Silvertip Mountain you only hear the music when your heart begins to break

Without question, the priest was a pale shadow of Cortland's, always sticking to his side. Since the injury, worry had plagued Phocion's every waking moment, that the golden boy might one day rise and hurt himself again. . .or, worse still, not rise at all. His constant presence ensured the former would not happen; as for the latter--well, there was always prayer.

He did a lot of that, these days: praying.

He felt the soft muzzle press against him, and smiled broadly, eyes creased in half-slumber. "Hello, there," Phocion murmured, returning the touch. By all accounts, he seemed to be healing well, though he still was not talking. But the bumps and bruises were fading away, and his tongue--bitten nearly through during his wrestle with the demon--was on the mend.

But why couldn't he speak? Phocion leveled his stare upon Cortland's face, as if trying to draw the words from him. Say something. Please. It disturbed him, so, to have the young teller of tales with no voice, now, for stories.