Chapter Text
Laurie is too small to remember the first time he speaks to Hazelthorn. Caught up in the blaze of an argument, his parents don’t notice him wandering, stumbling every few steps, past the boundary of the courtyard and into the thicket of the garden itself.
His attention is fixed first on a butterfly, orange and black, and he follows it as it flies from flower to flower, each time landing just long enough for him to catch up before flapping its wings and soaring out of reach again. Right now, catching the butterfly is the most important thing in the world. He wants to touch its wings more than he’s ever wanted for anything in his life, right up until he spots a row of strawberry plants, and then he decides he wants those even more.
Butterfly forgotten, he toddles over to the plants and begins cramming berries into his mouth, stuffing more into the pockets of his dungarees. Juice coats his fingers, runs down his chin, stains the collar of his shirt.
Deeper in the garden, something rustles, the snap of a twig, and Laurie freezes. He watches the bushes. If it’s his father, he’ll be in trouble for making a mess. If it’s his grandfather…
A small whimper escapes from him, tears stinging the corners of his eyes, and in that moment the only thing he understands is that he wants to be back with his mother. All the bushes look the same now. He doesn’t know which way to go. There’s another noise, closer now, and in a panic he bolts, as fast as his legs can carry him. His foot catches on a rock and sends him tumbling down into one of the bushes, palms grazing against rough ground, knees bruising.
He manages to push himself upright, sitting and hugging his knees to his chest as the sobs wrack through his body. His hands are sticky with blood and juice and mud and the stinging, prickling pain is too much and all he can do is cry more and hope that somebody will come.
Nobody comes. His wails taper off into sniffles.
Sucking on one bruised thumb, he uses his other hand to try and crawl his way out of the bush, but finds himself stuck fast. Thorns caught on his clothes holding him in place. Panic rises inside him and he tries to wriggle free, but only succeeds in getting stuck even tighter.
No. Not stuck. The bush is holding him. Green tendrils and branches snaking out and wrapping around his legs, his waist, tightening the more he tries to pull away. His whole body trembles as a vine creeps along his arm, circling his hand. He squeezes his eyes shut, bracing for more pain in his sore hand, but the pain doesn’t come. The vine doesn’t squeeze, and the cool leaves against the grazes on his palm seem to soothe the pain. He closes his fingers around the stems, wipes his face with his free hand.
There are more vines creeping out now, but he doesn’t flinch away, letting them explore his face, his hair, giggling when they brush against his ears.
“Hi,” He says when one of the stems uncurls in front of him, an inch or so away from his face.
This one has a flower, deep purple with a golden center. Laurie reaches out for it and the vine retracts out of reach like a spooked animal. Undeterred, he holds his hand as still as he can manage, holding his breath until slowly, tentatively, the vine returns, nudging closer until he can run his fingers over the petals of its flower. It’s soft as velvet, and the pollen stains his fingertips a buttery yellow.
“Laurie?” His mothers panicked voice cuts through the silence and the flower darts out of his grasp. “Laurie!”
She appears, hazel eyes wide and terrified, and drops to her knees in front of him, breathing heavily. How long had she been searching for him?
Laurie wants to tell her that it’s okay, that he saw a butterfly and ate some strawberries and hurt his hand and made a friend, but he doesn’t have the words for any of that yet, so instead he just says, “Mama, look!”
He points to the vines circling his hand, but they’re already starting to retreat, tiny thorns scratching his skin in their hurry to scramble away. The cuts don’t hurt, not really, but his mother’s face twists from horror to fury and she lets out a howl that makes him shrink back.
“Get off of him!” She shrieks, and for a confusing moment he thinks she’s still talking to him. Then he spots the glint of silver in her hand.
“No, mama!”
The shears slice through the vines, cutting and cutting and cutting despite his screams. The purple flower lands at his feet, dead and shrivelled, and before he can reach for it his mother is scooping him up in her arms.
He’s crying again, because he’s too small to say that the vines were leaving, that she didn’t have to hurt them, that it’s all so unfair. And his mother shushes him and holds him against her.
“Mama’s got you, baby. You’re safe now. It’s okay.” She bounces him in her arms, and then her voice turns serious. “Laurie, don’t you ever come out here again. Don’t you ever scare me like that. I thought I lost you.”
None of the words make much sense to him, but he’s tired and his hand is hurting again and her arms are warm and soft, so he nestles his head against her shoulder and hopes this means she’ll hold him a while longer.
She does, and he thinks she might be crying too, squeezing him tightly the way he squeezes his bear when he wakes up from a nightmare. She’s distracted enough that when she finally turns and carries him out of the garden, she doesn’t notice him waving goodbye.