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.