Silvertip Mountain holding on to what i can't have

for @Poet, tagging @Phocion for visibility

It was a rare occasion that he woke and found himself without Phocion— and certainly distressing every time. Cortland roused slowly, but was immediately aware of being alone. Alone, and cold— no, he did not like this. The sunset-furred Mayfair rolled over and whined, long and low; after several beats, he pulled himself to his feet. He had not attempted to leave wherever Phocion and Poet had decided to store his broken ass until now.
Emphasis on until now. He rose shakily and took a few tentative steps towards freedom, unsure where he intended to go. The obvious answer was find Phocion— but, did he want to do that? It was his first time up, and perhaps there was something more important or interesting to try... no, Phocion was definitely the most interesting thing in his life. Cortland sucked in a breath and tried a few more steps, finding his limbs wobbly and uncooperative but, somehow, functional. Yay for small victories!

im laughing bc i was literally in the middle of making THIS POST FOR YOU when i got the tag

It is not so suffocating to stay with Phocion and the boy, to her relief. Her fears of losing her tentative grasp on freedom have, thus far, gone unfounded. She still wonders if this is not just another way of latching onto something, thus continuing her unhealthy tendency towards order and ritual instead of true freedom, but what is true freedom anyway? Is community more important than independence?

She has the time to ponder these things, at least, as she picks through summery flora for her slowly expanding herb cache. Once she is satisfied with the day's offerings she sets out to check on Cortland, bearing garlic, yarrow, rose and lavender clutched in a bundle between her narrow teeth. His healing has been steady, if worrying (and frankly she is just concerned for the boy, given his seeming tendency to get himself hurt). 

When she sees him on his feet she drops the herbs, issuing a startled "Cortland!" Delicate steps take her closer to him, observing critically the tremble to his legs, the determination in his face. "Don't push yourself," she advises, "how do you feel?"

i'm dead, SORRY

It was not Phocion who found him, disappointingly; it was Poet. He was nonetheless a little excited to have company. Cortland opened his mouth to greet her— but before he made any sound, he remembered. No words for him. He paused, then whined softly; where is Phocion? If only he could ask. Instead he glanced past her, hoping she would understand his meaning somehow. He might have tried to talk again, to answer her question, but— after much practice, he found he could only make very strange, strangled noises that sounded vaguely word-like. It wasn't attractive.
Cortland noticed the herbs she had dropped, then, and was curious. Phocion was quickly forgotten, as most things were right now when they lingered too long out of his peripheral vision. He glanced back up at Poet, questioning, then back down to the herbs. After a couple beats, he crept forward to sniff them; assuming she didn't stop him, he took some of the yarrow in his mouth and held it up with an inquisitive expression. What's this?

nooo its just funny, same wavelength

The disappointment is not hard to read, though Poet does not find herself troubled by it. She knows the boy's affection for Phocion, and while she does not know much about how they came to travel together, she's gathered they care deeply for each other. Poet, on the other hand, is still an unknown (at least to Cortland). 

He can't speak. The strangled noises are worrisome: she doesn't know if he's damaged his vocal chords or if it is the result of a head injury. She's met wolves in the past that lost speech or visual function from head injuries, something there is little she can do for. Garlic and raspberry cannot heal an injured brain. She doesn't voice her concerns, not wishing to worry Cortland when he's already surely suffering. She also doesn't pick up on his wordless attempts at question, distracted as she is thinking, until he takes an interest in her herbs.

"Ah," she says, and smiles, "that's yarrow. It helps stave off infection and lessens pain. Be careful not to swallow it, as it can also induce vomiting." Which would be quite unpleasant, given the state of his healing tongue, she imagines. Poet sits then, her tail curling around her toe-tips. "I've also brought garlic, which works similarly to yarrow, lavender, which eases anxiety, and rose, which helps with inflammation." She smiles gently at him, allowing him to examine all the herbs if he wants, encouraging his curiosity. Better to keep him distracted that way, she thinks.