Briar had never liked forests.
Well,
no, that was a lie, he conceded, as he made his way through a wall of brambles.
The catching thorns turned against his suit and the grasping branches slid
harmlessly over his sleek form as he crept through the underbrush, his footfalls
making no sound as they somehow found space between dead leaves and twigs time
and time again.
No,
there had been a time when he had had a more intimate relationship with the
forest than he had with his parents. When the adults stopped ignoring and
actually started looking and whispering,
when the other children got bolder or bored of throwing stones, when running wasn't enough anymore he’d go into the forest. He’d go off the path, into the
deep parts that other parents warned their children about, and he would hide.
He could always hide better than anyone in the village could seek. He hadn't really understood just how much better, though, until he had met Figaro.
Sometimes,
there would be searching parties. Some of the men, emboldened by drink, would
band together and crash about the wood like rutting bulls, shouting for him.
They would call his name and say they
were looking for him, that his parents were worried.
