Disclaimer: I own nothing.
Author's Note: I was supposed to go to Disney yesterday, but that plan didn't work out and we ended up having a movie day. I finally watched The Tourist and Kick-Ass, along with Ace Ventura and Tangled, so it was still a pretty fun day.
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There's something like a line of gold thread running through a man's words when he talks to his daughter, and gradually over the years it gets to be long enough for you to pick up in your hands and weave into a cloth that feels like love itself. ~John Gregory Brown, Decorations in a Ruined Cemetery
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She was never far from his thoughts. His missing daughter, the bright drop of sunshine that he'd had for so very short a time. Often, when he had a spare moment, he would imagine conversations or moments with her.
He imagines her first steps across the palace gardens, wonders whether her first word would have been 'mama' or 'papa'. Would she have preferred oranges or apples? Peaches or pears? Or perhaps she wouldn't be very fond of fruit at all.
He imagines talking with her over breakfast early in the morning—his wife wasn't a very early riser—or perhaps having midnight snacks on a balcony, watching the stars. He thinks of who she would have had for a first love, thinks of how protective he might have gotten and how his wife would have chided him and told him to let her be, that this was normal.
His wife had always been an intelligent woman. He loved her for it and wonders whether Rapunzel would have been just as intelligent. Would he have inherited her sass, her tart-and-sweet personality? Would she like romantic stories like his wife wouldn't admit to reading or would she prefer biographies or stories of brave knights?
He imagines and wonders and hopes for eighteen years that she'll return and what she would be like.
In reality, she's very little like his imaginings.
She looks like her mother—he hardly recognizes her with hair the color of chestnuts rather than of sunshine. Her eyes are precisely the same shade of pale green, like new spring leaves. She's slender and petite and her fingers are twining themselves nervously into the skirt of her dress, like she was used to twining them around something else. Her smile is hesitant and shy and it takes a while for him to see the wide, bright grin that upturns her lips when that Rider is nearby.
She doesn't call his wife 'Mother', and he can see the disappointment on her face, but his wife is a strong woman and runs to embrace her anyway. Rapunzel stiffens in the hug, squirming a little in discomfort, but her arms close around them both.
It's difficult to recognize a thing about her, this once-sunshine child.
She's uncomfortable with shoes, though she tries for her mother. Everything is like a startling discovery; the first time she smelled roses, the royal library with its labyrinth of bookshelves (She laughs in delight when she sees that, arms spread wide as she spins to take it all in and Rider chuckles and teases her gently, tugging on a lock of brown hair. They're strangely comfortable with each other and the king can't quite send him away. But he'd been right about the protective instincts. Those still worked fine). She devours books on every subject. Rider sometimes called her a bookworm.
She doesn't like asparagus, as she discovers when she takes a bite of it. But she likes both apples and oranges, though she isn't a fan of pears and she prefers to drink water over anything else.
She has a constant companion in a small chameleon. "His name's Pascal." She declared proudly when he asked. "He's my first friend."
He's surprised to find her on the balcony one night, a shawl drawn around her small shoulders. She jumps nearly a foot in the air when he says, "Didn't expect to see you here."
There was that shy smile again and she tucked a lock of hair behind one ear. "I couldn't sleep."
"You know," He begins, not quite sure how to do this. How to really be a father. He'd never gotten the chance to go through the learning process, after all. "When I can't sleep, I find hot chocolate to be the perfect remedy."
She tilts her head curiously. "Hot chocolate? Is that good?"
He chuckles. "Yes, yes it is. Come on, let's sneak down to the kitchens."
"But…you're the king."
"I'm so delighted that someone remembers." He says dryly and there's a brief flash of the grin she usually reserved for Rider.
"Why should you need to sneak there?"
"King I may be, but Mrs. Lea, the cook, is a woman who protects her territory. She's convinced of the notion that I'll burn the kitchens down were I to attempt cooking."
One of her eyebrows arches. "Would you?"
"It was only the one time and—"
She bursts out laughing and it sounds like silver bells, young and carefree. A good laugh for his daughter. She's still grinning when she offers, "I could teach you. To cook and bake, I mean. I'm pretty good at it."
He smiles warmly. "That would be wonderful."