Silvertip Mountain You understand: there is no house, there is no breakfast

gives up and uses narrow for cort too

Phocion's absence had been a slow-cutting knife; each day the priest did not return, the blade dug deeper into the Mayfair's chest. He felt its presence constantly, serrated and scathing. He focused on little else. Things like regret and doubt loomed heavy in the back of his mind, spitting possibilities when he did not need or want them.
Cortland had withdrawn into himself, scarcely leaving the cave of crystals except to sleep and to keep Poet company when he felt obligated. That was more often than he'd have liked. He made no attempt at conversation; they both knew, he thought, they'd both known the day Phocion had left. Neither of them needed to voice their pain for it to be known— he'd seen Poet's tenderness with their friend, and himself had realized that once, the knife in his chest had been something else entirely. It had been something soft, something warm, and in the priest's absence had turned icy and sharp.
The knife lurched as he awoke to the sound of Poet's retreat, her sobbing. He swallowed back the razors coming up his throat and rose, trailing her like a ghost. There was no need for words as he approached, gently nosing her shoulder; they both knew. The priest they'd both loved was gone, perhaps returned to the stars he so adored. In a way, Cortland hoped that was the case. The other scenarios he could imagine only twisted the knife deeper.