AN: Chapter 24, anyone?
I'm so glad to be with you all once more! It's been a busy few weeks, but I have the plot of the next several chapters all mapped out, and I'm really excited for what's to come with this story as the tension peaks higher and higher.
Today's featured song is War With My Mind by Crimson Apple, which inspired today's chapter title. Honestly, this song has always reminded me of Rapunzel in the respect of this story, and this chapter is all about the lost thoughts of a once again Lost Princess as she finds herself in the Kingdom of Maddoline. The lyrics capture Rapunzel's current emotions very well, and I've found myself belting the words for her as I've written this chapter, heartbroken for her circumstance.
This song begs the question: who has Rapunzel gone to war for and because of? Eugene? Charles? Both of them? I'll leave you to ponder on that for yourselves.
And without further ado…
Chapter 24: This Isn't Love, It's Insanity
The assassination attempt of King George of Maddoline occurred late in the afternoon on a crisp day in early February.
The air was cold, the king unsuspecting, and the Kingdom of Maddoline not at all what it seemed.
Caught in a painful bout of self-deprecation, Rapunzel stares at herself in the small, gold-rimmed mirror bolted to the wall as the wooden floorboards sway beneath her, pressing at her tear-rimmed eyes with the backs of her hands. She appears to be quite pale today, complexion white as a ghost; which is rather appropriate, because Rapunzel feels as though she's been haunting the very ship swaying beneath her feet for the past week now. If Rapunzel had any sense at all, she would simply throw herself overboard, and release herself from this heart-shattering misery of being so far from home. It's unbearable, the way that she feels so trapped in her situation, and the way that she unforgivingly blames herself for its creation. Perhaps, the once-lost princess should be used to feeling trapped by now, having spent eighteen years locked away in a tower, and having been ignorantly content there for so long.
But she isn't. Rapunzel isn't used to this utterly trapped feeling, not anymore. Not after being released from that cage, not after experiencing the world and its freedom for an entire year – before the door to that cage of entrapment had been closed on her once more, as though she were nothing more than a flightless bird owned by the Coronan government.
As though she were always meant to be nothing more than Corona's property, and nothing more than Charles's property, as well.
But there, deep in her stomach, remains a warm ball of hope, glimmering beneath the rubble of Rapunzel's unbearable despair. Though she wants to deny it, and though she doesn't want to gift Charles with such satisfaction – though she wants to firmly believe that this situation has not broken her spirit in any way – Rapunzel hasn't felt like herself for nearly five months. This is the reality of her circumstance: she does feel broken, devoid of her usual light. It's as though she's been shattered into a million pieces, but the light cannot quite find its way between the cracks as it once had. There is no way to filter this darkness, and no way to truly escape it.
And yet, Rapunzel doesn't want to release her grasp on that shimmering hope located deep in her belly, doesn't want to let go of the belief that she can find her way back to herself again – that she can find her way back home, as she'd done once before. That the girl who she'd once been hasn't been lost forever, her light stolen at the hands of Charles, dissolving upon his wicked fingertips. She's reluctant to let go of the belief that someday, she will be freed from this cage, and that she is not naïve for remaining hopeful, if only a little.
And if she must be the Lost Princess of Corona once more, Rapunzel will wear this crown with dignity, her head held high. She will not provide the satisfaction of allowing Charles to snap this crown in half, and she will not allow him to snuff out her light completely – even though it would be so much easier to simply let go, to allow herself to drift weightlessly upon the waves.
So, despite the ache in her bones to free herself from this floating prison, Rapunzel stays put on the ship, reluctant to drape her legs over its side and disappear into the sea forever. Instead, she awaits her imminent arrival to the dreaded land which Charles calls home.
Behind her eyelids, all that Rapunzel can see is Eugene, his face plastered there in her mind. So, in order to keep herself from losing her grip upon reality entirely, Rapunzel tries to stop herself from pressing upon her ever-tired eyes any longer. Eugene has been left behind there forever, both in her constant flow of conscious thoughts and her subconscious, splattered recklessly like the bright paint which she'd spread across the walls of her old bedroom at home: the walls which she'd painted alone, and the walls which they'd painted together. Endless strings of memories are tangled in her mind, desperate to be remembered, held safely within Rapunzel's mental dreamscape like an invisible locket dangling around her neck.
And for a warm, fleeting moment, the backs of her eyelids dance with the joyful echoes of an eighteen-year-old girl and a young man who have been bathed in the golden glow of lantern light, the vision of their feet dancing upon cobblestone streets. Mirroring her current circumstance, a boat had rocked beneath her feet that day, too.
But the man who she'd been with on said boat, is so vastly different from the man who she's with now. So painfully, heartbreakingly, angrily different.
Unable to bear the haunting image of Eugene's face any longer, Rapunzel settles for her own reflection in the mirror once more, studying the fresh lines of her five-month stress and anxiety, desperate to somehow conceal the sunken tiredness of her eyes – the last thing that she wants is to fork over any satisfaction to Charles. More likely than not, the already-petite princess has already lost several pounds in the last week of being trapped on the Maddolineon-owned ship: considering how sick the powders that Charles has been feeding to Rapunzel have made her, how often she's been throwing up her dinners as a result, and how depleted her appetite has been, powders aside.
It seems to Rapunzel that heartache eats at you far worse than anything else ever could.
She reaches up with a shaky hand, allowing her fingers to trace the gentle curve of her jaw, ensuring that she's real; that she's still here, that she has not dissipated into the salty air completely. That all of this is truly happening. That the white, massive sails are drawing Rapunzel further from home – further from Eugene – with each forsaken breath that she takes.
It's not a dream sequence that she's been trapped in, not a soul-stirring nightmare which has haunted her midnight hours. If only it could be; then, perhaps, she wouldn't feel quite so tortured now. Rapunzel would much rather re-experience the horrific nightmares which had plagued her first few months in the castle a million times over, than to experience the horrific reality of this ship. This ship, this forcible escape from Corona, this tangible distance between Rapunzel and her loved ones: it's real. It's all so inescapably real, that Rapunzel could throw up (and she has), grossly marking the reality of her situation upon the wooden ship deck.
Charles had scolded her for it, more than once – for not being able to keep a 'better handle' on herself – which is entirely ironic, considering the fact that he's the very reason for her lost grip on reality in the first place. But she doesn't care. Rapunzel doesn't care what her husband has to say, doesn't care to appear ladylike enough to impress the Maddolineon people, and she has a feeling that she won't care about much of anything again. At least, not for a while. If ever.
That is, if the young princess can ever find it within herself to forgive her manipulative husband for taking her away from Eugene and her parents so maliciously; which is entirely doubtful on Rapunzel's part, and a side effect of complete delusion on Charles's behalf.
Rapunzel almost doesn't recognize herself standing there, staring blankly into the small mirror on the swaying, paneled wall, and she's only been away from home for a measly week. Though, it feels much more like it's been many long, miserable years that she's been gone. She studies the lacy collar of her green dress – the same dress that she'd been wearing on the very day that Charles had taken her so abruptly – and she recalls Eugene's warm lips there, inching along the collar, brushing her skin. She recalls his voice, low in her ear, telling her how much he loves her. Telling her that he would die for her over and over again if he had to.
Rapunzel desperately misses her mother's soft, green eyes, her father's greying beard, Cass's sage advice, and Lance's ridiculous jokes. Most of all, she misses Eugene's ever-present, loving expression, his deep brown gaze resting upon her with the purest form of admiration for her. She misses the way that she'd padded to his bedroom, barefooted on the marble and quietly cautious – but not cautious enough to keep herself away from him. She misses the way that they'd made forbidden love in the middle of the night: hot, and desperate, and wrong.
She misses all of it. She misses home. She misses the bed in her old bedroom in the castle, she misses Pascal resting loyally upon her shoulder, and she misses the smell of warm bakery wafting from the kitchens each morning. And even more so, Rapunzel misses the people who make up that home – because what is a home, if the people who you love are not there? Without them, home is simply four walls of hell – much like what Rapunzel assumes Maddoline will be when the ship finally arrives there. She misses her loved ones so much, and Rapunzel wishes so desperately that the missing would stop. Because if it doesn't, she's not sure if she'll be able to go on.
Suddenly remembering the previous night, Rapunzel quickly snatches her fingers from the soft skin of her jawline, recalling the way that Charles's fingers had caressed her cheek in the dark before they'd gone to bed – before he'd gone to bed. Rapunzel recalls the way that his fingers being placed upon her hadn't felt like home – not in the way that Eugene's always do. She'd laid awake for hours after that single, vitriolic touch, allowing the hot, acidic tears to soak into the silkiness of her pillowcase, hating the fact that she's still being forced to sleep beside him. Beside Charles, there is no peace to be had. There is no unconscious rest to escape to, though Rapunzel so desperately needs it. She's been steadily losing sleep for the better part of five months now, and the past week has caught up with her rather violently, making the princess feel as though her body is eating away at itself from the inside out.
But, regardless of how badly Rapunzel yearns for a good night's rest, she doesn't trust her husband enough to close her eyes for very long, afraid that he might haunt her in her dreams instead.
At least in the castle, she'd been able to sneak away to Eugene's bed when sleeping beside Charles had begun to feel altogether unbearable. When the acid tears had soaked themselves through her pillowcase back in the castle, when the chatter around her became a little too loud to think straight, and when Rapunzel had feared that she was going to absolutely lose her mind from the pressure of it all, Eugene had still been there, his shoulder always steady and tear-proof. When the candles were blown, when the chandeliers overhead had swung haphazardly from the chaos of a royal party filled with people who didn't really know her, when Gothel's face haunted her nightmares like sticky honey which dripped from Rapunzel's fingers – refusing to allow Rapunzel to finally be clean of the woman – Eugene had been there. He'd been there: holding her to his chest, stroking her newly-chopped hair, letting her know that she would never be alone again.
And yet, here she is: alone and without him, the distance between them completely insufferable, squeezing at Rapunzel's throat like a vice grip, making it harder to breathe with each passing moment that they're apart.
It's insufferable, this distance, because he'd always been there. Eugene had been there in the tower when things were suffocating and dark, had seen firsthand the trauma that had lurked there. He'd been the only thing that Rapunzel had known before coming to the castle, the only consistent thing when her life was turned upside down, and she was suddenly expected to be the dutiful face of an entire kingdom. He'd been with her in the castle when everything was new and overwhelmingly celebratory in the midst of her return, and he'd always been the only one who'd really understood.
He'd been the only one to truly understand why the princess would always despise wearing shoes, why she worried about her weight when she couldn't be more than ninety-five pounds soaking wet, and why she so often heard a woman's voice within her own head – a wicked voice. A voice which didn't belong to her. He'd been the only one to understand why her fingers so desperately itched to cover every last inch of her plain bedroom walls with blindingly-bright paint – lest Rapunzel begin to feel as though she were drowning in the unfamiliarity of their vast starkness – and why it had been so difficult for her to look in the mirror during those first few weeks in the castle.
It had been so difficult, some days, for Rapunzel to even look at herself – in the same way that looking in the mirror is so difficult now. Because while her new, dramatic haircut had so powerfully signified his sacrifice and her freedom, it had also meant that a part of her – a part of her which had grown and healed for eighteen years – had died. A part of her had died in that tower, right along with him. And in real time, without Eugene, Rapunzel feels as though a part of her has died all over again.
Eugene had been in every place that she'd ever been, making it impossible for Rapunzel to escape him. He's a part of her, sewn into her skin as though she were a fraying quilt that had needed a Eugene-sized patch. But, unlike Gothel, Rapunzel doesn't want to ever escape Eugene. She wants to stay deep inside of his vest pocket, carried close to his heart wherever he goes. She wants to be with him forever, because Eugene is always warm, and painfully loyal. Because his laugh feels like the sun on a summer day, and because he has a particular way of making Rapunzel feel as though everything is somehow going to be okay. She could run to him at any time of the day or night, and he would always shelter her in his arms, and he would always be there. Waiting for her. Loving too much. Unable to walk away.
Even though walking away would've protected him.
But here, on this prison of a ship, Rapunzel does not have the comforting option of running into Eugene's arms. Here, she does not have the luxury of his beckoning, steady frame, always so willing to protect her from the violent storms of life. On this ship, there's nowhere else to go but into the harsh lapping of the waves, nothing else to do but sink to the bottom of the unforgiving sea. Which, in all honesty, is starting to seem to Rapunzel like an increasingly feasible option as the nightmarish days go on, counting themselves one-by-one, blurring together entirely. Rapunzel can't tell if the pain is growing worse with each passing moment, or if she is simply growing numb to the reality of her situation. She prays for the latter, not wanting to feel anything at all.
To not feel would be a blessing in all of this.
Rapunzel doesn't want to drown here in this hurt; helpless to cure it, helpless in saving herself. She doesn't want to feel every pang of guilt for hurting Eugene like this: for allowing herself to be married off to another man, for not fighting for him harder, for dragging him into a circumstance so cruel to him. For dragging him into an unfair affair, when he'd warned her that it would end in a disastrous way as this. For convincing him that he didn't deserve better than a love kept behind closed doors for the rest of his life, because he had. Eugene had deserved better than the life that she'd been able to give to him – far better.
Rapunzel doesn't want to think about how desperately she's failed to protect him, when all that Eugene Fitzherbert has ever really needed, is someone to care enough about him to keep him safe. To keep his heart safe from any more despair than he's already gone through: despair which was a direct result of the unlucky hand of cards that he'd been dealt as a child. Rapunzel doesn't want to feel this unbearable guilt which strikes her down between each breath that she takes, keeping her from getting any much-needed sleep.
This insatiable guilt remains, because the cards that she'd handed to Eugene, had been no better suited than the ones that he'd been handed by the universe twenty-five years ago.
Rapunzel doesn't want to think about what he's doing, or where he is, or the possibility that Charles is right: that Eugene might not be coming for her at all. That Eugene could believe her to be gone forever, that something horrible has happened to him, or that the universe has sent its final, clearest message: Rapunzel is not destined to be a princess, nor a queen. She is not meant to be a daughter, nor a friend, nor a lover. She never was.
No, the Lost Princess is forever destined to be taken, born to be stolen away into the night. She is meant to belong to someone else, before she will ever truly belong to herself.
And no matter how desperately Rapunzel tries, no matter how hard she presses at her tired eyelids, there is no way to keep Eugene out of her mind. There is no way to truly numb the pain of being away from him. He's planted himself firmly there inside of her until the end of time, his leather footsteps creaking upon the empty floorboards of Rapunzel's dust-collected memories. Even when she dies, his image will be there, rooted in her brain forever, haunting that house of memories which they'd built together.
So, unable to escape the tortured thought of her love, Rapunzel spends her days praying that Charles is utterly wrong, and that Eugene is already on his way, and that he would never even dream of not coming for her. But with Charles whispering words of brain-rotting deprecation into her ear each day, perched there on her shoulder like the unforgiving devil, Rapunzel isn't quite sure what to believe anymore. She feels turned around in her own skin, unbearably mind-twisted, and no wiser than the naïve, young girl that she'd once been in her tower. A girl who'd been grossly naïve for believing that the outside world would be kinder to her than her tower had been in her last days in it, if she were simply kind to the world.
And for that, Rapunzel feels altogether ashamed.
Perhaps the worst part of it all is, that after being away from the tower for a year and a half, she now understands what it means to be manipulated. Now, Rapunzel knows exactly what that tongue-lashing manipulation looks like, what it sounds like while falling upon ears which have only ever sought out validation. She can recognize the possessiveness laced with exploitation, can hear the little voice in her head, screaming: 'That's not true! It's not true, you know that it isn't! But… what if it is? What if you're the one who's wrong? What if… what if you're the one who's crazy? What if Eugene really isn't coming, and what if all of this is really your fault?'
It leaves a bitter taste in Rapunzel's mouth, this fairly new, keen awareness of hers; this ability to know devious, calculated manipulation when it's staring her right in the face, daring her to bite back. To recognize when someone is trying their hardest to gain the upper hand on her; to know that real love does not include wanting the upper hand at all. This newly familiar taste, Rapunzel has found, is worse even than the bile which has so frequently found its way up her throat lately, causing Charles to scoff and roll his eyes at the princess's inability to 'keep herself together.'
And knowing… perhaps knowing hurts far worse than not knowing ever could.
How does the old saying go? 'Ignorance is bliss.' Eugene had muttered it to her enough times in passing for Rapunzel to remember the phrase, to imagine his voice saying it now. Rainstorms look like the perfect backdrop for dancing in the courtyard. That is, until you fall horribly sick for the first time, and no longer have magical, golden hair to heal you of the week-long stuffy nose and scratchy throat, which once could've been cured through a simple, minute-long incantation. It's an honor to realize that you're a princess. That is, until being a princess means that you're just as trapped as you were before you'd realized the truth of your lineage. Sure, it's poetic to believe that everyone has some good in their heart.
Until you realize that they don't.
And ignorance is bliss. Perhaps – just like with cold-inducing rainstorms, and the sudden loss of magical hair, and the realization that not all people are really good at heart after all – the phrase rings true in the world of mental manipulation, too.
Because now, Rapunzel painfully recognizes the words which are deliberately strung together to manipulate you into dizzying circles, causing you to question if you really even know your own name. And Charles, Rapunzel has quickly learned in the past week – a grueling week spent trapped on this ship with him – is so very good at making you question just about everything, forcing you to run in mental circles of potent guilt until your feet hurt. His ego left unchecked, placed upon the highest of pedestals, and his ability to condescend with such natural ease, both continually send Rapunzel careening down a cliff of intolerable self-deprecation.
And that's exactly what she's doing as Rapunzel stares at herself in the mirror now: self-deprecating so hard that it's honestly a little pathetic, the guilt clinging to her ribs as they poke from her dress. The power that she's allowed this man to have over her, is pathetic. Because now, she should know better.
Right now, Rapunzel would rather have never known any better at all, would much rather remain unaware of the signs which so clearly spell: 'Congratulations! You've become a chess piece in someone else's game! Have fun being their little, manipulated pawn, and not being able to do anything about it!' But then, regardless of how blissful that ignorance might be, she would still be in her tower, and would that really be any better than where she is now? If she were still in her tower, she never would've met Eugene at all – and that concept threatens to make Rapunzel feel violently sick all over again.
Having kept to herself for the majority of the last several days, Charles had graciously (or so he'd attempted to paint himself to be) reeled back on feeding the princess heavy doses of the strange, sedation powders – the powders which had gotten her onto the boat in the first place. Charles had promised, hand over his heart, that he would stop giving them to her altogether – but only under the circumstance that Rapunzel 'stop fighting him and finally accept her rightful duty to him.'
Though she's glad to not feel quite so sick in every waking hour, the once-again Lost Princess can't seem to find it within herself to see her husband's self-proclaimed graciousness. Frankly, Rapunzel would much rather be sedated, her foggy mind incapable of remembering the agony that was watching Eugene run to her from the dock in Corona, unable to get to her in time. But the heavy powder doses had made her atrociously sick, unable to keep any food down, causing her body to sway more than the ship beneath her feet. Rapunzel is not entirely sure which is worse: throwing up every few hours, or the unforgiving thought – a thought planted by Charles, no less – that Eugene really isn't coming after her.
With the unforgiving powders regularly running their course through her system, Rapunzel's head has remained sickeningly dizzy for much of the week-long trip, leaving the princess to feel as though she were swimming a mile underwater; that is, when she's conscious. When she isn't conscious, she would find herself having the most strange, most horrific nightmares, forcing her to wake in a cold sweat. And when she is, she would have the most lifelike hallucinations. When Rapunzel is well enough to get out of bed for some fresh air – which isn't terribly often – she would continually find herself rushing from the stuffy, cabin bedroom, throwing up the contents of her stomach over the side of the top deck.
It was awful, all of it. The hallucinations of Eugene, of her parents being there with her, when Rapunzel knew that they were not. The nightmares about Gothel and Charles, chaining her to banister in the tower, using her in whatever way they pleased. But Rapunzel would much rather remain physically sick, when the alternative is facing the utter brokenness of her heart.
Rapunzel had been homesick before, and restlessness is a feeling which the young princess is entirely too accustomed to. When she'd first said goodbye to her tower with Eugene after she'd healed him – when she'd found a new home in him, and in the castle – some nights (albeit completely guiltily), Rapunzel had found herself missing her small, cozy bed in the tower. She had missed being able to look up to see the colorful paintings on her ceiling, bright paint splattered there upon the rafters: Gothel's unique way of keeping her complacent for so long.
Some days, before she'd truly worked through the fresh trauma of the situation, Rapunzel had wrongfully missed the comforting safety of the tower. She'd yearned to snatch back the naïve belief that, as long as she stayed there in the tower, nothing – no one – could hurt her. Because out there, in the world, there are just so many things that can damage you forever. So many things that want to hurt you, things that thrive off of your misery, things that want you for what you can do for them. Things that seek your pain with calculation, finding pleasure in snuffing out your light.
But that notion of false safety in the tower had been far from the truth, fed to her from the deceptive mouth of a woman who'd so guiltlessly stolen everything from her. It had been just that, the thought that Rapunzel had been safe in that tower: nothing more than a naïve belief. Because the person who had hurt her most in the end, had been there inside of the tower with her, snuffing out her light all along.
And sometimes, the guilt spilling over, covering her bedroom floor in the castle (the castle, where she'd also falsely believed herself to be safe), Rapunzel had even missed Gothel. And she'd felt horribly ashamed for it, because her parents love her so differently than the lying, old woman had. Their love for her is pure; not driven by their own, selfish desires.
But sometimes, late at night, she simply couldn't help herself. Rapunzel couldn't help it, couldn't help but miss the woman who she'd believed to be her mother: the only person that Rapunzel had ever believed in, before she'd known better. Before Eugene. She'd missed her during those first few months in the castle, because Gothel's voice had been so familiar, because her fingers running through Rapunzel's hair had provided such comfort for eighteen years. And how do you simply let go of that overnight? How do you let go of the 'complete and utter betrayal' of someone who you've always blindly believed to love you wholeheartedly?
You don't.
Once Rapunzel had fully realized that Gothel had been lying to her for the entirety of her life, and once the bubble of ignorance had been burst once and for all, those fingers didn't feel so comforting anymore, that voice no longer quite so consoling. Rapunzel had known then that she'd deserved better, had known that she'd needed to leave the tower, and had known that she was destined to be something greater than Gothel's strung-out puppet.
But to leave everything that you've ever known – the only thing that you've ever known – is equal parts thrilling, and equal parts terrifying. It had meant that, some days, she'd still missed Gothel, if only because the evil woman was so familiar to her. It had meant that she'd missed the comfort of the tower, the false sense of blissfully ignorant safety. It had meant that Rapunzel would question over and over again if she'd even deserved to be there in the castle at all. If she'd even deserved to be princess.
Survivor's guilt is a bitch.
It had been terrifying to leave the tower for good, even though Rapunzel had been too afraid to admit such a thing aloud, even to Eugene. She hadn't wanted to admit such a thing, hadn't wanted to acknowledge the reality that she could be anything but exclusively overjoyed to return home to her parents – to start over with Eugene. The freshly-found princess hadn't wanted to inevitably break her parent's newly-mended hearts by admitting that she could miss the tower. That she could miss her captor.
Because wouldn't that make her a truly horrible person if she did?
How dare she be capable of this longing for something which had destroyed their lives for so long? How dare she miss something which had caused the four of them such unbearable heartache? How dare she miss a place which had marked… which still marks Eugene's death to this day? The place in which her greatest love had closed his eyes there in her arms, succumbing to the peaceful nothingness, leaving her all alone in that tower.
How could she possibly miss that place, a place which had wielded such darkness? What kind of a person was she?
But then, at least, even when Rapunzel had found herself feeling terribly towersick in those first few months of living in the castle, when the guilt had threatened to swallow her whole, she'd still had Eugene. She'd had Eugene, and he had become more like a home to her than any proper building ever could. And he had explained to her that, yes, she did deserve to be there in the castle, and yes, it was normal to miss the tower, and yes, she was going to be one kickass princess.
When Rapunzel was feeling homesick for the tower, or completely guilty for having the nerve to miss Gothel, or unbearably overwhelmed by the thought of shoving eighteen-years-worth of being a princess into only a few months, his arms were always there, waiting for her to fall into them. He would hold her in his strong embrace, and he would shelter her from the horrible things of the world; far better than her tower ever had. Because with Eugene, there is no false truth, there is no blissful ignorance; the kind that you hold onto for as long as you can, if only because the truth is too terrifying to face. With him, there is just bliss. There is no tainted, rose-colored reality which will eventually be shattered by betrayal and lies. He is honesty, and loyalty, and the purest form of love that Rapunzel has ever experienced. He is the best thing to have ever happened to her.
In those first weeks of living in the castle (when Rapunzel hadn't wanted everything to be so overwhelming, but it was), his arms would become her new home; even more so than the castle walls themselves would. Sometimes, he would whisper soft encouragement to her, and sometimes, he would even sing little, made-up ballads of comfort. Other times, he wouldn't say anything at all. Rather, Eugene would dig his hand into her freshly-cut hair, and he would hold her to his chest, rocking them together. He would let her listen to the steady rhythm of his heartbeat, would let her rest her head there. They would stay there like that, waiting until the world didn't feel so big and scary anymore; until the world was just the two of them. And sometimes longer.
To be away from him now – to not have Eugene to run to in the middle of the night, for him to not be there to comfort her when she's feeling completely alone and completely afraid – it feels to Rapunzel like being shoved into the empty, never-ending vastness of a meadow in a rainstorm. With nowhere to seek shelter, being without Eugene feels like the equivalent of standing there in a storm which shows no prevail, catching a horrible cold from the rain without her magical hair to cure her of the ache in her chest and the stuffiness of her nose. Rapunzel is an unsteady house of cards, blown through with such ease by the winds of unfair fate. And without him, everything feels helpless, and bitter, and painfully lonely.
It feels to Rapunzel like what she can only assume hell might be.
And she's trying. She's trying so damn hard. So hard, in fact, that she worries for her bones, wondering if they might crack under the pressure of her unfruitful efforts to remain optimistic. To believe with an unwavering certainty that Eugene is coming after her, in spite of Charles's sly suggestions that he is not. Rapunzel is trying desperately to find some good in this; any good in this. She is trying to catch a lousy, slivering glimpse of the rays of sunlight in this suffocating darkness, just as she so easily would have done in the past, so naturally adept at finding the good in all circumstances. But there is no sunshine to be found. Not here, not in this royally procured version of hell. Not with him.
Because Charles is no knight in shining armor, no dream of hers, and no better than Gothel. Rather, he snuffs out her light in the very same way that Gothel once had, and he finds the joy in it, too. It makes him stronger, to weaken her. He finds the joy in treating Rapunzel like his puppet, finds satisfaction in stringing her along. He finds the joy in blowing right through her, scattering to the wind the unfair hand of cards which she's been dealt.
He finds pure delight in hurting her, this light-snatching prince. Because she has hurt him, badly. Badly enough to take everything away from her, and badly enough to torture the light-exuding princess in this brutal way. She has hurt him, has brutally bruised his ever-so-fragile ego, if only because Rapunzel cannot find it within herself to love him.
And what a cruel tragedy it is, to punish someone for the things which are beyond their control. If Rapunzel's conscience wasn't harboring such guilt for dragging Eugene into such a heartbreaking situation as this, she could almost find herself feeling sorry for Charles. She could almost feel sorry for him, because he'd given up enough to be with her – his home, his family – and she couldn't even try to love him back. The bare minimum, she could not bear to give to him. And for that, she almost felt sorry.
Almost. But not quite.
Staring down at the shaky hand which she'd quickly snatched away from her Charles-soiled jawline, Rapunzel abruptly notices the glimmering, flower ring upon her finger – the one that Eugene had given to her as a Christmas present just barely over a month ago – and she finds herself reflecting upon how drastically things have changed in such a short amount of time. How much she has lost in that time.
Eugene. Herself. Her parents.
Eugene.
Then, when he'd given the ring to her, things had still felt like a specially procured version of hell. But then, she and Eugene had still been together. They'd still had one another to run to when the reality of it all had become too much for them to bare alone. Then, they could sneak, and hide, and fuck away the sadness of being ripped apart indefinitely. Then, they could whisper to one another in the middle of the night, they could make love behind tightly closed doors, and they could pretend that the sadness between them wasn't there at all, if only for a little while. Because what else were they to do with hearts as broken as theirs, but hide behind them?
Then, at least, amongst the rubble of their broken hearts, they had still been together. If not to the public's knowledge, they had still been together behind closed doors. And then, that had been enough. It had to be.
And now, they are oceans apart. His lips cannot comfort her anxious thoughts, and her promises to never love anyone but Eugene cannot be declared to his ears which so desperately need her reassurance. They cannot escape this nightmarish reality by getting completely lost in one another, and they cannot pretend that none of this is happening, if only because her legs are clamping themselves around him in a display of pure, reality-numbing ecstasy.
For Rapunzel, there is no getting lost in him anymore, there is no favoring Eugene over reality. The floor has bottomed out from beneath her, and there is no longer a steady place to stand on. There is no longer a place to build a false reality upon: a false reality which includes the notion that they might actually still have a future worth holding onto. There is no longer a place sturdy enough to deny the truth, no longer a crestfallen landing to support their selfish, delusional daydreaming.
There is just reality, and there is just being lost.
She'd been the Lost Princess for most of her life, after all. Rapunzel could be considered a bit of an expert in playing the role by now. Perhaps she'd never stopped being that girl at all, even though she'd like to believe as much. Maybe that's all she was ever meant to be.
Lost.
Spending much of the past week in a powder-induced haze, Rapunzel hadn't even realized that she'd still been wearing the sentimental piece of jewelry on her finger; though she'd hardly taken it off since it had been gifted to her by an even more sentimental man. That Christmas night – the night that Stalyan had first arrived at the castle, and the night that Eugene had given the ring to her – feels like years ago now. Their first big fight, their subsequent lovemaking, and the heartfelt conversation that they'd had before falling asleep in one another's arms; it all feels as though it had occurred in another lifetime altogether.
Now, absently twisting this small piece of him around her finger, Rapunzel recalls with bitter nostalgia the words that she'd spoken to him that night. Desperate words which she'd breathed against his lips as her shaking fingers had unbuttoned his shirt: "It's not just for tonight, Eugene. It never will be. I'll always be yours, forever... no matter what happens."
And she'd meant it. That night, Rapunzel had ached to belong to him and only him, had ached to keep herself from feeling so lost without him. She'd ached for all of Eugene with all of herself, had ached for him when he'd asked her to stay the night, his brown eyes pleading for forgiveness after the Stalyan-engagement fiasco. She'd ached to get so lost in him, that nothing could be as real as he was; that Charles and Stalyan alike would simply cease to exist, that the unfairness of their situation would grant them some grace, if only for one night.
'And it's still true! God, it's still true. I'm still his, I always will be. I want him as badly as I did then, maybe more. I want to be his, and only his, for the rest of –'
A soft knock on the wooden, cabin door jolts Rapunzel from the haunting dreamscape of her mind, and the guilt-wracked princess turns abruptly away from the mirror to see a sharply-dressed Charles entering the small room.
In theory, her young husband could have the power to be rather objectively attractive, and Rapunzel understands why Charles has so frequently referenced – so proudly paid homage to – his past ability to woo an incredible amount of willing Maddolineon women. Donning a neatly-pressed, navy suit, well-shined shoes, and perfectly-combed, dark-blonde hair, in another world, (if Rapunzel hadn't already known that the contents of his heart fail to mirror his outward appearance), Prince Charles could've passed as charming.
Could've being the objective word.
But that other world has ceased to exist, and the heart of this arrogant, spoiled prince standing before her now, is no better than the heart of the devil, his seemingly-genuine charm melting away in the heat of his pure evilness. Besides, Eugene is infinitely more handsome, and dons a heart of pure gold which directly reflects his outlandishly good looks – something which Charles will never be able to say about himself.
He could've been charming, in a world in which Eugene had ceased to exist. But he does, and he's carved himself into every deep part of her, and Charles does not compare. He is not capable of comparing. It would be unfair to expect him – to expect anyone, for that matter – to live up to the perfection which is Eugene Fitzherbert.
Quickly, not wanting to provide her judgmental husband with the satisfaction of her pain, Rapunzel wipes at her watery eyes with the back of her hand, desperate to eliminate the tears which had formed there after thinking about Eugene for a little too long.
"Are you coming, darling? We'll be docking in just a few moments."
'Oh, how I hate it when he calls me that. Darling. I like Eugene's nicknames for me far better: Sunshine, Sweetheart, Blondie…'
Eyeing her closely from his poor perspective of her face in the small mirror, standing just a few feet behind her, Rapunzel's back still turned to him, Charles narrows his eyes at the clearly-crying princess. He pauses, sighing dramatically as he pinches at the bridge of his nose, fully registering the utter inconvenience of her broken expression, entirely appalled by her selfish timing. Rapid footsteps come to a clicking halt on the wooden floorboards of their shared cabin as Charles pulls his hand from his face, staring at her long enough for Rapunzel to shiver minutely under his steely gaze as she looks back at him in the mirror.
"Are you finally going to pull yourself together good and well? I would really quite prefer it if my people didn't see you like that." Charles reaches for the lapels of his jacket, adjusting them rather awkwardly, suddenly unable to look her directly in the eye – as though even Charles himself understood what a monumental asshole that he's become in such a short time. "I have a reputation to uphold here, you know."
Completely appalled herself, Rapunzel turns to face her daringly blunt husband, her expression twisted into a fresh, newfound rage. A rage which she'd only partially-successfully shoved down for a few days too long; long enough to reduce the amount of the powders which he'd been feeding to her in order to keep Rapunzel complacent enough to keep from throwing herself overboard and swimming back to Corona.
"No, Charles. I'm not going to pull myself together just to make you more comfortable." Turning back to the mirror, Rapunzel runs quick, shaking fingers through her choppy hair, trying desperately to distract herself well enough to keep a threatening bout of fresh tears from welling in the corners of her eyes. "I don't want to be here, remember?"
Striding toward her, easily closing the short distance between them in the cramped cabin, Charles takes Rapunzel by the shoulders with strong, steady hands, forcing her to turn away from the mirror to look him in the face, his voice dripping with a cold sternness.
"You'd better not embarrass me in front of my family, Rapunzel. My father has been expecting our arrival for weeks now, and I –"
"And what? What're you going to do if I don't behave exactly in the way that you want me to, Charles? Feed me with more of your powders, make it so that I don't know which way is up and which is down? Send me back home?" Wiggling out of his possessive grasp, Rapunzel rolls her eyes, an amused, breathy laugh falling from her lips as her equally-as-harsh tone bites into her husband. "It doesn't matter anyway, because Eugene is probably already on his way for me. And like I've already said… he's going to kill you."
"I wouldn't be so sure about that, Princess." Charles chuckles as well, nonchalantly adjusting the expensive-looking cufflinks at his wrists, as though their conversation were completely casual.
As though her seething anger did not deserve his full, undivided attention.
Stopping herself from running her nervous fingers through her hair any more, Rapunzel grits her teeth at her conniving husband, green eyes narrowed violently. She grabs abruptly at one of the lapels of his suit jacket, pulling his face close to hers, trying her damn hardest to appear threatening. Rapunzel tries to ignore the bile which once again threatens to creep its way up her throat due to their close proximity.
"What did you do to him?"
"Oh, me?" The sarcastic prince places a dramatic hand to his perfectly-steamed jacket, smoothing the wrinkled lapel back into place with the other, trying his hardest to appear innocent – with no such luck. "Why, I didn't do anything to him. Not directly, anyway." Charles shrugs, looking rather proud of himself, and Rapunzel is too afraid to ask why. "That asshole dug his own grave."
"Well then, I guess I'll be six-feet-under right along with that asshole, won't I?"
"Wouldn't you wish that you could be with him? You know, I was right about you, Rapunzel. You sure do find the joy in teasing two men at once, don't you?" Charles snickers, wrapping an arm around Rapunzel's shoulders, forcing her to turn her attention to the approaching harbor as he flings the cabin door open, thrusting the resistant princess into the bright, morning air. "But it appears, my dear, that you're stuck here with me, indefinitely. And if you really wanted to get that close to me…"
Lowering his voice to a spine-shivering depth, Charles leans down, replicating the proximity that she'd pulled them into only moments before, an entirely different intention for their closeness in mind.
"You should've just said so."
"Oh, go fuck yourself!" The princess, pleased to have discovered that she still has some fight left within herself, shoves at her husband's chest, pushing him away, causing Charles to momentarily lose his footing on the deck's creaking, wooden planks.
Seemingly unphased by her blunt, aggravated suggestion and with a guiding hand at the small of her back, Charles brings Rapunzel to the very front of the boat, a wide smile spreading across his face as he breathes in deeply, taking the crisp, salty air into his lungs.
"Well, Princess, if I'm so lucky, I'll have my way with you soon enough."
That thought is enough to make Rapunzel throw up on her husband's freshly-shined shoes. But she swallows the threatening bile down, just enough to voice her stark disapproval.
"You will never touch –"
"Ah. There is nothing quite like fresh, Maddoline air."
With an audible huff, Rapunzel turns away from him, noting a hallow ache in her chest as she feels the sudden, dire need to scream in her husband's smug face, hating him for ignoring her so; as if she hadn't been ignored for eighteen long years.
His face softening visibly, Charles sighs heavily to himself, noticing her crossed arms, furrowed brow, and deep-set frown as the shore of Maddoline becomes a daunting reality, almost close enough for them to reach out and touch.
"I do love you, Rapunzel, and I wish that you could see how easy things could be between us, if you would only stop acting so childish. You will be happy here, if you would only give it a chance. If you would only give me a chance. Rapunzel, this is our chance to start over, our opportunity to do things right this time. I did this because I care." Charles looks to her, pleading for their marriage, his bipolar tendencies escaping from their dark hiding places. "You can understand that, can't you?"
Shaking her head, Rapunzel stares at her husband for a long, heavy moment, willing herself to look him directly in the eye as she speaks.
"No, Charles, I can't. I can't understand how you could be capable of something this evil, and I can't believe that this is love. Or any remote form of it."
Sweeping past him as the ship quickly approaches the bustling docks of Maddoline, Rapunzel holds the bottom of her dress in her hands, preparing to finally step off of this godforsaken ship. Because no matter how horrible being in Maddoline sounds, there will assumedly be more opportunities to get away from her husband here, than there had been on this cursed boat.
"This isn't love. This is insanity."
The streets of Maddoline were tightly packed, the kingdom bustling with an endless sea of celebrating civilians, and the Coming-of-Spring Festival was well underway.
Or so it had seemed, when Charles and Rapunzel's carriage had left the docks, snaking its way through the crowded, cobblestone streets. But traffic was inherently backed up as a direct result of the mindless celebration, everyone craning their neck to catch a glimpse of the coveted royal family from the palace balcony as they waved from their royal pedestal.
"What on earth is the holdup out there?" Charles huffs like a child, sticking his head out of the carriage window to subsequently chide its driver. "We simply cannot be late, so if you would please –"
Piercing the air, a thousand screams ring out, cutting Charles off mid-complain. Rapunzel, looking on from her respective seat in the carriage, watches in hazy-headed confusion as the tightly-packed civilians in the street bow their heads, seeking shelter from an unknown threat. Scrambling back into the apparent safety of the carriage, Charles looks to Rapunzel with alarmingly wide eyes. And for the first time, the princess sees something which she has never seen in her husband before: true, genuine fear.
"What happened?" Always curious, Rapunzel leans forward, intending to stick her own head out the window, before she feels Charles's abrupt hands clamp forcibly around her shoulders, yanking her back into her seat.
"Stay in here!" The ashen-faced prince repeats, his voice raspy, chest heaving, eyes glazed over as though he were tumbling headfirst down a steep cliff of undeniable shock. "Stay in here."
"Charles, what did you see?" Rapunzel demands of him, again making a move to glimpse outside of the carriage window, and once again being pulled back by her husband, who is looking a rather sickly shade of green now.
He doesn't say anything. Charles simply stares at her, mouth opening and closing over and over again. It were as though he were a fish out of water, unable to coherently form the words hanging from his lips. All is quiet in the street, the carriage unmoving, the celebrating citizens having scattered from the cobblestone sidewalks, finding shelter in nearby shops and dark alleyways.
No more than an agonizing minute later, the sharp clicking of hard-bottomed shoes sound upon the empty cobblestones, approaching the carriage; though the footsteps make no move to halt there. Instead, these frantic footsteps carry on, spreading a stomach-dropping message through the ghostly village square, which had been absolutely bustling with cheer no more than a few moments before.
"The king has been shot! I repeat, the king has been shot!"
AN: So, Maddoline isn't quite the perfect place that Charles has painted it to be, now is it? But why is that, exactly? Why would someone want to assassinate the Maddolineon king? Well, if you would be so kind as to stick around, you'll surely find out!
On another note, while reading on the FF app last night, I noticed that, sometimes, the formatting of my story is a bit wrong. In certain places, thoughts are cut off mid-sentence, which is really strange, because this obviously isn't the case in the master copies of the chapters. So, I just wanted to make the suggestion that you potentially steer clear from reading this story on the app. I would highly suggest reading on the website itself (or over on ao3 if you'd prefer, as this story has now been posted there in full, as well) to hopefully avoid these discrepancies. I wanted to make this little note, just in case anyone has noticed the formatting errors within the app and the strange, cutoff sentences which appear to go along with it. I don't want anything to be taken away from the full experience of this story!
That being said, I hope to see all of you soon for Chapter 25, where we'll learn of Eugene's plans to escape from Corona and begin the longwinded journey of rescuing his beloved princess. Thank you to all of you who are still reading. In just a few days, it will be this story's five month anniversary! I'm more appreciative of your continual support than words can properly say.