Page 17 of Rapunzel's Outlaw Orc
All this time…
“Oh, gods,” I whisper. “Why didn’t I see it sooner?”
Chapter 8
Rapunzel
I pace, arms wrapped tight around myself as I piece everything together. A thousand little memories cascade through me. Every time I felt tired for no reason. Every day I sat by the window, listless and aching. Every time Gothel told me it was normal, that magic was supposed to feel like that. All the questions she never answered and the distractions she put in front of me.
“I swallowed every one of her lies,” I whisper. “I should’ve asked more questions. I knew I was tethered, but—” I reach out with a trembling hand and touch the wall. “This is my prison. My hair is the anchor. The roots are the shackles. And my loneliness is the lock. This whole tower… It’s not a building. It’s abody. Mine.”
Dear gods, who am I?Whatam I?
Brannock steps toward me. “You didn’t know.”
“Ishouldhave,” I say fiercely. “I should’ve questioned it. Ifeltthe pull. Saw the signs. But I believed her… believed when she said she was protecting me. Keeping me safe. That she chose me. That I was loved.” I start pacing again. “I have to leave. I have to cut my hair. Burn it. Anything.”
Brannock reaches for me as I pass. His arms come around me, strong and warm, and I collapse against his chest, tears pouring down my face.
“We’ll find a way out, Rapunzel,” he promises, tilting my face up and brushing away my tears with his enormous thumbs. “Together.”
“Will we?” I ask, desperately wanting to believe him, but how can I? My body is a temple, imprisoning me. And the person who swore she was protecting me likely whispered my pain into existence.
“On my life, I swear it,” he vows, and I almost believe him. “When will Gothel come?”
“Three more days.”
He nods. “We need to be prepared. She won’t be expecting me. We need a plan,” he says, moving away, all steely resolve now. “If she climbs in, I want you behind me. If she stays below, we control the window.”
“Control the window,” I echo dryly, gesturing at the living wall of hair that does whatever it wants. “By all means.”
“First, we clear the floor.” He starts shifting furniture: table to the wall, chair under the mirror, my basket tucked behind the stove. He moves like a general going into battle but thinks like a strategist, making paths, testing angles, checking for places where roots could burst through. I trail after him with a broom, mostly for moral support.
“Signal words,” he says. “If I saydown, you drop. If I sayhide, you get behind the stove. If I sayretreat?—”
“—we surrender and beg for mercy?”
His mouth quirks. “You retreat to the bed wall.”
We take an inventory: an obsidian blade, a spear with a patched linen wrap, a dented pot-lid shield, a kettle, three cups, a length of ruined sheet masquerading as rope, and a bit of chamomile soap because... why not?
We do drills. He calls, I move. My dress swishes, and the roots twitch like gossiping snakes. When I try to breathe through the panic, he puts a broad palm on my back—steady weight, no pressure—and counts me through it until my lungs remember how.
“Again,” he says gently.
I do it.
When we pause for tea, the kettle whistles like it’s trying to warn us off this entire endeavor. I pour with trembling hands. Brannock takes his cup and drinks like it’s medicine. I wrap mine in both palms and pretend the heat is courage.
“She’ll know,” I say, staring into the steam. “She always knows when I’ve broken a rule.”
He studies me. “How?”
“I don’t—” I stop. The pendant hums, soft as a cat’s purr, and I rub the amethyst absently. “I don’t know.”
His emerald gaze holds mine. “If she threatens you, I won't wait. I’ll move first.”
“And if she threatensyou?” I demand.
