"Mother?" the girl asked, as Gothel pressed a wet cloth to her face.
It was a frightfully hot summer, the sticky air pushing and pressing at the tower, and Gothel was beginning to regret having chosen a place with so narrow a circumference. Perhaps it was merely psychological, but being in a tower (especially with an adventurous child who had nearly set fire to the dining table while attempting to 'cook dinner' the night previously) was enough to make the air in her lungs beat, futilely, at her sagging frame.
"Mother?" Rapunzel repeated, this time louder. Gothel tried to close her eyes, but the girl had a grip of her forearm, and was applying pressure. "Mother?"
"Yes, Rapunzel?" she snapped, whipping the cloth away from her eyes. "What is it?"
The girl had the good grace to look ashamed.
"I'm sorry to wake you, Mother," she said, her orb-like eyes gleaming slightly. Oh, gracious, was she going to cry now? It had been years since the child had been an infant; surely she had learned how not to cry? And after all the hours Gothel had spent soothing her; sleepless nights and bleary afternoons, sweat pouring down her brow as she steamed yet another batch of handkerchiefs- and the child was crying again?
"For heaven's sake, don't cry, Rapunzel," she said brusquely.
At her words, the girl's eyes became even glassier, bright emerald with blurred irises, and her lower lip trembled.
Irritation pierced Gothel like a blunt needle.
"Petal," she said, forcing herself to sound soothing, "come here, petal."
Feeling vaguely foolish, she patted her lap.
Gothel had never much liked things sitting on her lap; she recalled a time, many years past, when a cat had decided to dig its claws into her thighs. However, the action seemed to soothe Rapunzel, who now scooted to her lap, burying her face against Gothel's shoulder.
Gothel felt the warm wetness of tears and snot press against her dress and sighed. At least washing day was scheduled for two days' time.
"Don't cry, petal," she murmured, reaching up to stroke Rapunzel's hair.
If possible, Rapunzel's hair grew thicker, smoother, lighter, more golden, more like velvet, and if there was one thing Gothel did not mind about having Rapunzel seated on her lap, it was that Rapunzel's hair filled her field of vision; waves of gold pouring, the length of the child's body now, almost to the floor.
My flower is growing.
"You know I love you, petal," she cooed, twining her fingers through the lustrous strands. "You know mother loves you."
She felt Rapunzel throw her spindly arms around her neck, and bit back a smile. She had not yet worked out whether she found it more amusing or endearing that the child seemed to think she was speaking to her whenever she said those words, and somehow the secret knowledge made it more tantalising, more enjoyable to speak them.
"My precious little flower."
Closing her eyes, she buried her face into the crown of Rapunzel's head, the dizzying clarity of the floral scent filling the thick air with a sweet hum.
"- Mother," Rapunzel was saying.
"I beg your pardon, Rapunzel?" she asked, regretfully pulling away from the sweet, light fragrance.
The child looked at her, blinking owlishly, her eyes wide and solemn. Gothel could not help but smile a little at how disproportionate her face was; there was something almost- sweet about it, and she felt a slight twinge somewhere, accompanied by a twist she could not quite comprehend.
"I'm sorry I nearly cried, Mother," Rapunzel said, her voice low. "I was just wondering-"
But what she was wondering, she did not say, and Gothel sighed as the girl began biting her lip and glancing sideways.
"Rapunzel, darling, what can be so interesting about the wall?" she drawled, tapping her fingers against the tabletop. "And do stop chewing your lip, it's a terrible habit, and quite unpleasant to look at."
When she glanced back, Rapunzel had straightened her back, her hands clasped tightly together, and the girl was again looking at Gothel's face.
"Mother, I was reading that book you gave me," Rapunzel said, and a small crease furrowed her brow. "The confusing one, where the pilgrims start telling stories."
Gothel stared.
"You woke me up to tell me that you were reading Chaucer's Tales?"
Rapunzel looked abashed.
"No, Mother, I just- it –"
"Don't stammer," she said coolly, reaching out to pick up her towel. It was still damp, though the coolness had long since faded into an uncomfortable room-temperature warmth.
"The squire," Rapunzel said abruptly, "the squire, who is the knight's son. He has a father. Who is my father? Why isn't he here?"
Who is my father?
It shouldn't have been such a surprising question, but Gothel had never considered that Rapunzel should ask it, had never thought herself how to answer it.
Who is my father?
You're not my child, she could say, but though there was some satisfaction in the thought of the child's face crumpling, if Rapunzel left – or resented her and ran away- she would lose the last remnant of- well, the last remnant.
Of the flower, she thought firmly, if she leaves, I lose the last remnant of my flower.
Your father is dead, she could say, but that was an outright lie on every level, and as dishonest as some might call her actions, she had not lied in hiding Rapunzel and allowing her to call her 'Mother'.
She remembered the king's edict, the soldiers and their swords, the terror pooling and gripping every fibre of her being as the soldiers had hacked away the flower, taken it to be boiled.
The words came to her before she had even comprehended them.
"Your father is a cruel man," she said, standing, her voice harder and colder than the tower walls she now stared at. "He hurt me, betrayed me. I took you and left."
Something akin to horror flooded Rapunzel's eyes. Her hands unclasped themselves, and in a soft blur, she hurled herself into Gothel's arms.
Looking down at the crown of gold, with Rapunzel's arms, pale and thin, clutching at her desperately, dependently, something lighted inside Gothel, the soft glow of Rapunzel's hair when they sang ("Mother, we can't play hide and seek because you're cheating! You'll always find me when you start singing!"), something warm and intangible, the aroma of the faintest, sweetest flower.
"There, now, Rapunzel," she said, stroking the girl's hair once more. "There, there."
Rapunzel looked up, her eyes steely as emeralds.
"I hate him, Mother," she said, with an edge to her voice that Gothel marvelled at. "I hate him for hurting you."
Hate.
Like the swish of a cloak as it brushed around the corner, the word faded in the air, but Gothel reached, took the thread, pulled.
"Men will do that," she whispered, kneeling down so she looked Rapunzel in the eye. "Other people do that. They hurt you, and betray you. But Mother won't. Mother's here. Mother knows best."
It was the note of a solemn contract, an unspoken signature that hung, even more heavily than the humidity, as Rapunzel slowly nodded.
Mine. You are all mine. Forever mine.
"I love you very much, dear," Gothel smiled, cupping Rapunzel's cheek, twirling a strand of her soft, long hair.
The smile bloomed slowly across Rapunzel's face, tweaking her mouth, lighting her eyes.
"I love you more," she whispered, her voice so earnest that Gothel smiled in spite of herself.
Drawing Rapunzel close to her, she closed her eyes, inhaling the sweet softness of Rapunzel's golden hair.
"I love you most."
A/N: I'm alive! Goodness, it's been a while since I've updated this. Oops. I did mean to make this chapter Gothel teaching Rapunzel how to play chess, but realised that I don't actually know how to play chess. Hence, lessons in misandry and distrust instead, hurrah. Parenting: Gothel, you're doing it wrong.
Reviews would be the coconut jam to my toast, but I'm mostly just happy that I haven't forgotten how to write :)