What Once Was Mine-A Tangled Fanfiction
PART ONE
As I dived, memories rushed alongside me, and as they mocked and mimicked my eagle-like position, each one took a terrifyingly long time to inflict their built-up pain upon my wizened old heart. What I had convinced myself (and others) to be stone was in fact, as I had feared, not.
She had hurt me.
And she will pay.
I had discovered the golden blossom of my own accord. But since the whole kingdom had been scouring the grounds for it, I was determined not to give it in only to be rewarded with a mere few hundred silver coins. I wanted gold. And as I heard the frantic soldiers and scrambled to hide my finding, that was when it left me.
That was the first time.
I was furious when I found out. The soldiers, myself, even the flower; all of these fuelled my spite and rage. When the baby was born, it was clear what I had to do. Her soft golden locks and cheery face showed that she had stolen what I had once gained from the flower; my youth eerily suited her. Two can play at this game, my racing thoughts smugly stated.
They have all stolen, and so will I.
The deep black night shielded my intentions from the prying eyes of many a star. As my croaky voice murmured the Song of Healing, my fingers ravenously extended to hold the gleaming strands, which seemed to unite against me in beautiful locks. Hastened by my inevitable envy, I quickly liberated one of the strangely angelic waves from the rest of them, only to gasp in terror.
Regret clenched at my stomach like a bowlful of my horrendous hazelnut soup. I would have to raise this child as my own, never to prune her, or this flower's petals would turn brown and lose their use to me as the destroyer of the many years of pain and hate that dwelled beneath the seemingly peaceful outside. Yes, the child would need to sing to me every day; only then would the surface keep still to conceal the monsters that bayed for blood on the other side.
Countless times would I cry
"Rapunzel, let down your hair!" As the young adult did so, I saw the longing; her paintings, her reading, her deep emerald eyes. It was impossible not to tell: the longing to leave.
My child fled to the lands furthest from this tower hidden so expertly by trees and mountains, exploring the lives of princes, thieves and adventurers with as much enthusiasm and familiarity as if they were her own. Then she would depict her travel upon the walls, coating them with many layers of gold, green and blue. Many an hour she spent there, gazing and poking at her work, then rushing over to the window to feast her eyes on the real thing.
Ever since she could talk, she would enquire hopefully to me about going outside, only to get a severe lecture on the cruelty of this world.
But Rapunzel seemed insistent on getting out, much to my disgust. But I knew it would happen one day, and I was right.
And it seemed that my flower planned to leave the pot for the field on the day of her full blossom.