There is a change to the air; the breeze that chilled his mud clad form halted from behind. Hawthornn does not move his head to assess it. Fire arced through his respiratory track, each hacking breath expelling grit, sand, and loom. The air is a relief, but the friction left behind lingers, a burning that brings water to his eyes. He stays in this state of being by choice. Letting the expanding and contracting of his lungs feed his body of oxygen, and soothe the rabbiting of his heart. A heart that battered itself in trying to escape.

They voice that greets him causes him to start. His head drawn over his shoulder, golden eyes round in recognition. You— A hacking cough takes his breath. You, it's you— Envy! His voice falls away as he regains the breath spent speaking. The silvered imp sat close with a delighted smirk. Her words causing him to wipe his mouth with a forepaw. Phlegm and spittle left a damp smear along his wrist.

I'm not... I'm not eating dirt, Envy. It cost him much, to speak on behalf of his pride, but when you have crawled out of a grave, you had little left to spare. Hawthornn planted his paws beneath him, and heaved the rest of his body out of the earthen tomb that held him. Not trying anyway, I was just... Goldenrod gaze lingered on the hole left in his wake.

He almost died there. Alone.

The Goldenwoode's head lowered with the weight of it all. Slouched, a sobering feeling found steel in his voice. I was buried alive.

Hawthornn's gaze came to rest on the silvered woman, exhaustion worn plainly on his face. He did not know who tried to kill him, but someone or something had to have tried. Right?

None of it made sense. This wasn't where he had fallen asleep.

Envy, where are we?