A/N (2015): Rapunzel was originally conceived as self-contained short story, written in 2008 for Livejournal's 78 tarot community. The prompt was the Three of Swords (meanings: painful separation, loneliness, heartbreak, rejection, sadness, betrayal and grief).

The story started with an idea. A love triangle between Dark Ace, Piper, and Aerrow - then it dived headlong into the realm of the Brothers Grimm. I'm enjoying this story, and I hope, dear readers, you will too.

CHAPTER ONE
Rapunzel

And he won't leave her behind.

He hated the thought, but he was afraid of losing her. He was thirty-five, turning thirty-six at the end of the month, and already he could feel his marriage crumbling like pieces of soft cheese between his gloved fingers. He wanted to keep her, shelter her from all the harm in the world that made him a bitter and jaded man, and yet he could not protect her from the metaphorical demons that resided within her heart. They were shadows that preyed on the darkness of his soul, and he often wondered if it was his own doing which made her unhappy.

She wasn't like this when she turned twenty-one. She had been, and always will be, younger compared to him. Three years ago, their age difference didn't matter as long as she looped her arm around his pro-offered elbow as they walked freely in public, making her decision known. He had been the happiest man alive, and gloated over the fact that the beloved Storm Hawk was his.

Everyone thought she would choose Aerrow. Even he thought she would choose her squadron leader over a washout like him. He had been good in his day, but even legends faded with the new kid in town. The sun set on his time, and the red days of Cyclonia had long since been buried under the charcoal dust.

He knew he was losing her. Her bubbly laughter which kept his heart pumping became weaker and weaker with every year they tried. He tried to convince her nature decided it wasn't their time, but her amber eyes turned to his and without saying a word, challenged him to repeat what she loathed to hear.

The love she offered him, the blue-haired child he willingly took to his home – his obsession.

When the mechanical alarm flickered ten o'clock at night, she'd rise from their bed and pretend she needed a glass of water. This habit of hers, wandering the house aimlessly with her arms clutched around her body as if all the rooms were freezing cold - it chewed at his brain. It was the makings of a madwoman. To make matters worse, she didn't wear her matching bathrobe and shunned slippers; allowed her feet to come in contact with the hardwood floor.

More often, he felt like a cradle robber than a husband. No self-help book could solve their problems, and he disregarded the written word of old university professors anyways. Those doctors couldn't relate with the burden he carried every day, the weight of a social outcast who unwittingly fell in love with a woman who once was half his age. They didn't have the right to say marital problems were common when a couple were having difficulties conceiving. They had been soldiers fighting on opposite ends of the war. Injuries were inevitable.

He wanted to blame Snipe for the accident that tore her womb. That, or his own ineptitude to consult a medical professional to discern whom was the responsible party.

It was easier to blame himself. After all, he had been the murderer and she was just a casualty. A woman of her youth should have no problem; no, none at all. To him, she was perfect in every possible way. His devotion to her used to make his shoulders sag (You're not the type to fall in love.) and brought forth recollections of better times when he used to be the most feared pilot of Atmosia's skies. His need to stay with her preceded all other thoughts, and he was only glad Master Cyclonis was no longer breathing to witness the day he left the Talons for a new kind of freedom. (He prayed for the girl, May you rest in peace.)

Falling in love with his future bride was akin to cutting out his soul and serving it on a silver platter. He was no paragon, but he was rich and influential. He despaired to think she married him for a material life. She was neither petty nor superficial to succumb to that level of illusion.

She deserved to be happy, to live out her days in the best possible circumstances. It would be oh-so-easy to cast off their civil wedding and label it a farce. Nobody wanted to preside over the ceremony of such a mismatched couple. In the end, it had been a Blizzarian by the name of Suzy-Lu who joined their hands in union. Nobody had spoken out, but he could feel the glare of enemy eyes as they walked down the streets with their matching bands.

Money was not an issue; he could have thrown her a grand garden party with white rice and ivory pillars. For her, he would have invited her adopted family and possibly all the existing Sky Knights, but she declined, and said what was truly important were the vows.

She had been happy then, and he publicly swore to do his best to live up to her expectations.

She was a woman now, in every way he desired, but sometimes her psyche would drift into lakes of despair and she'd regress into an unhappy child. It was foolish to believe his sole purpose these days was for the welfare of her mind, but by god, he would do anything for her. An unequal trade to be sure: someone like her for someone like him.

He would do anything to keep her.

If he were a better man, he might have convinced Aerrow to seduce her and finally lay to rest the rift between the Storm Hawks and himself.

The thump of her heels against the floor alerted him - she was awake and wandering again. Throwing the sheets off his clothed torso, he slid his feet into a pair of warm slippers and followed her footsteps. He didn't have to go far. She stood near the closed bedroom door, her silhouette framed by the filtered light that spilled over from the hallway. Both her forehead and palms were pressed against the wall in an act of surrender. Down on the carpet, the faint shimmer of orange juice in a tall glass caught his eye. It was half full.

Wordlessly, he stood behind her and started kissing the nape of her neck. Soft, butterfly kisses whose wings fluttered for three seconds before they wilted away and died. Everything was decaying around them, and he hoped to the gods it didn't have to be so. She was becoming a hollow shell. Inhaling through his nose, he caught the whiff of baby power and fried eggs. She must've been cooking in the kitchen again. More strange rituals between them, as if serving breakfast near midnight had the power to realize her dreams.

Slipping one of his hands underneath her knees, he carried her back to bed in bridal style and tucked her in. He pulled her back close to his chest and felt his heart break as she quietly sobbed into the pillows. He attempted to circulate the blood in her cold and clammy hands by rubbing circles over her skin. Shared body warmth. Her whimpers gradually lessened and a dreamless sleep overtook her. He stayed awake all night as her personal bodyguard.

He thought.

His greatest fear was to lose her.

Aerrow wanted her so bad.

He could not be her knight in shining armour, but knew something of fairy tales. There was a story about a couple who yearned for a fruitful womb, and only by consulting the witch who lived next-door in a walled garden could their wish be granted. For three months, the woman ate the witch's enchanted lettuce. The downside to the entire tale was the price they paid.

Replace the vegetable with miraculous fertility crystals, the garden for the Wastelands, and it was the same story. He would seek the lava forests for the witch who hid in the black caves, and sell his soul if it meant giving his wife the child she so desired. Even if the crone he spoke of was the mother of his deceased master, even if the hooded woman with sunken eyes killed her own daughter.

He kissed the soft skin of his beloved's shoulder, the final act of a desperate and hopeless man.