Silvertip Mountain and there's a million things i haven't done

Up until now, Cortland had led a fairly charmed life. Little had happened to traumatize him, and perhaps that was a blessing, but he had never learned how to cope with events such as this. He had never needed to. Now, without that experience, he struggled— he struggled to comprehend this change, to reconcile it within himself. Another whine escaped him— then another, desperate and gasping now.
Phocion's touch only calmed him slightly; he settled again reluctantly at his bidding, though, never one to defy another. Home. Cortland wanted desperately to tell him that this wasn't home— that he wasn't safe, that this was all wrong. Everything felt wrong. He tried again— and again— and again to form words, but nothing coherent came out. Nothing worked. Maybe he was dying.
He cried. The tears came slowly at first, then all at once. Cortland buried his face into the priest's fur, thinking: I take it back, I take it back; he was safe here. Here, more than anywhere else he could go. Phocion would not leave him— would not let him die. At least... not alone.