![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
actionreactionThis. Is something different. I wanted to try my hand at a fairy tale, so this is not my usual style. I liked it however, and I will be writing several more. Some of you may have read this already; I wrote it months ago, but am only posting now.
By the way. It's long.
Let Down Your Hair
I am not the child my mother wanted. She wanted a little princess, a carbon copy of herself, all golden curls, bright blue eyes, red lips, and fair skin. She wanted a docile creature she could mold into the perfect princess, to marry off to a wealthy king and strengthen our kingdom. I know Father wanted that bit as well.
Instead, they got me.
After a while, my mother seemed to no longer care that I was not the little princess she had prayed for. She deluded herself into thinking if she dressed and trained me like one, put me through what a proper princess should, I could be everything she wanted.
Laces silks and velvets, expensive furs, rich foods – in tiny portions of course, to keep my “dainty figure.” Proper behavior, manners, posture, sewing, everything I supposedly needed to make a proper princess, and one day, a wife.
I loathed every minute of it, and we all knew it. We knew my lessons did me little good. Underneath that cultivated polished exterior, the jet black hair, the bright green eyes, and lightly freckled skin, lay my quick mind, quicker tongue, stubborn streak, and my deepest secret, the one no one but my parents knew.
This secret would be my salvation, and my downfall.
--
Mother had always planned this, I know now. Honestly, I knew from the moment I first read the silly fairy tale and knew for whom my mother had named me, and why she never once took scissors to my long tresses, I knew. At age nine, my hair was already at my knees, and showed no sign of ceasing to grow. It would still be three years before I was sent to the tower I would call home, three years before I was to become just like my namesake, my last chance to become a fairy-tale princess.
They visited me daily. Father brought me book and pictures, crafts and pencils. Sometimes he’d bring new paints and canvases that I might capture the myriad sunsets I watched from my high tower. Mother would bring sewing for I had to keep my trousseau in order. My stitches were perfect, from years of rote, not by desire. She’d wash and plait my impossibly long hair, slowly, as though she measured its length.
In truth, it always seemed longer after she left, as though she wove magic into the braid. In three years, having grown nonstop for fifteen years, it was long enough to hang from the high window, against the stone walls, and stop a mere two and one half feet from the ground. My hair's length was nearly five times my own height.
One day after my daily hair routine and measurement, Mother looked with great satisfaction at its grand length and nodded with some conviction. All she said, cryptically, was, "It is time," and she'd say no more, even when I pressed for detail.
I awoke that night to strange sounds below and hurried to my window, the only one in the lone tower. The tower housed only my room, and a long winding spiral staircase that led from my door down to the one door at the base, which was now being torn out and bricked up.
There was no way in now, and worse, no way out.
--
I refused to cry. That was a show of weakness - no not of weakness, but a show of the dainty emotionality my mother wished to cultivate. I did not cry. I broke things. Hurled them against the wall and door and shouted my throat raw until I felt a kind of satisfaction. It was fleeting as I recalled my mother's cryptic, "It is time." I knew now what she meant. I was past five and ten, marriageable age, and I had fully read the story of the princess with the long hair, locked in her tower, a princess of surpassing beauty, waiting for her prince to rescue her, and marry her.
I was so angry I could spit. And so I did, and wished it could have been in my mother’s face. I rushed back to the window and looked down in despair. There truly was no escape. I could not climb down the steep walls without rope or ladder. I could not jump or I would surely die. I could only wait to be rescued and play the damsel in distress. Let my prince come. Let him save me, and then the moment his back was turned, I would be gone, away from everyone who wanted me to be what I was not.
--
Months passed alone in my tower. Mother came still, with means of magic that finally confirmed my lifelong suspicions of her. She'd sing at me, a little command of "Rapunzel, Rapunzel, let down your hair," and my braid would tug me to the window, wind itself once 'round a nail for support and drop to the ground. Mother would climb up to my window, surprisingly easily for a cultured woman of such high breeding, one with such delicate hands. She would still wash and braid my hair and I would bear it with anger and resentment. I could not do it alone, and yet I still wished I could cut my long hair as she climbed and let her fall. She knew this, and thus I was never left with anything sharp, knife or scissors that I might fashion my own rope and escape.
One day I heard a voice below my window. I knew it was not Mother's, and I knew immediately it was male. It was a chipper whistle at first, which stopped abruptly as though the whistler were caught by surprise, and then a loud, "What?" I sneaked over to the window, careful not to be seen, and watched a man in elegant cloak jump down from grand horse and approach my tower. He presumably walked right 'round its base, for he appeared at the other side. I could not see his face, nor the expression on it at all, but I heard his voice again, loud and rich, calling out, "Hallo!"
I did not move, oddly. This was surely a prince come to rescue fair maiden, was it not? Was this not my chance?
"Hallo? Is there anyone?"
I stepped out from my hiding place then and looked down properly at him, calling softly, "Who goes?"
He seemed taken aback by my sudden appearance, as well as I could see. "Oh! Hallo! I-- That is...” Flustered, he bowed, quite low, and rose again with a flourish. "I am Prince Malcolm of Rast, my lady.” He looked up quizzically – at least I think he did. "Art thou the princess Rapunzel?"
I wavered for a moment, oddly longing to tell him the truth, but my years of training took hold and I curtsied where I stood. "I am, good sir."
He scratched his head, and I thought him oddly simian in his manner, then chided myself for the rude thought. "I must say I am confused. I thought there would be a monster, a dragon, a vast field of thorn, some large obstacle to forbid my entry."
My lips twitched. "Ah, but there is. As you can see, good prince, there is no door, and thus no way inside. The window in which I stand is the only entry or exit, and I have no rope or ladder." I bit my cheek to stave off further words, and then wondered why I did so.
"Ah but there is something you can do," he countered, "Stories of your plight have reached far, my fair princess. Stories of Rapunzel in her tower, she of radiant black tresses longer than the tower in which she is kept, and how the only way to reach her is to call 'Rapunzel, Rapunzel, let down your hair'!"
I froze, waiting for my hair to obey his command, but it did not move. So it was not the words that commanded my tresses, but Mother's magic - further conviction. I looked down at him and could not help my cheeky reply. "The impudence, Prince Malcolm. We have only just met. Expect you me to toss down my hair and invite you thus so boldly into my bedchamber?"
I think he blinked up at me in astonishment. Was I truly refusing my own rescue? "Lady, I assure you, I am not a man such as he who would make any untoward advances upon your person, nor do I expect such recompense or reward for my efforts, aside from your safety."
A pretty speech, but likely false, if only partially. "Are you not a man such as he who seeks to marry the princess he rescues from the tower, knowing only that she is fair?"
My point seemed to drive home. "Not if she is unwilling or uninterested," he responded point-blank, dropping our little battle of words. "In truth, it is my brothers who seek to wed you, for reasons of their own. I sought to free you from your tower."
I wavered, I could not help it, and I believe he sensed that, for he continued, "My Lady, all I desire from you by asking to climb up, if to free you from your prison. Your path is your own then. But should you wish to walk it with me, I would not refuse. If you would but let down your hair anon, I will return again for you. If you are willing, I would speak with you again, and again, until you are willing to let down your hair."
And before I could say a word, he mounted his fine horse, and would have rode off had I not called out, "Come tomorrow, one and one half hour before sunset!" He paused and waved, and I was certain a smile crossed his face before he rode off down the hill, and I watched, hoping he would heed my warning and come late in the day so as not to cross paths with Mother.
--
Malcolm returned, as promised, the following day one and one half hour before sunset. I heard his horse approach, heard his fine whistle and forced myself to walk, not run, to my window. We spoke until sunset, and then I retired, so he might reach where he camped before too late. We spoke of history and philosophy, of art and music, literature and maths. He found my cheeky and pert questions and answers rare, enlightening, and even amusing. I could tell by our conversations the women of his court were no less bound than I, bound by their lack of education. He did not seem taken aback by my wit or manner, and I found I did not have to posture or force Mother's training upon my behavior. I felt sure he would have detested such simpering, as I did. I found myself becoming enamored of him, of the fact he liked the personality Mother tried so hard to eradicate.
He told me of his brothers, the eldest, Richard, who was well suited for the throne; the middle, Hector, bold and ambitious, who would stop at little to rule, and himself. Youngest, yet caught in the middle of a struggle between brothers. I let him speak of himself, of his family, and told him little of my own.
Each day he would greet me, a greeting that was only partly jest, with, "Rapunzel, Rapunzel, let down your hair," and I'd respond in the cheeky manner he so enjoyed. The first days I did it for his lack of knowing me. As the days passed, I did it for fear of his knowing me too well. My terrible secret still bore heavily on my heart, the truth I hid from all but Mother and Father. The truth Malcolm surely deserved to know.
I resolved that night, fear and worry keeping slumber at bay, to tell him on the morrow, tell him who and what I truly was. He deserved that much, even if he never spoke to me again after.
--
I paced as the hour of Malcolm's visit drew near. I tolerated Mother's presence earlier in the day with barely restrained annoyance. She left in a huff, slid down my rope-braid and stormed off back home. The volley of words she'd left me with - most often repeated was the word ungrateful - barely registered as my anxiousness grew. I waited impatiently for Malcolm, and finally, finally, heard hoof beats below my window. I waited still, wringing my hands, then slapping them to quit, and heard him call, "Rapunzel, Rapunzel, let down your hair!" Breath catching, heart in my throat, I called, "Yes, my prince, today I shall," and I wound my hair once around the nail on the window, and let down my braid, till it grazed the ground beneath. A tug then, and he was climbing, heavier than Mother, but the nail gave my hair's strong length extra support. I grew more nervous as he climbed, eyes squeezed shut with nerves, until finally he climbed in through the window.
I opened my mouth to speak, hands wringing themselves as I stepped forward. And stopped in my tracks. I knew, with absolute certainty, though I had not seen him close yet, that this was not Prince Malcolm. Malcolm had hair like fire; it gleamed in the sun vibrant as his personality. I had imagined his eyes to match, amber or golden brown, sparkling. This was not the countenance of the man before me. His hair was raven-dark, near black as my own, his eyes slate like the stone walls of my tower. His mouth curved in a smile of triumph and conquering, and I found myself pressed against the wall. Who was he?
"Fair Princess Rapunzel," he spoke and my heart lurched for he sounded like Malcolm still. I cursed myself for not being more cautious as he continued, "I have come to save you from your tower. Now you shall be mine."
Bile rose in my throat. "I need no saving, for one, and two, I belong to no one but myself."
His mouth set and I knew immediately he was not so tolerating of my willfulness as Malcolm. "What manner of lady are you that speaks to a man, a prince, thus? Know you not your betters?"
My nostrils flared. "I would, were there better than I here to know."
Those slate eyes went steely grey and I nearly recoiled. I should have. Then his stinging backhand would not have caught me so soundly across my face. "How do you dare?" He hissed, a vile sort of sound that had my spine tingling. “Know your place, woman. I am Prince Hector of Rast, here to take you from this tower, and claim you as my bride." His lip curled. "You are fair, and I promise you, I'll free you, both from this tower and your willful manner."
My heart nearly stopped. Prince Hector of Rast? Hells, this was Malcolm’s brother, the ambitious middle son of the king, the one who'd stop at nothing to win the throne. Cruel fate had led him straight to me, in his mind a woman who would secure his right to rule.
He was in for a nasty turn.
"I will never be your bride, Hector."
"The impudence!" And I expected the open-fisted punch this time, and dodged, landing Hector's hand square against the wall. He roared in anger and swung again, faster than I could move, and caught me hard and down I went, straight to the cold, hard floor. In a moment, he was atop me, his weight nearly crushing. "Insolent whelp. I'll teach you your place right now."
I should have expected it; I suppose on some level I did, but that did not stave off the fear when he took hold of my neckline and pulled with all of his strength. Lace and beads and buttons tore, scattered, burst and I held back any sound, fearful it would only goad him on. I knew he'd stop on his own soon enough, when he saw. And stop he did. He stopped and stared when he'd torn through my layers down to my bare chest, when he saw there a chest as flat as his own. Fair, faintly freckled, and flat, no trace of womanly bosom to be found.
"You see why I shall never be your bride? A man cannot be a wife," I said quietly, ignoring the pain in my cheek where he had struck me. It did not compare to the pain I felt at the though of having to speak the same words to Malcolm.
Hector's eyes widened, then narrowed, and he spoke, his voice low and hissing once more. "What sick twisted game is this you play? You... you..." He was profoundly at a loss for words, and it was that moment I heard a call from below, a worried sounding, "Rapunzel?" Oh, I knew why he worried. His brother's horse stood below my tower, and his brother was nowhere in sight. He knew where Hector was. What he was capable of.
But I didn't want him to know, not like this. I had no choice in the matter though, not when Hector clocked me soundly again and I felt dizzy where I lay. He stood and moved to the window, a dark expression on his face, and leaned out, tossing a rope he had brought with him down to Malcolm below.
"You call for your Rapunzel, dear brother, then by all means, come to her." His tone was nasty, and I knew he knew I had not told Malcolm yet. Maybe it was the fear in my eyes, the "no" on my lips that told him I did not want him to see me like this.
Hector laughed, a wicked sort of sound, as Malcolm kept climbing. I struggled to move, to cover myself, to hide. Something. Anything. But there was nowhere I could go, nothing I could do. And then Malcolm was there, expression angry, wary, worried.
Hector grinned at him. "Don't worry, brother. I haven't despoiled your precious princess. She's not exactly my type. I didn't realize she was yours." Savage words, verbal knives. I dropped my gaze, unable to meet Malcolm's eyes.
He, however, was staring at me; I could feel it. I could imagine the surprise melting away to horror or disgust at finding me out, knowing I lied to him, knowing I couldn't be Mother's perfect princess, or even Malcolm's bride because I was a boy. And then he knelt beside me, and I felt one strong hand on a shoulder bared by my torn dress, the other cupping my chin to lift my face. I struggled against it, refusing to meet his gaze, and he merely waited until I could look away no longer. I met those eyes, the same amber I'd imagined, and was struck speechless to see no hint of revulsion, anger or disgust, just incredulousness. The only words Malcolm could find to speak were, "Rapunzel... you're beautiful." They were spoken reverently, as if he were taken aback by my face and feature. I gaped stupidly at him, could do nothing as he leaned closer to me, closer still, and pressed the softest of kisses to my lips.
It was a perfect moment, warm and wonderful, and thus it would end too soon. It was a hiss, and the scream of sword being drawn that warned us and Malcolm grabbed me, and rolled as Hector's sword clanged down to the stone floor, and then Malcolm was off me, his sword drawn, amber eyes ablaze.
All my princess training went right out my tower window, and I scrambled to my feet, swearing in a manner no lady, and most gentlemen would not. Swords clanged and Hector advanced, menace in his tone. "You are a disgrace to your lineage. That person, that creature should be left here in this tower. Playing as woman. And you! To be so taken in, to still want that false being, to go so far as to kiss him!" His sword clashed hard against Malcolm's as with each bit of vitriol he spewed. And with each clang, he drove Malcolm back, his anger at me fueling his blows.
I let them fight, let them circle, let Hector put his back to me. He had dismissed me as a threat, woman or no, and that made him foolish and blind. I picked up the heaviest of my books, and swung, hard, at his head. He went down as hard as I had, and I stared at him, and then my book, in surprise. Malcolm gaped, recovered and rolled Hector over, his sword at his brother's throat. Eyes glittering like fire, Malcolm spoke in low tones. "Brother, it is you who are a disgrace. I - we are all sick of the way you treat others. To find the character of a man, you look not at how he treats his equals, but at how he treats his lessers, and thus I know you have no character of which to speak. You are cruel, you are selfish, and you are an unfit human being and it is this, not your being second-born, that keeps you from being king."
I still held my book as Malcolm spoke, and Hector snarled. I will not repeat the words he uttered, the names he called his brother. Malcolm seemed a strange cross between impassive and broken, and he finally spoke again. "Go, Hector. Leave here. Do not return home. I doubt any of us will be much overjoyed at your return." And he stood, removing his blade and his threat.
I thought it foolish, but I know Malcolm must have still loved his brother, loved him despite his faults, loved him enough to believe he wouldn't reach for his sword again the moment Malcolm's back was turned. Hector did not care so much for his younger brother. I screamed a warning to Malcolm, heavy book flying from my hands as if of its own volition. Hector dodged it this time, but that gave Malcolm the time to retaliate. The blow he struck not only opened a gash across Hector's chest - a shallow wound - bit it also caused him to stumble, lose his balance, and he toppled, unbelievably right out my lonely window. His scream echoed as he fell, and I covered my mouth in stunned shock as Malcolm raced to the window, as if he could save his brother. The sickening thud and abruptly cut off scream told us both otherwise.
I don't know how long I held Malcolm to my chest in comfort. I only knew it was after sunset when he lifted his head and looked at me. All he said was, "You let down your hair for him."
I shook my head vehemently. "No, no, Malcolm, you mustn't think that. I thought he was you - you sound so similar. I was going to let you up tonight... so I could tell you. Tell you the truth about me, all the lies my mother began, and I continued for her." I refused to cry, even now. Mother had not managed to breed that strength out of me. "I feared so much to tell you, feared you would be angry and leave, never speak to me again and yet, the thought of continuing to lie was worse still." I finally looked up, met his eyes. They were not angry, not hurt, not repulsed, not anything I had feared. I whispered then, the last I could say, "I did not mean for you to find out this way."
He spoke then. "Any way I found out would have been hard for you, and shocking to me." His gaze dropped to my still bared chest, flat as his, but far less muscled. He looked back at my face, my eyes, and continued. "I still find it hard to believe this face does not belong to a woman, though I can easily see how you passed for a lady all these years."
I let out the breath I had been holding in a shuddering rush and told him everything. How Mother tried to remake me, how this little game of hers became my life, how she dragged him - and his brothers - all unknowing into her play, just to fulfill her delusions.
He listened, stunned at my mother, and then told his own story, the real reason he had come to find me. The king his father had three sons, and while it should have been clear the eldest would take the throne, it was well within the rights of the younger brothers to challenge for the right. The victor would wear the crown. Richard was eldest, but Hector had grand illusions. The king recognized his ambition, but also his cruelty, and did not wish him to challenge his brother Richard. He knew Malcolm, the youngest, did not wish to rule, but would rather do so than have cruel Hector on the throne. The king feared a bloodbath between his sons, and he had no doubt Hector would kill both his brothers to ensure his right to rule. And then rumors came, rumors of a princess imprisoned in a tower, and the king had an idea The first to save the princess from her tower would win the throne. Hector would set out to do so, as would Malcolm and Richard, if only to prevent their brother's reaching me first.
I listened to Malcolm's tale with heavy heart, hearing his reasons for his quest. He must have seen it in my face for his own expression changed and he cupped my face in his hands. "Rapunzel, whatever my quest was when I set out, it is clear now. I will take you from this tower not to gain a kingdom, but to prevent your possible marriage to Richard, were he to find this tower... Because I want you. I don't care that your form is not what I thought it to be; it is you I cannot free from my mind." He laughed helplessly. "I am as caught by you as you are by your tower."
I fear I blinked stupidly at him for far too long, eyes wide, for I could not believe what he said. He wanted me, as I was, secrets revealed, knowing I was man, not woman, he still wanted me. I know I kissed him then, not the tender soft exploration he'd given me, but a kiss full of passion, full of everything I felt for him, and oh how he kissed in return. Sweet nothings whispered, my torn gown going to the floor, joined by his doublet and hose. Hands touched eagerly, curiously, unable to stop. I know I tensed more than once; I know not what oil or salve he used to ease his entry, but all pain, however brief, was soon forgotten, and we moved together, rising and falling like waves in the ocean, breathless cries rising as offerings to the night sky.
We fell asleep like that, tangled in each other's arms. It was only the loud howls of wolves nearby that woke us and Malcolm, with his still-caring heart, climbed down his brother's rope to cover his body with stones before the scavengers got him; his eyes were misty when he climbed back up, but he shed no tears. I bade him come back to my bed, let me feel his warmth beside me the rest of the night, and he did, and so we slept.
We were to be awoken unpleasantly.
--
Mother came too early the next day. I had no warning before I heard, "Rapunzel, Rapunzel, let down your hair," and my messy braid tugged me still naked to the window to permit her entry. "Malcolm, please, it is my mother! You must-" and I broke off for what was there to do? Where was there to go? And I had had enough of trying to be what Mother wanted. I let her climb, and Malcolm dress just enough to be decent, and gave me a sheet to wrap around myself.
The moment Mother climbed in the window she noticed my near nudity, so shocking at this "late" hour. And then she noticed Malcolm and her confusion at seeing two horses below my tower was cleared. I honestly did not understand the first few words she screeched, but the "trollop," "whore," and "slattern" she called next were woundingly clear. What she called Malcolm was no better.
I couldn't take it anymore. I stepped forward, and with no book, just open palm, struck her hard across the face. "Shut it, Mother. I cannot take any more of this, of you! Are you so angry because though my prince has found me, we were not wed in grand ceremony for you to parade your false princess around? Are you so selfish you cannot realize how miserable I have been for years, all my life, and that I am now finally happy? In your own twisted way, you have finally done me some right by him, and that is all the thanks you will ever get from me. Climb back down, Mother," and I showed her Hector's rope, for I was done letting her use me. "Go home. You have no daughter."
Malcolm stepped forward then, and pulled me close. "You never had a daughter. You had a beautiful son you could not appreciate for what he was, did not love as you should, did not treasure as I will. I will cut the ties that bind him to you." And he looked at me as if for permission and I gave it, nodding, and there in front of Mother's stunned eyes, he sliced off my braid, cut my hair to about my waist, still long, but too short to ever be bound by my mother again.
--
I suppose this is where I say we rode off into the sunset, back to Malcolm's home and Richard took the throne as we all wished, and we lived happily ever after. And why should I not? This is, after all, a fairy tale.
By the way. It's long.
Let Down Your Hair
I am not the child my mother wanted. She wanted a little princess, a carbon copy of herself, all golden curls, bright blue eyes, red lips, and fair skin. She wanted a docile creature she could mold into the perfect princess, to marry off to a wealthy king and strengthen our kingdom. I know Father wanted that bit as well.
Instead, they got me.
After a while, my mother seemed to no longer care that I was not the little princess she had prayed for. She deluded herself into thinking if she dressed and trained me like one, put me through what a proper princess should, I could be everything she wanted.
Laces silks and velvets, expensive furs, rich foods – in tiny portions of course, to keep my “dainty figure.” Proper behavior, manners, posture, sewing, everything I supposedly needed to make a proper princess, and one day, a wife.
I loathed every minute of it, and we all knew it. We knew my lessons did me little good. Underneath that cultivated polished exterior, the jet black hair, the bright green eyes, and lightly freckled skin, lay my quick mind, quicker tongue, stubborn streak, and my deepest secret, the one no one but my parents knew.
This secret would be my salvation, and my downfall.
--
Mother had always planned this, I know now. Honestly, I knew from the moment I first read the silly fairy tale and knew for whom my mother had named me, and why she never once took scissors to my long tresses, I knew. At age nine, my hair was already at my knees, and showed no sign of ceasing to grow. It would still be three years before I was sent to the tower I would call home, three years before I was to become just like my namesake, my last chance to become a fairy-tale princess.
They visited me daily. Father brought me book and pictures, crafts and pencils. Sometimes he’d bring new paints and canvases that I might capture the myriad sunsets I watched from my high tower. Mother would bring sewing for I had to keep my trousseau in order. My stitches were perfect, from years of rote, not by desire. She’d wash and plait my impossibly long hair, slowly, as though she measured its length.
In truth, it always seemed longer after she left, as though she wove magic into the braid. In three years, having grown nonstop for fifteen years, it was long enough to hang from the high window, against the stone walls, and stop a mere two and one half feet from the ground. My hair's length was nearly five times my own height.
One day after my daily hair routine and measurement, Mother looked with great satisfaction at its grand length and nodded with some conviction. All she said, cryptically, was, "It is time," and she'd say no more, even when I pressed for detail.
I awoke that night to strange sounds below and hurried to my window, the only one in the lone tower. The tower housed only my room, and a long winding spiral staircase that led from my door down to the one door at the base, which was now being torn out and bricked up.
There was no way in now, and worse, no way out.
--
I refused to cry. That was a show of weakness - no not of weakness, but a show of the dainty emotionality my mother wished to cultivate. I did not cry. I broke things. Hurled them against the wall and door and shouted my throat raw until I felt a kind of satisfaction. It was fleeting as I recalled my mother's cryptic, "It is time." I knew now what she meant. I was past five and ten, marriageable age, and I had fully read the story of the princess with the long hair, locked in her tower, a princess of surpassing beauty, waiting for her prince to rescue her, and marry her.
I was so angry I could spit. And so I did, and wished it could have been in my mother’s face. I rushed back to the window and looked down in despair. There truly was no escape. I could not climb down the steep walls without rope or ladder. I could not jump or I would surely die. I could only wait to be rescued and play the damsel in distress. Let my prince come. Let him save me, and then the moment his back was turned, I would be gone, away from everyone who wanted me to be what I was not.
--
Months passed alone in my tower. Mother came still, with means of magic that finally confirmed my lifelong suspicions of her. She'd sing at me, a little command of "Rapunzel, Rapunzel, let down your hair," and my braid would tug me to the window, wind itself once 'round a nail for support and drop to the ground. Mother would climb up to my window, surprisingly easily for a cultured woman of such high breeding, one with such delicate hands. She would still wash and braid my hair and I would bear it with anger and resentment. I could not do it alone, and yet I still wished I could cut my long hair as she climbed and let her fall. She knew this, and thus I was never left with anything sharp, knife or scissors that I might fashion my own rope and escape.
One day I heard a voice below my window. I knew it was not Mother's, and I knew immediately it was male. It was a chipper whistle at first, which stopped abruptly as though the whistler were caught by surprise, and then a loud, "What?" I sneaked over to the window, careful not to be seen, and watched a man in elegant cloak jump down from grand horse and approach my tower. He presumably walked right 'round its base, for he appeared at the other side. I could not see his face, nor the expression on it at all, but I heard his voice again, loud and rich, calling out, "Hallo!"
I did not move, oddly. This was surely a prince come to rescue fair maiden, was it not? Was this not my chance?
"Hallo? Is there anyone?"
I stepped out from my hiding place then and looked down properly at him, calling softly, "Who goes?"
He seemed taken aback by my sudden appearance, as well as I could see. "Oh! Hallo! I-- That is...” Flustered, he bowed, quite low, and rose again with a flourish. "I am Prince Malcolm of Rast, my lady.” He looked up quizzically – at least I think he did. "Art thou the princess Rapunzel?"
I wavered for a moment, oddly longing to tell him the truth, but my years of training took hold and I curtsied where I stood. "I am, good sir."
He scratched his head, and I thought him oddly simian in his manner, then chided myself for the rude thought. "I must say I am confused. I thought there would be a monster, a dragon, a vast field of thorn, some large obstacle to forbid my entry."
My lips twitched. "Ah, but there is. As you can see, good prince, there is no door, and thus no way inside. The window in which I stand is the only entry or exit, and I have no rope or ladder." I bit my cheek to stave off further words, and then wondered why I did so.
"Ah but there is something you can do," he countered, "Stories of your plight have reached far, my fair princess. Stories of Rapunzel in her tower, she of radiant black tresses longer than the tower in which she is kept, and how the only way to reach her is to call 'Rapunzel, Rapunzel, let down your hair'!"
I froze, waiting for my hair to obey his command, but it did not move. So it was not the words that commanded my tresses, but Mother's magic - further conviction. I looked down at him and could not help my cheeky reply. "The impudence, Prince Malcolm. We have only just met. Expect you me to toss down my hair and invite you thus so boldly into my bedchamber?"
I think he blinked up at me in astonishment. Was I truly refusing my own rescue? "Lady, I assure you, I am not a man such as he who would make any untoward advances upon your person, nor do I expect such recompense or reward for my efforts, aside from your safety."
A pretty speech, but likely false, if only partially. "Are you not a man such as he who seeks to marry the princess he rescues from the tower, knowing only that she is fair?"
My point seemed to drive home. "Not if she is unwilling or uninterested," he responded point-blank, dropping our little battle of words. "In truth, it is my brothers who seek to wed you, for reasons of their own. I sought to free you from your tower."
I wavered, I could not help it, and I believe he sensed that, for he continued, "My Lady, all I desire from you by asking to climb up, if to free you from your prison. Your path is your own then. But should you wish to walk it with me, I would not refuse. If you would but let down your hair anon, I will return again for you. If you are willing, I would speak with you again, and again, until you are willing to let down your hair."
And before I could say a word, he mounted his fine horse, and would have rode off had I not called out, "Come tomorrow, one and one half hour before sunset!" He paused and waved, and I was certain a smile crossed his face before he rode off down the hill, and I watched, hoping he would heed my warning and come late in the day so as not to cross paths with Mother.
--
Malcolm returned, as promised, the following day one and one half hour before sunset. I heard his horse approach, heard his fine whistle and forced myself to walk, not run, to my window. We spoke until sunset, and then I retired, so he might reach where he camped before too late. We spoke of history and philosophy, of art and music, literature and maths. He found my cheeky and pert questions and answers rare, enlightening, and even amusing. I could tell by our conversations the women of his court were no less bound than I, bound by their lack of education. He did not seem taken aback by my wit or manner, and I found I did not have to posture or force Mother's training upon my behavior. I felt sure he would have detested such simpering, as I did. I found myself becoming enamored of him, of the fact he liked the personality Mother tried so hard to eradicate.
He told me of his brothers, the eldest, Richard, who was well suited for the throne; the middle, Hector, bold and ambitious, who would stop at little to rule, and himself. Youngest, yet caught in the middle of a struggle between brothers. I let him speak of himself, of his family, and told him little of my own.
Each day he would greet me, a greeting that was only partly jest, with, "Rapunzel, Rapunzel, let down your hair," and I'd respond in the cheeky manner he so enjoyed. The first days I did it for his lack of knowing me. As the days passed, I did it for fear of his knowing me too well. My terrible secret still bore heavily on my heart, the truth I hid from all but Mother and Father. The truth Malcolm surely deserved to know.
I resolved that night, fear and worry keeping slumber at bay, to tell him on the morrow, tell him who and what I truly was. He deserved that much, even if he never spoke to me again after.
--
I paced as the hour of Malcolm's visit drew near. I tolerated Mother's presence earlier in the day with barely restrained annoyance. She left in a huff, slid down my rope-braid and stormed off back home. The volley of words she'd left me with - most often repeated was the word ungrateful - barely registered as my anxiousness grew. I waited impatiently for Malcolm, and finally, finally, heard hoof beats below my window. I waited still, wringing my hands, then slapping them to quit, and heard him call, "Rapunzel, Rapunzel, let down your hair!" Breath catching, heart in my throat, I called, "Yes, my prince, today I shall," and I wound my hair once around the nail on the window, and let down my braid, till it grazed the ground beneath. A tug then, and he was climbing, heavier than Mother, but the nail gave my hair's strong length extra support. I grew more nervous as he climbed, eyes squeezed shut with nerves, until finally he climbed in through the window.
I opened my mouth to speak, hands wringing themselves as I stepped forward. And stopped in my tracks. I knew, with absolute certainty, though I had not seen him close yet, that this was not Prince Malcolm. Malcolm had hair like fire; it gleamed in the sun vibrant as his personality. I had imagined his eyes to match, amber or golden brown, sparkling. This was not the countenance of the man before me. His hair was raven-dark, near black as my own, his eyes slate like the stone walls of my tower. His mouth curved in a smile of triumph and conquering, and I found myself pressed against the wall. Who was he?
"Fair Princess Rapunzel," he spoke and my heart lurched for he sounded like Malcolm still. I cursed myself for not being more cautious as he continued, "I have come to save you from your tower. Now you shall be mine."
Bile rose in my throat. "I need no saving, for one, and two, I belong to no one but myself."
His mouth set and I knew immediately he was not so tolerating of my willfulness as Malcolm. "What manner of lady are you that speaks to a man, a prince, thus? Know you not your betters?"
My nostrils flared. "I would, were there better than I here to know."
Those slate eyes went steely grey and I nearly recoiled. I should have. Then his stinging backhand would not have caught me so soundly across my face. "How do you dare?" He hissed, a vile sort of sound that had my spine tingling. “Know your place, woman. I am Prince Hector of Rast, here to take you from this tower, and claim you as my bride." His lip curled. "You are fair, and I promise you, I'll free you, both from this tower and your willful manner."
My heart nearly stopped. Prince Hector of Rast? Hells, this was Malcolm’s brother, the ambitious middle son of the king, the one who'd stop at nothing to win the throne. Cruel fate had led him straight to me, in his mind a woman who would secure his right to rule.
He was in for a nasty turn.
"I will never be your bride, Hector."
"The impudence!" And I expected the open-fisted punch this time, and dodged, landing Hector's hand square against the wall. He roared in anger and swung again, faster than I could move, and caught me hard and down I went, straight to the cold, hard floor. In a moment, he was atop me, his weight nearly crushing. "Insolent whelp. I'll teach you your place right now."
I should have expected it; I suppose on some level I did, but that did not stave off the fear when he took hold of my neckline and pulled with all of his strength. Lace and beads and buttons tore, scattered, burst and I held back any sound, fearful it would only goad him on. I knew he'd stop on his own soon enough, when he saw. And stop he did. He stopped and stared when he'd torn through my layers down to my bare chest, when he saw there a chest as flat as his own. Fair, faintly freckled, and flat, no trace of womanly bosom to be found.
"You see why I shall never be your bride? A man cannot be a wife," I said quietly, ignoring the pain in my cheek where he had struck me. It did not compare to the pain I felt at the though of having to speak the same words to Malcolm.
Hector's eyes widened, then narrowed, and he spoke, his voice low and hissing once more. "What sick twisted game is this you play? You... you..." He was profoundly at a loss for words, and it was that moment I heard a call from below, a worried sounding, "Rapunzel?" Oh, I knew why he worried. His brother's horse stood below my tower, and his brother was nowhere in sight. He knew where Hector was. What he was capable of.
But I didn't want him to know, not like this. I had no choice in the matter though, not when Hector clocked me soundly again and I felt dizzy where I lay. He stood and moved to the window, a dark expression on his face, and leaned out, tossing a rope he had brought with him down to Malcolm below.
"You call for your Rapunzel, dear brother, then by all means, come to her." His tone was nasty, and I knew he knew I had not told Malcolm yet. Maybe it was the fear in my eyes, the "no" on my lips that told him I did not want him to see me like this.
Hector laughed, a wicked sort of sound, as Malcolm kept climbing. I struggled to move, to cover myself, to hide. Something. Anything. But there was nowhere I could go, nothing I could do. And then Malcolm was there, expression angry, wary, worried.
Hector grinned at him. "Don't worry, brother. I haven't despoiled your precious princess. She's not exactly my type. I didn't realize she was yours." Savage words, verbal knives. I dropped my gaze, unable to meet Malcolm's eyes.
He, however, was staring at me; I could feel it. I could imagine the surprise melting away to horror or disgust at finding me out, knowing I lied to him, knowing I couldn't be Mother's perfect princess, or even Malcolm's bride because I was a boy. And then he knelt beside me, and I felt one strong hand on a shoulder bared by my torn dress, the other cupping my chin to lift my face. I struggled against it, refusing to meet his gaze, and he merely waited until I could look away no longer. I met those eyes, the same amber I'd imagined, and was struck speechless to see no hint of revulsion, anger or disgust, just incredulousness. The only words Malcolm could find to speak were, "Rapunzel... you're beautiful." They were spoken reverently, as if he were taken aback by my face and feature. I gaped stupidly at him, could do nothing as he leaned closer to me, closer still, and pressed the softest of kisses to my lips.
It was a perfect moment, warm and wonderful, and thus it would end too soon. It was a hiss, and the scream of sword being drawn that warned us and Malcolm grabbed me, and rolled as Hector's sword clanged down to the stone floor, and then Malcolm was off me, his sword drawn, amber eyes ablaze.
All my princess training went right out my tower window, and I scrambled to my feet, swearing in a manner no lady, and most gentlemen would not. Swords clanged and Hector advanced, menace in his tone. "You are a disgrace to your lineage. That person, that creature should be left here in this tower. Playing as woman. And you! To be so taken in, to still want that false being, to go so far as to kiss him!" His sword clashed hard against Malcolm's as with each bit of vitriol he spewed. And with each clang, he drove Malcolm back, his anger at me fueling his blows.
I let them fight, let them circle, let Hector put his back to me. He had dismissed me as a threat, woman or no, and that made him foolish and blind. I picked up the heaviest of my books, and swung, hard, at his head. He went down as hard as I had, and I stared at him, and then my book, in surprise. Malcolm gaped, recovered and rolled Hector over, his sword at his brother's throat. Eyes glittering like fire, Malcolm spoke in low tones. "Brother, it is you who are a disgrace. I - we are all sick of the way you treat others. To find the character of a man, you look not at how he treats his equals, but at how he treats his lessers, and thus I know you have no character of which to speak. You are cruel, you are selfish, and you are an unfit human being and it is this, not your being second-born, that keeps you from being king."
I still held my book as Malcolm spoke, and Hector snarled. I will not repeat the words he uttered, the names he called his brother. Malcolm seemed a strange cross between impassive and broken, and he finally spoke again. "Go, Hector. Leave here. Do not return home. I doubt any of us will be much overjoyed at your return." And he stood, removing his blade and his threat.
I thought it foolish, but I know Malcolm must have still loved his brother, loved him despite his faults, loved him enough to believe he wouldn't reach for his sword again the moment Malcolm's back was turned. Hector did not care so much for his younger brother. I screamed a warning to Malcolm, heavy book flying from my hands as if of its own volition. Hector dodged it this time, but that gave Malcolm the time to retaliate. The blow he struck not only opened a gash across Hector's chest - a shallow wound - bit it also caused him to stumble, lose his balance, and he toppled, unbelievably right out my lonely window. His scream echoed as he fell, and I covered my mouth in stunned shock as Malcolm raced to the window, as if he could save his brother. The sickening thud and abruptly cut off scream told us both otherwise.
I don't know how long I held Malcolm to my chest in comfort. I only knew it was after sunset when he lifted his head and looked at me. All he said was, "You let down your hair for him."
I shook my head vehemently. "No, no, Malcolm, you mustn't think that. I thought he was you - you sound so similar. I was going to let you up tonight... so I could tell you. Tell you the truth about me, all the lies my mother began, and I continued for her." I refused to cry, even now. Mother had not managed to breed that strength out of me. "I feared so much to tell you, feared you would be angry and leave, never speak to me again and yet, the thought of continuing to lie was worse still." I finally looked up, met his eyes. They were not angry, not hurt, not repulsed, not anything I had feared. I whispered then, the last I could say, "I did not mean for you to find out this way."
He spoke then. "Any way I found out would have been hard for you, and shocking to me." His gaze dropped to my still bared chest, flat as his, but far less muscled. He looked back at my face, my eyes, and continued. "I still find it hard to believe this face does not belong to a woman, though I can easily see how you passed for a lady all these years."
I let out the breath I had been holding in a shuddering rush and told him everything. How Mother tried to remake me, how this little game of hers became my life, how she dragged him - and his brothers - all unknowing into her play, just to fulfill her delusions.
He listened, stunned at my mother, and then told his own story, the real reason he had come to find me. The king his father had three sons, and while it should have been clear the eldest would take the throne, it was well within the rights of the younger brothers to challenge for the right. The victor would wear the crown. Richard was eldest, but Hector had grand illusions. The king recognized his ambition, but also his cruelty, and did not wish him to challenge his brother Richard. He knew Malcolm, the youngest, did not wish to rule, but would rather do so than have cruel Hector on the throne. The king feared a bloodbath between his sons, and he had no doubt Hector would kill both his brothers to ensure his right to rule. And then rumors came, rumors of a princess imprisoned in a tower, and the king had an idea The first to save the princess from her tower would win the throne. Hector would set out to do so, as would Malcolm and Richard, if only to prevent their brother's reaching me first.
I listened to Malcolm's tale with heavy heart, hearing his reasons for his quest. He must have seen it in my face for his own expression changed and he cupped my face in his hands. "Rapunzel, whatever my quest was when I set out, it is clear now. I will take you from this tower not to gain a kingdom, but to prevent your possible marriage to Richard, were he to find this tower... Because I want you. I don't care that your form is not what I thought it to be; it is you I cannot free from my mind." He laughed helplessly. "I am as caught by you as you are by your tower."
I fear I blinked stupidly at him for far too long, eyes wide, for I could not believe what he said. He wanted me, as I was, secrets revealed, knowing I was man, not woman, he still wanted me. I know I kissed him then, not the tender soft exploration he'd given me, but a kiss full of passion, full of everything I felt for him, and oh how he kissed in return. Sweet nothings whispered, my torn gown going to the floor, joined by his doublet and hose. Hands touched eagerly, curiously, unable to stop. I know I tensed more than once; I know not what oil or salve he used to ease his entry, but all pain, however brief, was soon forgotten, and we moved together, rising and falling like waves in the ocean, breathless cries rising as offerings to the night sky.
We fell asleep like that, tangled in each other's arms. It was only the loud howls of wolves nearby that woke us and Malcolm, with his still-caring heart, climbed down his brother's rope to cover his body with stones before the scavengers got him; his eyes were misty when he climbed back up, but he shed no tears. I bade him come back to my bed, let me feel his warmth beside me the rest of the night, and he did, and so we slept.
We were to be awoken unpleasantly.
--
Mother came too early the next day. I had no warning before I heard, "Rapunzel, Rapunzel, let down your hair," and my messy braid tugged me still naked to the window to permit her entry. "Malcolm, please, it is my mother! You must-" and I broke off for what was there to do? Where was there to go? And I had had enough of trying to be what Mother wanted. I let her climb, and Malcolm dress just enough to be decent, and gave me a sheet to wrap around myself.
The moment Mother climbed in the window she noticed my near nudity, so shocking at this "late" hour. And then she noticed Malcolm and her confusion at seeing two horses below my tower was cleared. I honestly did not understand the first few words she screeched, but the "trollop," "whore," and "slattern" she called next were woundingly clear. What she called Malcolm was no better.
I couldn't take it anymore. I stepped forward, and with no book, just open palm, struck her hard across the face. "Shut it, Mother. I cannot take any more of this, of you! Are you so angry because though my prince has found me, we were not wed in grand ceremony for you to parade your false princess around? Are you so selfish you cannot realize how miserable I have been for years, all my life, and that I am now finally happy? In your own twisted way, you have finally done me some right by him, and that is all the thanks you will ever get from me. Climb back down, Mother," and I showed her Hector's rope, for I was done letting her use me. "Go home. You have no daughter."
Malcolm stepped forward then, and pulled me close. "You never had a daughter. You had a beautiful son you could not appreciate for what he was, did not love as you should, did not treasure as I will. I will cut the ties that bind him to you." And he looked at me as if for permission and I gave it, nodding, and there in front of Mother's stunned eyes, he sliced off my braid, cut my hair to about my waist, still long, but too short to ever be bound by my mother again.
--
I suppose this is where I say we rode off into the sunset, back to Malcolm's home and Richard took the throne as we all wished, and we lived happily ever after. And why should I not? This is, after all, a fairy tale.