And so we reach the final day of Rogue/Gambit week.

I was planning on writing something completely different and unrelated to the prompts for free day, but then I saw a gorgeous piece of fanart with Rogue as Rapunzel and Gambit as Flynn by AztekArts, and this fic had to be written.

The other parts should come soon. I ran out of time

TOWERBOUND

Chapter One: The Tower

Once upon a time, there was a woman who lived in a tower.

Anna didn't know how she had come to the tower, or why she had to remain there. Her mother told her it was because the outside world was too dangerous, filled with monsters and thieves and other villains who wanted to do her harm. One day, when Anna was older and wiser, she might be able to make her way safely in it, but she was still a child and still in need of a mother's protection and guidance.

However, whenever Anna looked across the fields of yellow and green, peaceful under a cornflower blue sky, she found her mother's stories hard to believe. The worst she'd ever seen was a farmer driving his oxen to the field, prodding them with a stick and yelling at them to go faster. Even if it were true, she sometimes thought that danger would be better than the monotony of being locked up in the tower day after day. It might be thrilling to fight a monster, or meet a thief.

Every week, her mother came to the tower to bring her fresh supplies and amusements. Food to cook meals, water to drink, books to read. Once, she'd even brought her three tiny kittens in a basket, scraps of orange, white and grey fluff who grew into long, sleek cats that came and went as they pleased. The tall tower was no obstacle to them, any more than it would have been to a bird. They simply climbed the vines that clung to its walls and were away into the fields.

Her mother needed more help. Whenever she wanted to visit, she would stand at the bottom of the tower and shout: "Anna, Anna, let down your hair."

Anna had beautiful hair, a river of brown and white curls that she normally wore braided and pinned up on her head. Her mother had never allowed her to cut it, and it had grown at least 20 yards long across the years, almost a yard for every year she had spent in this tower. When her mother called, Anna would let her braids down, wind them around a window hook, and her mother would climb up them like a rope. Anna hated it. Even with the hook, her mother's weight pulled and tugged at her scalp, and made it hurt for hours afterwards.

Still, it was worth it, and not only because her mother brought what she needed to survive. As soon as her mother climbed through the window, she would hug her and kiss her once on the cheek. Anna lived for those moments. It was the only human touch she had all week. Her mother's arms would close around her, and she'd feel her whole body loosen and relax. Perhaps people needed touch as they needed food and water and air.

Yet, her mother's touch was only one type of touch. Recently, she had learned about another kind from a book her mother had bought her. Normally, her books contained two types of stories: childish fables about talking animals, or dull, moralistic tales about girls who obeyed their parents. This book was different. At first glance, it had seemed like yet another story about a dutiful daughter who uncomplainingly acted as a servant to her mother, which was probably why her mother had approved of it. A few chapters in, though, the girl had been sent away from home to marry a warrior in service to the king. She had been scared of her new husband who had a reputation as a cold and ruthless warrior, "more like the steel blades of the claws he wielded rather than a man whose heart could beat with love or passion." But he had surprised her with his gentleness and tenderness towards her. He had shown her what it meant to be loved, and … more.

Anna flushed at the recollection. She wasn't quite sure what the woman's "damp and tender petals" were, or what the "pride of nature" was that he "sheathed inside her, bringing her to the utmost heights of bliss." But she had known that she needed to find out.

The next time her mother had arrived, she had brought the book to her and asked her about it.

"Mother, what does it mean when a man gives a woman a green gown? I thought it might be a dress, but neither of them were wearing clothes."

Instead of answering her, her mother had looked horrified, snatched it away from her and thrown it out the window. Anna had run after it, but had only reached the window in time to see it tumble to the ground, where it still lay a week later barely visible through grass and weeds.

Furious, her mother had said, "I should never have trusted that bookseller and his recommendations. If I had known it was filth, I would never have brought it for you, my child. Your mind is too pure and beautiful to sully with those thoughts."

When her mother had arrived for her next visit that morning, she had only brought Anna books about talking animals, rosy-cheeked horses and pigs and lambs laughing and dancing on the front cover. Every one of them had been wearing pants and waistcoats. Once her mother had left again, Anna had thrown them into the fire, ablaze with rebellion herself. Now, she watched them burn, eyes stinging from the smoke, scalp smarting. A particularly annoying deer curled up and fell into ashes as she stared at it.

How did her mother ever expect her to be ready for the world if she told her nothing about it, if she kept her trapped in the nursery world of a young child? How did she ever expect her to face monsters and thieves if even a passage of a book was still too much for her after twenty-two years?

But then maybe that was the point. Her mother never wanted her to leave the tower. She was going to be a prisoner forever unless she found a way to free herself, but how when she herself was the only way to come or go?

Her room had no door, no opening except the single window. It must have been bricked up after she had been brought here. The cats were able to use the vines, but they wouldn't hold her much greater weight. She only had a single bedsheet, not enough to fashion into a rope, even if she tore it into strips. The obvious solution would be to cut her hair, but her mother left her no scissors, no knife, nothing sharper than paper. She had asked once for needlework supplies, but her mother had seen through that ruse, and had brought her floss already cut into lengths. She thought about burning it, but the few strands she'd thrown in the fire had flared up so hot and so fast that she was scared of setting herself alight.

As much as it pained her to admit, her only option was to be saved, and she was not sure how she'd accomplish that. No one came near the tower. Her mother had told her she'd surrounded it with powerful enchantments for her own safety. Anyone who came within a mile of it was filled with a sense of dread that grew stronger and stronger as they approached. Her mother had hinted at darker magic that would afflict them if they reached the tower's base or tried to climb its walls.

But surely there was some noble prince or brave adventurer who would risk it for her, whose chivalrous heart wouldn't allow him to leave a maiden trapped in a tower, who would fall in love with her and make her his bride. The general in the story would have risked anything for his wife. She just needed to find a way to let them know she was imprisoned.

The cats! She could write notes and tie them to the cat's collars. They would take them down the tower, and maybe, if she was lucky, someone would find them. It was a slender hope, but it was the only one she had. She picked up a pen, tore a page from the back of one of her books, and began to write.

Once upon a time, there was a thief who didn't live anywhere at all.

Remy liked it that way. He'd always preferred to live free and easy like a bird, without attachments, traveling from city to city, helping himself to whatever caught his fancy, spending the night with whoever caught his eye. That night, he thought it might be the barmaid. It was more of a cliche than he liked, but she was pretty and dark-haired and had been flirting with him all night. She had stopped charging him for drinks after the first. He grinned at her, and she blew him a kiss. Shameless too. He really liked that.

He was finishing off his glass of wine - sour and heavily watered down - when he overheard a snatch of conversation from the table next to him that pulled his attention right away from the barmaid.

"I'm telling you! There's a treasure in the tower outside of this town, and I'm going to get it," a man was saying. He had the rangy, raw-boned look of an adventurer, and a bow and quiver leaned against his stool. By his accent, he was an out-of-towner.

"Bah," a woman replied. She was squat and muscular, and had the deep tan of a farmer. A local, Remy guessed, "That's some lord or lady's folly, built many years ago and left to rot. There's nothing in it now except spiderwebs and mouse droppings."

"I don't know," her companion, a mountain of a man, said thoughtfully, "I hear it's guarded by a powerful witch. She can change shape into anything she desires - other people, animals, even creatures that no-one has imagined before."

"Yes, because that makes it more likely," the woman scoffed, "How deep in your cups are you, Peter? Remember: you have cow stalls to clean and fields to sow tomorrow."

Remy let his attention wander as they began to talk about farm chores. He knew the woman was right, of course. A lone tower, containing a precious treasure, guarded by a shape-shifting witch, was the stuff of children's stories, the kind that his Tante Mathilde had told him when he was very young. But then so was a wandering thief from a far land who lived by his wits and kissed all the pretty girls.

He picked up his brown leather cape and settled it over his shoulders, and picked up his stout walking staff, before giving the barmaid an apologetic smile and heading out the door. At worst, he'd end up sleeping in a ditch that night, and have a funny story to tell to the woman in the next town.

Whistling to himself, Remy walked along the road that led out of town. Soon, cobbled streets gave way to dirt track, and shops and houses were replaced by fields and trees. The tower loomed in the distance, black in the moonlight. It seemed to grow taller and darker the closer he got to it, like some ill omen that would come to pass soon. He felt his scalp prickle, and an icy shiver ran down his back, as if a cold, skeletal hand had touched him.

This had been a foolish idea. He should go back to the warm bar, the warmer barmaid. The woman had been right. The tower was a lord's folly. No, the man had been right. It was guarded by a witch, and she was heading towards him now, gliding silently through the trees on wings of night.

What was that rustle? Was that a shape moving in the trees? Was she already on him? He gripped his hands around the staff.

He felt something soft insinuate itself around his ankles, and he leapt away from its grass, bringing his weapon up in a defensive position.

Heart thudding in his chest, "L'enfer!"

"Meow!" a cat loudly announced from where he had been standing. It was tiny and white and was wearing a pink ribbon around its neck. Remy stared at it suspiciously, not dropping his defensive posture. Was this a trick? Had the witch assumed the form of a cat to fool him?

The cat sat down in front of him, and began carefully grooming its back leg. He noticed it had a note tied to the ribbon. As always for Remy, curiosity won out over fear.

He knelt and set the staff down within easy reach. Holding out a hand, he called to it, using the ancient invocation that worked on all cats in his experience.

"Psst, psst, here kitty, kitty, kitty."

Pricking up its grey ears, the cat began to trot towards him. He let it sniff his fingers, rub its head over his hand. He scritched under its neck and it purred appreciatively. With thief-nimble fingers, he undid the ribbon and plucked off the note. He continued petting the cat as he opened it.

To his dismay, it was written in a flowing, feminine hand that he could barely decipher. As a boy, he'd scorned Tante's attempts to teach him his letters. He didn't see the use of them in the life he had planned for himself. He could read good, plain text, and sign his name. What else did a man of the world need?

However, he could make one phrase, written bolder than the rest and underlined twice: "Help me!"