Work Text:
Rapunzel ought to have grown up in this house.
She could hardly have imagined it. Waking to the smell of warm bread from the bakery. Leaving her bed to greet two happy, smiling parents. Playing outside with other children. She hadn’t known she’d had a brother, any more than he’d known he had a sister.
Mother had been her whole world. There might have been no one else in existence but the two of them. No brothers. No princes. Certainly no other parents, who might have missed Rapunzel or wondered what had become of her. And for a time, it had seemed like everything she could possibly desire.
The idea that she herself might be a mother someday had never seemed truly possible, not then. Even when she’d not been entirely sure how children came into being - it would make an odd bit of sense, she'd thought, if they grew in vegetable gardens - she’d supposed they must be found in the outside world, as she had once been. She had wanted nothing of that world, or at least of the picture of it Mother had painted for her.
And now, here she was, living in it. Living in a house much too small, with the children she’d never thought she’d have, the brother she’d never known she had, his own child he’d once nearly given up hope of ever seeing -
And then, there was Cinderella.
Rapunzel’s brother, she now knew, had always dreamed of being a father. He’d never expected it would be like this. Never thought he’d be doing it alone, without the woman he’d loved so long.
Rapunzel’s journey into motherhood had not been at all what she’d expected either. She'd once been unable to imagine herself as anything but a daughter, until meeting her prince called everything she'd known into question. With him, she'd thought, perhaps one day she could raise her own children - the way he looked at her made her feel as if she could do just about anything. At the same time, it had seemed being either daughter or mother meant spending life confined - to a tower, to a castle, it made little difference - something for which neither she nor her prince was at all eager. She’d thought she’d have time, that the two of them would, to see all the world, before returning to a little world of their own creation. She’d been wrong.
She’d thought she was dying when the pain came. She’d screamed until her throat was raw, sobbed with the agony and the terror as day turned to sunset and she lay alone and exhausted in the darkness, wishing she would die at last before the wolves came for her -
And then, at long last it was over, and she’d looked at the babies that had come from her, and a new wave of panic had risen within her.
I am no longer a child, she’d once insisted, but what if she’d been wrong, and Mother had been right, all along? How could she possibly shield these infants from the wolves, the giants, the witches of the world, if she could not even shield herself?
One evening she’d sat on her bed in her brother’s home, one screaming infant in her arms as the other wailed in his cradle, clearly needing her just as much. But Rapunzel hadn’t sufficient arms, or perhaps sufficient heart, she thought, or anything really, and she sat frozen, tears streaming down her cheeks -
And then, Cinderella had swept in, lifted the spare child into her arms and begun to sing a song Rapunzel had never heard before. And as Cinderella sang, as she rocked the child back and forth, he quieted, in a way they so rarely seemed to do for their own mother, or at least it felt that way. She should be happy, she supposed. She should be grateful. And yet still Rapunzel cried, could hardly bring herself to look at Cinderella, not then and not for days after.
She wished she could sing her own children to sleep that way. As it was, whenever she opened her mouth, it was all she could do not to scream.
She might try starting with something smaller. Something she hadn’t last done as she looked deep into the eyes of a prince now long-gone, and before that out at the view from the tiny window of her tower. She might try telling the children stories instead.
“Once upon a time…”
She trailed off. How should the story go?
“Once upon a time,” she tried again, “there lived a young maiden - a maiden in a tower, her hair yellow as corn…”
And she was lost again, for that beginning had led her to no more answers than the first.
When Rapunzel did manage to sleep, between the babies’ cries, it was never for long. She woke from dreams of Mother, of her clawed hands reaching from the darkness. Grasping for the children. Sometimes for her, too, dragging her back to the tower. Other times pushing her aside, for she had failed, hadn’t she, she had disobeyed. She woke not knowing which was worse.
“Once upon a time, in a far-off kingdom, there lived a handsome prince - “
How, Rapunzel wondered, was she to tell this story? There would be a point at which she would have to stop, surely, for the children’s sake. So their father could remain the handsome prince - charming, strong, courageous, and hers, hers alone.
Rapunzel had known nearly nothing of the parents she’d been born to, and had learned very quickly not to ask Mother. They’d been greedy, selfish, foolish people, Mother had said. Always taking, just like the rest of the world, everything you had until there was nothing more.
“But nothing,” Mother had said, “nothing in that world will ever take you from me, my Rapunzel. Never.”
Rapunzel’s children deserved a better world than that one, and she’d once hoped their father could give it to them even if she wasn’t sure she could. Her hopes had been in vain. They would only know their father as a story. If they were to have a better world, that would fall to her alone.
“A handsome prince, who one day heard the voice of a fair maiden, and chose to come to her aid…”
“What was she like?”
Cinderella turned towards Rapunzel. “Who do you mean?”
“Your mother.”
“She was the kindest woman anyone could ever have known,” Cinderella said. “To me, to Father, to all our friends and neighbors. When I was ill, she was there with soup and stories and warmth. If someone was in need, she did whatever she could, even if it meant she herself went without. She was generous and open and always, always forgiving.”
In other words, Rapunzel thought, the precise opposite of Mother.
Cinderella went on. “And then she got very sick. I still remember what it was like to see her then, lying in bed, so pale and small.” She seemed to take a moment to collect herself. “As much pain as she must have been in, Father broke before she did. He hardly moved himself, it seemed. Staring at the wall, not knowing what to do. So I thought of what Mother had told me. Be good, be kind, and always, always care for others. So I kept the fire going. I made their meals, though in those last days she only picked at hers. And I held her hand.”
Of course she had, Rapunzel thought bitterly. Of course Cinderella had always known what to do, known it all.
“She never wanted to leave me,” Cinderella said. “She never really did. Even when her - “ Her voice shook. “When the giantess destroyed her grave - I know she’s still here somewhere. I know it.”
Mother would have rolled her eyes at such foolishness. People die. Move on. But Rapunzel would do no such thing. Instead, she reached out and took Cinderella’s hand in both of hers.
Yet Rapunzel’s thoughts were elsewhere. Would I know, she wondered, if the woman who bore me all those years ago appeared to me? Cinderella truly believed such things were possible, and of all the things, there was no reason to disbelieve this one -
-but then, Rapunzel thought, where were you?
What is wrong with me, Mama?
Something must be wrong.
She could hardly tell her children her story, Rapunzel decided, until she knew the truth of it all.
“Do you remember her at all?” Rapunzel asked her brother. “Our mother?”
He shook his head. “Not really,” he said. “I was very young when she passed. I’m sorry.”
“Oh.” Rapunzel hadn’t been sure what she’d expected.
“But I think I know why you’re asking.” Rapunzel looked up at him. “When my son was born, I felt I needed someone to guide me too. It’s never easy. Not for any of us. Though I think in the end, we know more than we even realize.”
Rapunzel nodded. She had noticed her brother becoming more comfortable caring for his son in the time she’d been in the house, relying less on Cinderella’s help. She really did think things would work out for the two of them, as much as they could, anyway. As for herself, she still had no idea.
“But none of us are alone,” her brother went on. “I meant what I said, Rapunzel, you can stay here as long as you need. You’ve got me.”
She nodded again. “Thanks,” she said, still not sure she fully understood.
That night, Rapunzel’s dreams took her somewhere new.
A woman stood before her. A woman with hair as yellow as corn, cheeks that perhaps had once been rosy and eyes that might once have shone with joy. Rapunzel knew at once who this woman must be.
“Mama?”
“Rapunzel,” the woman whispered. Was that fear in her eyes? “Is it really you?” She stared in apparent shock. “You - you’ve grown so.” She took a step towards Rapunzel.
Rapunzel stepped back. “Where were you?”
She seemed to hesitate. “You know where I was, my love,” she said. “The grief of losing you - my body simply couldn’t stand it. It destroyed me.”
“If that’s so,” Rapunzel said, “why did you never speak to me until now?”
“It hurt too much to look upon you,” the woman said. “Knowing you were locked away in that tower - and all for what I’d done - I told myself you were better off without me.”
“I never was,” Rapunzel said. “I needed you.” Tears welled up in her eyes. “I need you now.”
“I’m here now,” her mother said. “And I always will be.”
She held out her arms, and Rapunzel rushed forward into her embrace - one not of possession, but of love - and she let the tears fall.
When she awoke, Rapunzel looked upon her children, and she made them a promise.
She could never be perfect. She could never be everything. Could never be, perhaps should not try to be, all their world, as Mother had been hers.
But she would never turn her back on them. When they needed her, there she would be, because that was better than not to be.
“Why are you still here?”
Cinderella looked up from her dusting, startled. “What do you mean?”
It was hardly fair, Rapunzel knew, that Cinderella cleaned the little house from top to bottom while she, Rapunzel, hid away and cried. But when Rapunzel tried to help, her hands shook so hard she burnt herself at the stove and one of their few dishes shattered on the floor.
“Nobody enjoys cleaning,” Rapunzel said. “And I’d have thought you in particular would want nothing to do with it ever again.”
Cinderella set the duster down. “You mustn’t take this the wrong way,” she said. “But I do worry about your brother. And his son.”
“About what?”
“The look in his eyes as he realized he’d be raising that child motherless - “ She shook her head. “I’d seen it before. And I knew what came after.”
Rapunzel thought she knew what Cinderella was getting at. Still, she wasn’t quite satisfied. “Do you ever want to go out and see the world?”
“Do you?”
Not long ago, she would have answered yes with hardly a second thought. Not long before that, she’d have said no with just as much conviction. Now?
Perhaps that big world was simply too much, and she was only fit for a little one. If not the tower, then this house, for as long as her brother would have her. And yet, whether or not it was true, she didn’t want it to be.
“I asked first,” Rapunzel said. “You took a chance in attending that festival. You lived in a palace. You’re not telling me this little home is all you want now.”
“That festival,” Cinderella said, “was the beginning of a marriage that ended in disaster.” She sighed. “I thought I finally knew what I wanted. That he was my happily ever after. But since then, I’ve realized I’ll be perfectly all right without him, because it was never truly about him at all.”
Rapunzel’s prince had promised her the world. He’d rescued her, and she’d rescued him in return - and then, he’d left her behind, just as Mother had always warned. Who out there, she’d said, could love you more than I? Perhaps she’d been right. Perhaps it was not Mother, not the tower that had sealed Rapunzel’s loneliness, but merely the way of the world. None out there would ever care for her.
Except it wasn’t true. She had a brother. She had another mother, even beyond the grave. She had two beautiful children, who might love her even if she was at times unsure.
And then, there was Cinderella.
“What was it about?” Rapunzel asked.
“I wanted to be free of them,” Cinderella said. “My stepmother and sisters.” She seemed to hesitate, fidgeting with her dress. “And I’m glad never to see them again.” She almost looked shocked at what she’d said. “Since I’ve come here… you and your brother and these children have felt more like family to me than they ever were.”
Family. A word which Rapunzel’s feelings towards had risen and fallen with her feelings towards Mother. But that wasn’t all it had to be.
“I’ve seen more of the world already than I ever thought I’d see, or wanted to,” Rapunzel said. “And yet I do hope to one day see more.” She paused. “If it isn’t too much.”
“That is something only you can know,” Cinderella said. “And there is still so much for us both to see. And it isn’t all palaces and princes, of course, any more than it is houses and babies and scrubbing.”
They sat in silence for some moments. Then, Rapunzel heard a soft laugh from Cinderella. She turned towards her. “What is it?”
“You know,” Cinderella said, “a part of me’s always wanted a sister.”
“Once upon a time, in a far-off kingdom, there lived a young maiden, a widowed baker with his son, and a new mother with her babes.
“Once upon a time, they found themselves in the woods. The way was dark. The light was dim.
“But always, there was a way.
“And always, there were others to help them each light it.”