Twisted Slough i wish you'd die in the mire

He hated the thin shriek of the wind, trying to coil between the trees. It made Magpie's words sound more awful, punctuated by the desolation of the willows around them. The knowledge that they were alone together and no one nearby - suddenly, turned down offers sounded like the tolls of his own funeral bell.

Cormorant's weak growl tapered away, ears swiveling forward, the picture of affront. The only thing he could say was a half-garbled, Stop.

He was beginning to back up, like he was gonna drop back off the roots and away, as though he wanted to melt into the dark of the trees and gloom the instant he saw an opening. Cormorant's expression pinched, a tragic agitation written across it, ears back to being half-hidden in the ruff of his neck. He shook his head, eyes never leaving Magpie's frame all the while, as if too long of a blink would summon his own demise. That sick feeling refused to leave, clinging to him like a poison, the unending reminder he had a watcher in the distance all this time. To chalk up any minor safety he had enjoyed, not to his own merits, but to the other's? He refused.

You're delusional. The slightest bit of fear fell to anger, and he fought to keep hold of it - to feel something more than the urge to flee.