Solanum Dulcamara

Prologue: There Are Secrets in the Night

It is night.

In a far off land, a lone bird soars over a sleeping countryside, its sleep body momentarily blotting out small clusters of stars as it passes them. The night is dark and moonless, and it seems as if the entire world is frozen in time. Not even a gentle breeze disrupts the stillness; not a single leaf breaks free from a branch and flutters away from its companions, or even rustles. Indeed, the forest below the bird is completely silent, and a human onlooker would probably describe it as eerie. Luckily, birds are much less agitated by quietude than people typically are, and it glides peacefully on, to a destination known only to the creature itself.

Eventually, the trees thin out, and the surrounding landscape becomes one of the gently sloping hills, blanketed with long blades of wild grass like hopeful arms reaching up to try and catch the stars that bestrew the otherwise empty sky above. It is beautiful, indubitably so, but the bird is (so unlike that the fanciful mind of a human) unaffected by the sight, and simply continues along at a steady pace.

Soon, it reaches yet another scene, though this time, it is made by man instead of nature. Nestled between a collection of hills that it is just beginning to spill over the crests of lies a little village; a cluster of cozy little houses and shops, complete with an assortment of both cobblestone and dirt roads. Even here, it is completely tranquil, although if the bird were to fly lower it would undoubtedly hear soft snores emanating from within the surrounding buildings. Not that it matters, as the bird does not stray from its path.

The main road of the village, a wide ribbon of painstakingly-lain cobblestone, continues off into the hills even past the last building along it, and, likely by mere coincidence, the bird follows it. The road snakes over a few more hills until, just when it seems it will stretch on forever and into oblivion, it widens out so as to match the breadth of a massive pair of gates that stands halfway up a particularly large based hill.

Connected to these gates is an even more prodigious stone wall, easily thirty feet tall, which forms a large circle that encloses an enormous property, encompassing almost the entirety of the large hill, as well as a good portion of the flatter land surrounding it. But of course, it is not the size of the area that makes it so impressive, but the building on it.

It is a castle, in every sense of the word. As one would expect such a structure to be, it's massive- bigger than anything most people will likely ever see in their entire lives, and made of bricks of a fortune's worth of imported white marble, of all things, which would normally reflect the moonlight and create the illusion of almost glowing in the dark. Tonight, though, with only the stars as illumination, it looks much more worldly, though still breathtaking in its architecture.

The main part of the building is triangular, with the broad side facing the gates and sporting a set of huge wooden doors, carved with intricate, vine-like patterns that, despite being clearly ancient, look newly touched up. A trio of tall spires sprout up from the corners of it and climb even higher than the defensive wall, so high that the bird has to swerve so as not to crash into one as it passes them.

The grounds behind the castle are just as ostentatious. Here lies a garden, filled with seemingly every variety of flower in existence, and clearly just for show, as produce is, of course, delivered by wagon from the village. It's a beautiful place, with slate walkways creating a maze of pathways through the brightly-colored fauna, and stone benches scattered about near the most visually appealing arrangements.

A dirt path, appearing to have been worn into the ground by years of heavy boots frequenting it, leads away from the garden and towards a small, round cottage. And it is above this cottage that, as the bird gracefully flaps its wings, a single tail feather breaks free and flutters down towards the ground, passing one of the windows as it does so.

And it is through that window that there is evidence, although not even the bird will ever discover it, that the world is not, in fact, completely still, as although every lamp in the cottage has been snuffed out for the night, the flame of a single, lit candle casts shadows on the walls, which seem to move with the dancing flame.

As it turns out, the world is not completely silent, either, as a hushed rustling noise sounds from inside the room as well. Indeed, beside that candle stands a man, though only his silhouette is visible in the dark. And on the table in front of him is a leather bag, which serves as the source of the rustling noise as the man swiftly packs various items into it. In goes a spare tunic, a pair of socks, a hat, half a loaf of bread, and...

The man's hand halts momentarily, hovering over the next item lined up on the table: a simple kitchen knife, most of its shine gone from years of use cutting vegetables, but still functional, and recently sharpened. He gazes down at it, his chest rising and falling with a single, contemplative breath, before grabbing the handle and shoving it into the bag. Without further ado, the man pulls the bag closed and is halfway through swinging it over his shoulder when he freezes at the sound of a drowsy voice on the other side of the room, where a small bed is positioned against the wall.

"Dad?" the floorboards creak as the owner of the voice, a wide-eyed young boy, gets out of bed and continues to watch his father curiously, "are you... going somewhere?"

The man sighs, running a hand through his hair. He kneels down in front of the boy so they are eye level, although the child is almost tall enough that he doesn't need to do so anymore. "It's not safe here for me anymore," he replies, clearly at a loss when trying to explain his predicament without worrying his son, "I have to go."

"But it's safe for me?" the boy argues, crossing his skinny arms over his chest ADVERB.

The man sighs again and rests his hands on the boy's shoulders. "You'll be alright. The prince likes you, and the... the people that are after me have no quarrel with you."

"But who are they?" the boy persists, "you're not explaining anything!" His voice is climbing in pitch, and he is clearly distressed at the thought of losing his father.

"I can't tell you that," the man says, "all you have to understand is that I can't stay here." He stands up and starts towards the door.

The boy is silent for a few seconds, and it is only as his father begins to swing the door open that he speaks again, his voice trembling. "Will... will you be back? Once whoever it is goes away?"

The man doesn't return his son's gaze as he replies with a simple, gruff, "Maybe," in a tone that really means "probably not." Then, without another word, he steps out into the brisk night air, and the door eases closed behind him.

The boy stares after him for a moment, not quite comprehending the gravity of what just happened. Then, he climbs back under the covers and shuts his eyes. Soon, the only evidence that there was ever any movement in the cottage at all is the single flame of the candle, which both the hurried man and the confused boy forgot to snuff out.

The world is, once again, still.

~

Soooooo... hi? I'm gonna keep this short because I'm pretty sure no one actually reads super long author's notes but hi. I'm Emma. How's life.

I sort of actually didn't read this at all after I wrote it, so pls tell me if you find any mistakes, or even to suggest revisions/improvements. I pretty much use this account to post stories when I first write them, and then I edit/revise stuff and put them on other accounts. Or at least, that's what I'm planning on doing. I'm not too good at actually finishing stories. Oops.

Hah I said I'd keep this short and its like 200 words long. Story of my life. Anyway, the next update will be... whenever the hell i feel like it lmao i'm trash and can't stick to schedules

thanks for reading though :)