Author's Note: This chapter does include the reunion with the Snuggly Duckling ruffians, as promised. However, it also contains references to "female problems." Male readers may be disturbed, I suppose... but, although I will warn for it, I'm not going to apologize. It's a part of human biology.

Another thing. I really appreciate all the new adds and follows since the last chapter, but with absolutely no written feedback, I cannot tell if anyone is actually enjoying the piece, or if it's just being read because it's here. If you don't like something, find yourself bored with something, feel like the pace is too slow, or any other suggestion, please don't hesitate to say so. I am far too old to take offense at constructive criticism. But if the story largely is being enjoyed, I would like to know that too. It's discouraging to write several thousand words and not have an idea what readers really think of it.

Chapter Ten: New Interests, Old Friends

Maximus was getting a lot more exercise than anyone would have expected. Flynn and Rapunzel would have said that he was adapting well to city life if not for the fact that, minus the approximately two months in which he stayed at the tower, he had been employed in a bustling town for his entire life. Flynn had been concerned that he would dislike being cooped up and deprived of green space, but the horse was accustomed to confined city stabling.

However, if he were honest, he still worried about the lack of greenery and fresh air, and not just for the horse. Maximus had had access to open spaces even though he had spent most of his time in a town. The population of Corona had been confined mainly to the town, with some residents along the mainland territorial coast, and all else was natural. Rapunzel, too, had been locked in a tower for most of her life, but at least she'd had a view of the wild open countryside. He supposed that Pascal was the least affected by the change in circumstances, given that he too had lived inside that tower rather than his natural habitat. But as for himself... well, he didn't want to admit it to Rapunzel and make her feel bad about their move, but everything he disliked about his birthplace was rushing back to his mind, especially now that he had experiences running about in the countryside. The smells, the expenses, the dirt, the visual ugliness of so much of it, at least the part where they had to live... and the sheer teeming number of people.

Dear Lord, there are a lot of people, he thought grumpily as he gazed out the window of his shop late one afternoon. Loud, hot, smelly, so often vulgar... coughing old people with only threadbare filthy handkerchiefs to hold back the infectious vapor, lewdly leering women who blatantly ignored the ring on his hand, disreputable-looking men trying to get the better of him in a transaction, grubby little children trying to pocket things from his store, unaware of how sharp-eyed he was... He smiled wryly at that thought. How different it looked from the perspective of the property owner. More than once he found himself thinking of some particularly sneaky varmint as a wretched little thief, and when he did, the irony immediately blasted through his mind, amusing him and calming his annoyance a bit.

He didn't want to be too hard on the children, though of course he would not let them get away with stealing from him. A harsh glare and a warning that, while he wouldn't turn in children, they'd better not steal because other shop owners might, and thieving led to the gallows—that usually did the trick. It also felt good. Perhaps, he thought hopefully, his scolds might save some other child from the sort of life he had led. No, though he couldn't honestly say he liked the sly little urchins who thought they could pilfer things from him, he didn't dislike children except for bullies. They were still mostly innocent, even those inclined to grab things. They just wanted to take something that they liked. The same could not be said about many adults he encountered, and even those who were decent people were just so many in number, and in such close quarters, that he found himself pining for island solitude once again.

No, he corrected himself—not solitude. And it didn't have to be an island. Small though it was, he was able to find peace away from his shop in the tiny little flat that he shared with Rapunzel. As proud as he was of being successful in his line of business, he was always happy to come home, away from the bustle and noise and grime, to the place that she kept tidy, clean, and comfortable.

Quite comfortable, and not just physically so. The flat was kept full of books, as both Flynn and Rapunzel were huge readers. In addition to buying cheap used books (or keeping interesting titles sold to him by customers), they had become members of a library and found that the nominal fee was an excellent investment, for it provided plenty of fresh material to read. These books provided the sense of adventure, of different places and times, of variety that they both craved as imaginative people. And before he returned home, he would go to the library to borrow some new ones.

That evening, he returned with a satchel of books. She was waiting for him at the door, and when he came in, she instantly threw her arms around him in greeting. He laughed mildly and hugged her back. It's so nice to be loved and wanted, he thought, squeezing her affectionately, and I am sure she feels the same. He often thought about how lucky they both were. Before they met, he had no one—at least no one in continental Europe, and he had not seen his old friend George in years—who cared whether he was alive or dead (though some might have wished him dead), and Rapunzel had only a false mother who saw her as a tool to be used. That was all different now.

They broke apart, and before he could open it himself, Rapunzel took his satchel off his shoulder and weighed it. She broke into a grin. "You went to the library?" she asked rhetorically as she opened it.

"I thought we needed some new books to read," he said.

As they headed toward the sofa, she began taking books out: a volume of poetry, a romantic novel, and a geography book. She smiled at each of them. The books made a pile on the right side of the sofa, but there was still plenty of room for both of them to sit. He took off his boots, revealing the hosiery she had made for him and provoking a grin from her. He looked back at her with a smirk of his own and lifted her legs onto the seat, pulling her partially into his lap. She looked startled for a moment but quickly adjusted, leaning into him with a smile.

"I think we should begin reading that one"—he pointed at the book of poetry—"tonight."

"Did you pick it for a reason?" she asked, a single eyebrow raised knowingly.

He smiled back enigmatically. "Maybe."

Nights were frequently spent curled up together on the sofa, reading books together. Usually he read one thing and she read something else, and if her book was nonfiction, she would often talk about it with him and ask him questions. Sometimes, though, they read the same thing together. It could be anything. When they read Shakespeare, her favorite play turned out to be The Tempest. He supposed that did not surprise him too much, imagining that she could probably empathize quite well with the exiles on the island, but he found himself somewhat surprised by his favorite, Macbeth. He guessed that it was the intrigue that appealed to him so strongly.

Reading the sonnets—reading any love poetry—was quite a different matter entirely, and many nights they were unable to finish for becoming otherwise occupied in the middle of reading. This night was no exception, with Flynn slipping a bookmark between the pages and placing the book safely on the floor before they fell into a heated embrace on the sofa.

Afterward, she picked up her discarded clothing and clutched it to her body with some embarrassment as she scuttled into the bedroom to don her nightgown. He smirked, shaking his head in amusement, as he followed her.

It was a good thing that they enjoyed themselves that night, because it was out of the question the next day—as he learned, to his embarrassment this time, upon returning home for lunch. Rapunzel had made him a sandwich and set it out on the table with a glass of water, but she herself was curled up on the sofa, groaning in pain, holding a stove-heated compress over her lower abdomen. Her face was twisted in discomfort, and Pascal perched on the cushion next to her head.

He stopped cold in the doorway, and a sense of dread filled his stomach. "Are you all right?" he asked uneasily.

She turned away and shook her head. "It's that time," she managed to get out.

He understood at once. "Do you want some tea?" he asked. Rapunzel had said once that tea helped with this problem.

She nodded. "Eat your lunch first, though," she said.

"I have plenty of time." He went over to the stove and began to boil water for tea.

If he were honest with himself, the whole subject made him uncomfortable, he thought as he watched the water start to bubble. It was just—awkward—to know so much about her "woman" issues. It was the kind of thing that he wished she could tell some other woman, rather than him, but she did not have a female friend. Rapunzel was learning the unfortunate lesson that, while most people were pleasant to talk to about unimportant topics, true friends were hard to find. He was still the only person to whom she was close, so he was the one who had to hear all about this sort of thing.

It was an awkward topic, but he supposed it was a good thing that they were so close that she could tell him about it. And he also regarded it with relief, because it meant that their attempts to avoid pregnancy had been successful for another month. It had come up three times before, twice when they were still living in the tower, and then a couple of weeks after they settled in their flat. He supposed he was getting used to it. The first time in the tower—now that was awkward. She had tried to hide it from him altogether, but it couldn't be done. He had guessed on his own what the problem was.

He hated that it was so unpleasant for her. She had tearfully confessed to him on that first, most embarrassing time, that it had never been that bad before. Until that time, it had been one day of light bleeding and no abdominal pain. The obvious conclusion to draw was that the loss of the healing magic had changed things—had made her body function more like other women's in that regard.

The water was now boiling, so he lifted the pan carefully off the hot stove and poured the water into the teapot, still musing to himself about that magic. It was a better thing to think about than the subject that had brought it to mind in the first place.

He often wondered how much of the original magic remained in them now. Its effect was certainly limited compared to what it used to be. Before, Rapunzel had never sustained long-lasting injuries. She could experience brief, temporary pain if she hurt herself, but the internal magic would heal the wound almost immediately. She also never fell ill. Now, she suffered bruises and scrapes that took time to heal just as they would on anyone else. They had not been ill, but that didn't prove anything. Rapunzel was fastidious about sanitation, and he was not prone to illness anyway.

She also didn't seem to be able to heal things with her tears, even if she sang the song first. She had tried it, just as an experiment, on a bruise that she had incurred during a misstep. (She was still a bit awkward in shoes, especially those with a heel, and preferred to go barefoot indoors.) It hadn't worked. He suggested that, perhaps, it would work in a situation where she was deeply engaged with her heart and soul, as she had been when she saved his life—but obviously, they did not want to engineer such a situation to test it.

Still, there was reason to believe that some aspect of the magic still existed in both of them. Although they did have to wait for bruises and cuts to heal normally, once they did heal, they never left scars. That was new to him. He had incurred several scars over the course of his life. They had vanished with her healing tears in the tower, and none of the scratches he had picked up since then had left new ones, including a rather jagged cut down his hand from a sharp corner on a piece of furniture in his shop—a wound that should have left quite a scar. It took a couple of weeks to heal, but it healed perfectly. The effects of the magic were limited, certainly—Rapunzel's present discomfort proved that—but they did still seem to be there to some small degree. He sometimes wondered just how much long-term effect the healing magic would have on both of them. Would they age gracefully, with few wrinkles, turning into silver-haired but youthful-faced versions of their younger selves? Would their lives be lengthened? Was his life now linked to hers, as Gothel's had been linked to the magic of her hair? Would he die when she did? He rather hoped so on all counts.

The tea was ready. He carried the teapot and a cup over to the sofa where she was resting. "Here you are," he said kindly, setting them down on a side table that she had painted with curlicues and floral designs.

"Thanks," she mumbled. She poured some tea into the cup. "Eat your lunch now."

He chuckled. "All right, all right." He headed over to the table and began to eat his sandwich.

That afternoon, he was going around the shop, straightening things up, when the bell behind the door tinkled and a shabbily dressed, but honest-looking older woman came in. She looked around the place before settling her gaze on him.

"Good afternoon," he said mildly. He looked her over. She didn't seem to be carrying anything in to sell. "Are you here to buy something? Feel free to search, or to ask me if it is something in particular."

The woman shook her head. "No—well, I am; I heard that this was a good place to get cheap candles, but I see where they are." Her gaze flitted over toward the section of the store where Rapunzel's homemade merchandise always rested.

"Yes, my wife makes them herself. But you said 'no' at first...?" he inquired.

The woman nodded. "I have a piece of furniture in the back of my cart. I couldn't get it up here and I don't know if you are even interested in such things. Do you reckon you could have a look at it?"

"What sort of furniture?" he asked, reaching into his satchel for his keys.

"A writing desk. It belonged to my father."

"Oh, I'm sorry," Flynn said immediately, assuming that the woman's father must have recently died and she was trying to get rid of an unwanted item.

She shook her head again as they walked out of the store and he locked it. "He's been dead many years, but that thing has just been taking up space in the house. I finally decided to try to get rid of it."

They walked downstairs and went outside, where a cart drawn by a mule stood just off the street. A younger man, presumably the woman's son, was standing guard by the cart. And sure enough, in the back of it sat a chestnut-stained desk with a slanting drop cover and drawers underneath. The seat was attached to it; it was all in one piece. The desk had been somewhat abused—the knobs on the drawers were tarnished and loose, and the wood finish was scratched in many places—but he knew at once that he wanted this desk, and not to resell.

He also knew that it would not do for this woman or her son to see how much he wanted the desk. Better to look unimpressed but willing to take it off their hands. That way they would be happy to be paid almost anything. They didn't seem to need the money desperately; they weren't trying to sell off a recently deceased person's belongings to pay off debts that had come to light upon his death. From the sounds of it, they were just trying to dispose of something that they did not use. I can use it, he thought with a scoff.

Quickly the sale was completed. The desk was unloaded from the cart and brought inside, though not all the way up to the second-floor shop. It was left on the lower level, tucked under the stair closet next to the tailor shop. Flynn told them smoothly that he would arrange for it to be brought upstairs. In truth, of course, he was only trying to prevent unnecessary work in carrying the desk upstairs and then back down again to take it home.

The woman purchased several candles and left. After he closed up the shop that afternoon, he lifted the writing desk into the back of his own cart, hitched it up to Maximus, and drove it home.

Rapunzel was surprised when, that evening, the door to their flat opened to reveal Flynn and the boardinghouse's caretaker hauling in the heavy desk.

"Let's put it in the corner," he told the caretaker. "Evening, Rapunzel," he added with a grin as they lifted the desk across the room to the corner where their bookcase stood.

She stared at them wordlessly as they set the desk down. The caretaker tipped his hat to her and left, and then she turned to Flynn with a raised eyebrow.

"What did you want that for?" she questioned.

He collapsed on the sofa and threw an arm around her. "I thought we could both use it. It would be a good place to paint and draw—much better than the table—and besides, I thought I ought to write again."

"Again?"

He smirked. "It was another thing I did as a boy. I liked to read to the other children from printed books, of course, but I also liked to make up stories of my own."

"I did not know that," she said, her tone half-scolding for a moment. Then it changed, and a smile formed on her face. "You're very creative. I'm glad you got this desk. It looks like it fits next to the books."

"Of course. Writing is a learned thing to do," he said cockily. "We may not have much money, but that's no reason to live like ignorant, illiterate people. We aren't."

Reading love poems together was not a possibility that night, due to what usually happened when they did and the problematic matter of Rapunzel's current "condition," so he sat at the desk with some paper in front of him and started writing down his thoughts. Meanwhile, she sat on the sofa with the geography book he had brought the day before. At one point, she got up from the sofa to take their atlas off the bookshelves—the atlas that had come from the bookstore back in Corona village. She wanted a reference for the places that she was reading about.

He continued writing until the silence was broken by a regretful sigh. He snapped his head up and glanced over at her. She was gazing at a map of Italy longingly. He understood at once.

"I'm sorry," he said gently. "I wish we had enough money to go anywhere you wanted to go... to see everything you'd like to see."

She closed the books. "When I lived with her in the tower, I used to dream about seeing the whole world. I had no idea how much there was in the world, though—how big it really is—and I definitely didn't know about expenses. It would be so costly." She sighed. "I cannot imagine that many people would be able to do such a thing."

He shook his head. "World travel is something for the very rich, certainly. Or sailors, I suppose."

"So it isn't your fault at all. Don't blame yourself," she said. "At least we do have books where we can read about these places. I read in a history book that a few centuries ago, hardly anyone even had books, and that the printing press helped spread knowledge like nothing else. We have books, and we both know how to read."

He smiled weakly at her before returning to his writing. It was hard going. He was not even trying to imagine any new ideas, but to write down the ones he remembered from his boyhood. But details kept occurring to him out of order. Finally he set down his quill and glanced over at the sofa. She had not opened the geography book or the atlas again. From the looks of it, she had spent the past several minutes staring idly into space.

A thought occurred to him. "Hey," he said, "would you like to go out to the pub tonight? It might be fun." And if neither of us really wants to stay in and do quiet things, that might be just the ticket.

She thought for a moment before answering. "Sure," she said.

They tidied themselves up a bit before heading out, arm in arm, and climbing on Maximus's back. The horse took off at a leisurely clip, but the pub was reasonably close by, so they arrived quickly.

They could tell it was a raucous night at the Third Sheet before they even brought the horse to a halt. The sound of a bar song could be heard outside the place, even muffled as it was by the walls. Something about the voices sounded vaguely familiar to Flynn... but no, it couldn't be...

They entered the pub, and the volume of noise increased markedly. Their gaze traveled across the room, taking in the scene, and almost simultaneously, Flynn and Rapunzel's jaws both dropped open.

The ruffians from the Snuggly Duckling in Corona filled every corner of the place. No other customers appeared to be there—not that that was surprising, considering. Hookhand had staked out a spot on the battered old harpsichord shoved into a corner, an instrument that Flynn and Rapunzel had never seen anyone playing, and he was banging away on it, leading the entire gang in a performance of "I've Got a Dream." The ruffians were banging their fists in tune on the tables, singing aloud, sloshing their beer all over themselves. Shorty, the half-demented old man in Cupid wings, was seated at the bar, making gap-toothed grins at the serving staff. George Vale regarded the proceedings with a wary eye, looking none too pleased about having his pub taken over completely by a gang of oversized, poorly dressed, heavily armed thugs.

Suddenly Hookhand stopped playing. The song died away and the rest of the group followed his gaze to the doorway.

"Rider!" the hook-handed man roared, standing up. "What are you doing here? And who is that with you?"

"Yeah, where's the blonde lady?" Big Nose called out, cracking his knuckles menacingly.

"'Rider'?" George Vale muttered in a low voice that nonetheless carried across the room in the silence.

He winced inwardly. His friend had never found out the name by which he had presented himself during his time on the Continent, and this was not the sort of setting in which he wanted to make the explanation. He addressed himself to Hookhand instead.

"I live here," he said. "I was born in this city, and I've come back. With her." He glared at the ruffian. "This is 'the blonde lady.' Her hair is its natural color now. The blonde color, and the length, were... not natural."

The thugs muttered amongst themselves, apparently deciding whether or not to believe him. Several of them squinted at Rapunzel, studying her face.

"It's true," Rapunzel said, seeing where this could potentially go and wanting to stop it before it did. A couple of the ruffians relaxed their faces, evidently recognizing the sound of her voice. "My dream was to 'see the floating lanterns,' remember?"

This bit of information convinced the rest of them of her identity. The tension in the room instantly evaporated, and the ruffians parted as the couple made their way to the bar.

"I see rings!" Big Nose called out triumphantly. "They've got 'em on their fingers! Well done!" At this announcement, most of the gang rushed up and began to slap Flynn on the back good-naturedly.

Vale served them their mugs of ale and raised an eyebrow at Flynn. "I suppose you know these people?" he said.

Flynn nodded. "I met them shortly after I met her." He did not want to explain how he had met them or why he had brought her to the Snuggly Duckling, because he was sure that his friend would not approve of it. Even now, after she had made friends with the ruffians and they had saved his life, he was ashamed of deliberately bringing her there to scare her. "I'm surprised to see any of them here," he added, glancing around as he spoke and looking the nearest ruffian—Big Nose—right in the eye. "They left in a ship some time before we did."

"Yeah, we still have it," Vladamir put in. "How do you think we ended up here? We're proper tradesmen now."

Somehow I doubt that, Flynn thought to himself, but he elected not to say it. Instead he asked them: "So what sort of trade are you in?" Probably piracy, he thought wryly.

Vladamir scowled, evidently aware of the general turn of Flynn's thoughts. "We are involved in transporting goods of a—a special nature. To special recipients."

"You mean smuggling?" Flynn said knowingly. Of course, he thought. It made sense. If ever there was a ship that a merchant—"legitimate" or otherwise—could trust would never be boarded by pirates, it was one manned by this crew.

The ruffian scowled deeper. "I suppose you could call it that."

Flynn grinned. "No, I understand, and I don't judge." It was true, given that he was involved in a bit of smuggling himself for part of his income. McKearney didn't ship his bottles directly to London, but rather, to some character who unloaded them in Bristol and sent them across the countryside disguised among other goods. Flynn only dealt with the person who delivered them to London, but it was still smuggling. George Vale, who was listening in, smirked at this remark.

"So what are you doing, then?" the ruffian replied. "How are you supporting her?"

"I have a shop. General used goods—pawn—old furniture—oh, and Rapunzel makes plenty of candles and pottery and drawings to sell. It generates a steady income," he added proudly, wrapping his free arm around Rapunzel's waist.

The ruffians nodded and mumbled to themselves approvingly. Hookhand spoke up. "We're in town for a couple of weeks before we have to go to Copenhagen. I 'spect we'll spend a lot of time here, since you come here too."

"Have you seen any other places?" Rapunzel burst out eagerly. "Like Japan, or India, or the Americas, or—" She broke off, reddening at her own eagerness.

Flynn felt embarrassed for her too. She must not have any idea how long it would take to make any of those journeys. He recalled the discussion about the atlas and geography book from earlier in the evening. Poor Rapunzel, he thought. She really wanted to see other places. He could empathize. He had wanted to escape this city for so long himself, and she had been stuck in a single building for almost her entire life.

The ruffian, however, didn't laugh at her for her question. He just shook his head. "We've stuck to sea ports along the Continent so far. This is the first time we've been to the British Isles."

"We might come back more often, though," Big Nose piped up, "since you lot are here." The rest of the gang muttered in general agreement. A couple of them raised their steins as if making a toast to Rapunzel and Flynn.

They spent the rest of the evening catching up. The trip to the pub had been a good idea, Flynn thought smugly. Rapunzel was able to truly enjoy herself, talking with the gang. At one point they started a chorus of her song again, much to George Vale's horror—given how much beer they spilled on his floor the first time—but the innkeeper seemed to understand that things like this were just part of having this type of business at a harborside location. After the song was over, a couple of the ruffians seemed to recognize the reason for his alarm, and the entire crowd soon mobbed the cleaning closet—Vale's staff scampered out of the way quickly—and started to mop up much of their mess.

After the crowd finally dispersed, the only people left in the pub were Flynn, Rapunzel, and the staff. Grateful for the silence, Vale turned to his old friend with a grin on his face.

Flynn felt a drop in his stomach at that look. He had a feeling he knew what was coming. The ruffians had continued to call him by that name all evening long, and sure enough...

"So," Vale said with a tone that indicated he had already figured out the answer, "why were all those ruffians calling you 'Rider'?"

He glared back. "I think you must have guessed already."

Vale laughed. "I'd nearly forgot about that book. I suppose you've found a copy of it again."

He shook his head. "Actually, no—but I haven't really been looking. We do have a lot of books, but not that one."

"Yet," Vale emphasized.

"Yet," Flynn admitted in agreement. He would like to have a copy of the book again, not only for nostalgia, but because he thought that reading the old stories might trigger the memories of his original stories that he was now trying to recover—or again inspire the part of his imagination that had produced them.

End Note: "Would they age gracefully, with few wrinkles, turning into silver-haired but youthful-faced versions of their younger selves? Would their lives be lengthened? Was his life now linked to hers, as Gothel's had been linked to the magic of her hair? Would he die when she did?" In my headcanon, the answers are yes, yes, yes, and yes (at least unless he suffered a catastrophic injury first). I also think she probably could heal him again if it were his life that was at stake. The idea of the tear magic being linked to her "heart," being usable only in desperate need, is not my idea, but I support that reading.