Solanum Dulcamara

II. The Story Ensuing Would Never Be Told

 Brendon was not, by any means, a religious person, but if there was one time of day he had to choose as holy, it would definitely be mornings. There was just something sacred in them; a unique sense of tranquility and restfulness felt only in those dew-sprinkled hours surrounding the sunrise.

Granted, that feeling of peace may have been greatly due to the fact that he was typically sound asleep during those early hours, but hey. He could still find them nice in theory, right?

Regardless, he was right in the middle of enjoying one such episode of restfulness when he was interrupted by a series of loud knocks on his front door. Staring blearily up at the ceiling of the cottage, he momentarily considered simply ignoring the caller and returning to his oh-so-important morning ritual, but decided against it, as he did, after all, live on the grounds of a castle, and for all he knew the knock could be someone sent to warn him that it was under siege. Sure, it was unlikely, mostly because Brendon was pretty sure that, were the castle indeed being attacked, the gardener would likely be the last person anyone would think to warn, but you never know. Perhaps there was a guard with a particular penchant for perennials.

Of course, when Brendon finally managed to drag himself out of bed and across the room to peek through the window in the door, he found no closeted flower enthusiast in shining armor. No, the person standing outside wasn't a night at all, but a servant. Brendon sighed, annoyed at having been woken up, but swung the door open anyway, figuring that, hey, there was still a chance of the castle walls being bombarded with cannonballs at that moment (although they'd have to be suspiciously quiet cannonballs. People who have just woken up are not known for their rationality). "Is the world ending?" he asked bluntly, not yet awake enough to sound particularly upset at the prospect.

"Depends on how strictly you define the phrase," Spencer replied with a slightly amused glimmer in his eyes, "two thirds of the royal family want you in the solar."

"The sun isn't even up yet!" Brendon protested, gesturing towards the decidedly gray sky visible behind Spencer's head.

"Well, in case you haven't noticed, Prince Ryan is the equivalent of an oversized toddler with an adult's vocabulary, so I really wouldn't expect much rationality from him if I were you."

Brendon nearly made some incredulous statement about the ridiculousness of Ryan even being up at this hour (judging from the biting air and strange dullness of what little of the outside world he could see at the moment, the sun hadn't even made substantial progress over the horizon yet), before remembering that it was, in fact, Ryan that they were talking about. If he found out the guy hadn't closed his eyes at all in the past five years, Brendon would not be all that surprised. Instead, he sighed and ran a hand through his hair, feeling his fingers catch on a few tangles. "Give me ten minutes."

Spencer nodded, and Brendon retreated back into his cottage and proceeded to lie back down for eight of those minutes before dragging himself over to the barrel of water in the corner, splashing some on his face, and throwing on a fresh tunic. He stepped outside to find Spencer still standing a few feet away from the cabin, gazing down at a scattering of pink columbine growing along one side of the house. When Brendon cleared his throat, he looked up at him and gestured to the flowers. "These are nice," he said, though it sounded as if it were meant as more of a statement of fact than a compliment, "your father planted them, didn't he?"

Brendon looked down at the flowers and nodded. "He did. This patch is some of his last surviving work, actually. Columbine's a hardy perennial." He couldn't help but smile faintly, recalling the image of his father kneeling over this very patch, his brow glistening with sweat and hands stained with dirt as he painstakingly made sure each bulb was sufficiently covered.