Porcupine Ridge you only live forever in the lights you make

The mountains drew him in more as of late, and he took comfort in the solitude they offered. Few dared climb to the places he enjoyed most; Cortland had become more adept at it, less prone to falls. Certainly not invulnerable, but more nimble than he had been before. It was well worth the risk to him, anyway. Most days he happened upon something interesting— some days, he discovered something amazing.
Today he was enchanted by the Ridge. Among the crooked razor-edged peaks were pockets of life, and he was determined to reach one. The stone was smooth and sloping, making his footing unsteady at best. Cortland worked his way up slowly to the lone path he had spotted. It was a treacherous climb, to say the least, but the sunset-furred boy was certain he was up to the task. Right up until something came loose under his paw.
A piece of rock had become dislodged beneath him, and his paw rolled with it. A slight gasp escaped him at the feeling, but more pressing was the sudden awareness that he was falling. Eyes wide, all he saw was the sky, and all he felt was wind through his fur for a moment. Then he hit stone again. Cortland rolled the rest of the way down, feeling the harsh impact of the mountain peak against his body on all sides. By the time he hit the grass below, everything had gone black.

Something was off. He knew that Cortland had been going out and exploring more and more lately, but the golden Mayfair always came back. He didn't need to worry. Anyway, it was his right. Phocion certainly did not hold him on a tether; how could he?

But today, something felt off. He wasn't sure what it was, but whatever it was, it spurred him to follow his friend's scent away from Silvertip Mountain, down, down, headed to the range they had traversed from Bearclaw Valley. Several times he stopped, shaking his head. This was silly. He should turn back. Cortland was a man grown--he didn't need a babysitter. Each time, he kept on.

The ridge rose before him, dark against the sky. Cortland was a climber. He loved the mountains. He must have gone here for some peace. "This is silly!" Phocion said aloud, echoing the thoughts that had plagued him the entire way over. His feet moved to turn around, but something near the base of the ridge caught his eye. Something. . .off.

Brows knitting together, Phocion trotted toward the figure, pulse hammering in his throat as he got closer. It was gold. . .and still. By the time he had reached the body he was already howling urgently for @Poet, for his mind had put the puzzle pieces together.

He had fallen. Phocion pressed his head against the boy's throat--there was a pulse, though much slower than his, and he saw the slight but steady rise and fall of his lean stomach. But he was in bad shape; Phocion couldn't tell just how far he'd fallen, but it had been enough to knock him out cold. He was lucky to be alive. The priest said a breathless prayer of thanksgiving for that, as his mind raced to figure out what to do next.

With the weather finally warm and summer underway, Poet has spent her time building back up her store of herbs. Occasionally she'll feel a pang, remembering Blondine and hoping the medic is well, wherever she is. 

She's a mouthful of lavender when Phocion's call rings out. There is a frantic undertone that alarms her; she takes off without a second thought, still holding the herbs. When she arrives on the scene she sees the reason for Phocion's panic, the still form of Cortland. Automatically her eyes lift up to the rocky ridges above. Oh, no. Dropping the lavender at her feet she steps forward quickly, pressing her nose first to Phocion's shoulder (I'm here now) before moving to examine the boy. "He's breathing," she says breathlessly, glancing at her companion as if to confirm. "He fell?" It's her assumption, but she wants to be sure. Internal injuries, broken bones, concussions.. the potential assessments flicker behind her eyes as she carefully examines him, afraid to move him too much lest she injure him further.

Cortland remained a half-dead, 100% skippable lump on the ground. A bug crept across his face, probably takin' a shit because that's what the world is doing to him right now. Not that he had any idea. Maybe that could be called a silver lining; a rare plus of getting knocked upside the head that hard. Either way, he wasn't going to stir for awhile.

Poet showed up faster than he anticipated--she was good at that, being right where she needed to be in a flash. He shrugged, shaking his head frantically. "I don't know," he burst out, breath hitching in his throat. "I--I think so. I just found him here, lying still." He nosed at Cortland's golden pelage, head swimming in the chaos. He squeezed his eyes shut, wishing it could all be a dream.

He watched Poet examine the boy, eyes boring into her every move. "We need to get him back to Silvertip, somehow," he said hollowly, knowing that it would not be an easy task. Between the two of them, they could do it. . .but what if something was wrong with his neck, his spine? They would have to be gentle, and that was no easy task when toting someone up a mountain. Perhaps if they stayed toward the base. . .

"How does he look?" Phocion asked, his voice anxious. "Will he. . ." Survive? the small, mocking voice in his head finished the question.

Cortland's out cold, she can tell. That is a concern: she can't assess him properly until he wakes up, if.. if he wakes up. She does not voice this, or anything really, quiet until Phocion mentions bringing him somewhere. She lifts her head, fixing him with a look. "If we move him we run the risk of aggravating internal injuries we can't see," Poet says, voice firm. He can't be left here, no, but she won't allow him to be touched until she can administer some basic medicines.

Her stern expression softens at Phocion's clear worry. He must care for Cortland dearly, she thinks, glancing down at his small, broken form again. "It's hard to say yet," Poet tells him honestly, "but his breathing seems normal, which is a good sign." Surely there are fractures in his limbs but those are easier to deal with  -- her concern is the ribs, the spine, the internal organs. Pressing gently against his sides yields no obvious signs of trauma; she runs her nose against the length of his spine but can feel no break. Looking up to Phocion, she nods and says, "we can move him slowly, but keep him at ground level for now." Carrying him up a mountain in his condition will definitely make things worse, she feels.

He flinched slightly at her stern tone, but nodded, swallowing the knot in his throat. She was right. It couldn't be risked. He hated to keep Cortland out here, in the open. . .but what was the alternative? Hurt him further, by trying to drag him home? He would hate himself even more than he did in this moment, were that to happen.

"I don't even know what happened," Phocion said, voice stunned. He looked down at the boy, then back up at the healer, letting out a sobbing breath. "Poet, I-- I don't know what to do if I lose him. I'll forever feel responsible for it all. I'll never forgive myself--"

Overwhelmed, he took the few steps between them and pressed his head against her shoulder, losing himself completely. He grieved quietly for a while, nose buried in her plush fur. He hadn't even stopped to think how she'd take the gesture; all he could think about was Cortland's death, and the chaos it would surely leave behind.

Poet doesn't apologise for making him flinch, though her expression does give way to something more tender, briefly, before she lowers her eyes to Cortland's broken form. So pointedly is her gaze fixed away that she does not register Phocion moving closer until he is nearly on her, tensing and then yielding under his touch. This is not the first time she has felt the embrace of a grief-stricken loved one. Nostalgic visions overwhelm her, and underneath, something more, something white-hot settled along the sharp lines of her bones, something ... something she cannot touch, yet.

She does not pull away.

"This is not your fault," she tells him, hiding the slight tremble in her voice against his skin. She draws in one shaky breath, and then one steady. "And he will not die, not under my watch," the ex-priestess promises, against her best self. It's dangerous to make promises one can't keep; how could she know if Cortland won't yet be taken by infection? But if it will relieve Phocion of some of this burden, she will take the weight of it onto herself, for him.

Phocion took a deep breath as she spoke, letting it out against her shoulder, ruffling the fur there. He pulled away, after a moment, his cerulean eyes filled with gratitude. "Thank you," he said simply, too shaken to smile but hoping that the gentleness of his face could convey what he felt. "Thank you for being here. I couldn't do this--any of this--without you."

He bent, running his nose along Cortland's still--but breathing!--form. "We can stay here for now," Phocion murmured, gaze downcast. He was loath not to return to Silvertip, but Poet was absolutely right. They couldn't, not yet. He would keep vigil, until it was time.

The white priest looked up, squinting in Iliana's hellish glare. The lilting language of the tribe came to his lips, unbidden.

"Fengari, watch over your son--
Though you are far from us now
Keep him in your mind
Keep him in your heart
Heal this broken body
So that he may continue to serve
And sing your praises."

end soon? feel free to fade here or to add another reply <3

A small sigh is drawn out of her involuntarily, disappearing along the edges of Phocion's soft words. She stands over the body, watching the priest attend to him; when chant begins to leave his lips she steps back, putting distance between herself and the pair. His song settles uneasily over her heart but she does not dare interrupt its power, focusing on counting Cortland's weak breaths. Eventually she leaves their vigil to prepare a medicinal den space for the boy, and if she mumbles a few prayers under her breath as she works, well, habits are hard to break.