Flynn Rider can't believe what he's seeing.
It's the answer to everything.
Flynn's never been much of a believer in magic. Eugene was, maybe, but Eugene wasn't cut out for this world. Flynn knows better. Flynn knows that there's no magic except for the kind that comes in pretty little circles of silver and gold.
And right before him is a river of gold, glowing and sparking and turning a woman young.
His jaw hangs open. He knows he should be more cautious, but he's far too awestruck to close the gap between the doors and sever his only window to the scene playing out less than fifteen feet away. The woman has to be Blondie's mother, even though the two really look nothing alike. He'd guessed that she was around fifty—now going on forty, now thirty-five. With every stroke of the brush through the girl's hair, the circles under her eyes lighten, and her wrinkles become less prominent. The girl's soft, lilting song comes to an end, and the fire in her hair fades back to blonde.
The woman (he decides to call her Red, on account of the clingy red velvet she wears) pats Blondie on the head and hands her back the brush. It's hard to discern her age, now. Red's skin is satin-smooth, her curls thick and black. She's attractive in a cold, severe way, with high cheekbones and a thin-lipped smile.
"Oh, I feel so refreshed, my dear. What would I do without you?" she says, bringing her hands to her face and feeling along her jawline, her cheeks.
Blondie smiles nervously. He can see her shoot a glance at the armoire, and he instinctively steps back to press against the wood. He needs to think logically about this, even if there's nothing logical about what goes on in this tower.
How much would someone pay for a bona-fide, honest-to-goodness fountain of youth? Flynn's heart pounds faster at the prospect. Enough for him to travel to a faraway land and live a life of unspeakable luxury.
Red steps out of the chair and saunters to another compartment of the tower, out of sight. He releases a breath he didn't know he was holding. Something tells him that Red is more dangerous than she looks; at any rate, he can't imagine she'll take kindly to someone stealing away her little secret. Red's kept it hidden well. Through all his years of thievery, he'd never heard of a girl with magic hair.
He'll make sure Red never sees head nor tail of him. The hair happens to be attached to a girl, but that's no problem. A quick slash of his knife through those shiny locks, a climb out the window, and he's set. No, you're being hasty, Flynn chastises himself. He knows nothing about the properties of the hair. Could a single strand suffice? How much does he need? Is the length important for its healing powers? He needs to stick around, to learn. And the only way to do that is through Blondie.
As if on cue, the girl hurries over to the armoire, her eyes darting rapidly from side to side to ensure they're (relatively) alone. She eases the gap open another inch and rises up on her tip-toes to whisper to him. Her looks don't go unnoticed by Flynn—the girl's certainly pretty, with full lips, thick lashes, and a dusting of freckles across the bridge of her ski-slope nose. Not the time or place, Rider.
"The sun's setting soon. You need to leave. I can distract her, make sure she doesn't see you while you go," she whispers conspiratorially. "But… only if you agree to come back tomorrow afternoon. My mother won't be home then."
Flynn is shocked by his luck. It's like a treasure chest offering itself up for the taking. Part of him is full of questions—why is this girl so trusting of him? What does she want from him? Whatever the reason, his curiosity can wait. "You have my word," he says in his most trustworthy tone, steeling his expression into a mask of sincerity.
"That's not enough." She shakes her head. "Give… give me your satchel." His eyes must narrow in the dark, because the girl looks victorious. "I know it's important to you. I'll keep it safe here, and this way I can be sure that you won't just run off."
He has to make a split-second decision. The girl is an odd mix of naïve and clever, one that he's not used to at all. The crown of Corona's lost princess, or hair that grants eternal youth?
Flynn hands her the satchel. She sweeps it into her arms and smiles to herself, and it's surprisingly disarming. For a brief, flitting second, the thief almost feels bad for what he's going to do.
She meets his eyes again, looking more confident than before. "You haven't told me your name yet."
He crosses his arms. "Moving fast, eh, Blondie?"
"It's Ra— no, wait. You go first."
There's no point hiding it, he supposes. "Flynn Rider."
She looks supremely pleased with herself for wheedling a name out of him. "Rapunzel."
Flynn decides he likes Blondie better.
She walks over to an empty vase and slips the satchel inside. It's an embarrassingly weak hiding spot, but Flynn supposes it will do for one night. Then she gives him a clumsy wink, and scampers off somewhere to his left, calling out: "Mother! I finished my new painting today, won't you come and see?"
He waits until the two are embroiled in a conversation before pushing the doors open. It's a relief to breathe in fresh air after so long in the dusty space. He slinks across the room and onto the windowsill, careful not to trample on the bunches of flowers planted along it. Outside, the sky is just beginning to darken, the blue giving way to pinks and purples. He reaches into his satchel for the two arrows he used on his climb. With the lightness of a cat, Flynn slips off the windowsill and begins his descent down the column of stone.