Blue Skies, Prompt #21: Gazing Forward (Tangled)
A flash of lightening illuminates the outline of her kneeling on the chair. She’s even smaller than usual all curled up and her bare feet are tucked under her white shift. Her eyes are as wide as saucers as she peers out the window, the rain painting rivulets upon her face in reflection.
He rolls onto his side and pats the bed. “Hey beautiful, come back to bed.”
Her fingers grip the windowsill as she enthuses softly, “I love the rain.”
This is more than rain: this is a storm. A noisy one, and it’s early in the morning and he’d rather be asleep. The only consolation is that he’s within these walls and not outside hunched under some rocky overhang getting soaked to the bone.
He hates the rain. It reminds him of soggy boots and hacking coughs that linger for months. The life of a dashing outlaw isn’t as glamorous as he sometimes makes it out to be when he’s entertaining his wife with stories.
He waits to see if she’ll abandon her post and then rolls onto his back once more, his arms flopping out wide at his side. “You only like the rain because you’ve never been caught out in it.” She’s danced in the rain and splashed in puddles, but she’s never been trapped in it without a choice. There’s a difference, which he knows from personal experience.
He casts a look at her sideways and sees her fingers playing with the iron latch on the window. “Don’t think about opening that.” There’s a chill in the air and he’s worried about more than just losing a night’s sleep if she gets herself wet.
“Don’t be so grumpy, Eugene.”
He’s seen her stick herself out a window before, arms stretched out with palms facing up to catch the rain as it fell. He imagines that’s how she experienced rain before. Before he stumbled upon her in her tower.
The thought makes him slide from the bed and come to watch the rain over her shoulder in silence, his hands resting on the back of her chair. A crack of thunder makes him wince inwardly though he remains outwardly composed, evoking memories like the stab of hunger after a couple of days of going without. Rapunzel, however, gazes forward transfixed.
That’s what’s saved her: her ability to stare things in the face and never look back, to take pleasure in the things that were denied her before without letting bitterness dampen her delight.
He reaches over her and unlatches the window before hefting it open. Raindrops immediately begin to spatter them, but they won’t be lingering here long enough for her to get wet. He scoops her up in his arms, and her hands clutch his shoulders as he pauses to kiss her brow.
“You’ll hear it better now,” he promises, as he strides back to their bed.
And perhaps he can think of things they can do to wile away the hours as the storm batters the palace’s walls and rain pours in through the window. Things which upon later reflection might make him as fond of the rain as she is.