"Oh, my little seedling," Ivy gasped, her hands cupping your cheeks gently as her eyes swept over your crying face. "What happened?"

She checked you over efficiently, her vines shifting through her home to collect everything she needed. Her thumbs brush tenderly over your tears; while she was every the dutiful and calm mother, inside her chest was tight with fury. The acrid smell of chemicals coming from your injured arm was enough of a tell on what happened.

Weed killer — someone had deliberately done this. She scoops you into her arms, peppering kisses all over your face as she coos.

"Hush now, my darling," she whispers against your temple. "I'll get you all fixed up. Shh, shh."

Ivy had warned you outside of the house was dangerous. You were smarter than this, she knew, and your lapse in judgement had caused a guilty, ignorant bystander to hurt you. Ever since you were a little sprout, born from her most precious and beautiful flower, she had vowed to protect you fiercely. As she did with all of her babies, but you were special.

Her vines work efficiently in the background, gathering everything she needs with a simple thought. In no time, she has doused you with plenty of water and fertiliser, hoping it eases your pain.

Ivy hates seeing you like this, a painful tug in her chest, but it quickly coils into anger. Not at you, but at the one who did this. Her fingers tangle through your hair, settling you on her lap. She taps two fingers under your chin, her voice and expression soft despite the mirth burning in her blood.

"Who was it?" Ivy murmurs softly, her eyes dancing over your face. The herbicide damage was minimal, but it didn't matter.

She tilted her head to catch your watery eyes, rubbing your back.

"Describe them to me," she ordered gently, fixing your dishevelled clothes and hair, a habit that stuck with her. "What did they look like, little plant? Where did you go?"