a/n: i have an excuse for not updating for like a year and it has a horrible name coughSATcough. i also meant to respond to everyone's reviews, because they were amazing, as always, but school got in the way again. i was going to do it today but thought you guys would think me weird if you got a message two weeks after the fact saying 'Thank you!' so i'm just going to do that here-
Thank you: WhoaATwist, RomanticFictionFreak, WickedSong, duwadu, 26ja, and Airplane (ok, when I saw Airplane reviewed my fic i about had a heart attack [in a good way]) so THANK YOU ALL :)
i swear he'll meet Rapunzel in the next chapter. bear with me.
He doesn't quite know what he's expecting, but it's not this.
The clearing is dark because the sky overhead is a mottled shade of gray. A slight breeze floats down and brushes back his hair. Behind him the ivy rustles to a stop; the little tunnel spits him out into a wide, canyon-like area, overgrown with greenbrowndead bushes and trees that look dark and sad under the non-existent sunlight. He can't even see a path through the undergrowth, can't even see the house he is supposed to break into.
"Damn old woman," he mutters to himself, not for the first time having second thoughts about this whole endeavor. He pushes aside the nearest shrubs, thin, spiny branches scratching against the old leather of his boots, but still can't see a way through. He moves around in little circles until he finally spies a worn, thin path leading down along the canyon.
Tall, bushy trees reach out overhead. He skirts along the trail, some foreign emotion settling deep in his stomach. The thin stretch of dirt curves sharply left and he can hear the little babble of a stream.
"Okay, Flynn. Look at the bright side." He pauses for a moment, pushing under an overgrown, unknown shrub. "There is a bright side." He says defensively, and a crow takes flight form the nearest tree, startling him forward. He trips slightly but catches his balance.
"Gold. Gold is always good."
The little stream running away gives a melancholy sort of answer, and he pauses, frustrated. "Where the hell is this house, anyway?" He snarls to the air, and for a moment he stands, heart pounding, chest heaving, for entirely different reasons. The unkempt world around him offers no response.
He feels, unexplainably, like he is in way over his head. And part of him, the relatively decent part, does not want to do this to a girl. He's done it before, mostly on accident, mostly because he tends to have one too many drinks, but this—
"This is different." And he doesn't know who he is whispering to, or why he suddenly feels the need to justify the job ahead. "This is different, but I need the money."
Hell, he's done worse.
Stolen from the poor, the rich, the in-between. That's worse, right?
"Damn. It." He curses again, kicking at the ground and bending slightly to sink his head in his hands. "Get over it, Rider, you are on a job."
Now is not the time to develop a heart.
He groans and stretches upward, looking towards the sky, which is again visible, a sliver, through the heavy, dead foliage above, a dull monochrome.
The path takes another curve and suddenly he is jumping to avoid the small stream, which, after being heard for so long, has finally come into sight. He turns, on the other side, and bends down to dip a hand into the cool, clear water.
The water hits his face and settles his resolve, his nerves. He straightens up and rubs the remaining dewdrops from his eyes; he's still blinking them rapidly when he looks up behind him. His mouth drops.
It is a testament to the amount of growth and foliage and trees and shrubs and unkempt jungle that surrounds him that he didn't see the tower. The tower.
A. Tower.
It rises out of the earth, the same mottled gray-green as the undergrowth around it, thin and rounded, tapered to a thin point that he can barely see. He steps back, in awe, trying to capture the whole building in his view, and, forgetting the stream, splashes straight into it.
He shakes the water off his boot, stumbling forward towards the tower's base, because it rises serenely out of the mess and nothing is growing within ten feet of it—it's surrounded by a perfect circle of dead-ish brown-green grass. The plants just stop. From somewhere on the other side of the building he can hear the roar of a waterfall.
Rubbing his beard he steps forward, looking for the door. The stones are hard and unyielding, all the way around the tower's base. He pauses, briefly considering turning around, but his vision glitters gold and he brushes off his hand, looking for a foot-hold.
From somewhere behind him he swears he hears, "Time to climb, Rider." But as his head turns jerkily towards the noise nothing is there except the crow from earlier, alighted on a new branch, and a hint of olive green—
If the old lady is watching you from the forest, Flynn muses, attempting to find purchase for his hands and feet, does she make a sound?