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

He blamed himself for @Cortland's injuries. He knew that it was irrational to do so, but it plagued him, anyway.

Phocion paced around close to where the boy rested, fretful, restless. His eyes tracked the ground, watching the motion of his paws. Every little sound brought him fresh anxiety, for it was Cortland stealing away again, in his mind, going off to certain doom.

He couldn't have stopped him, even if he wanted to. And he didn't--not Cortland, not anyone. He knew how important freedom was. At the same time, if being more restrictive would have prevented this. . .

"No," he said aloud, shaking his head. "Stop." This was a fruitless exercise. He lashed his tail back and forth, brows furrowed together, teeth gritted. He settled down on his haunches, trying to breathe. The guilt choked him, prickled down his spine.

He'd never forgive himself.

sorry you get Poorly Written Angst

me: I'm gonna catch up
brain: oh look, tag

How long he was out, he did not know; the Mayfair stirred quietly at the sound of Phocion's voice, immediately aware of several things. First, everything hurt. His head most of all, though his leg was a close second. Though, his entire body ached in some way; he felt stiff, bruised all over, and his throat and mouth were dry and sore. For several beats he was still, eyes closed. When he dared crack them open, he instantly regretted it.
Second, it was dark, but even the scant light offered by the moon and stars stabbed at his eyes. He squeezed them shut again the next instant, huffing out a gasp of pain. It hurt— to move, to breathe, to think. Belatedly he took in the scents around him; Phocion's stood out immediately. Cortland opened his mouth, intending to call to his friend, to ask him what had happened— but only a strange, brief, garbled noise escaped him. He could form no words.

An incredibly unsettling noise drew him away from his thoughts, and he whipped his head around to see Cortland, awake at last. A small gasp escaped his lips as he rushed to his friend's side, eyes raking over his form. He nuzzled the boy's cheek, gently as he could in his relieved excitement, before pulling away to stare at Cortland.

"I'm so sorry," he stammered, unaware of the internal injuries Cortland had sustained and assuming he remembered everything. "I should have been there sooner, I--I'm sorry, Cortland." He blinked down at the boy, breath hitching in his throat. "How are you feeling now?"

The priest guessed it couldn't be good. He was a rough sight, bruised and battered, and there was a look in his eyes that suggested great pain and confusion. Still, he rocked back on his haunches, waiting for the response, his gaze anxious.

And then Phocion was upon him, spilling apologies— but, for what? Cortland could only blink, confused. He searched his memory for something, anything, but he was met with a sharp pain through his skull. Wincing, he tried again to speak. W—whaa... It faded off into a whine of frustration and alarm. Why couldn't he speak? He lifted his head, then, ignoring the intense pain. It was perhaps the worst he had ever experienced, but his panic was becoming greater.

His face contorted in agonized puzzlement as Cortland tried to speak. . .but failed. Were his injuries worse than what was on the surface? Where were the words that the boy so often held back--but Phocion knew he was capable of spilling? Especially now, after such a great trauma!

"Shhh," the priest whispered, running his tongue gently along the golden ears as Cortland winced with pain. "Lay down. You don't have to get up." He settled down next to his friend, tail entwined with the other's. He looked into the silver gaze, searching for answers. He found nothing but confusion and hurt.

"It's all right. You're home now," Phocion soothed, blinking gently. "Cortland. . .you're safe, with me." A terrible idea was starting to bloom in his mind, a hypothesis for all of it, but he didn't want to voice it aloud; to do so was likely to agitate the boy further, and all the Mayfair needed now was care and rest. Any questions could be resolved when he had recovered further.

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.

It was a terrible thing, what had happened. Now, in the wake of Cortland's tears, he was even more determined to ensure it never happened again. He had failed to keep his friend safe, that was abundantly clear. And the weight of that failure was a stone in his stomach, sitting heavy, immobile. Not only was he bruised, he was broken, inside. The blow to his head had done more damage than he had initially thought.

If he'd kept a better eye on the Mayfair, this wouldn't have happened in the first place. He couldn't keep a perpetual stare locked on Cortland. . .but he could do better. He would do better.

"It's all right," he repeated softly, nuzzling the boy's cheek. "Let it all out." He would stay as long as needed; forever, if that was what it took. Every teardrop was an indictment against his carelessness, every bruise a stain on his conscience. It was not only his desire but his duty to be here, by Cortland's side.

For a few more minutes, all he could do was cry— until suddenly, the tears stopped. He whined plaintively, at once feeling lightheaded, nauseous. The pain in his head intensified, drawing another sound from him. It spread like fire through his skull, and at the same time a strange tension spread through his body. He glanced up at Phocion, pupils fully dilated in an instant. H— he— Help me.
His muscles tightened, and he lost consciousness. Cortland went stiff, gripped suddenly by tremors through his entire body; his eyes rolled back, breath halted as he shook violently. The seizure lasted a full minute before it abated. The Mayfair was left limp, unconscious, blood and saliva pooling from his mouth— he had bitten almost through the tip of his tongue.

The weeping ceased, quite suddenly, and Phocion looked over, thinking that perhaps, answers could be found today after all. Not a moment later, after a strangled syllable escaped Cortland's maw. . .and suddenly the Mayfair was trembling violently, body convulsing, eyes round, bulging white orbs in his skull. His flailing paws pummeled into Phocion's side, and he leapt back, jaw agape.

It all happened so quickly--even if he could have summoned help, it wouldn't have arrived in the minute the horror lasted. But that minute, for Phocion, stretched into hours, and he was absolutely rooted in place. A statue, stunned into silence. He'd seen horrifying things--Zaria's body cannibalized by her own, desperate pack came to mind--but this topped the list by a mile. Shivers more refined than the ones racking Cortland's body raced through him, standing his fur on end; that was the only movement from the white wolf, who was completely and utterly at a loss.

They said that sometimes, even in the depths of night, the demons brought to life by Iliana's light still walked the earth. They'd seize hold of wounded victims, taking their souls, racking their bodies. Cortland, in Phocion's eyes, was possessed; he once thought that these stories were foolish, but those doubts were cast aside now.

It was only in the last seconds of the convulsions that Phocion began to speak, numbed lips chanting, in the tribal language, the one prayer he'd been taught to handle this scenario: "Fengari, protect him. Strike down the demon jaws of death. For he is your servant, a child of the night, and he is saved. Fengari, protect him. Strike down the demon jaws of death. For he is. . ."

The white priest trailed off as Cortland went limp, drooling, unconscious once more. He was bleeding, though, from a quick assessment, he saw it was from biting his tongue, which hung slightly from his mouth--not any internal injuries. Without hesitation, he sprang into action, rushing off the short distance to grab a clump of moss they'd gathered for the boy's other injuries and clamping it to the boy's mouth. He didn't know much about healing, but moss stopped bleeding--that, he did know.

"Oh, Cortland, please," Phocion mumbled through the moss. Tears came to his eyes, instantly spilling over his cheeks. "Please be okay. Please."

Somewhere deep in the sunset boy's skull, something had gone terribly awry. The fall had jostled things quite thoroughly; the result was chaos. The feeling of something in his mouth registered only distantly at first. Slowly, slowly, as things settled, it came to the forefront. He stirred.
In that moment, whatever connection had broken within him suddenly sparked back; for the briefest second, the chaos that had caused the seizure also repaired the damage done by the fall. Phocion, He mumbled sleepily, contently; for the moment, he was oblivious to what had transpired. It could have been an afternoon nap. Lay down with me. Cortland cracked his eyes open and regarded the priest fondly for a moment— and promptly passed out again.

In another complete turn of events, the silver eyes opened, and Cortland was looking at him lovingly, as if nothing had happened at all. He said his name, and Phocion let out a shuddering sigh of some relief, dropping the moss in surprise. Lay down with me. The white priest was more than happy to oblige, but before he began to settle down---Cortland was out like a light again.

The stillness disturbed him, but not nearly as much as the trembling had. The boy was breathing, and the blood from his tongue was slowing. It was a respite from the trauma he'd experienced, and with a small whine, Phocion circled and sprawled out beside his friend, belly against his back, holding him tight against him.

If the trembling began again, he would try to stop it once more. He would not sleep--there was too much anxiety bubbling beneath the surface for him to sleep. He would lay, restless, until Cortland rose again. . .and he hoped that was soon.