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Merida’s hair is untamable like the rest of her—a swirl of vibrant, unapologetic red. It spills over Rapunzel’s palms in a torrent of twists and curls, unending, so bright she’s half sure if she closed her eyes it would be there still; a stubborn afterimage that burns through the darkness, like a sunset that refuses to leave.
“Are you sure about this?” Rapunzel asks again, fully aware she is stalling. The princess of DunBroch is nothing if not decisive.
Merida holds something out over her shoulder in lieu of answering. Rapunzel blinks—a flash of reflected sunlight—and realizes it’s a hunting knife. The blade glints between the gaps of Merida’s fist, its carved handle aimed toward her.
Rapunzel bites her lip, watching the knife. Wondering, not for the first time, if Merida truly understands the severity of what she is asking. Rapunzel might still be a novice when it comes to the ways of the court, but it doesn’t take an expert to know that Merida’s wish will have repercussions. Can she face the outcome of her choice?
(But then again—)
Rapunzel considers the straightness of the princess' back, and chews her lip some more. Tries to remember what she has witnessed of Merida herself, who navigates through the royal court with a warrior’s tenacity and a diplomat’s shrewdness, who knows and loves herself with a conviction so unshakeable it makes Rapunzel breathless.
(And, well. Who is Rapunzel to stand in the way of that?)
Furthermore, it's clear now that Merida trusts her. Enough so that she is comfortable to be with Rapunzel like this: alone, back open and lending away her own weapon.
Rapunzel knows she will break something far greater and precious than the common decorum if she denies her this.
Mistaking Rapunzel’s silence for rejection, Merida breathes in and tightens her grip on the blade. Rapunzel gasps at that, worried the skin will break and blood will burst forth, the only kind of red she loathes to see on Merida, and is about to take the weapon away when Merida breathes out, rushed but clear—
“Please. You’re the only one I would ask.”
The lines of Merida’s body go taut, like she just spat out something raw and awful and is waiting for Rapunzel to react. The pressure on the steel is gone now, but the fire persists anyway, her hold on the knife all twitchy and impatient. So there you have it, the jut of her wrist seems to say. This is not a command. Are you doing this with me or not?
Rapunzel’s hands, which—she just now realizes—are nervously twisting the ends of Merida’s hair, stills. This acquaintanceship of theirs is brand new in a way that baffles her, something that is uncharted unlike the stars and beating unlike the flowers on her windowsill; Merida the most confusing subject she’s ever had to learn. This rare honesty of hers feels like a breakthrough, one that makes Rapunzel confident enough to finally take the blade; heartened by Merida’s openness and the realization that they are a lot more similar than they seem.
Perhaps, Merida is careless about her hair for the same reason Rapunzel used to be careful about hers. And perhaps, this haircut holds the same meaning for her, too. A leap. An unchaining.
Freedom.
“Okay,” Rapunzel says, soft, turning the knife so the sharp edge rests against Merida’s curls. “Okay, I’ll do it.”
When it’s all over, Rapunzel stares at the rare sight of Merida's bared nape and all the gilded red scattered over her own skirt, and faintly thinks, like driving a knife through a tapestry.
Merida’s snort—apparently she has said her thoughts out loud—helps Rapunzel to shake off her anxiety over this little rebellion. She quickly reminds herself that she has no say over the other royal's decision, and that she is helping her, even if all it looks like right now is her undoing something beautiful.
(She really, really likes the princess' wild mane.)
Merida, on the other hand, has no such qualms about her fallen hair. After taking back her knife with a quiet thank you lassie, she gathers the sheared-off curls and nicks at them repeatedly until they’re reduced to a mountain of very short red strands.
“For the wee birdies,” She says at Rapunzel’s confused stare.
“The birds?”
“Aye, you cast them to the winds so they can use them for their nests.”
And then, the princess pauses and says, with something like shyness behind her blue gaze—
“Want to come and do it with me?”
Merida's shortened curls frame her face like lantern fire, the tilt of her chin awkward like she’s still not used to asking for something without an undercurrent of a challenge.
A hush of understanding settles on Rapunzel, and her worries about the court and fellow nobles’ reactions all but dissipate. Something warm and bubbling rises in its place, a feeling that is too big to be expressed by mere laughter, but Rapunzel does anyway.
“Of course!”
So this is what the start of friendship feels like.