a/n: so i wasn't going to post this till the weekend, but...yeah. ITS SO SHORT. it'll get longer, i swear, but this is just a prologue and i kinda have school tomorrow so. homework precedence and all.

anyway, this is a weird idea. but basically it will be a series of one shots, chapters, vignettes, following the main characters of Tangled before they met on that fateful day. i wanted to get a little feedback, see if it was something people were interested in reading. if so, would you guys like a certain character to be in chapter one?

please, as always, read and review.


Prologue: Clove Hitch

A simple knot to tie a rope to a post.

When the sky cries, drops as clear as crystal rain upon the earth below, wet and refreshing and cool. When the moon cries, shine like diamonds, unable to reach the ground, fly up to the heavens as stars. When the earth cries, roaring mountains tumble to the surface and a great, fiery heat scorches the countryside. But when the sun cries, only a single tear is shed. A single, golden, molten drop.

It falls and falls and falls, through cloud and rain and wind, pulsating brightly in the darkness until it hits the ground where, without a sound, it fades into the grass.

Or this was the case, at least, when the sun cried the last time. You see, it does not do so quite so often as the moon, the sky, or the earth. The sun is a creature of habit. The sun is a creature of brightness. Rarely does it become saddened enough to lose a tear.

Sometimes this sun-drop falls into the ocean, where the currents dilute its power, unless a fish can get to it first. Sometimes it falls in the great-deserts, where no one can reach it for hundreds of years. Sometimes it lands on the side of a cliff, accessible to no one except the most adept climbers who, usually, know nothing about it. Sometimes, like this time, it falls on a grass patch over looking a lake, where a slight breeze plays with the surrounding trees and a great, mound-like hillock sits across, greener than a spring day and waiting for something to be built upon it.

From the sun-drop grows, unusually fast, a single, golden, molten flower.

It sits lightly, reaching towards the sun in vain, seemingly insignificant in the green world around it which is all ready so bursting with life.

But this flower is different. This flower does not die. Not through a harsh winter or a fiery summer. Not when the rain pounds down and washes away the other plants nor when a drought causes them to shrivel in pain. No, this flower is whole and golden, as bright as the sun and just as eternal. And it sits eternally, waiting for someone to notice it.

A gasp of delight.

A withered hand reaching out in barely contained hope.

The flower is found.

The story begins.