Rated T as of right now. Planning to change to M in the future.
Pirate AU (as per an anon's request, hehe)
Prologue
She can't bring herself to remove her gaze from the patterned bricks on the wall, repeating around her in a tantrum of somber colors. Each brick is a little different—she's had enough time sitting there to notice—but after so many hours, days, months, they have all begun to merge into one color of a dark burgundy red, tainted by the mold and dirt that have grown in the cracks and crevices of the prison cell.
She sits in a daze, the air around her at a standstill, thick with tension but thin with a thawing chill. Her wrists are rubbed raw with the chains that lock her in, concretely glued to the wall behind her. No matter how many times she's tugged in attempt to free her arms, all she can feel is the pull of her muscles as she strains to break free.
Her hair feels greasy, long—when was the last she's been soaked with water and soap? What was once so precious to her—soft as the down pillows in her chamber, as golden as the silky sun, and once so vibrantly clean—is now nothing but a pile of gray straw in a heap at her feet. It screams jittery legs of lice and color polluted with soot.
Her skin—her skin looks paler, she doesn't even know. She wonders what it could possibly look like without a reflection to visualize the effects of being alone for so long. But she hasn't seen the sun in what feels like forever, so how could she be as golden as she once was before? When she casts a glance at her arm, all she can think is: dirty milk.
She feels dirty despite never going outside. Fatigued despite never making a single step from the room that encloses her.
She's losing hope.
How long will she be here?
She only wants her impending death now—get it out and over with. She hates this, hates waiting around for an even worse outcome.
Kill her now.
The cement below her feels cool against her skin but warm with the hours, days, weeks she's been there.
She can't remember the time—how long has it been?
All she can see are the bricks of the wall, all she can hear is the echo of this dungeon, not a single footstep in earshot, all she can taste is the dirt at the tip of her tongue, all she can smell is fear.
Her own fear.
A tired fear—one that has grown old like a once beautiful fruit rotting to its core.
Suddenly, she hears footsteps.
It takes all of her strength to remove her gaze from the wall, turn to the bars that enclose her in.
She sees large brown boots, rugged and clean. Pants tucked in, neatly pressed at each side. She can't move her gaze higher than the knees—her neck hurts from the standstill.
She makes a sound, a small one.
And then a key drops.
"Rapunzel," the familiar voice whispers.