Honeyed Pasture if i leave everything but my bones behind

backdated to 05/01 early af morning

Regret had been in the young Mayfair's vocabulary for some time already— perhaps not at this level, though. Some part of him knew he would find his family again; that regret did not sting as deeply as something he knew was irreversible. Whatever he had done to Ava— or was it with Ava? She had seemed receptive, but hadn't he been the one doing the—
Cortland sucked in a breath, suddenly nauseous, and paused; he had been wandering quite aimlessly through the field, content to lose himself among the tall grass. Now, his head was spinning inexplicably. He couldn't stop thinking about— it. That. Ava's scent was still heavy on his pelt, but the fading heat-smell no longer caused warmth in his belly. Instead, his stomach churned more violently each time he was reminded of the hours before. This was irreversible.
His vision blurred quite suddenly, and dread filled him. Oh— what was happening? Had Ava made him sick? Cortland was breathing hard now, chest icy and aching with the effort. Whatever they had done was wrong, it must have been— and now he was certain he would die for it. It was his punishment. He lowered himself to the ground, trembling almost imperceptibly. This was what he deserved, surely, for doing something so filthy.

steals in here >:3 making vague assumptions re: her thread w phocion, will edit if needed

Running into the priest had shaken something loose in her chest. Throughout her stay in the Valley, even more than Blondine, she considers Phocion to have been her closest friend, if only forged in their shared bonds. Their meeting weighs on her mind not heavily but insistently, although she manages to put it aside as she catches sight of the trembling body just ahead.

Poet quickens her pace into smooth strides, coming to a stop a short distance away. "Are you injured..?" She calls carefully, her expression thoughtfully concerned as it sweeps over his sad form. There is no physical mark she can see, though an internal injury might be beyond her perception, though she suspects the cause of his current state is some mental affair she's not privy to.

The boy could not think beyond the feeling of something shattering in his chest, could not breathe, and he knew he was dying— he flinched when a voice cut through the haze, on his feet in an instant. He looked up, ears slicked back, seeing only yellow eyes; whatever words she had spoken were incomprehensible to him. For several beats, Cortland was still, save the rapid rise and fall of his chest.
I— I'm sorry, what? It came out rushed, breathless. The Mayfair tried to steady himself, peering more closely at the woman. He wondered if she could smell it— he still could, though partially because it was freshly imprinted in his mind; perhaps she wasn't close enough. Cortland resolved to keep it that way, if he could— he was certain if anyone ever knew, they would hate him, though he could not say why.

She does not flinch when he starts, taking a seat and fixing him with a very keen expression. She can smell the lingering residue of heat on him, but does not yet link that to his current state (having been around so many women in heat, the smell has temporarily lost its novelty). 

"I asked if you were hurt," Poet repeats, more gently, tilting her head. "I have some medical knowledge if you need," a beat, "though... would I be wrong to guess your troubles are emotional in nature?" She knows she's being rather forward, and sucks in a breath as she watches for his reaction. It seems her shyness has fled her as she's fled the Valley, a change she does not know if she welcomes yet.

He put his effort towards focusing on what the woman was saying, coming up short only by fractions. The Mayfair swallowed hard under her piercing gaze and tried to make sense of the words. It took several beats. Was he hurt? No— maybe? He didn't know. Cortland opened his mouth to answer— then stopped at the stranger's second question.
No, The sunset boy admitted after several beats, hyper-aware as the other seemed to tense following her question. His starlight gaze traced her features with gentle curiosity, now; the anxiety had not left the boy, but settled restlessly under the surface for the moment.
I— He swallowed hard, only realizing what he was saying in the half-second before he said it. I did something— something bad, I think. The boy's voice broke with the last few words, tears finally spilling from his silver eyes. Admitting it out loud hurt— somehow, more than keeping it in had.

She does not press, only watches, expression gentle, as he starts to unravel. Her shoulders remain in a tense line; she tries to soften them, not wanting to project something that he might pick up on, that might make him feel worse. 

When he begins to cry she draws barely closer, not to infringe upon his space but to offer the shape of something solid and affirming. "Most of us have," Poet tells him quietly, thinking of her conversation with Blondine not so long ago, "do you want to say what it was?" If anyone has experience in coping with committing sin, surely the blasphemer is top of the list. And this poor, fragile looking boy... well.

Perhaps that's what she looked like in the aftermath of her own mistakes.