Storm Watch Butte gunslinger I

Hauled up to the lip of rock like a half-drowned sailor, tears streamed from his eyes as he blinked away sand.

I am Lynx! he offered between heavy breaths, his smile bridging one ear to the other. 

Now what? His smile lost a few teeth.

Not for the first time, the princekin sorely regretted never paying attention in the language classes that Ixion had forced him to sit in on. Speak a man's native tongue and you will reach his heart... blah blah blah... He had preferred to spend his time cooing after pretty girls and boys. 

It did not matter anyway. There were no words in any language to describe the feeling that brimmed inside him now, pulsing with such strength as if it were a second heart.

He felt like St. Paul just before he became St. Paul, struck from his horse by a bolt of light terrible and beautiful. 

He swallowed; his throat constricted around grains of sand. He coughed. You?

The storm wailed outside their excuse for a shelter, more wrathful than elegiac.