Silvertip Mountain this i know: the snow won't fall on me

He smiled slightly at Phocion's worry, shaking his head and pressing gently into the priest. No, he d-didn't, mo airgeadach, Somehow the words fell more easily from him than those in the common tongue; again he was reminded of how much he missed his sister. Cortland tucked himself closer with a shiver, feeling the chill of the rain in his pelt now. He was grateful for the warmth of their closeness.
After several more beats, he said softly, Phocion, I— I'm... gla-ad you fo... found me, Twice— no, three times, now. He wasn't sure where he'd be now without his moonlit priest; would he be as happy elsewhere? The Mayfair allowed his own argent gaze to meet Phocion's brilliant blue. No— no, he would not be happier anywhere else. He was certain now that this was where he belonged.