𝗙𝗔𝗜𝗥𝗘𝗦𝗧 . . . Disney Villains

mother gothel

- mother gothel -

A family faces their death.

The forest floor thundered, hundred hooves trampled over brittle branches and misplaced river stones. Thick claps of dirt flung over tangled manes and remains of the palace carriage. Some of the rubble finding its way right into the belly of Arabian horses.

Horses, huge beasts they were. Their screams grew desperate without the ropes of the kingdom coachman leading their every move. Those stallions had feigned ignorance that the ropes they came accustomed to, has wrapped itself on the man that held them. The man that dangled lifeless on the sides of the reckless ride.

The mother knew the constant beats on her carriage doors weren't from the bulk branches the forest had to offer. No, it was not that. It was a dead man, a dead friend.

She cups her mouth shut, gushing tears idly slipping off of her cheeks and on to the collar of her torn dress. Her other hand gently lulled a petrified child. Quiet had they been. Too worry of a silence.

In her last attempt to bring solace, the woman swaddled her child in the crook of her arms and braced herself for their very own demise.

The beasts outside rampaged. Swift, impulsive turns unscrewed the last remaining bolts on the carriage wheels. A deafening crack of twisted metal and wood had been the last of her evocation, before they plummeted to the ground.

Then, the horses became silent.

. . .

Away from the capital city, was a witch.

She walked through the mangled guts of winding vines and heavy rivers. A small woven basket in hand, she sauntered along the trails of the forest, a hard line prominent on her painted lips. 

The heart of her hearth, no mere mortal seeks in such places like these. A dead man's curve was the witch's treasure cove.

To what may seem as dour and bleak, hiding behind shadows of weightless creatures, was her merriment. Nobody could tell the youthful woman how to turn around and leave. This is where her heart pounded most.

Gothel was her name. And she was proud to be the ageless crone.

A crone bound to cease the bondage of aging through one simple flower. A flower with an equal beauty bestowed upon her in every hit of a distinct melody. A lullaby given by gods. She sought it day after day. Midnight when she feels lucky. But no matter how many times she comes back, nothing ever stays.

Until one faithful full moon. The witch entered the forest, vision only fueled by a flickering candle flame, and walked where her feet led her. The same path she takes, the same path carved by her own feet in times when she comes back. The same path that led to a gleaming flower.

Though, instead of honing in its powers, she sang the song and cut one sleeve off of its root. The seeds lay bare, ripped apart, as the witch prepared to dance. The flower did not cripple and wilt, for it danced with her.

Gothel planted those seeds. And with them, grew every sun-dropped flower. It gleamed and it glowed, spreading far and wide. Thus the witch kept it all to herself.

She brew to the very last drop. And she drank each pulp those sprouting seeds had to offer. The song became a whisper, quickly forgotten when her botany thrived for the better. Days turned restless, yet all came with a price. A very cunning price.

The price of unending youth.

Her replenished complexion became permanent. She prides herself with the achievement and now she struts the cobblestone walkways as if it's the last thing she'll ever do.