In hindsight, it was the most impractical thing she had ever done.
The baby was, as far as babies went, a cute baby. It had those gorgeous, over-long locks of golden hair, silken ropes that coiled and curled at a length that Gothel suspected was somewhat unusual for a normal child (though of course, this was no normal child, this was her flower, her petal). And then it did have rather large eyes- trusting eyes, she had thought scornfully, when the baby had failed to cry during her flight from the castle- but nonetheless, perfectly formed, large, green eyes. No, it was a pretty baby- but it was, nonetheless, a baby.
As Gothel sat down in the forest, she stared at the gurgling infant, at the drool that was now dripping onto her sleeve. Involuntarily, her nose wrinkled. Washing her dress would be such a pain- she could do it, of course, but the water and the scrubbing made her skin stiff, and sometimes her knuckles flaked. And she did not, in truth, have all that many dresses. She had not imagined, when she scaled the castle walls, that she would ever need to deal with a child's saliva. Hair, yes, she could deal with- but a living, breathing child?
Now it stirred, stretched- and oh, but its fingers were tiny! Had her own hands once been that small?
Intrigued, Gothel touched the soft, tiny fingers- not that much larger than the nail of her thumb, and yet each of those fingers had soft, perfect nails (and a bolt of anger wrenched her body, that this child should be so perfectly formed while she herself faded on a daily basis)- even had tiny folds where its joints would be. It truly was (at least in appearance), a human in miniature form.
And then it opened its eyes. And began howling.
Instantly, Gothel put it down and tried to push it aside so there was at least half a foot of grass between them. What did she know of babies? It had been so many, many years since she had been surrounded by children, and even then she had never really known what to do with one!
Leave it, was her first thought, but even the thought made her skin feel baggy and loose, and she felt her hair go limp and grey at the thought. No, no, she needed it, needed this child!
Once, on a cloudy twilight when the winds had decided to buffet uncertainly in multiple directions, she had struggled to reach the flower, and when she had removed her careful basket cover, it had swayed so dangerously she had feared that it would break at the stem.
"Sh, sh," she had whispered, reaching out to touch the petals, "sh, sh"- and it had responded, responded to her touch (and why should it not, when hers was the only touch other than wind and moonlight that that flower had experienced since it first fell to earth?)
Now, she reached out to the child, to its hair sun and flower flower and sun, and whispered, "Sh, sh," in what she hoped was a soothing voice. "Hush, little flower."
Still the little thing squalled and writhed.
"Shh!" she hissed, glancing around. It was the forest at the dead of night, but the king and queen had awoken and seen her take their child, and she did not wish to take chances. "Hush!"
Product of greed, she wanted to sneer at the child, waste of a precious flower. What right do you have to scream?
But she knew that babies, even babies, would hear a sneer and respond poorly. And this baby was not warming to her in the slightest.
Lock it in a chamber, she thought, feed it bread and water and sing for its hair.
But even then, she would have to train the child to swallow, to eat, to sing; and then the child would need to relieve itself, would need to bathe- and to look after it! Look after it! And it would be its own person, she thought with disgust, curling her finger around one of its locks and tugging.
If possible, the child screeched even more loudly.
Gracious, would there be no end to this? Which foolish person ever said that babies were beautiful? There was nothing beautiful about them, nothing impressive- except the volume they could raise!
Then again, people were fools, this she knew. Those wretched, hasty, greedy, foolish soldiers who had uprooted her flower- the whole flower!- were proof of that. People would say things were impressive that were not impressive, but then would fail to appreciate what truly was special.
Uprooting the entire flower! And stewing it, as though it was worth nothing! A flower like that was worth at least three score of those idiots!
(And truly, it was the nerve of that, uprooting the flower in its entirety from the ground, where it belonged, to save a woman- one woman- from what? An illness to do with the child she carried. Surely they knew that childbirth was a woman's battlefield, and women died almost daily due to birthing or illness around that. And what had the queen birthed, anyway? A girl? A girl who would not, could not, inherit a kingdom! And they had taken her entire flower for a tiny girl who would never inherit- worthless endeavour, and what a price!)
The baby let out a particularly loud howl at this point, and Gothel gritted her teeth and focused on the present.
It did not always screech when its parents held it, she thought, recalling the times she had visited the square and hidden amongst the cheering masses.
What had they done to stop it screeching? Been kind to it?
Something like bile curled at the back of her throat.
She was not its parent, surely she would not have to do that. Being kind was not, and had never been, one of her particular strengths.
But what then to do?
"QUIET!" she screeched, but the baby only wailed more loudly. Gothel half expected a soldier to race from behind the trees and apprehend her at that moment.
No, no, this wasn't working. But what did not work did not make one's aim impossible, it only meant there must be another way. When her flower had been uprooted and so unceremoniously stewed and eaten, she had found the child, had followed it; and now she had the child, she must treasure it.
"Petal," she said, stroking its hair, "you'll be my petal, won't you?"
The baby squirmed, but quietened a little.
(Did it recognise its identity, its origin, its affinity with the flower?)
(But this is a child. It has a name.)
And wherever that thought had come from, Gothel had no desire to discover, but only recalled standing in the square, seeing that transformed petal, hearing the king and queen announce their child, Princess Rapunzel- recalled thinking what a tomfool name it was, but heard it chanted, chanted by the crowd around her- Rapunzel Rapunzel Rapunzel.
"My petal, Rapunzel," she cooed, and traced its nose with her forefinger. "Hush, Rapunzel. Gothel's here."
The writhing, at least, halted, and Gothel hesitated; reached out, picked the tiny thing up.
"Flower, gleam and glow," she began, fingers twisting around Rapunzel's hair.
Almost instantly, the infant calmed, stilled, even- was that- a smile?
Mine, Gothel thought, triumphantly, even as the blonde hair began to shine, incandescent in the dark night, luminous with the thin, small song. She felt the child's silky, thick hair; almost the same as the soft, thick petals of the flower she had found, hidden, for so long. That wretched queen might have eaten my flower, might have birthed a child- but you, you- you are mine.
A/N: Because I promised Metonomia.
There will be more chapters at some point; this is, after all, concerning the making of Mother Gothel, and she is not yet at the stage where she calls herself mother, let alone goes on several day trips to find shells by the sea, or teaches Rapunzel how to make candles and play chess etc.
Also, I wrote this at 11:30pm when I meant to go to sleep, and it is completely unbeta-d, so feedback would be tops. I do go back and edit my stories when typos and poorly structured sentences etc are noted!