Silvertip Mountain i like your eyes wide

It sent a thrill through him, to hear Cortland acquiesce to his desire, and his ears cupped forward as the boy began to speak. A favorite tale. . .and those who told their favorite tales often did so with such fervor. He cuddled closer to his friend, their bodies sharing heat in the cool cavern.

"A bastard, abandoned to the sea by his jaded mother." Phocion shivered, a ripple moving down his throat as he swallowed. He was a bastard, and though his mother had not abandoned him--if one did not consider death as abandonment--he had found solace by the sea, after her departure. Spent his formative moons there, the hum of the waves constantly in his ears. He stepped into Zoran's paws quite suddenly, feeling every word drum against his heart.

And how dreadfully sad, to never find your soul. This story ended in tragedy, death before its time, a futile leap to the sea--and all you had ever wanted. But who could fault him? Who lived a fruitful life forever missing part of themselves, searching in vain?

"Zoran. . ." Phocion began, a few beats after Cortland had finished speaking. He closed his eyes, suddenly overcome with sorrow, his cheek sliding down 'till his face was cradled in the hollow of the boy's neck. "None can say. . .for sure. But what do you think? Do you think he found his savior again?"

The white priest drew back, looking at Cortland with misty eyes. "I would like to think so," he whispered, one corner of his mouth lifting in the barest approximation of a smile. The glittering walls caught his gaze, and he stared off absently, still transfixed by the story. "Thank you," he breathed, barely audible--though it was so quiet, you could have heard the wings of a butterfly.