He could see it, now that consciousness had returned. The two-pronged claw mark on the outside of his chrysalis. It let light in through the thinner opal, through the murky fluids that suspended him. It elicited a feeling of drowning, being held by the fluids, looking up at the light that broke through the surface, as well as the feeling of knowing his mistake. Regret, but he was already in the waters now, drowning. Regret wouldn't save him.

He had to push.

Claws screeched across smooth stone like nails on a chalkboard; he couldn't hear it over the ringing in his ears. His rapid pulse thundered loud within his own head.

It could still be out there. Waiting.

It would be so easy to stay within the chrysalis forever. Hidden. Safe.

No, you must push. His consciousness supplied, and reluctantly he did.

Soon, opal chunks gave way, already weakened by other claws and flame, it didn't take much. The force tossed him into the grass, a heap of fluids and too lanky legs. He'd grown.

More alarmingly, the grass was still torched. Everything was. Cold ashes stuck to him and smeared grey across his skin, into the fluids. It was a cruel reminder, the ashes sticking to skin that had been scorched from his flesh. That he was a failure, that he hadn't run as he should have and that he'd paid the price.

His limbs trembled, a mixture of unfamiliarity and fear and weakness, as he righted himself to stand. His body felt different, more grown, but he didn't dare look down. What if he wasn't better? What if he looked down and saw skin peeling from his flesh again? The rancid scent of lava-kissed skin, it made his stomach lurch at the memory.

By all that is good, he was starving too. What if he looked down and saw a ravished body? A burnt sack of skin and bones, that hunger's knife had whittled away all the meat on him as it burned?

Fear kept his unseeing gaze ahead; he didn't want to know. Frightened by what state he'd find his body in. Legs wobbled with the frailty and instability of a newborn foal as he tried a step forward. His chest heaved with panic, making him look as if these tiny steps were marathons in their own right.

He could feel how much his eyes bulged out of his head, with how wide the fear was keeping them, as if it'd help him spot blue-green feathers moving all the better.

He wanted to go home. He wanted to be safe in the palace, where he could watch Imp paint, where Miss Aethril would sometimes sit him on her lap, or he could just curl up in the flower beds and be told off by the palace staff for squashing the tulips. His bottom lip quivered. He'd never felt worse, starved, weak, frightened. He wanted to go home.

Worm's eyes darted to Larkspur, the movement being the sole focus of the cat. He knew this feathered thing, yes, he did. It was from the carnival, he remembered; it was small, still learning, full of magic. The hunger pangs in his stomach groaned at the thought.

It would surely be easy to gobble it up.

Another thought abruptly paused that line of thinking; this was a friend. A living, breathing, gembound. He sucked in a shaky breath, ignoring how delightful the smell of the gembound is. "What are you--"

He blinks out of his stupor, looking sharper as he watches the treeline. "Did you see another bird? Red face? Is it here?" Worm barks, more of a demand than a question.

The harsh words made him wince the moment he snapped them out; "I know who you are! I didn't forget!" He hadn't meant to sound so cruel; he hadn't meant to shout; he felt so wrung out that it'd been a knee-jerk reaction to the flash of anger.

"No-- I want it to go away-- That bird!" Worm sucked in a breath; he swore he felt his ribs pressing against his skin (though visibly he was the same as he always was, healthy, a little on the 'slightly overfed loved cat' side if anything). That bird had done this, and if it was hiding, he had to eat, or he'd die again. It would kill him over and over and over, and he'd be too weak to stop it.

There may have been something poetic to say about the cycles of violence, something deeply profound about how it's not easy to break the cycles we're forced into. But, that was all lost on the cat as he looked down at this tiny bird. He was going to die, to starve or be killed. He needed to eat now. Thoughts of how disappointed the grown-ups in his life would be were oddly silent. Yet the fear of being killed and cornered was very much alive.

They could forgive him, if he alive long enough to receive said forgiveness...

"Did you bring anyone with you?"

Worm stared vacantly at Larkspur, eyes glazed over as he eyed them. He was distantly aware that they were speaking, something something, but it felt far away. Instead, his mind drifted to the gemstone on their throat as they spread their wings. Yes, he decided. That was what he was hungry for. One swift yank and it'd all be over; he'd be fed, and his friend would have died quickly enough to believe he was still a friend.

"Hm?" Worm blinked a few times, looking at Larkspur; what had they said? Were they talking about if they had anyone with them? Thoughts were difficult to cling to, slipping away and overtaken by one, singular thought.

'Eat.'

And eat he would- or, he would at least try. He lunged for the gemstone at Larkspur's throat, and instead his teeth snapped over the air just above it, missing. Perhaps it wouldn't be the swift and unremarkable death he'd hoped for them.

Why did he do that? That was a good question. He didn't want to eat his friend, he liked this one. But by all that was good, he was so hungry. He could feel it in the delicate trembling of his legs, the way it felt like his skin hugged too tight on his ribs. But now the tantalising gem wasn't directly in his face, he could think a little more clearly; less single-mindedly.

And when he did think on it, when he did look inside himself he found himself horrified by why he saw. By what he'd done. Regret, remorse. Guilt. So much guilt he felt he'd drown in it. "I'm so hungry!" Worm called back, his voice cracking into a sob.

He didn't want to eat his friend, but he didn't want to starve to death either. He couldn't die. Not again. The memories were too fresh, too real. He was always scared but now the fear was real. It'd been shown it was right and taken root. There were things out here that did want to gobble him up.

"I don't want to die more!" He pleaded, his voice wobbling with desperation. If Larkspur would just come closer...

Instead he turned back to his chrysalis remains, darting towards the scraps of gemstone left behind. Yet, the hunger was repulsed by these scraps. It felt as if he were looking at rotten meat opposed to gemstone shards. No magic. Some instinct chimed in.

Then his eyes fixated on the stream. Lessers had stones! He bolted for it, there had to be fishy lessers in the water.

Don't eat your friend. Don't eat your friend. Don't eat your friend-- Were they still friends?