving strangely for a Celestial Stone. When the alchemist finally learnt of its existence in him, the Starshard began reaching out to him, seeming a lot more eager to know its host than the previous stones. That's because the Starshard has the trait of desiring a connection, a counterpart, but doesn't know what it is. So it has decided that Varian is its other half, seeing him more than a host, which is why it talks to him often, doing everything it can to support its human.

Its physical form reflects its nature, coming across as an unfinished mannequin of sorts. The Starshard mimics Varian and the people around him very often, picking up on human tendencies in an efforts to develop itself, to learn about the world it lives in. So its form is bland and unfinished, wanting to change it over time the more it sees of earth and humans. It did, however, copy Varian's hair and body shape, being the person it spends the most time around. It will also shape up clothing from time to time, often matching what everyone around it is doing. E.g. if everyone is getting ready for a fancy party, it will make and outfit to fit the occasion based on what everyone else is wearing. Unlike the Sundrop and the Moonstone, The Starshard loves humans and wants to learn all it can about them, having never been to the Celestial Stone homeworld, knowing only earth where it was born.

[izaswritings]

Title: Faults of the Mind

Synopsis:  Having escaped the perils of the Dark Kingdom, Rapunzel finally returns home—but all is not well in the Kingdom of Corona, and the black rocks are quickly becoming the least of her troubles. Meanwhile, over a thousand miles away, Varian struggles with new powers and his own conscience.

The labyrinth has fallen into rubble. A great evil stirs in the world beyond. The Dark Kingdom may be behind them, but the true journey is just beginning—and neither Rapunzel nor Varian can survive it on their own.

Warnings for: cursing, mentions of past child abuse (via Gothel), and emotional tangles due to said past abuse (again, freaking GOTHEL). Also, frank descriptions/depictions of scars and past injuries, emotional breakdowns and mild sensory overload, and further issues of forgiveness along the lines of complicated parent-child relationships. 

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AO3 version is here.

Arc I: Labyrinths of the Heart can be found here! 

Previous chapters are here.

And, the newly created discord server can be found here!

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Chapter VI: The Princess

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As the Sun continued her fruitless search, deep in the shadows, unable to pull away, the Moon too slowly began to fall.

You might be starting to doubt me, by this point, but I assure you: She fell. How could she not? Lovely Moon, lonely Moon, who danced alone despite all the stars that cluttered around her. Yes, she fell. She watched from shadows as the radiant woman scoured the seas, and with every moment found herself drawn in ever closer, caught in the Sun’s brilliant glow. For although Moon did not linger alone in the skies, never had she seen a being quite like Sun. Sun was closer and brighter than any other star—great and grand and tall, her smile soft and glowing, her long train of tightly coiled hair like fire. The Sun was blinding in her radiance and the Moon knew not how to face her.

And there was this, too, of course. The Sun searched. She looked for Moon everywhere, and called apologies across the sea; with every day of failure her eyes fell and her expression went downcast. And slowly, something in the Moon’s stone heart began to stir. Little by little, she fell.

Until finally, one day, when the Sun had almost given up hope on ever seeing that lovely woman again— the Moon at last left her shadows, and approached…  

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For a moment, Rapunzel is frozen still.

Her hands curl into her skirts, stiff and aching, the pain like lightning up her wrists. Her breath has caught, strangled, in her throat. The name almost seems to echo, and the whole court is struck silent—Rapunzel, choking on the shock; her mother, now white in the face; and her father—the King—

His reaction is most surprising of all. Because as Stalyan approaches, as her name rings out—the King looks not angry, or shocked, or afraid… but tired.

Then the exhaustion fades, and fury sparks, and he sits upright in the throne, eyes flashing. His fingers clench on the armrests of the golden chair; Rapunzel can almost hear his teeth grind. The court shifts back to life in the same instant— whispers echoing across the great hall, pale faces and gaping mouths hidden behind raised hands. The guards are stiff-backed, their hands tight around their halberds, eyes burning beneath the helmets. Rapunzel casts her gaze around the room, and is floored by the response. She knows the name only from Eugene—and yet, there is no denying this. At the sound of Stalyan’s name, the whole castle has drawn itself up in arms.

Stalyan, for her part, almost seems to bask in the attention. The throne room is pale and gray in the grips of the morning storm—the windows blurry with rain, the lights dim, the air freezing to the touch. The members of her father’s court are all dressed in heavy cloaks and dark coats to fight the chill, and in contrast Stalyan is a flash of brilliant color, bright red lips and swaying skirts, as if the cold hasn’t touched her at all. She saunters to the throne with a small smile playing at her lips, and when she kneels before the king, there is something mocking in the slow duck of her head.

She is nothing like Rapunzel has imagined her to be, and yet exactly as she expected. The smile that curls at her eyes; the sway to her walk, the laughter in every movement. There’s a control to her, a grace to her every action: like a performer on a stage, who knows exactly the role she’s playing. It strikes Rapunzel as sickeningly familiar.

There’s no question, really, of who Stalyan reminds her of, and Rapunzel hates that most of all. Because there is something about Stalyan that reminds her of Eugene, of Eugene-of-before, when Rapunzel first met him, and the resemblance digs into her insides like a splinter. All at once, it is so much harder to breathe.

Stalyan is still kneeling—head bowed, but even then, Rapunzel can see the smile curling smug at her lips. She is flanked from both sides by two men, tall and broad-shouldered and armored, stone-faced under the stares of the court. They stop a few steps behind her, arms crossed.

“Lady Stalyan,” says Rapunzel’s father. His voice is low and furious.

Stalyan lifts her head, just a little, at the address. If the King’s disapproval unnerves her at all, she doesn’t show it. Her eyes linger on the whispering court, on the queen, on Rapunzel—before fixing, at last, on the king. Her smile widens.

“King Frederic.”

“I don’t recall inviting you to court.”

“Well, then, I apologize for the lack of forewarning,” Stalyan says, raising her head fully. She’s still smiling—though now, in the dim light of the storm lamps, it looks a little more like a smirk. Rapunzel grits her teeth. “I hope I’m not intruding? Yilla here—” She waves one hand behind her, at the merchant who granted her entrance. The man closes his eyes, looking sick. “Well, he assured me his contract with the Kingdom was already set, so I figured I’d simply just… tag along. You know?”

“That contract is looking to be revoked,” Rapunzel’s father snaps, icy. Yilla the merchant cringes. “Lady Stalyan.What are you doing here?”

“I only want to talk,” Stalyan says, heedless of the danger in the King’s tone. She places a hand on her chest, over her heart. “It was a last-minute kind of idea. I just thought I would stop by and… see how negotiations were going?” Her smile grows. “On that previous matter we discussed.”

“There is no discussion.” His voice is flat. “I have given you my answer, and it is no.”

“And talking as a concerned neighbor of your kingdom, I really must protest.” Stalyan tosses her hair over one shoulder, waving her hand carelessly through the air. “King Frederic, I’m not an enemy. I know things have been… hard for your kingdom, lately. With all the port cities falling to attack, I mean, I imagine you must be spread quite thin…?”

Rapunzel’s father doesn’t even twitch. Stalyan shrugs. “Well. The other Kingdoms may fall back, and selfishly guard their borders, but my father has other plans. Vardaros is only growing in power under our rule, and we have aid to spare for Corona.”

He speaks through grit teeth. “We did not ask for your help.”

“It’s a gift!” Stalyan’s smile is hard. Her eyes are laughing. “Well, and as far as I know… my father and I are the only ones offering aid. Really, now. Can you justify turning us down?” She clicks her tongue, sounding briefly disgusted, smile fallen to a scowl. “King Frederic, I thought you cared about your people, not your pride.”

Rapunzel inhales sharply, stunned by her daring. She looks at her parents before she can even think to stop herself. Rapunzel’s mother is tight-lipped and cold, fury in the set of her hands, but it is the King who Rapunzel watches the closest. All the color has drained from his face; his eyes burn like a banked fire.

Rapunzel bites her lip, waiting for him to snap. For the thunder in his voice, for the denials. She almost wants it. Stalyan—Stalyan is here. Here in the castle, in Rapunzel’s home. This woman is responsible for most—if not all! —that has been going wrong, and to see her—to hear her— to have her here, now, of all times—when Rapunzel’s head still aches and her hands still spasm, with the echo of Cassandra’s words in her ears—

She can’t. She can’t.

And so, for the first time, Rapunzel waits desperately for her father’s anger, for him to deny and defy and shut the doors. But the King does not move. His lips are a thin line, and his hands clench— and yet. He grits his teeth, and holds his tongue, and says absolutely nothing at all.

And Stalyan smiles.

“Really,” she says, starting again—but Rapunzel is no longer listening. She stares at her father with wide eyes, something sinking in her chest. He’s… he’s not saying anything. Why isn’t he saying anything? Why is he just taking it? If he knows—if her father recognizes Stalyan for what she is—then why?

Something cold strikes through her. Her breathing stutters in her chest.

“W-wait,” Rapunzel says, and stands, her voice rising. “Wait!”

The court has gone dead quiet, all eyes on her. Rapunzel barely notices. She feels feverish and thin, grasping for straws, trying in vain to understand. “That’s not true!” she cries, staring at Stalyan. “That’s not true!”

Stalyan sniffs, annoyed. Her glance at Rapunzel is dismissive and full of contempt. “Oh?”

“The King—” Stalyan raises an eyebrow, looking bored. Rapunzel’s hands curl into painful fists. “Corona is—!”

“Rapunzel!”

She cuts herself off, stunned. Her father stares down at her from his throne, his eyes bright with an emotion she can’t name. His next words hiss through clenched teeth. “Sit. Down.”

Rapunzel almost gapes at him. “But—”

“Yes,” Stalyan says, and Rapunzel’s eyes snap back to her. Stalyan is smiling again, but there’s nothing friendly in the expression—her eyes are narrowed, her lip curled. “Sit down, Princess. This doesn’t concern you.”

“Watch your tongue,” Rapunzel’s father says, coldly, before Rapunzel can reply. “The same can be said for you, Lady Stalyan. For all you claim your father is eager to offer aid, he has yet to come here and offer it himself, has he not?”

Stalyan’s expression flickers, quicksilver and bitter, a flash of fury before her head bows. “I… I only meant that this was a matter between us, Your Majesty. After all, I act in my father’s stead.” Her head lifts. She looks to the side, and meets Rapunzel’s eyes. “Does your daughter act in yours?”

Rapunzel turns to her father. She can hardly believe this, cannot understand it—cannot fathom what is happening. Why is he listening to this? Doesn’t he know who Stalyan is? Why haven’t they thrown her out? Why—

Her eyes catch over her father’s shoulder. Beside Elias, who has stood shaking and small ever since Stalyan walked in, is the Captain of the Guard, Cassandra’s father. He is dressed in full armor; he stands tall by the throne. But his eyes are dark. His teeth are grit. He—

He looks angry.

He looks resigned.

And something finally clicks.

Rapunzel casts her gaze around the throne room, horror climbing up her throat. The whispers. The way the whole room had reacted, the way they’d known—the way not one had tried to stop Stalyan from approaching despite the hate in their eyes, not even the guards.

She’d known someone was attempting to blackmail Corona, but never in her wildest dreams has she thought they were succeeding. But the pieces come together, at long last, and Rapunzel can finally see the picture they paint. The pirates attacking the coast. The trade routes closing down. Money lost; jobs stalled. Revenue cut. Land trade would become all the more important—guards hired out for the long journeys on the roads—and that means—

My father and I are the only ones offering aid.

And there it is: the answer. Maybe the castle does know. Maybe they’ve known all along who Stalyan is, what this offer entails. But they don’t have the money or the people to spare, and there are no other offers. Corona has been caught, tangled in the web—

And they cannot afford to refuse.

Her father—the King—looks across, and meets Rapunzel’s eyes. “Sit down, Rapunzel,” he says. His voice is hard. His jaw is clenched tight with helpless anger. “And do not interrupt again.”

The feud between the guards and the King—smarted pride, helpless anger. The wariness of the citizens. The rumors.

Stalyan is smiling again. Her eyes gleam bright and burning, as violent as the storm outside. She stands below the throne, surrounded by glaring eyes, but there is a light in her face, and victory in her smile— as if, deep inside, she’s already sure that she’s won.

And the worst part is—

Maybe she has.

Rapunzel sits down, hands curled into trembling and painful fists, and grinds her teeth so hard she thinks she might break.

“Wonderful,” Stalyan says, soft and smug. How could Eugene have liked this woman? What could he have seen in her? Her smile makes Rapunzel sick. “Let’s talk business, then, shall we?”

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The rest of the negotiations pass by in a blur.

Rapunzel barely listens, her head spinning, eyes hot and fingers wound tight from stress and pain. By the time Stalyan leaves—empty-handed still, though with a smile and a promise to return that makes something lurch ill at Rapunzel’s gut—the rain has stalled, the sky darkened to late afternoon, and the throne room is stiff with silence.

The door clicks shut behind Stalyan’s retreating back, and Rapunzel’s father waves his hand. “Go,” he says, cold in a way Rapunzel has rarely heard him, and his court scatters like breaking glass, vanishing out of the room. Only Elias remains, lingering small behind the thrones like he’d rather be anywhere else. Rapunzel’s mother, still sitting, shades her eyes with her hand and sighs.

Rapunzel stares at the doors for a long moment, her breath shaking in her chest, fluttery and fragile. Then Pascal jumps to her shoulder and chirps at her, and all at once the world snaps back into place. She inhales so sharply she almost chokes, and jumps to her feet, whirling on the throne. “Dad—”

His eyes have closed. He puts his head in his hands. “No, Rapunzel.”

“I haven’t even said—” Something catches and strangles at her throat. “What—you have to know who she is. What she wants! And the things she was saying, I— the Baron, we can’t let—”

“Rapunzel,” her mother says, bracing.

“Enough,” her father snaps, at the same time. His hand lowers. His expression is stormy. “I know, daughter.”

“Then why are you—”

His voice has gone flat. “It is none of your concern.”

“But—”

“No!” His hand slams down on the arm of the throne. His head lifts. “This is not a debate, Rapunzel! If I had known that— that she was here—then you would not have entered this room.”

Rapunzel steps forward, beseeching. “But I was here. And I know—who she is, what she’s doing! I’m already involved! Please, I can—I’ll be more careful next time, I won’t interrupt, I just— let me just try—”

“No.”

“She’s trying to hurt Corona!” Rapunzel cries out, her patience finally snapped. “She’s already hurt Corona!” How many trade partners have they lost, in these past few months? What does that mean for the people, for the merchants, the artisans and farmers and the people who depend on the sea? Something deep inside Rapunzel has cracked, a thread worn down to breaking. She’s losing hold of all of it—her emotions, her grip, this conversation. She remembers Stalyan’s cold little smile and feels sick. “I have to—”

The King rises to his feet, expression closed off, then pivots on his heel and heads for the door. He says not a word to her; he barely even looks at her. Rapunzel snaps her mouth shut, feeling slapped—and when she turns to her mother, it’s to see her standing to leave too.

It burns. A strangled cry rises in Rapunzel’s throat, and she lunges forward, chest tight, following after them. “Stop hiding things from me!” she shouts at their backs. “You can’t—!”

“As though you haven’t been hiding things from us?” Her father turns to her, his composure broken. He gestures at her—no, Rapunzel realizes, at her gloves, and she flinches back before she can stop herself. “You cannot demand honesty from others and then refuse to give it in turn in the same breath!” He closes his eyes, exhaling hard. “Not to mention whatever happened with—that boy, Varian—”

“I—” Her throat closes up. “That’s different.”

“It concerns our kingdom, and our people’s safety—so no. It is not.”

“Varian isn’t—what happened in the labyrinth— he’s not a threat!”

“And you have no proof of that!” The Queen puts a hand on his shoulder; the King inhales deeply, shaky, his teeth grit. When he opens his eyes again, his expression is calm and cold. “And I find it especially interesting, daughter, that you recognized Stalyan for who she was, when I have been explicitly clear that you are to stay far away from all of this.”

Rapunzel flushes, furious. “I—!”

“I’ve made my decision.”

Her eyes burn. Her chest is strangled tight, twisted to breaking. She thinks of Stalyan’s mocking laughter and the cruelty in her eyes as she insulted Corona, the king, her people—the way no-one dared say a word in protest, even as their eyes burned, and something deep inside Rapunzel’s heart gives in and cracks.

“Why are you just taking it?” she whispers.

There’s a moment of silence. The Queen looks away. The King’s gaze drops to the floor. He is quiet for a long time, and then his shoulders slump. His eyes close again. This time he does not look angry. He looks—he looks—

When he raises his head, and meets her eyes, his expression is grim—but his eyes are so, so tired.

“Return to your rooms, Rapunzel,” he says, and he says it low, says it softly, and this time when he walks away, Rapunzel doesn’t try to follow.

Her mother exits with him, quiet as a ghost, her lips twisted shut. She doesn’t look back at Rapunzel either. For a moment, though, her eyes catch on Rapunzel’s hands, the leather gloves—and something in her, too, seems to drop, her shoulders bowed.

“Oh, Rapunzel,” she says. “Get some rest.”

Rapunzel stares down at the throne room floors, waiting for the sound of their footsteps to fade. She feels very dizzy, and sort of sick; at the same time she is frozen, so cold she has to fight not to shiver. It’s not raining anymore, and in fact the clouds are thinning, letting in faded streaks of reddish light—and yet. She feels so cold.

She’s alone in this room, except for Elias—as always, ever by her side. The guards have gone, the advisors scattered. The thrones look small and fragile, swallowed up by the stone. The pretty tile floors are stained bloody and bright in the afternoon light.

Rapunzel stares at the door so hard her eyes hurt.

There’s a creak from behind her, the squeal of old armor. Elias. He approaches tentatively, carefully, and he stops just out of reach. She can hear him take a breath—deep, steadying. As though bracing himself.

“…Princess, a-are you—”

She turns. “Let’s go.”

Elias says nothing more.

Rapunzel walks through the castle in something like a blur, her head hot, her hands shaking. She slams back into her rooms with a violence she hadn’t thought herself capable of. The doors smack against the wall and bounce back, and—she flinches. She doesn’t feel any better. It’s not enough. It’s like being bruised. She feels too small for her skin, like there’s lightning in her blood, shaking all the way through her. She wants to break something. She wants to scream. She wants— she wants— 

For a moment Rapunzel just stands there, in this beautiful tower room. She takes it all in. Her painted walls, her soft bed, the open balcony with its lovely new artwork, Corona in eclipse. She looks at those lovely marble walls, the wide double-doors, and it feels like a chain around her heart.

She can’t stay here, Rapunzel realizes. She can’t. She can’t sit trapped in this tower a second longer, or she really will go mad.

She doesn’t bother to close the doors behind her. She heads for the balcony, drawing her hair out from the beads, and loops the long strands around the railing with trembling fingers. She can’t get the tie right. In the end, Pascal has to crawl down her arm and finish the knot for her, securing her hair for the descent, and Rapunzel closes her eyes against a sudden wave of tears. It’s not sadness. It’s not—she’s almost used to her hands by now, really, but—

It’s so frustrating. On top of everything else, it is just—so, so frustrating.

She buries her head in her arms. She breathes. Her head pounds.

“P-Princess…?”

She doesn’t move. Her breath is hot against her palms. She lifts her head and looks back at Elias.

His expression has gone drawn and fearful; his eyes are wide, lips tight and pale. His hands shake on the halberd. He looks between her and the railing and back again. Yes, Rapunzel thinks. That’s right. Elias, her new guard. Her father’s spy. Ordered to never let her out of sight.

“Yes?” she says, and there is a coldness to her that she has never felt before. She isn’t shaking anymore—she is still. Something curls in her heart, pulls cruel at her expression. (I’m trapped, something in her whispers, even then. A voice that sounds just like hers, only younger, only smaller, only afraid. Even now, still, I’m trapped.)

She keeps her eyes on him. Elias stares at her and then at his feet, unable to meet her gaze. His face twists, as though he’s about to cry. His amber eyes are glassy and wet. Then, his jaw clenches. His expression firms. He takes a deep breath, and lifts his head, eyes still bright but steadier, now, determined—

“It’s alright,” Rapunzel says, before he can speak. His mouth snaps shut. All at once the emotion has drained from her; she feels deadened, quiet. Her heart has sunk to her gut. She doesn’t want to know what he’ll say. She doesn’t want to hear it.

She looks down at the balcony floor, her newest mural painted bright and bold against the gray stone: Corona in shadow, the eclipse above, little lights still shining. The morning she’d painted it, all those weeks ago, the image had given her hope. Now it leaves her tired. “You can tell him.”

“I—”

“It doesn’t matter,” Rapunzel says, gentle and dead. She turns back to the railing, looking up at the sky. The storm is truly over, now—the rain vanished, the sky slowly clearing up, and Rapunzel feels, bizarrely, as though it’s leaving her behind. Come back, some part of her wants to say. Come back here. But that, too, is a stupid thought.

Something bitter tugs at her upper lip. “He probably should have expected this,” she says, finally. “In fact… I want you to.” She looks back. Her expression firms; her hands tighten on the railing. “Tell the King I’ll be back when I feel like it.”

Elias’s voice is barely above a whisper. “I don’t— I don’t have to tell him anything.” He swallows. “I don’t.”

Rapunzel’s lips press, a grimaced smile. “Oh.” It hurts. It’s kind. He’d be dismissed from the guard for sure, speaking like that, if anyone found out. Her eyes burn. “I— that’s— thank you. I mean it. Thank you, Elias. But—” She forces another smile, unsteady and weak on her face. “You don’t have to do that for me.”

He stammers. “But I—”

“Please.” She’s grateful, a little, but mostly she is just tired. Tired of things going wrong. Of people giving up the things that matter to them. Of people giving up these things up for her, especially. “Please, just… please don’t.”

Elias falters, and he looks down again. At last—slowly, reluctant—he gives a tiny nod. “Okay,” he says, in a small voice. “Then… I’ll tell him. If you say so.” His head lifts. “…Princess, are you— are you okay?”

Rapunzel almost laughs at him. She swallows down the hysterical giggle, feeling it flutter uncomfortably in her chest, and turns away. She leans her arms against the railing, and swings herself up to sit on the bar; the cold metal burns at her legs even through the dress. Her feet dangle over the ledge. She reaches up and grips her hair in shaking hands, wraps it secure around her arm. She stares up into the glare of the afternoon sun, the light breaking through the clouds—and all at once, she doesn’t feel like laughing anymore.

“Yes,” Rapunzel says, finally, dully, and slips down off the balcony before Elias can work up the nerve to call her out on the lie.

.

In the quiet grips of the morning fog, the Riesling woods are really quite lovely. With its soft rolling hills and towering trees, clustered so close that from above there’s no break in the green, the woods are peaceful in a way that seems almost unreal. The one road is dirt-worn and broken up by roots, barely wide enough for a cart. Any towns nearby are small and isolated; tiny thatch roof cottage houses with home-grown gardens and barely a market to speak of.

It’s peaceful, in these woods—sleepy, even. They’d entered three days ago, jumping off the latest wagon to make this trek by foot, and it still boggles the mind. It’s so gentle—all birdsong and scattered sunlight, like something from a kinder dream. It’s unreal.

And it’s almost funny, in a way, Varian thinks, staring up at the mist. Because the last time he spent an inordinate amount of time travelling across a couple countries, he’s pretty sure he hated it.

“Moony.”

Of course, Varian reflects, he probably had his reasons for that. The chains—gods, he remembers those. The iron always chafed at his wrists, and he could never really get comfortable, and that iron ball, so heavy, he’d hated that most of all…

“Moony. Get up.”

And sure, he’s spent these past six months traveling with Adira too, but those early months after the labyrinth had never quite felt real. Not in the way that mattered. There’d been no destination to it, no meaning—and Varian hadn’t really been in a state to much care, either. This is the first time it’s really felt true—Corona, off in the distance, the looming goal. Suddenly the roads feel solid beneath his feet, and the travel and the time they’ll take to return needles at him like a ticking clock. He’s going back. After all this time, after everything, Varian is finally going… home.

“Hm. Have it your way.”

Adira swings her staff for his skull; Varian, lying flat on the ground and trying in vain to ignore her, yelps aloud and rolls away, scrambling for his own staff. In the misty sunrise the light is soft and scattered, almost blue, and the world seems dim and shadowed, dampened. The trees here are tall and dark and shaded, great bristling sugar pines with heavy spines now damp with dew, and it’s early enough in the day that even the birds are still singing hello. It’s wonderfully cool too, which is practically warm for this not-quite-springtime weather, and the most pleasant morning they’ve had in a while… so of course, Adira is using this time to train. Varian hates her.

“Head’s up!”

Varian curses again, and brings up his own staff just in time, scrambling back. Adira’s staff cracks against his block—he strains against the blow, his boots digging into the dirt from the pressure. His arms are already shaking, but Varian tries to push back anyway, straining against the staff bearing down for his head. His vision spins. His knees start to buckle—

Adira frowns and makes a dismissive noise, and then pulls back to swing for his ankles. This time, Varian isn’t fast enough to dodge. Adira’s staff smacks hard into his ankle bone, and his leg buckles—and Varian falls hard, flat on his back in the grass once again, groaning.

Adira, above him, shakes her head. “I keep telling you, watch your feet.” She raps the staff smartly against his still-smarting ankle, less a hit and more a warning. “Get a strong stance first, and then you can try defense.”

Varian catches his breath and forces himself upright. For a moment, he doesn’t understand why she’s stopped attacking. Then he sees the small glitter of glowing blue-black stone, rising up by his feet, and falls back on the ground.

Adira sighs again. “You’re distracted.”

Varian throws his arm over his face, trying to ignore the sharp twist in his chest. Every time. He’s stopped jumping at the appearance of the black rocks, if only because it’s become a distressingly common event, but…

Damn it.

“I need a break,” he mutters, and shoves his hand back through his hair, glaring off into the fog. His good mood has soured with this, the peace turned ill and vexing. Varian hates traveling. He’s lost the iron chains this time around, but gained something so much worse, and really, he’s starting to get tired of this. He remembers Moon’s smile, bright and furious and cruel—Figure it out yourself—and the memory curls bitter in his chest. “It’s not working!”

“It’s barely been two weeks. We have a month and more to Corona at this rate. We still have time… and you need to give it time.” Adira offers him the staff; reluctant, Varian takes the end and lets her pull him back on his feet. “Can you keep going?”

Varian brushes stray grass off the hem of his sparring clothes—mainly just his old clothes, because if he ruined his new outfit he’s pretty sure Yasmin would murder him, miles of distance between them none-withstanding. “I’m fine,” he says, and pulls out his hair from the ponytail, combing his hands through it. Augh, it’s all messed up. “Just give me a second.”

“You keep flinching,” Adira notes, leaning on her staff. She eyes him critically, frowning slightly as Varian pulls his hair back again into a neater ponytail.

“Wha— I thought reflexes were a good thing!”

Adira taps her staff against the ground, unamused. “That’s not what I meant.”

Varian looks up at that, his heart sinking. Adira raises an eyebrow at him. He flushes, and his eyes drop back to the ground.

She’d noticed, then. Damn it.

It’s been almost two weeks since they left Yasmin’s house and Port Caul behind. In that time, they’ve already left a few merchant carts, either catching new rides or walking the road in search of another traveler going the right direction. As far as Adira can tell him, Corona is a good two months journey away, if they make good pace— they won’t arrive until the true start of spring, at least, maybe even sometime near Varian’s birthday, though of course he hasn’t told her about that. In the time they have, though, Adira has apparently taken it upon herself to help Varian with training and controlling the black rocks both. It’s a good idea—logical, even. And yet…

The bruise on his face has faded, by now. They’ve talked it out, they’ve set the terms for training and traveling and everything— Varian even agreed to it this time, damn it all—and yet, he still can’t focus.

Part of it is the rocks. Part of it is the Moon, her cryptic warnings and piecemeal answers; part of it travel and trauma, his restless dreams and the endless road. And part of it—as she has no doubt noticed—is Adira.

Varian keeps his eyes on the ground. “Sorry,” he mumbles. “I—I just—”

“It wasn’t an accusation,” Adira says calmly, cutting him quiet. When Varian eyes her, she shrugs. “It’s fine. I expected this. There’s no reason for you to feel comfortable with it.” She lifts a brow. “Don’t apologize for things I’ve given you reason to fear. I just need to know if you can keep going. If not…” She shrugs again. “We’ll try again tomorrow. Though I will have you practice your stances, Moony. Honestly.”

Varian sneers. “You slapped me once.”

“Once is enough. Don’t blame yourself for logical things. I said, can you keep going?”

Varian picks up his staff, stubborn. Adira sighs at him, but slides back into a stance regardless. “One last round,” she warns.

“I can do this.”

“Hm.” She swings for him; this time Varian keeps his feet, remembering her advice. He leans back on his heels and slips to the side of her swing—tightens his grip on his own staff through the gloves and lashes out for Adira’s blind spot—is blocked by the sudden flick of Adira’s wrist, and has to scramble back to avoid getting kicked into a tree. “Regardless—” She swings for his ankles again, and Varian trips away, a desperate dodge. “We have a long journey ahead of us. Best not to exhaust ourselves.”

“Corona is—month and a couple weeks away, right?” He ducks a swing, already wheezing, out of breath.

“By merchant roads, anyway. Navigation gets funny across countries.”

He fumbles the staff, annoyed by his own poor dodging. Damn, if he could only hit her back once—! “If you’re saying there’s a shorter road and we haven’t taken it…”

She smacks the staff against his shoulder and he yelps. “Watch your left. You keep leaving yourself open.” She side-steps Varian’s wild swing and raps the staff against his knuckles next, the blow felt even through his new gloves. Varian hisses at her. She shakes her head at him. “Like a cat,” she remarks absently to herself, and then, louder: “Besides, I wouldn’t rely so much on that timeline. We have our own problems to deal with before we can get to Corona.”

Varian draws back, sour, slipping off one glove to rub at his smarting hand. “What do you mean?”

Adira looks at the ground, pointedly. Varian follows her gaze to the black rocks. He looks away. “Oh.”

The fight has fallen slow now. Neither one of them is really trying anymore. Adira straightens, yawning boredly into one hand, and tosses her staff carelessly by their packs. Ruddiger, sleeping snug atop Varian’s bag, doesn’t even twitch. Varian, for his part, drops his staff like it’s a hot coal and leans over his knees, fighting to catch his breath.

“It’s a bad idea to enter another city while that’s still not under control,” Adira says, not unkindly. “And since sparring isn’t working…”

“It’s helping,” Varian says, and makes a face right after, abruptly aware of the hypocrisy. He’d just said otherwise, ugh.

Adira’s lips twitch, an almost-smile. “Hm.”

Varian splutters at her. “I, I mean, it’s—it’s giving me ideas even if it isn’t exactly working—I’m coming up with new plans as we speak, okay—”

“I didn’t say anything.”

Varian mumbles an insult under his breath, shuffling on his feet, bright red—and then bolts for their bags, Adira’s laughter echoing at his back.

Their camp falls quiet after that, but it’s a comfortable kind of silence. Varian changes back into his nicer—warmer, too, which is most important—clothes and his coat over that, at first with sharp angry movements and then calmer once the embarrassment fades. He takes a moment to look down at the nightlight crystal, still hanging off his coat buckle. He takes it in his hand, drawing strength from the pale glow. He breathes in. He exhales.

“Set up the fire, Moony.”

“Got it.”

By this point it’s almost become routine, they’ve done it so often. As Adira stalks off into the trees to hunt, Varian clears out last night’s fire and rebuilds it for their breakfast, walking around their small clearing to gather up twigs and brush for burning. By the time he’s got a blaze going Adira has found their meal, and as the fire starts to crackle, Varian keeps his eyes on the flames and ignores her prepping the meat best he can, even now still a little squeamish at the sight of blood.

Ruddiger wakes up by this point, and scurries over to curl in Varian’s lap. Varian pets him, absently, as their breakfast cooks—Adira’s found some birds, and eggs too, and the smell is almost heavenly, especially with the spices Adira bought from the last merchant. Varian combs out the matts in Ruddiger’s fur and frowns off into the fog, sketching out possible experiments in his head. There’s still not quite enough money for him to buy alchemy equipment, but maybe one day, he’ll be able to bring them to life.

Adira takes the meat and eggs off the fire, and Varian takes his bowl with a mutter of thanks. He eats slowly, sneaking Ruddiger bites when Adira isn’t looking. The campfire is warm against his legs, and high above, the morning haze is starting to burn off under the sunlight. It’s soft. It’s nice.

But again and again, Varian finds his eyes drawing back to the rocks.

He hasn’t told Adira about his conversation with the Moon—hasn’t known how to bring it up, really. But he knows he should. That conversation has played in loops in his mind ever since, and with the distance of hindsight, Varian is starting to realize that whatever’s going on is… a lot more, he thinks, than just pirates. A rot that lies forever beneath the deep, Moon had said, and as fucking cryptic as that sounds—well. “It” is apparently waking up, if Moon is to be believed, and that’s…

And as much as Varian hates to admit it—he believes her. That attack on Port Caul… it wasn’t right. There’s too much that doesn’t add up. Moon’s attempt at warning him away from the port, the way the black rocks had all pointed at the sea, as if to threaten something—or someone—still on the waters, and… that earthquake. It’d been a small one, sure, but enough to knock Varian off his feet, and… and that’s not natural, is it? Earthquakes and pirate attacks all along the coast, and how strange that they would coincide…

He thinks he needs to tell Adira. He should tell Adira. It’s not like he can ask Moon, even if he wanted to; Moon herself seems intent on ignoring him after that night, beyond the occasional vindictive and vivid night terrors.

Varian takes another bite of eggs and considers it, turning the possibilities around in his head. He grimaces around his breakfast. Ugh. She’s going to yell at him for being stupid, and she’s going to be right, and—ugh, awful, nope.

Still. He’s got to do it. Varian swallows down his mouthful and puts down his bowl, exhaling steadily. He brings one hand to the nightlight, and grips it tight. “I… I am trying, you know.” When Adira looks up, he clarifies: “With, um, with the rocks. I’m trying.”

Adira tilts her head. “I know.”

“I’ve…” Varian clears his throat. “I’ve tried everything.”

“…Okay,” Adira says, a lot slower now. She looks Varian up and down. She closes her eyes. She sighs. She sets aside her bowl, and leans forward to link her hands under her chin. “Alright. What did you do.”

And yeah, okay, despite the fact he’d been deliberately leading her to that exact conclusion, Varian still splutters a bit. “Why do you always assume it’s something I’ve done!? Maybe I haven’t done anything. Maybe it’s—”

“Varian.”

“—okay, fine, yeah, whatever, I—I kind of summoned and tried to interrogate the Moon?” It comes out sort of like a question. “Definitely summoned.” Adira is making a face. “Only kind-of talked to though, because, um—I sort of—insulted her—at the end there, but she totally deserved it—”

Adira holds up a hand. Varian shuts up.

Adira is silent for a moment. Her jaw is stiff with tension; her knuckles are almost white. But then she relaxes, forcefully, deliberately unclenching her jaw. “…Right.” She rubs at her face, suddenly looking very tired. “Right.” A pause. “Damn it, Moony.”

“I know, I know.” He crosses his arms. “I—I get it okay? But I… I didn’t know what else to do. And I figured, if she was the reason all this was happening…” He doesn’t look back at the black rocks. He doesn’t.

Adira’s eyes draw back to the rocks too. She sighs. “And?”

“She… said something… odd.” Varian adjusts his posture, fidgeting with Ruddiger’s fur, and repeats as best he can the Moon’s cryptic comments on the pirates and the presence she felt in the city. “I’m sure it means something,” Varian concludes, certain. “I just… can’t figure out what.”

Adira is very quiet—deliberately quiet—and Varian narrows his eyes at her. “You can,” he realizes. “You know something. Don’t you?”

“…I’m really hoping I don’t.” Adira reaches back for her sword, and while she doesn’t unsheathe it, her fingers flex restless on the hilt. “Later.”

“No, tell me now.”

“I’m not even sure of what I know, kid. Later.” Varian curls up, teeth grit, and Adira gives him a glance. “I will tell you,” she allows, at last. “I will. But not now. Some stories… are best left undisturbed unless absolutely necessary, got it?”

His lips press, and Varian looks away. “…Later,” he agrees, grudging.

“Hm.” There’s another pause. “And the rocks?”

“What?”

“Did the Moon say anything on how to control the rocks?”

Oh. Varian stares a hole at the ground. “She refused to tell me,” he says, something bitter rising in his chest. He glowers at the dirt. “She said I had to figure it out myself or whatever. So the whole gamble was useless, on that front.”

Adira almost seems to twitch at those words, her brow furrowing. Varian looks up, searching her face. He frowns. “…What is it?”

Adira hums. Her gaze is distant, staring holes into the campfire. “She told you to figure it out on your own?”

“Yeah…?” He watches her. “She just—likes watching people suffer, I don’t know. It was stupid. But I mean—I don’t know if I can… before we get to Corona—”

“No,” Adira says, before he can finish. “No, actually… this is good.” She looks thoughtful. “Listen, Moony. If she said you had to figure it out yourself, that means there’s something to figure out. A trick to it. And if training isn’t working, then… maybe it’s something we haven’t considered? Something we don’t know.” She blows out a long breath. “…Damn.”

Varian blinks at her. “Um…”

Adira straightens. “Right,” she says, decisively. “Strike the merchant-caravan plan. We’re going off-road.”

“W-what? Why?”

“I have an idea. Something that might help. King Ed—” She snaps her mouth shut abruptly and grimaces. “…Someone I once knew told me about it. I’ve avoided it for my own reasons, but… now might be the time to change that.” She rises to her feet, heading for their bags. “Pack up once you’re done eating. We head out as soon as we can.”

“Wait, wait—” Varian snaps his head around to follow her, struggling to catch up to her train of thought. “Where are we going? What are you talking about?”

“Quirin ever show you a graphtic scroll?” Varian freezes mid-motion, his breath stuttering in his chest. “Old paper, ancient writing, showed a glowing flower and a stylized sun, maybe some of the moon, black rocks—”

“Yes,” Varian says. His own voice sounds distant to his ears. His head is pounding. He feels very cold. “Yes. I saw it. He—never showed me, but I— have it. Had it.” It’s with Rapunzel now, probably; he never saw it again after using it to translate those lines in the ruins, and it wasn’t in the satchel Rapunzel gave him either.

Adira considers him. “Could you read it?”

“I… not at first.”

“But later?”

“I figured a rough translation, but—” He stops. “Why? Why does it matter?”

Adira nods to herself. “Could you do it again?”

“I mean… maybe?” Varian puts a hand to his head, feeling a bit dizzy. “I’m missing—so much stuff, wow—” His books, his tools, his references—the last time he’d translated that odd writing, in those ruins, he’d had the scroll for reference and Eugene to help—

Something about that memory gnaws at him. Varian blinks, hand drifting away from his temple. His brow furrows. The ruins… he hasn’t thought of them in ages, but—hadn’t that translation, too, had something to do with the Moon? An odd little poem, and then that final phrase…

“But you have a better chance than most.” Adira seems to have come to a decision; she speaks firmly, sure and set. She slings her bag over her shoulder and looks off towards the dirt road. “Listen, Moony. There’s only one place I know that might have what we’re looking for—greatest store of information on the Moon and Sun and their powers than anywhere else on this continent.”

As she speaks, though, something odd shivers through him. Varian blinks fast, feeling dizzy. His blood is burning cold, all at once—his chest, seizing up. He blinks faster, and twists a hand in his shirt, over his heart. What?

“Most of the scrolls there are still unreadable—never got translated because of the history of that place—”

What’s happening? Something is wrong. He’s freezing. He’s freezing. And the longer Adira talks, the more she says, the stronger it gets. Like a building realization—a growing horror. A memory that isn’t his own.

“—but if you put in the effort, it might pay off.”

There is something icy in his blood. A chill in his breath. There is a burning in the back of his mind, the distant tang of godly rage, and Varian realizes, all at once—

This isn’t me.

“I wonder,” Adira says, and the Moon’s power burns. “Did Quirin ever tell you about the Great Tree?”

It’s like something in his very soul has flinched. A sense of foreboding, like Port Caul but somehow so much worse—and inward, somehow, horror internal, like this is something the Moon had not meant for him to feel at all.

Adira is calling his name, but Varian isn’t listening. There is terror frozen still in his chest, a far-off echo of hatred and rage and fear, strangest of all. But already, he can feel it fading, the connection locked down, cut off—and almost without knowing why, Varian reaches back.

…Moon?

But she has already gone.

.

Rapunzel wanders Corona’s streets in a daze.

The storm has moved on, and in its wake the sky burns with color. It’s beautiful, in a very real sense—the light warm and golden-red, the houses back-lit by the rosy tint, the puddles on the streets shining golden with reflection. The sun is setting, and the streets are full, Corona taking full advantage of the last few hours of sunlight.

Rapunzel sees them as if from far away, the moving crowds hazy to her eyes. People are milling about—shopping, dancing, laughing. The stone walkways are warm beneath her bare feet, even as the air burns cold in her throat. And the crowds—the people—they press in around her, makeshift walls. She’s tied up her hair, but badly, and it’s clear who she is. Some people call her name across the street. Others run up to her. Xavier, in the shadow of his workshop with his new apprentice by his side, waves her a hello.

They falter, each and every one of them, when they see Rapunzel’s face.

It’s cloying, and caging, and even outside the castle walls, their eyes press into her like chains. Her breathing quickens. There’s just so many people—all here, all looking at her—and Rapunzel doesn’t want to be seen, right now. She doesn’t want to be their princess. She just wants to be no one, invisible, safe in a crowd.

She misses Eugene.

“Princess!”

“Princess, over here!”

“Lovely to see you!”

She picks up the pace, trying to escape them, something buzzing in her ears. But they are too close—too near—a hand catches at her sleeve, tugging hard, and she jolts.

“Princess, if I may, I have an issue I’d like to discuss with you—”

“Rapunzel?”

Her breathing stutters at the familiar voice, and she stops mid-step, halfway to fleeing, and turns so fast her head spins. She scans the crowd, rapid, and stills when she sees him. And yes, she’s got it right—because there, at the end of the street, shopping bags in his arms and brow furrowed, is Lance.

“It is you!” he says, delighted, when she meets his gaze. It’s almost dizzying, how little he seems to have changed: beyond a new vest and a few fancier earrings, he looks just as he did when Rapunzel first left, all those months ago. “Ha! Who would have thought? What brings you to town on this fine evening, princess?”

Rapunzel beelines for him at once, her throat knotted. Her eyes tear down the streets. She can’t see Eugene. “Where—” she starts. It’s hard to speak. Her throat feels caught. “Is—is Eugene—”

Lance’s smile falls to a frown. He shifts all his shopping bags to the crook of one arm and carefully reaches for her shoulder, stopping just short of touching her. “Hey,” he says, and his brow furrows. “You look a little…”

“Is Eugene here?”

Lance shakes his head. “I just went out for groceries. He’s back in the Snuggly Duckling.”

“Oh.” Her heart falls. Her vision swims. “Oh. R-right. Right.” Of course he isn’t here. Of course he’s somewhere else. Of course…

The crowd has caught up to her. Their voices clamor in her ears. Someone touches her sleeve again and she flinches. Her hands curl. Despite herself, her lips pull back in a snarl. It’s awful—she’s awful—they just want to talk and here she is, acting like—!

But everything is hot and tight and roaring in her ears, and for a moment all Rapunzel wants to do is smack those hands away from her.

Lance draws beside her, close enough to touch, and shoots her a wink. “Come on,” he says, and glances up at the crowd, impatient and shifting, closing in. “It’s been a while—months, even! We should catch up.” His voice rises, directed at the small crowd that’s formed around her. “No busybodies allowed!”

“What—”

“You can’t just take all the Princess’s time, you—!”

“I’m catching up with a friend,” Lance says, and turns back to Rapunzel, offering his arm. She stares at it. After a moment’s pause, she takes it, and Lance’s smile dazzles. His voice lowers, for her ears alone. “That okay?”

She nods. Lance squeezes her arm—warm, somehow, grounding, and this time she doesn’t flinch—and then he steps boldly forward. “Coming through!” he shouts, sing-song. “Make way! Hungry people rushing through!”

He gets them out of the market, down a few more streets; guides her swiftly and easily through the alleyways until any pursuers have gotten lost in the tangle of side-streets. Rapunzel closes her eyes and doesn’t watch, just lets him lead her, and breathes in deep the whole time.

At last—when it’s silent again, calm again, safe to breathe again—she lets go of his arm, standing on her own. She smooths her skirt down with her hands— Pascal, curled up on her shoulder, brushes off his scales— and sighs, shaky and thin, an exhale that leaves her empty.

When she looks up again, Lance is watching her. Rapunzel gives him a weak smile. “I’m fine,” she says. “I’m fine.”

“Well, all right,” Lance says, easily enough. Rapunzel nods, relieved at the lack of argument. She glances back down the street from where they’d come, and stifles another sigh in her throat.

“But, um…” She studies her hands. “Thank you.”

Lance’s returning smile is almost blinding in its radiance. Rapunzel swears she can even see a sparkle in there, somewhere. Somehow. “Of course!” He gestures down the streets, giving a theatrical bow. “I know a good place for dinner around these parts, too. Not as fancy as your castle food, but, eh. You’re not much the type to care about that, are you?”

“No…” Rapunzel blinks. “Oh. I— what?”

“Did you think I was joking about dinner?” Lance rises from his bow, grinning. “I meant it. Hey, just this once, I’ll even say the meal’s on me!” He winks at her. “Partly because I don’t think you brought your wallet with you, princess, but also… I mean, really. Months! We’re due for a conversation, aren’t we?”

“But your groceries…”

He looks down at the parcels in his arm like he’d forgotten they were there, and hums. “I was planning on staying in the city tonight anyway. Bought too many duck antiques… there’s no way I could have gotten back to the Snuggly Duckling before sundown. And walking those roads at night?” Lance gives a full-body shudder and looks briefly scarred. “No. Oh, no, no, I don’t care what Eugene tells me, those roads are definitely haunted. No-thank-you. I’ll head back for the bar tomorrow.” He glances at her, and something in his face gentles. “You aren’t holding me up at all, Princess. Trust me.”

“I…” She searches for an excuse, for a reason, but her mind is blank and—and she’s too tired to think, let alone argue. “…Okay.”

Lance is looking at her again. It’s an odd expression on his face, thin and a little worried. He pats her on the shoulder, almost helplessly, and then links back their arms and guides her wordlessly back down the streets.

The silence, too, is unlike him—but for once there’s a comfort in it, in the quiet, in the not having to listen. Rapunzel closes her eyes and lets the streets blur past her, lets Lance lead her blind across the city. It feels as though all the world is fading in and out of focus, blessedly distant—sound distorted and soft, sight blurry and indistinct. Like falling asleep, without the nightmares, and as they walk, something unwinds in Rapunzel’s chest, loosens in her shoulders, eases up the stranglehold on her lungs. She inhales deep, and this time actually feels like she’s breathing.

Slowly, surely, twilight falls over Corona’s capital. Above them the sky turns from bloody red to a richer purple—bleeding slowly to a darker blue. Stars are beginning to show on the firmament. The horizon is a band of molten gold, the sun sunk low and vanished beyond the retreating storm clouds. The sea breeze has gone chill, without the sun to warm the winds, and Pascal burrows in her hair like it’s a blanket, his little chuff of annoyance soft in her ear. This time, it even makes Rapunzel smile.

The restaurant Lance takes her to is a small sea-side business, with tiny oak tables and windows of colored glass. He must be a regular—the owners greet him by name and with a smile—and he seats her near the back, where she can be half-hidden from the door, by a window overlooking the sea. There’s a small vase with cut flowers sagging in the center of their table; Rapunzel reaches out, and brushes the golden petals with one gloved hand. The fresh blooms are starting to wilt, but they’re still lovely. She’s always liked yellow flowers, but then, she’s probably a little biased.

Lance orders dinner, water and stew for them both, and flirts with the waiter as he settles in his chair. His laughter is bright and deep. His boasting is as familiar as the sunrise, and just as comforting. Rapunzel traces her finger across a wood-grain stain in the table, watching the flowers and letting their voices wash over her, and thinks of nothing at all.

When the waiter has gone, and they are alone, Rapunzel says: “You didn’t have to do this.”

Lance raises an eyebrow at her. “Uh-huh.”

“Really, you didn’t. I’m… I’m honestly fine.”

Lance winces. Looks away. Looks at her again, from the corner of his eye.

“…Really, I am.”

“Err.”

He’s got a terrible poker face, but then, Rapunzel is the same way. She buries her face in her arms. “Really,” she says, voice muffled, throat tight. Her eyes burn. Her sleeves are getting damp. “Really, really, I am…”

Lance is quiet for a long time. When he finally speaks, the drama has faded from his voice. He sounds gentle. He sounds tired. “Princess,” he says. “Uh, Rapunzel. I… I don’t think that’s true.”

She opens her mouth—but her throat is so tight it’s gone silent. She presses her lips shut and swallows so hard it hurts. Her eyes are itching. She doesn’t say anything.

“I mean,” Lance says, after a pause. “I… hm. I don’t know what I mean. I’m not very good at this, am I?” He clears his throat. “Err. Sorry.”

“No, no, it’s…” She exhales. It trembles. “Maybe,” she says, finally. “Maybe.”

“…Maybe?”

“Maybe I’m… not okay.”

“Oh,” Lance says. He thinks on this. “…Oh.”

They’re silent, again, the both of them. The waiter brings their food, and Lance takes it with a murmur of thanks, his earlier flirtation gone. He taps the glass bottle of water against Rapunzel’s arm, and smiles faintly when she lifts her head. “Drink?”

She nods, mutely. He pours her a cup without comment. The glass is freezing in her hands; the water, when she forces herself to sip at it, is crystal cold. She presses the cup against her forehead, and exhales against the rim. The glass fogs. She wipes it away with the tip of one gloved finger, and watches the fog dew down the side of the cup like rain.

“Stalyan showed up in court today.”

Lance stiffens.

“She arrived unannounced.” Rapunzel runs her finger along the glass edge again, ignoring the tremble in her hand. Her lovely leather gloves are wrinkled and creased—a bad sign on its own, even without the building ache in her palms. She’s pushed her hands too hard today. “She… she wanted to discuss… a deal.”

Lance is quiet. He sinks in his chair, eyes wide. Sweat has beaded on his brow. His gaze darts around, rapid and nervous, and when he finally looks back to her it’s with an open expression of doom. “…Shit.”

Something about the way he says it almost makes her giggle, and Rapunzel chokes down the noise and presses the back of her hand against her eyes to keep from crying. “Yeah,” she whispers. “Yeah.”

“I’m sorry.”

“It’s fine. I mean—it’s, it’s not fine, but I can... I can.”

“Still. That’s awful.” Lance shakes his head. His face falls. “Gods, I should have made Eugene come with me today… maybe then—”

“No, it’s fine, you’re fine—”

“Haha! I’m not offended, Princess. You must miss him a lot.” Her throat has gone all tight again, knotted like thread, and at her expression Lance’s eyes soften. “Yeah, you do,” he says. It’s not a question, and in the next breath Lance has put a hand over his heart. “I’ll get him to visit you. Promise.”

Rapunzel stutters. “No,” she says. “You don’t have to—I know why he can’t—”

“Even so.” Lance crosses his arms. “It’s scary times, to be sure… But not so bad as that. He can stand to tell you what he finds in person, at least! Gah, I knew I should have pressed him on that— like a letter would be enough!”

“No, don’t— it’s not that simple!”

Lance blinks at her. He’s frowning again. “What? Why not?”

“It’s just—not!” Her stomach twists. She fights to breathe. “I—I don’t know—I can’t—”

The words leave her. Rapunzel shakes her head, mute and frustrated, and curls her aching fingers around the glass.

Lance considers her for a long moment, biting hard at his lip. He doesn’t understand, Rapunzel realizes, and the worst part is she has no idea how to explain it. How to even put it into words. “I can’t,” she says instead. “I can’t.”

“…Okay.” Lance hesitates. “Do you… want to talk about it?”

“I—” She stops. “I don’t know.”

“Okay,” Lance says, again. “Would it help if I talked?”

She thinks about it. The easy cadence of Lance’s voice, rhythmic instead of jarring. All the time she’s been away, all the things she has to catch up on. The distraction. “Please,” she says, only a little desperate, and Lance nods just once before he launches into a story.

“Did I ever tell you I got the bar? No? Did I tell you how? Oh-ho, okay, sit back, Princess, because do I have a tale for you—!"

It’s a long story: meandering, wild, vibrant. She’s forgotten, Rapunzel realizes, listening to him speak, how good Lance is at stories. He embellishes a little—or a lot—but the story itself is solid, understandable. He tells her about his job, working as a cook at the Snuggly Duckling—the owner’s sudden retirement, Lance’s abrupt inheritance. “Old man sprung it on me at the last second, just to be funny,” Lance confides in a whisper, shaking his head in remembered disappointment. “Can you imagine!?”

He tells her about the Snuggly Duckling, what it’s like to run a tavern, about the regulars— “Hookfoot joined his brother in concert, did I mention that—no? Well, there you go!”—the people Rapunzel has missed, and the people she’s yet to meet, and the people she didn’t expect to hear from again. “Oh, oh, and guess what,” Lance adds, when they’re halfway through their meal. “Red and Angry—you remember them? They came back!”

“Really!?”

“Yeah! Right out of the blue, too! I was stunned, I tell you. Shocked! And you won’t believe what happened—”

He tells her about werewolves, about Keira and Catalina and family. The treehouse Lance helped build for them— “I mean, they refused to stay with me, when I offered, but I couldn’t just let them rough it in the woods—you know—my old orphanage matron would be horrified at me, and I can’t stand the thought of disappointing that lady—” and the meals the girls come by for sometimes at the Snuggly Duckling, when they’re feeling up for socializing.

Lance smiles when he talks about them. He beams. And by this point, with the sun set and the city winding down to a quiet drawl, dinner with a friend and all her troubles feeling so far away—this time, Rapunzel manages to smile back.

He’s happy, she realizes, watching Lance speak. He’s honestly, truly happy. It’s in everything he is, in every word, in every laugh, every fond gleam in his eye. There is something in Lance that has settled, that has found its place, and it almost takes her breath away to see it. He’s happy. He’s okay. He really, really is.

“I’m so glad for you, Lance,” she says, when he pauses for breath, and he startles and blinks at her. “I… I really am.” And she is. It makes something in her feel light and free and dizzy with relief: here is a life untouched. Here is someone who she hasn’t failed—who she hasn’t even helped—whose happiness has nothing to do with her at all. He found it on his own, she thinks. He found it all on his own, or maybe it found him, and it’s such a weight of her shoulders that Rapunzel could almost cry.

Lance beams back. “Well,” he says. He sounds almost flustered. “It’s… a bit of a shock to me too. I mean. Wow.” He rubs the back of his neck. “It’s not what I’ve always dreamed of, admittedly, but… it’s really something.” He laughs. “It’s mine!”

Her heart feels full of light. Rapunzel laughs with him.  “Werewolves, though!”

“Gods, right!? And don’t get me wrong, that freaks me right out, but Catalina seems happy with it, so…”

And for the first time in a long time, Rapunzel finally feels like she’s home.

“I’m happy for you,” Rapunzel says, again, when Lance trails off. She’s smiling. Truly smiling, wide and bright. “I am.”

He grins at her. “Thank you, Princess. And what about you?” It’s a casual question—instinctual—and he seems to realize what he’s asked almost at once. Lance blanches. “Wait. Shoot. F—um. You don’t have to answer that, uh, sorry—”

“It’s okay.” She takes a breath. She looks at the drooping flowers, and stirs her spoon through her bowl of stew. “I… I’m…”

She trails off. She stops. She looks down at her hands, and she thinks.

And it’s funny, in a way. It’s strange. Because in all the time since Rapunzel has left the labyrinth behind—all these months, all this distance… Rapunzel has never once told the full story.

Not to Eugene. Not to Cass. Not even to Pascal. She has given pieces, given moments, forced them out through gritted teeth over the months, and tried to create an answer for their endless questions from the fragments.

But the full story, still—still, still. She has never said it aloud. She has never laid it out in full. She doesn’t know why. Is she afraid of it? Is she scared it will hurt her? Or maybe it’s just that she knows it would hurt everyone else. Eugene, who’s expression shuts down at the story. Cass, who falls into helpless anger at the reminder every time. And her parents—oh, her parents. It’d break their hearts, if they knew the whole truth. It’d scare them half to death. And so Rapunzel has never said it.

Now should be no exception.

Except— this is Lance. Her friend, sort of. A kind-of brother, in a way. She knows him through Eugene, mostly, but in the half-year before her journey to the Dark Kingdom she likes to think they’ve become friends in their own right. This is Lance, who is happy—whose life does not weigh on her shoulders—who is looking at her, calm, waiting, expectant, for whatever it is she has to say. There is something secure about him, Rapunzel realizes suddenly. In all the months they have been gone, something in Lance has resolved. There is a steadiness to him that was not there before—a certainty that will not break.

And she thinks—secretly, hopefully, almost afraid to dare—her story, she thinks, won’t hurt him.

And so Rapunzel starts to speak.

The story does not come easy, and it doesn’t come coherent. The travel—the journey—Varian—the arrow, the firelight, and the letter she ignored. The labyrinth she gives only segments, the things she can bite off behind her teeth. “It was dark. She—the Moon—had a thing, a creature. It hunted us. It nearly killed us. Varian—”

And Lance listens. He is a captive audience. He gasps at the right places. He shakes his head at the right times. He hisses in anger. He curses under his breath. He listens, and though there is horror in his eyes, there is no pain. The story will not hurt him. It doesn’t hurt him the way it hurts Eugene and Cass, who go cold when they hear; doesn’t hurt him the way the half-truths hurt her parents, who looked as if every word might drive them to tears. And it is—a relief. It is such a relief, a treasure she never knew she needed, that Rapunzel finds that for once—for the first time in six, seven months—the words are still there. She can still speak. Of the end, of the Opal, of the long journey back—of Stalyan, of her father, of her mother, of Elias. If she wanted to, she could tell him all of it.

So she does.

When Rapunzel has finally finished talking, her throat aches and the sky has gone dark outside the restaurant window. Tiny stars shining out in the black, the flowers wilting in the vase between them, the food finished and the restaurant almost empty. But the air is warm—the candlelight soft—and Lance is shaking his head. “Gods!” he says. He sits back in his chair, looking stunned. “And the King, he wouldn’t even hear you out?”

“They aren’t listening to me,” Rapunzel bites out, chest tight. “No one is… and Cass, she’s never—snapped at me like that before. Something’s bothering her, but she won’t…” Her fingers curl in her dress. “I get why she’s angry, but I don’t know why she’s taking it out on me! I’m doing the best I can, I— I’m trying! I’m trying.”

“Yeah, you are!” Lance crosses his arms, leaning back, looking disgruntled. “Man.”

“Yeah.”

Lance frowns. “And I’ll bet it doesn’t help that you only learned about Stalyan through a letter, huh?”

She looks away. Lance leans forward, eyes knowing. “Leave Eugene to me,” he says, firm. “I meant what I said before. I’ll get him to come visit.”

She glances at him. “Thank you. Really. But… I know why he can’t. The castle— my dad—”

“Yeah, I know.” Lance sighs, slumping in his chair. “Oh, I don’t know. What a mess! Just…”

“Thank you,” she says again. “And—and you’re right, I do miss him. I want to see him again. So much.” She laughs, weakly, not really feeling it. “So, so much. I just… I can’t risk it.”

“Still.” Lance sighs again, heavier, resting his chin on his hand. “He’s moping too, y’know? Just seems like… it could be over so quick, if you guys could just…”

She looks down. It pangs at her heart, to know Eugene misses her too. Not that she doubted it, but—it’s nice, even so, to hear it. She exhales slowly, and tries to put it all into words.

“My dad, the King, he hasn’t been… I don’t know. I don’t know anymore. I—honestly, I don’t really think he’d hurt Eugene. Or, or ban him away, or anything. At least I hope not.” She swallows hard. “But everything—it all keeps getting worse, everywhere I turn, all the time, and I can’t—I can’t risk it. I can’t risk him. Not if I’m wrong.”

“You should have more faith in yourself,” Lance says. “Princess, I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but… you’re a pretty good judge of character.”

She laughs. “It—it doesn’t feel like it.”

“Mm…” Lance is frowning now, thoughtful. He taps one finger at his chin. “I think,” he says, slowly, carefully, “that you need to talk to them.”

She looks down. “I’m trying—”

“I know! I know. But—” Lance hesitates. “Just… you’re not wrong, you know? Things have been getting pretty tangled up around here. And I mean, thinking on it…” He winces. “Well. How much… how much have you really told your parents?”

She looks away.

“I mean,” Lance says. “You don’t have to tell them everything. Or anything! Personally, I’m of the mind that they are way over-reacting to the secrets thing, to frankly appalling degrees, but—well, half a story leaves a lot of open endings.” He snorts. “Hell, for all they know, Varian could be plotting revenge at this very moment.”

“He’s not!”

“I know. I believe you. But with everything that’s going on, with the attacks, with Stalyan—well.” He rubs his chin. “I dunno. I mean, it looks bad, doesn’t it?”

Rapunzel can’t argue against that. She sighs.

“Plus,” Lance says, to himself. “Something about all this… what you and Eugene have been saying about the castle… I don’t like it.”

“It is pretty awful, seeing everyone fight.”

“I mean, yeah, but I meant— ah, I don’t know. It just feels familiar. It’s old tactics. Divide and conquer, right? Used to do it in heists all the time.”

Rapunzel blinks at him. “You think the in-fighting might be part of the plan?”

“Eh. Maybe? I dunno. Just—it’s weird that Stalyan showed up, isn’t it? Using her name and everything—and the guards know who she is! It’s a risk. They can’t arrest her publicly, but what if someone decided they didn’t care about the consequences, and attacked anyway?” He shrugs. “I don’t know. I just really doubt that lady came on a whim. She’s here for something, and I don’t know if the negotiations are the goal.” He holds up a finger, as if giving a lecture. “You don’t steal the big shiny on display—you take the smaller shiny the rich man forgot to booby-trap.”

Rapunzel frowns at the table. “Mm…”

“Anyways. Food for thought! What were we talking about? Oh, yeah. I get why you don’t want to talk about it. But— your parents aren’t like the Moon lady, you know?” Lance rests his chin in his hand, gaze distant. “This place isn’t a labyrinth.”

Her fingers curl. Her voice comes out tight. “Are you saying it’s all in my head?”

“Nah, of course not,” says Lance, so easily that Rapunzel’s budding anger falls flat. She blinks at him. “Just that it’s a different level of bad.” He sighs. “You’ve been through something awful, Princess. That can mess with your head sometimes, you know? Things are bad here, but… I don’t know. I’ve been wondering for a while. You guys… it sounds like you’ve been treating this situation like it’s going to go worst-case-scenario any second— and hey, maybe you’re right to! But…”

Rapunzel searches his face, stunned. She has never once thought about this, and the possibility leaves her blind-sided. “You think… I’m treating this situation like the labyrinth. But in reality, it’s…”

“Eh… maybe attempted arrow-murder level. But not much higher on the scale than that.”

Rapunzel snorts. She covers her mouth. “That—”

“Too soon?”

“That was awful!” But she’s laughing, and spluttering on it, and she feels like she can breathe a little easier.

Lance grins, looking pleased. His smile fades into something softer. “Just… think on it, okay? They might surprise you.”

Rapunzel closes her eyes. “I hope so,” she says, and she says it steady, even though some part of her aches to admit it. “But I don’t know if I… if I’m willing to take that risk. If I want to—know the answer, I guess.”

“Fair enough,” Lance says. “And hey—sometimes people just aren’t worth taking that risk for, anyway. It happens. But whatever you decide…” He pauses, and clears his throat. “Well. Things may be hard, now, and I know I wasn’t there for you on the journey, but…”

He stops again, shaking his head. “Look, Rapunzel. You’re not alone, okay? Eugene and Cass… you guys went through all that awful together, and while sometimes that can bring people closer—sometimes it can drive them apart too. It might just be you guys need a break, but that doesn’t mean you’re not friends! Better to take a breather than drown together, as I like to say.”

He must see something on her face, then, because he offers her another smile. “The important thing is, whatever happens… you aren’t alone.” The smile grows into a grin, bright and fond, and he winks at her. “You have a lot of friends here too, you know.”

Oh, Rapunzel thinks. Look at that. Her eyes have gone watery again. She clears her throat and tries to smile. “Yeah?”

“Of course!”

She gives another watery laugh, and presses her hands against her eyes again. She breathes into her palms. The gloves are getting damp. She can hear Lance stand—the dishes taken away, the clink of coins as he pays—and she stands too, still wiping at her eyes, unable, somehow, to stop smiling.

“I have to head out,” Lance says, a bit reluctant. “But—let’s do this again, yeah? Your treat next time.” He brightens. “Oh-ho, we can go shopping! There’s some lovely new stores—”

Rapunzel nods. Then she turns and hugs him, sudden and fierce. He’s warm—solid. “You’re a good friend,” she whispers. There is something settling in her. A decision made in the space between one breath and the next, bravery dredged up from the deep. She feels like she’s finally found something—ground to set her feet on, something she can hold onto. Something to carry her through.

She is suddenly, painfully grateful for him. Because Lance is right. Rapunzel is not alone here. He is her friend, too, and in this moment—she is so grateful for that. To have his friendship. To have met him. To have come back here, and seen him again.

She can feel him laugh. “I wasn’t always.” He hugs her back, hard. “You want to know something funny, Princess?”

In the warmth of his voice, she can hear him smiling.

“I think I learned this from you.”

.

It’s totally dark by the time Rapunzel returns to the castle, her heart settled and her hands no longer shaking. The wind blows sheer ice, now; the cobblestone is chill against her bare feet. It’s late—she’d stayed out longer than she probably should have, given the situation—but Rapunzel pushes that thought aside, and keeps going.

Her shoulders are pulled straight back—her chin, tilted up, subtle defiance. She doesn’t feel any stronger, really, nor any better, and in truth, not much has changed. The terrible things are still terrible; the danger, still present; her fears, undeterred. But Lance’s words linger on in her ears and in her heart, and Rapunzel looks at Corona with new eyes.

The people smile. The people wave. One of the maids, dressed in casual clothes and on the arm of another lovely young lady, smiles shyly at her and calls hello across the street.

You have friends here too, Lance had said. You aren’t alone.

Rapunzel lifts her hand and waves back. Yes, she thinks. She has friends here. She isn’t alone in this. She isn’t alone.

And so she walks with her head high.

When she reaches the castle, it’s with something in her chest gone hard and cold and certain, and she doesn’t flinch when she walks through those open gates. When she reaches the castle entrance—closed shut for the night—she meets the eyes of the night-watch guards and smiles.

“I’d like to see my father, please,” Rapunzel says, calm, and watches them nearly trip over themselves in their rush to open the doors. When she enters the castle it’s with her head held high.

There’s only one place her father would be at this time of night, too late for dinner but too early for bed. She already knows where to find him. She should maybe stop in her rooms—maybe do a lot of things, really—but instead Rapunzel heads right for her father’s private study.

If she’s going to do this—and honestly, she’s still not sure if she is—but if she is, then… she has to do it now. Before she loses her nerve, and the glow of bravery that moment with Lance has given her.  

She hasn’t been to his study all that often, but still, she knows the path like the back of her hand. The castle in the late-night hours is quiet and near-serene; beyond the occasional guard, no one is in sight. When she reaches her father’s study—the last room at the end of a long hallway on the second floor of the castle—his is the only room lit, light bleeding out from under the closed double doors.

To her surprise, the guard standing before the doors is one she knows, and Rapunzel falters mid-step, blinking at him. “…Stan?”

He startles, nearly dropping his halberd, and plays hot-potato with it for a second before snatching it back with a nervous laugh. “I—Princess!” She gestures franticly for him to keep his voice down, and he claps a hand over his mouth. “Princess!’ he says again, now muffled. “Oh, thank the Sun—you’re back!”

“I’m back,” she agrees, and winces. “Late, though.”

“Oh, better late than never!” But he seems nervous too, and his eyes flicker back to the door of the study. “That newbie Elias came by a little bit ago, and I—well, I didn’t mean to listen in, but…”

She keeps her smile, just barely. So Elias had told the King after all—she’s glad. She wouldn’t have wanted him to get in trouble for letting her sneak away, no matter how much she’d appreciated the offer. Still… “He—he didn’t get in trouble, did he?” she asks, suddenly worried. “It’s not his fault, really, I was the one who left him behind…”

“Well, maybe a little scolding, but no punishments, I think—I mean, it is you he was guarding.” Stan winks at her. “No, uh, no offense meant, but—well, you’re hell to keep track of, Princess.”

Despite all the tension tying knots in her gut, Rapunzel has to smile at that. “Speaking from personal experience?”

“After the sixth time, the Captain didn’t even bother scolding us anymore…”

She feels a bit bad for laughing, but giggles anyway. “Still,” she says, and sighs. “Thank you, Stan. I’m glad he wasn’t in trouble…” Her eyes drift back to the door. “Um… did—did he…?”

Stan sobers. He winces, visibly, and looks back at the doors. “He was a little upset,” Stan admits. “But… not as much as I thought he would be, honestly. Still.”

“Still,” Rapunzel echoes.

Stan looks her up and down, and then steps a little to the side. “The King asked not to be disturbed, after that, but, if it’s you…” He pauses. “Er. If you want to?”

“I… yes.” Rapunzel steps forward, reaching out one hand for the doors. “Thanks, Stan.”

“Of course.”

Rapunzel nods. Her hand is on the handle—the door, already unlocked. And yet—

And yet.

She hesitates, at the doors—she can’t help it. As she stares down at the brass little handle to her father’s study, Rapunzel finds herself faltering. She finds herself wondering. Does she really want to do this? Is she ready to do this?

After all, it’s been… an awful month. A terrible day. And for all that Rapunzel knows, she knows the King and Queen aren’t Gothel, that they loved her for all the eighteen years she was gone and even more since she returned… she can’t deny that they’ve hurt her too. For different reasons, maybe, out of fear and out of love, but do the reasons really matter when the outcome is the same? Rapunzel, locked in a tower—locked out—locked away.

Just because they never meant to hurt her doesn’t mean it didn’t hurt.

And this, too, has always been a fear of hers, a secret and poisonous whisper in the back of her mind. Because once upon a time, Rapunzel had loved Gothel—some part of her, despite how much she wishes she could rip it out, still loves Gothel. And maybe, in her own twisted way, Gothel had loved Rapunzel too. It hadn’t made Gothel any less of a monster, but it does make Rapunzel wonder, in her darkest thoughts—what if she gets it wrong, again? What if she loves someone who is not worth loving? Would she even know? Could she even tell?

So Rapunzel hesitates. She lets herself hesitate. And she closes her eyes, and takes a breath, and for a moment just—lets herself breathe, lets herself really think about it. Does she want to give the King a chance? Does she want to try and fix this? Is she really willing to take that risk?

And could she walk away, and leave things as they are, instead?

She considers it. And to her surprise, she finds—she could.

It would hurt. It would break her heart, but Rapunzel has done such things before. She loves her parents. She has loved every parent she ever had, for better or for worse. But she is startled, almost, surprised by her own resolve—because somewhere along the way, she has found the strength to leave them behind. To not forgive the harm. To not let it go, without comment, without question, the way she always did before.

And somehow, strangest of all, the knowledge that she could walk away, that she really could just—let them go… it decides her. She closes her eyes and exhales, slow and sure, and when she opens her eyes again she is ready.

Behind her, Stan sounds hesitant. “Princess?” he says. “Are you okay?”

And despite everything, she smiles.

“Yes,” she says. “I’m fine.” And then, her back straight, her head high, her hands steady— Rapunzel knocks on the door, and gives her father a chance.

.

The door opens without resistance, and Rapunzel steps inside her father’s study.

As she’d thought, her father is sitting slumped at his desk. It’s a cozy room, this study—all red velvet curtains and bookcases for walls, pale yellow lighting and soft green carpet. Papers are scattered across the main desk, and stacks of books and discarded documents litter the floor. A cup of long-cold tea sits by his elbow, and thin spectacles rest on the bridge of her father’s nose. He’s in a soft red shawl he only wears when truly stressed—an old, tattered thing with golden sun embroidery that once belonged to Rapunzel’s grandmother.

His head rests in the shadow of his hand. Ink stains his fingers. He doesn’t look up. “Arianna, please. I know what you’ll say—”

He looks up. His voice cuts off.

“Dad,” Rapunzel says, quietly. She looks at him. He looks old. Tired. Worn to the fringe. There is a tension to his jaw, and his knuckles are white on the quill, but—

He doesn’t look so angry, like this. In this small lit study, surrounded by these crumpled papers, without even a crown… he doesn’t even look like a King. He is just a man—just her father—and he seems, in this moment, as defeated as she feels.

Rapunzel’s hand slips off the doorknob. Her anger has gone ashy in her mouth. The words, rehearsed in her head the whole way here, come out shaky and thin. “Hi,” she says, and it comes out very weak. “Dad.”

He puts down his quill slowly, eyes wide. “Rapunzel,” he says, half-greeting, half-questioning. When she nods, his expression flickers. “…You’re back.”

The automatic answer—sorry for leaving—she swallows back. She’s not sorry. “I’m back,” she agrees.

He waits. When she doesn’t say anything else, he blows out a heavy breath. “That was foolish,” he says, but he sounds more resigned than truly angry. “With everything that is happening—”

“I know.”

“Then why?”

She almost brushes it off, but hesitates. “I couldn’t,” Rapunzel says, at last. “The castle, my room…” His face is blank. He doesn’t understand. Rapunzel looks away. “The tower,” she admits, and can sense him go stiff. “I just… had to get out. By myself,” she adds, remembering Elias. “Just… just for a little while.”

He doesn’t say anything. The silence is almost deafening, a physical weight; all at once the month weighs down on her, the tension and the not-fighting and the sense of having lost even this, too, lost home once again.

“Can we talk?” Rapunzel asks, after a pause, and her voice has gone suddenly small. “Please. Please, Dad, can we talk?”

Her father—the King—Frederic stares at her. For a moment his expression stutters, and his eyes squeeze shut. He takes a deep breath, and puts down his pen, and opens his mouth as if to speak—closes it, again, and rests his head in his hand.

After a long pause, he finally nods. “Yes,” he says. “Yes. Of course.”

Rapunzel closes the study door behind her, and walks carefully into the room. She settles down in one of the chairs by the bookshelves; scoots it closer to his desk and folds her hands in her lap. Pascal, still on her shoulder, tugs once at her hair in comfort and then hides away again. Rapunzel looks down at her knees. Her ankles cross.

The silence stretches. She thinks of Lance, of Eugene, of Cass—of Varian. She looks down at her gloves, feeling the tug of her scars underneath the cloth, and when she speaks her voice is small but steady. “I want to be there for the next talk with Stalyan.”

At once, his expression hardens. The exhaustion in his eyes, the brief vulnerability, is locked down and hidden away. When he speaks, his voice is tight and bitter with disappointment. “No.”

“I—” She takes a breath. “Please.”

“No.” His voice is harder, now. Exhausted and frustrated in equal measure. “This cannot continue, Rapunzel. I can’t—you say you wish to talk, but all you make are demands; you tell me nothing of your journey or your reasons but expect me to accept your decisions—”

“And why can’t you?’ Rapunzel says, still forcefully calm. Her voice shakes. “Why is it so hard—”

“Because your choices put Corona at risk!”

“You don’t know that.”

“Don’t I?”

For all rights, this conversation should be angry—and yet, their words are even, tight, controlled. It doesn’t feel like a conversation between father and daughter. It doesn’t feel anything like it should. And somehow this hits Rapunzel in a way nothing else could—suddenly this hurts like a knife to the chest, and she can feel something burn behind her eyes. “I can do this,” she whispers, and it aches. “I can do this. I’ve done everything I can, I’ve tried to prove myself again and again, so why do you keep—”

“It doesn’t matter,” Frederic says, cutting her off. “I— I have given my answer, and it will not change. You cannot—”

“Listen to me!”

“No!” He stands, the chair skidding against the floor. “You listen to me. This cannot go on! This—”

He’s drawn himself up, now, drawn himself tall and towering—and it’s the same as before, as every time before—as everyone has always done, standing over her and talking over her and acting like they know best, always know better, know Rapunzel more then she knows herself. As if, in all these years, they think she’s learned nothing at all.

And all at once, Rapunzel is angry. She is sharply, blindly furious, near breathless on the rage. She matches him—stands just as tall, chin up—steps forward, defying, and brings her hand to her mouth and drags her pretty leather glove off with her teeth.

He goes still.

But Rapunzel doesn’t notice, and she doesn’t care. She snatches the glove from her mouth and grips it, working at the other glove with stiff and shaking fingers. When the second glove is off, she lets them drop, and glares as she stretches out her hands before her, baring the scars into the light.

“This is part of it, right?” Rapunzel demands. “Is this why you’re mad at me—because I didn’t want to tell you? Don’t you get why I didn’t want to?”

Frederic says nothing. He looks pale, muted… and he should. The scars are never a pretty sight, but today has been a bad day and they look even worse because of it. The old wounds are inflamed, the scars white and puckered, the skin surrounding pink and angry. It aches when she opens her fingers. The cold of his study makes the tension wind even tighter in her knotted palms. Uncoiling her fingers even this little is almost too much for her to bear.

“You said you trusted me to take care of myself,” Rapunzel says, tight. “You said. And guess what? I did. I’m here, aren’t I? I came back. We all—” Her voice cracks. “We all came back from that place alive.”

He stares at the scars. His eyes flicker away.

“I get it,” Rapunzel says, a little quieter. “I do. But you can’t—you can’t protect me from this. You can’t stop me from getting hurt. This, now, it’s not… it’s not going to work. It’s not what you think.”

Something goes stubborn in his expression. He takes a breath. “Rapunzel—”

“Look,” she demands. Her voice is shaking, just a little; her gut still clenches to see the scars. “Look. Dad, please, just—look.”

He looks. His eyes are old and tired and so, so sad. He stares at the scars and something seems to drain from him; something awful and old weighs on his shoulders. “I know,” he says. “I know. I should have never let you go—”

“You aren’t listening,” Rapunzel snaps, before he can finish. “You aren’t— I was always going to go. Okay, Dad? I was always going to follow that path. That’s not what this is about. Please, just— listen. Listen to me.”

He stops. He breathes. This time, he meets her eyes.

Rapunzel looks back without flinching. Her breath rattles in her chest. Her scars ache.

“Do you know how I got these?” she asks, and the room is so quiet. “Do you know how I got these scars? Can you guess?”

He looks weary, worn. Defeated. It makes something in her quail. “Someone hurt you.”

“No.”

His expression flickers. “…Then,” he says, strained. “Then no. I don’t.”

“I,” Rapunzel says, and the memory makes her chest hurt, her breath tight, and oh, she almost wants to laugh— “I caught a sword.”

Frederic is silent. He looks pale.

“I panicked. There was no time.” The golem, swinging for Varian’s head— “I wasn’t thinking. I grabbed the blade—barehanded. I caught it.” This time, she laughs, soft and a little shaky. “With my— with my bare hands! I caught it. And I held it. And I pulled it back, mid-swing.”

Any remaining color washes out of his face. His eyes flicker back to the scars. “That’s impossible,” he says, and—

“Maybe,” Rapunzel says, and she’s shaking, head to toe. “Maybe. But that doesn’t matter.” It is impossible, the way many things are. A concussion that heals in days instead of weeks. An infection that never comes. Golden hair that never splits, never breaks, always strong enough to carry whatever she wished. Sun-lit power that burns like fire in her veins. All impossible things. But that is not the point.

“I caught it,” Rapunzel repeats. “I caught the sword. I held it back.” In the moment it had felt painless; in hindsight it was agonizing, that split-second of aching pain as the blade slid through her fingers and carved deep into her palm. “I saved a life.”

He stares at her.

“I saved a life,” Rapunzel says, and it’s almost a plea. He needs to understand this. He has to know, because otherwise, she thinks, he’ll never really get it. She stretches out her fingers as much as she can, as much as she’ll ever be able. Crooked and scarred and small in the candlelight. Callous rough in the skin between her forefinger and thumb. “And I did it with my own two hands.”

The memory is a painful one. Bloody, and fearful, and cold. But victorious, too. A bitter sort of pride. Never mind what came before. Never mind what came after. In that moment, Rapunzel had been right where she needed to be. Not too late. Not then.

She has the scars to prove it.

“I know you want what’s best for me,” Rapunzel says. Her voice is soft, but in the quiet it feels so much louder. “I understand. I do.” She feels cold. “Every parent I’ve ever had has always wanted what’s best for me.”

At this, Frederic recoils, a full-body flinch. The last of the color drains from his face. Some small, bitter part of Rapunzel is glad for it. Gothel would not have even blinked.

“I understand,” Rapunzel repeats, gentler. She takes a breath, exhaling shaky and slow, and meets his eyes. Her back straight as if sitting on a throne. Scarred hands held loose by her sides. Shoulders squared, her chin tilted up. And gold, too, flickering in the corner of her vision, in the depths of her eyes. “But— Dad?”

She waits. He says nothing.

“You can’t stop me.”

He is staring at her now. Finally, finally at her. Seeing Rapunzel at long last. Seeing who she has become.

Rapunzel waits. He doesn’t move. She closes her eyes and the gold is gone, but the warmth remains, coiled like a flicker of fire around her heart.

“Maybe,” Frederic says, at last. “Maybe I… maybe I can’t. But that doesn’t make your actions any less dangerous—to you, or to the people out there, relying on you to keep them safe.” She opens her mouth, angry words on her tongue, and he shakes his head. “Like that boy, Varian. I know the two of you were once friends, but after all he’s done…! To let him go! To do such things without cause, without reason, to take such risks on a whim—”

“It wasn’t a whim!” But she understands. It is as Lance had said, after all—it does look bad. It does seem strange. And maybe she should have told him this, at least, from the start. Never mind she wasn’t ready then. Never mind she didn’t know how.

She still doesn’t know how, but she’s willing to try. “Dad, I… I let Varian go because I had to. Not because of our past.” In truth, she’d let him go in spite of it. Beyond those few brief moments in the labyrinth, for most of their time together Varian had been nothing but awful to her.

“Rapunzel—” Frederic gestures in the air, grasping for the words. “My dear, that wasn’t… that wasn’t your choice to make.”

“Maybe.” And yet. Rapunzel steels herself. “…But do you have any idea what it’s like to— to live in a cage?”

He quiets. His eyes narrow, and he sits back, looking her up and down. “No,” he says, and it’s almost grudging, reluctant. “No.”

“I couldn’t bring him back here,” Rapunzel admits, and it’s the truth. “I couldn’t. If I did, I— I don’t think I would have been me anymore, you know? If, after all that—after everything that happened, if I’d still…” She shakes her head, the words gone. “I couldn’t. Not to him. Not to anyone. Not after that.”

His lips press. He looks away.

“And it’s funny,” Rapunzel says, almost to herself. “Because, um, in truth, I— I still don’t know if I even really forgive him. Or if I even like him. So much happened, and changed so quickly…  I don’t know. But at the time, I just—I just wanted him to have a chance. No matter how I felt. I… I had to give him a chance.” Her hand lifts, and brushes at her heart. “And I’m sorry, but— I can’t regret that. I refuse to regret that.”

“…I understand,” Frederic says, and he sounds like he really might, like he’s really trying to. “But I cannot let you get involved with the Stalyan situation if you can’t keep yourself safe. I’m not shutting you out just because of the secrets, but also—” He cuts himself off, teeth grit. “A princess cannot afford to give in to emotion. I—I am aware, the irony of this coming from me, but… a princess must truly put her people first.”

Rapunzel nods. She drops her hand. She braces herself, because this is going to hurt him—and says, with only the slightest of tremors in her voice, “I’m afraid I’m still rather new to being a princess.”

It’s terrible, his reaction to that—the way his expression stutters, then drops. Rapunzel doesn’t look away, but something in her gut curls. She knows the words have hurt him, and for all it’s necessary—it hurts. It does. She doesn’t want this. She never wanted to tell him this, but then, Lance was right about that, too. They need to know. They need to understand that for all Rapunzel is their daughter, now, is a princess and a fighter and a girl with a destiny—before everything else, above all else, she has only ever been just Rapunzel.

It’d be nice, to pretend those eighteen years in the tower never mattered. That Rapunzel could be the princess they always dreamed their daughter would be. It’d be wonderful, but… it isn’t true. It isn’t her.

But then—this is true, too. “I’d like to learn how to be a queen, though. Someday.” She offers a fading smile. “And I—I am putting my people first. In a weird way. I think… some part of me already knows. I want to be the kind of queen who gives chances. I want to be the kind of person who— who doesn’t lock anyone away. Who lets people change, if they choose to, who creates that chance…” Her fingers curl. The scars pull. “I want to protect Corona, and the people—everyone—with my own two hands. In whatever way I can.”

Silence.

“You can shut me out all you like,” Rapunzel says, firm. “But I’ll never, ever give up.” She meets his eyes. “That’s a promise, too.”

This, at long last, seems to strike home. Frederic stares. When he finally speaks, his voice has gone dead quiet. “I can’t—we can’t—” He stops, looking stunned at his own stutter. His eyes close. “We… I can’t lose you again, daughter.”

“I know.” Rapunzel smiles. It aches. “And I’m sorry, but... I’m not a child.”

And heavy, unspoken between them, the echo of his own words: That isn’t your choice to make.

He bows his head.

Rapunzel exhales hard in the same moment. Her eyelids flutter, and she presses one hand to her temple, suddenly so dizzy it’s a wonder she doesn’t fall right over. She feels tired. She feels awful. But something in her has settled. Something in her has eased. Because it’s terrible—painful and pressing, and it tears at her heart—

But he is listening. She can see it in his face. He’s heard her.

“Thank you for listening,” Rapunzel says. Her voice is a rasp; she feels very tired, all at once. “Your Majesty.” But that is too cold, too much, and her voice shakes, just for a moment. “…Dad.”

He doesn’t say anything else, and Rapunzel nods to herself. She shuffles on her feet, picking up her gloves, and finally turns away, making back for the door. Not looking back is one of the hardest things she’s ever done.

She puts her hand on the door. She makes to open it.

“Rapunzel.”

She stops.

“I… I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”

She stares down at her bare hands, the pale scars. She blinks back the tears.

“Me too.”

She shuts the door behind her to silence. She walks back to her rooms. Her heart is tight. Her hands shaking. She doesn’t smile. It’s a victory, but there’s no real joy in it—just a strange, aching relief. Something she’d never wanted to do—something she’d had to do.

And despite it all, Rapunzel cannot bring herself to regret this, either.

.

.

.

The letter comes on the brink of dawn.

Lady Caine spies the hawk on her own, without help from lookout or spyglass, as has become common. Her eyes burn green in the rising sun as she unties the missive from the hawk's leg, and her crew stand silent and still and ready as she glances at the letter. It’s fine parchment, dark red ink—our ally in Vardaros, Lady Caine likes to say about these letters, but all the pirates know is that when the letters come, heads roll.

They are beaten and bruised, Lady Caine’s crew; wounded, still, some of them, from when the black rocks rose in Port Caul. Their numbers culled, but only for a moment—slowly, surely, Lady Caine has gathered her people back together again, replaced the old with the new. She barely seems to know, now, which of her crew are newly acquired or old hands. The ones that have been with her the longest have noticed. The ones that have been with her the longest are afraid.

Lady Caine laughs when she finishes the letter, bright and cold, and then she crumples the parchment in her fist and tosses it carelessly in the ocean. “Looks like it’s so far, so good, barring any unfortunate mishaps,” she says, and stretches out her arms, linking her fingers and stretching up to crack her back. “Pull up the ropes, boys. We have a journey to make, and revenge to enact.” Her smile is a cruel gleam of teeth in the light of dawn. “One last stop, and then we sail for Corona.”

They scatter at the wave of her hand, and Lady Caine turns back to the sea. The crew has docked in a small little alcove by some abandoned islands, the cliffs above her rising tall and weighty, slopping and ancient rock like a heavy fist jutting from the sea. As her ship pulls out from the cove—and then the next ship, and the next, and all the others she has gathered in these long months of conquest—Lady Caine turns her head to stare at them, those lovely cliffs silhouetted dark against the sea-line sky.

Beside her, the darkness flickers. In her ears, a whisper grows.

“No, no news on the Moondrop yet,” Lady Caine murmurs back, to the echoes. Something cruel curls at her lips. “We’ll find them soon enough. But, for now…”

Her eyes turn back to the cliffs. Her hand rises.

“I think… I should do a little more practice.”

Her eyes burn bright and poisonous. The air ripples around her outstretched fingers. The wind snaps. For a moment, the world almost seems to twist—almost seems to scream—

And as her earthquake rocks the distant cliffs, that ancient stone buckles, warps, and falls heavy into the churning sea.