I sink into a low curtsy, cursing the superiors I bow to with each breath. Then I rise, pasting a gentle and natural smile to my lips. “How can I be of service, your highness,” I say with a velvet voice, my hands hovering at my sides.
“The queen is ill,” the king says to me, scrubbing a hand over his face. He is slouched in his throne of gold, and the room is empty save for the both of us.
“I have heard the rumors,” I respond with unsympathetic undertones. “Is there anything I can do in your time of distress?” I offer, eyes wide and eyebrows quirked.
“Yes,” the king says with a start, launching from his throne. “I have also heard the rumors. That you are in possession of a magic of sorts.” The king fiddles with his hands, imitating his offensive view of how magic is created. “You can heal my queen.”
“For once, the rumors are true, it seems,” I muse, watching the king slowly.
“You must heal her,” the king pleads. He stands before me, a mere foot away. He is unwavering, and he banishes all hints of pleading from his voice.
“All magic comes with a price,” I begin, gracefully sliding my waist length, effortlessly wavy hair over my shoulder. “Magic such as this . . . the price would be immense,” I continue.
“Whatever price, it must be paid,” the king says. Then, in a hushed voice, he whispers, “The queen is with child. The heir to the throne could die along with her.” I am silent for a few moments. The royal heir. Saving the life of the royal heir. A deal such as that is much preferable over saving the life of a queen who is secretly dying behind closed doors to—as I could only assume—the plague or another illness of the sort.
“The price inflicted upon me will be harsh,” I say as the king returns to his throne. “I will do what I can to help save the life of your queen.” The king’s calm facade melts and his shoulders slump.
“Thank you, Gothel. Your kindness—” the king begins.
“However, I ask of you one favor. To be paid at any time. It will be something within your capabilities, I assure you,” I continue. “But I can ask anything of you, and you must comply.” The king pauses at this, mulling over my deal. He is apprehensive and unsure. “I may not ask anything so dire,” I add with a laugh. “I could ask for a satchel of gold, or an embroidered dress made by the queen’s seamstress.”
I am then still, knowing to not push my luck. If the king accepts my deal, he must do it willingly.
“Deal,” the king says, his voice a gossamer rumble.
“I’ll pen it to paper,” I say as I waltz from the throne room. “At daybreak tomorrow I’ll return for the deal to be complete.” I ignore the king’s farewells and take my time exiting the castle. Guards flick furtive glances in my direction. I ignore them as well.
?????
In the early morning daylight, I return to the castle. Tucked under my arm is a gilded box. My hands are stained with the black ink now belonging to the contract, and I hide my fingertips beneath the swooping sleeves of my carefully selected dress.
The guards at the castle entrance know better than to refuse me, and open the castle’s doors with a swooping flourish, their heads bowed. I quite like their heads bowed. Perhaps as a favor I will ask the king to grant the throne to me. I could be a leader unlike any before. More powerful than any before.
In the throne room the king is waiting, his eyes strained and hair disheveled. As I enter, I crease my brows in worry while sinking into a low curtsy.
“The queen has taken a turn for the worse,” the king says as the room clears. “Let us complete this transaction swiftly. There is no time.” I nod as the king leads me to a table stretched out before the thrones; I set the box upon it, and lift the top open. Then I pull out the rolled up contract, a thick vial filled with a life saving potion, and a single quill with a thin supply of red ink. I dip the quill in the ink and lavishly sign my name upon the contract.
The king plucks the quill from my hand and does the same. My smile is, for once, genuine. I have bested the king.
“When you come to call upon your favor,” the king says, “tell the guards ‘nightmare,’ as a reference to the nightmare that has ended. They will let you in, day or night.” I nod as the king snatches the vial from the table and dashes off, fleeing towards his queen. I pinch the contract between my fingers and begin my own exit, returning to my home just beyond the edges of town.
There I will wait.
?????
The day the princess is born, celebration is imminent and suffocating. Every street in every town is dancing and smiling. When the queen was saved and news of her pregnancy spread like wildfire, delicacies and fine wines were tucked away. Lavish dresses and dainty dancing shoes had begun to be crafted.
Now I stand amidst it all. People swirl and twirl around me, fluttering the silk skirts of my pale red dress. The spring air teases the flowers I have weaved into my auburn hair, entertwined in braids and curls. Today will be my day.
Traveling to the castle takes time. More time than I allotted myself. When I near the castle gate, I begin sweetly mewing the word ‘nightmare.’ I am led into the castle, then into the throne room with no objections from any party.
The king sits precariously upon his throne, a small bundle wrapped in silks. The queen sits to his side, in her own throne, pale and exhausted from labor. Her face is flushed; she and the king must have rushed to the throne room in order to meet me. As the king catches sight of me, he hands the bundle to his wife and strides towards me.
“What is your favor?” the king asks urgently, leaving no time for delay.
“I wish for you to gift me something,” I say. The king relaxes, sending a reassuring smile back to his wife. No doubt she did not approve of the king’s deal with me.
“What do you desire? A dress, a dozen dresses? A pile of gold? Lands? Jewelry?” The king asks me, waving his hands as he speaks. I sigh and take a sidestep before slowly walking around the throne room.
“What I truly desire, you cannot give me,” I begin. “What I wish I could ask of you, you could not reasonably hand to me.”
“You would be surprised what I am capable of. What do you truly desire?” the king asks me, almost insulted that I believed little of him. That I would think the king incapable of certain riches.
“I want your crown,” I say, watching him. The king hesitates.
“Then it’s your—” the king begins, uncomprehending.
“The kingdom. I want to be queen,” I hiss. The king pales as the queen stands up, frail on her feet.
“He does not own the crown,” the queen shouts, clutching her baby to her chest. “I am queen by birthright, he is king by marriage.” The queen sits down gingerly, energy spent in defending her husband.
“Precisely,” I comment. “I cannot reasonably ask for the crown, nor the kingdom. However, I can ask for another form of power.”
“A secure and wealthy marriage? More riches than you could ever imagine? A title and lands?” the king guesses, watching me with mild panic in his eyes. I imagine the thought of gifting me a stable position at court sends nightmares echoing throughout his skull and shivers galloping down his spine.
“No.” I pause, coming to stand before the king. “I want your daughter.”
“No. Never. You will never have my daughter,” the king hisses in my face. The king's response is immediate and hostile; the queen is stunned into shocked silence. She pulls her child closer to her chest.
“But I will. I get one favor. My favor is this: gift me your daughter to raise as my own. Relinquish all claims as her father, and hand her to me,” I say slyly, extending my arms in a welcoming embrace.
“I refuse your favor. Guards!” the king shouts in response. As guards rush into the room from unseen places, I speak calmly.
“This is now your choice, your highness. Either hand your daughter over to me, or your queen will die. If you back out of the deal, the antidote will become ineffective, reverting your queen to the state she was before consuming it. Your daughter will wither and die along with your wife.” The queen begins choking, the deal working its purpose. Between gags, the queen whispers soft objections and gasps for breath.
Then the king gingerly lifts his daughter from his wife’s loving, trembling arms, plants a kiss upon both of their delicate foreheads, holds his daughter close. Then the guards are releasing their hold on my arms and the girl is handed to me. The queen quits her choking and dissolves into ragged sobs.
“The deal is done,” I say, striding away from the king and queen. The guards stand idle, unable to do a thing. As I leave the castle, the child begins softly wailing.
“Shh . . . shh,” I say, holding the girl close. I step down from the palace steps and into the oblivious, joyous crowds. “It will all be okay, my dear. . . my Rapunzel.” I silently laugh at the name, which was once a taunt thrown my way in childhood; as I had always hid from orphanage matrons in a field of flowering rapunzel.
I carried her through the crowds, victorious. I have bested the king.