Arrow Lake dropped in the middle of a forgotten spot

The sunset-colored Mayfair was still on the move. He did not seek a home, he had decided— he sought answers. The questions themselves remained a mystery, for now; lost to the wind and rain. The boy would find them again. He knew only two names— that which his father owned wholly, his real father, and the name they shared between them. The Mayfairs, and Lasher, had left some mark on this land. Cortland only had to search for it.
These thoughts swept him east as if along a breeze, and for a time he noticed nothing of the world around him. Weeks passed, perhaps three, in this reverie; he wandered, he drank little and slept less— he ate none. It was the first of such odd possessions, and though he remained ignorant of the implications now, Cortland would always carry this. Contemplation took what energy, what attention he had until it could no longer take— until there was little left to give.
It was the secluded lake in the mountain range that finally brought his awareness to the world around him. He first glimpsed it from above, standing on a rocky ledge with only treacherous stone angles on all sides. Cortland had paused at this— and in the time it took for his heart to skip at the sight, he had already decided he would go there. Stars alight in his argent eyes, he had spent the day working through twisting, unforgiving paths.
The sun had retired, allowing the moon to joyfully takes its place by the time the young Mayfair approached his goal. Tentatively, he reached one paw towards a sharp, angled rock, balancing for the moment on an impossibly narrow ledge as he attempted the transition. He aimed for the flat surface— and missed, carving a narrow but deep gash into his pad as his weight bore down on the rock's edge. Cortland gasped quietly, lurching back and losing his balance; the boy fell with little resistance. The fall was relatively short— he was nonetheless dazed, sitting up slowly a few beats later with an indistinct ache spreading through him.
The ache intensified suddenly in his skull, a flash of fire behind his eyes. Unbidden, tears gathered quietly in his eyes— it hurt. He squeezed his eyes shut, head low and wounded paw lifted from the ground. It was in the next second that he scented the stranger; immediately his starlit gaze snapped to the stark male. In the daze of pain and momentary shock, he noted only a few things— the stranger, petite and with eyes like the winter ocean, stood closer to the lakeshore than himself. Cortland's gaze trailed over the scars on his face; they were foreign, beautiful in a way that was perhaps a little harsh, but they were scars after all.
He almost forgot the nagging sensation in his head for a moment. It occurred to him that he would like to know the stories behind the scars— that he would like to know more than that, too. The boy made to stand; his torn pad quickly convinced him otherwise. Speaking did not cross his mind, for reasons he would perhaps never know. Instinct told him only to stare, wide-eyed, until the stranger spoke— or left.

It was still for a moment— then, then!— the celestial stranger approached effortlessly, and Cortland's breath caught. He was quiet still, even as the male spoke; something in him relaxed nonetheless, as if bidden by the kindness in the other's eyes. The boy lifted his head to meet the stranger's brilliant gaze, his own eyes soft. It seemed clear now that he meant no harm— Cortland had not been afraid to begin with, but he felt justified now in his naive reaction.
The Mayfair did not flinch from the touch, but he offered no response. He simply watched. Many things crossed his mind, then— questions, mainly. Cortland desperately wished to ask them. The words evaded him skillfully as if they sensed his desire; perhaps they knew something he did not. Feeling wise for it, he put his curiosity aside for the moment.
The mention of a name, ultimately, prompted the boy to end his silence. Cortland, He murmured, searching Phocion's face with unabashed intrigue. The male had approached him so gently, kindly— language abandoned him entirely, as it seemed to joy in doing when he needed it most. The boy extended his muzzle to sniff delicately at the unexpected company, nose barely brushing the ends of the other's cheek fur as he sniffed. The violation of personal space didn't strike him as odd— especially in light of the stranger's own nonchalance surrounding it.

Strangely pleased and maybe a little breathless at the sudden, uncontested closeness, Cortland finished his brief probing of the other male and moved back. To the observant eye, perhaps a hint of his inexplicably frayed nerves showed on his face. He was not the most expressive boy, but neither had he mastered stoicism just yet.
Wanderer. He explained, following Phocion's gaze; ultimately, his eyes drifted back to the white male himself. Some things were just too interesting. And you?

He watched each shift of expression with rapt attention, passive and wide-eyed as he listened to Phocion. There was something about listening to the white wolf speak— he thought perhaps days could pass and he might never know. That he was looking for someone caught his attention; it wasn't an uncommon theme, looking for someone, but that just meant Cortland could relate. In the next instant, he knew he was wrong. The realization struck him quietly, a brief shifting rawness behind his eyes— he had not been looking for any of them.
It was a struggle to pull himself from the urge to slip away again— but Phocion spoke again, and he was pulled quite simply from his thoughts. Head canted slightly, he wondered for a moment if he was going anywhere in particular. No, The Mayfair decided quietly after a beat. I'm looking for something. It was the truth, but perhaps not as grand or pressing as someone. I may not find it.

Cortland thought that he should have expected the question, but somehow he hadn't. Phocion was quite to the point— it was uncomfortable, being prodded so, but the boy found it strangely exhilarating as well. The man was interested in knowing him, that must have been the reason for his questioning. The warm glow softened whatever discomfort had been rising— he only paused a few beats before answering.
The truth. The Mayfair's glinting moon eyes followed Phocion's towards the sky. About my father— about my family and their history in this land. The Mayfairs. And now it was out— it had been different with the girl, Wraen; surprise had dominated his feelings about it, then. Now, though, his origins felt like a secret he should guard. He glanced back at the stark male, watching for his reaction.