Chapter Summary: Rapunzel reflects on how she came to be here. Meanwhile, a man calling himself Flynn Ryder tries to insert himself into her life.

AN: First of all, I want to state that according to the Disney Wikia, Tangled supposedly took place in the 1780s. I would love to have made it earlier, but I'm going to go with that as I have no knowledge of the history of fashion or architecture.

As is the norm here, I do not in any way own the rights to Tangled. I also don't own "Viva La Vida" by Coldplay. Please don't sue me. I have to pay for college, I can't afford a law suit.

Also, this is a one-shot. There will be additional parts later. Feel free to leave a song you think will work as a future chapter, either in a review or through PMing me!

Thanks to luckynumberblack for feedback on this before it was posted.

Never an Honest Word

—-—

I used to rule the world

Seas would rise when I gave the word

Now in the morning I sleep alone

Sweep the streets that I used to own…

—-—

Rapunzel shut her alarm off two and half seconds before it started blaring. It wasn't hard to beat the clock, seeing as how she hardly slept anymore. Only about ten hours a week, and most of it from dozing on the bus. Cars had always been able to put her to sleep.

A man in a suit doing his best to keep the brand new Model-T from bouncing… Laughing so hard at the way the wind blew his hair around that she could feel tears slipping down her cheeks, the wind blowing them into her blonde curls… Waking up when he failed to avoid a particularly large bump in the road, and realizing she'd drifted off leaning against his shoulder… Moving the next week, because she was afraid of getting too close.

She sat up, sighing and stretching, allowing the reminiscence to fall away. She played with the ends of her now short, choppy, dark brown hair. She changed it every time she started over. It was hard, sometimes. She never had any friends, because she couldn't afford to lose anyone else.

She threw off the light comforter, swung herself out of bed, and tugged a pair of beat-up jeans out of the narrow chest of drawers standing beside her bed. As she pulled them on, she caught a glimpse of herself in the mirror—a huge four-poster bed, half-hidden by thick drapes; a vanity covered in the latest cosmetics; a small stool, where the seamstresses took measurements and altered the always-gorgeous clothing she wore; a bookcase inlaid in the wall, filled with the most wonderful books; a mirror taller than her father, reflecting a princess with long, golden hair in a beautiful, dark purple ball gown, the dress that no artist had been able to truly capture the beauty of…

She shook her head, pulling herself back to the present. It was no good dwelling on that time. The princess in the mirror had disappeared a long time ago.

Forcing another drawer open, she pulled out the light green "City Repair Team" t-shirt. She turned as she slid it on, finding the shoes she wore to work: they had once been gleaming white tennis shoes, but were now a strange, muted gray, covered in flecks of neutral tones of paint.

She grabbed the canvas bag with her ID, work badge, wallet, bus pass, and cheap, pre-paid cell phone stowed inside, and left her tiny bedroom.

She was renting her living space from an elderly lady who had no use for it and three others like it in her home. Her roommates didn't bother her, and she didn't bother them; it was a good un-relationship.

She grabbed an apple from the fruit bowl in the kitchen, a still-warm muffin from a basket, dropped the assorted change she'd forgotten about the night before into the jar labelled "Fruit and Muffin $$" in heavy, black lines. Ever since moving in she had wanted to draw various fruits and muffins on the label; it was wrong for something in what should have been a home to be so stark and impersonal.

She bit into the apple as she walked two blocks to a bus stop, and waited the usual three minutes for the #8 to arrive. Climbing aboard and swiping her pass, she made her way to a seat about halfway towards the back.

—-

She hated her job, sometimes. Sure, spray-painting cuss words on the sides of buildings without asking was a little rude, but it didn't make the bright colors and funky lettering any less beautiful. They were just trying to express themselves, and she didn't see any harm in , it was one of the few jobs that didn't require an education or license, that was through the government, that paid decently enough for her to live off of, and let her work outside.

She loved her job, at other times. Getting to travel around the city she hadn't seen in more than two centuries was a great pastime. Many of her memories of the town were thrown off due to new buildings and roads, but many places she would recognize no matter how much the scenery changed: the plaza—where she and Joseph had celebrated every lantern festival— now home to a cheap pizza parlor, a Chinese take-out, a hookah bar, and a run-down arcade; the palace—where she had been born and had spent the first four decades of her life—now a museum dedicated to her family and ancestors; the bridge, no longer pedestrian friendly—where she had first made a break for freedom. And working for the city gave her discounts at the museum and on bus passes, which was a huge plus. She'd gone to the museum her second week here, and been surprised to discover her wing of the palace had been mostly untouched, and almost entirely devoted to her story. She hadn't stayed long after that, feeling uncomfortable and not wanting to be recognized, even if no one would believe she was… herself.

Today, she had been assigned to repaint the wall around the city children's home. It was a short walk from the office, so she didn't bother carpooling with anyone driving that way, or getting back on the bus. As she walked, she planned out her day: an hour of sanding, some repairing, lunch, repairing any other damage, and repainting for the remainder of the day. She tried to remember where she could get food in this area, but couldn't remember what was close and inexpensive.

As she came up to the first section of wall she would be working on, she noticed a figure in dark clothes, a hood over his head, concentrating hard on the graffiti he was finishing. She was pretty sure it said "Flynn Ryder"—a devilish smile and a charming manner… "Perhaps we should go somewhere more quiet?"… a mussed bed and a missing jewelry box… Her parents trying to find out why, and herself unable to answer—even though the character from the old stories was called "Flynnagan Rider", and the r's were backwards. She stopped and watched quietly, fascinated by the clean strokes he made with the aerosol can; she could tell he was completely absorbed in his self-assigned task.

Unfortunately, her job was to paint over it all.

She stood patiently, waiting for a good time when he was between strokes to alert him to her presence. He had lowered the can to his side and tilted his head, possibly contemplating on what he should add to the piece, when she spoke up.

"Y'know that's not how it's spelled, right?"

She was glad she had waited until he wasn't spraying paint; it would have gotten all over her when he spun around, arms flailing out in surprise.

"What the— Oh, look-y here, the Paint Police have arrived," he commented sarcastically, eyeing the logo on her shirt.

Her mouth twisted, part of her finding his comment funny, the rest of her just agreeing with him in an ironic way. "Yeah, I know… I hate having to paint over some of this, especially something as good as that," she replied, nodding to the tangle of color over his shoulder.

He reached up and threw his hood off, and she failed to fight back her gasp. "Joseph?!"

One of his eyebrows shot up. "Who?"

She blinked a few times and brought a hand to her mouth. The man before her looked exactly like her late husband. But, obviously, he couldn't be; it wasn't possible. After a long pause, she finally was able to say, "Sorry, it's just… You look like someone I knew. A really long time ago."

"You don't really look old enough to have a 'long time ago'," he replied, winking at her flirtatiously.

She forced herself to ignore the intense deja-vu and flirt back. "Well, maybe I'm older than I look."

He just smirked.

She shifted her feet, suddenly feeling awkward. "So… I kinda need to…"

"Oh, right! Sorry… I'll just grab my—" he started to say, gesturing to a duffel bag filled with spray cans lying a few feet away "—You're not going to report me, or anything, right? I really don't need my parole officer hearing about this…"

She shook her head. "You were finished and gone before I got here. Didn't see anything."

The smile he shot her now was more genuine. "I'm Flynn, by the way."

It was her turn to cock an eyebrow. "Really? You're last name isn't Rider by any chance?"

The hand not holding a can of paint reached for the back of his neck. "Well…"

"Whatever. I'm Rap— Rachel," she said, biting her tongue for almost giving him the one name she couldn't use.

He moved over to the duffel bag, placing the can he was holding back inside of it and zipping it up. He swung it gracefully over his shoulder, and turned back to her. "It was nice meeting you, Rachel."

"You too, 'Flynn'," she said, grinning at him.

He chuckled. Then he strolled off.

She looked back at his freshly finished painting, set down her own duffel bag full of supplies and sighed.

—-—

… I used to roll the dice

Feel the fear in my enemies eyes

Listen as the crowds would sing

"Now the old king is dead, long live the king!"…

—-—

Rapunzel sat on the throne, the crown on her head feeling heavy after a long day of wearing it. Negotiations were so boring; unfortunately, they were also necessary.

She glanced to her right, seeing that her husband was completely absorbed in the speech the foreign dignitary was giving. Feeling her gaze, his eyes flicked to her. His right elbow went to his knee and the hand met his chin as he leaned forward. His finger tapped four times on the side of his jaw. 'They plan to betray us.'

She smirked to herself. This was the only fun thing that ever happened during a meeting. Joseph sat back up suddenly, eyes darkening, as he called out whatever point in their plan that had bothered him. She backed him up, picking up the details as the debate heated. Had they seriously thought that she, the future Queen of Corona, would allow their soldiers to be posted here? (Except, she would have agreed to everything they'd said simply because she wasn't paying attention—thank God for her husband and his never-ending focus)

The dignitary fought back as they verbally cornered him, insisting that Coronan soldiers would be allowed on their soil, that it was a mutually beneficial arrangement for times of war. Eventually, beads of sweat began making their way down the sides of his face: he knew he was in the wrong, and he was worried now.

She loved the feeling of being in absolute control. She'd never had much control over her life, but when she got it, she relished in it.

Unfortunately, getting that high in this way also made her lots of enemies.

—-—

… One minute I'd held the key

Next the walls were closed on me…

——-—

Rapunzel hummed a tune she'd forgotten how she'd learned as she walked briskly up the steps. She was going to give the palace museum another try, as she hadn't finished reading all of the signs last time.

As she wandered the halls, lost amongst the throngs of tourists, she admired the quality of the restoration. It was much closer to the way she remembered it than she could have ever expected. And it was much better than it had been those last few years she was here.

She went back into her old rooms, forcing herself to resist the urge to run. They were almost exactly as they were before the… She couldn't even think of that time. She moved methodically from sign to sign, reading about her own life, staring at the photographs of the palace before it's restoration. Those photographs were extremely close to the way the palace had been the day she'd run away.

There was a video showing in what had been a small parlor. She went into the room, and watched as historians discussed the revolution, the allegations that the Princess had been immortal, un-killable. They analyzed records and accounts from those who had access to her. They read aloud pieces from her mother's diary; she hadn't even known her mother had kept one. Artists discussed how she had been made into a goddess in literature and art. Works she was completely unfamiliar with were flashed across the screen, herself the main subject: a glowing, beautiful, vengeful queen, all-powerful in her own nation. Writers discussed the difficulty in finding 'factual' information on her, that much of her childhood and gone undocumented, like something was being kept secret. Many speculated that she must have been sickly, but that the image she gave to the people was that of strength, hiding her illnesses through the use of decoys and coverups.

She sat there, in the creaky theater seat, appalled at what she was seeing and hearing. She squeaked—nearly screamed— in fright when a finger poked her arm.

-—

… Shattered windows and the sound of drums

People couldn't believe what I'd become

.

Revolutionaries wait

For my head on a silver plate

Just a puppet on a lonely string…

—-—

Apparently, her people hadn't been happy with a monarchy.

The countries she had made her enemies had decided to help.

They were eating dinner, and a group of masked men burst through the doors. She and her family had been rounded up and brought to the throne room. All of the guards that hadn't joined the rebellion were executed then and there.

Two weeks later, her parents had followed. One of the terms had been that they leave the country with Rapunzel and Joseph; they had refused.

Two months later, they had slipped her and Joseph poison, wanting to get rid of them quietly after the uproar that the people had caused at her parents' executions. She didn't find out he had died for another three days.

The leaders were angry. They needed her gone, but stye couldn't make a fuss.

So they told the people she was to be exiled. They had an armed man escort her to the bridge. He had tried to drag her underneath it so he could kill her quietly. She managed to get away, and had taken off running, her dirty, golden hair flying behind her, her lungs burning, her legs aching. She was free.

And she was alone.

—-—

Her head snapped to the left as her body slid right; her weight shifted as she prepared of an attack. Flynn put his hands up in surrender. "Sorry!" he whispered. "Didn't mean to startle you… Saw you sitting here and wanted to say hi."

She hissed back, "You almost gave me a hear attack!"

"I know, I'm sorry."

She rolled her eyes, and then smirked. She tried to return her attention to the video, but she kept glancing at the man sitting next to her. He had a baseball cap pulled low over his forehead, shielding his eyes. Both times she'd met him, he'd been so guarded, despite how open he'd acted. She wondered what secrets he was holding.

The film finished with a questioning conclusion: "As her death or execution went undocumented, it is very likely that she managed to escape and start a life elsewhere. And, assuming the rumors of her immortality are true, she could still be alive today; a goddess hiding amongst mortals, moving through our world differently than anyone else. Who knows who among us might have met the Lost Princess of Corona…" It was pretty melodramatic, but sort of ironic in how accurate they were. She wondered who had wrote those final few lines.

She and Flynn stood, and slowly made their way out of the theater. It was crowded with tourists and families toting small children, babbling about the princess. A group of red-headed little girls suddenly surrounded her, insisting that—if her hair had been blonde and much longer—she looked exactly like the princess. She laughed nervously and thanked them, insisting that she couldn't possibly be the princess: she lived in a tiny apartment and painted walls for a living! They giggled at her, then scampered off to find their parents.

Flynn smiled at her. "They're right you know."

Her brows furrowed and her smile quirked. "What do you mean?"

"You do look a lot like the princess. Maybe she had a kid in secret, and you're a long lost descendant."

"Or they were right and she is immortal. But she got amnesia and that's why I don't remember being a princess," she said, not entirely sure why she was allowing herself to be sucked into this. It happened every couple decades: she'd meet someone bearing a striking resemblance to Joseph and she couldn't seem to help herself. They didn't always act like him, which helped (usually), but Flynn acted quite a bit like him… Or at least how she remembered him.

He laughed along with her, and she tried to think of reasons to brush him off, to get out of the conversation and away from this man; she didn't want to get hurt all over again. Unfortunately, he suavely steered their conversation to the fact that it was noon. "I know this great sushi place over near Market Square (the fairs and festivals that had centered there… Dancing through the evening… Getting drunk and meeting a handsome man with brown hair and matching eyes, a lovely smile and kind words). You wanna go try it?

Her mind was thinking, No, I really need to go home and get some things done. She replied with, "That sounds absolutely amazing."

—-—

She lived through some of the greatest times in history. And some of the worst. She almost died in London during the Blitz, nearly got arrested when she was in the States during prohibition, got lost in the winding streets of amazing cities like Venice, Paris, and Istanbul.

She would have been insanely happy with the sudden change in her life, if she hadn't been lonelier than ever.

This was so much better than ruling an unforgiving nation, trying to appease unhappy people. But it was so much worse than being happy with her family.

—-—

Oh, who would ever want to be king?