Gilded Bay deserted, my organs can go on without me

keepin vague about some things!

He had never thought of himself as the type to run from his problems; the Mayfair had been introspective from the beginning, always studying and discovering and rediscovering himself. He wondered if that was what he was doing now. Rediscovering himself. For the second time in such a short period, Cortland was chiding himself for his decision to run. Briefly, the boy considered that he should not have parted from Mona, either, but— he still believed they would always find each other again.
The sunset boy could not be so certain he would see @Phocion or Ava again. He searched for them still, having encountered many but feeling no inclination to linger without them. Cortland could not know he was going the wrong way entirely— he was many things, but great at directions was not one. The journey was not without its merits; occasionally, he discovered something wonderful.
Tonight was such an occasion. The Mayfair was unusually restless when darkness took the land, finding his days strangely lethargic now. He set off under the soft blanket of night with little but the stars and sea in his thoughts. The night was young, and the tide had not yet come in fully when Cortland discovered the bay. He paused, breath catching, and took in the sight of the pools and spires not yet swallowed by the ocean. The water was ink and argent in the night, reflecting the moon in ripples as it crept up the shoreline; enchanted, he dared a few steps closer to the water's edge. Each cold, rising wave came to lap idly at his toes, bringing the water further inland so slowly the boy barely noticed. He was gazing skyward now.
Cortland must have stood for some time in the water; it felt like minutes, and suddenly he was elbow-deep in water. The realization startled him, but the moment passed quickly. He was undisturbed by the frigid slosh of saltwater around him— it offered some strange comfort. Alone as he was, the ocean embraced him.

Phocion had become despondent. He'd spent days looking for Cortland, to no avail. All he could do was follow the boy's scent, but even that had led him to some dead ends. He hadn't even found more than a couple of wolves to ask if they'd seen him. He was beginning to give up hope, and began making plans to head back to Silvertip Mountain. . .alone.

There was, within him, doubt, like a festering wound. Had Cortland really left because of a spat with Ava? Or was it something he'd done? It had been a long time since he'd felt abandoned, but Phocion felt that sharp sting now, and stopped his running, breathing hard. Twilight had come upon the land, the young moon sparkling on the waves.

"Fengari, please," he intoned in the tribal tongue, lifting his nose to the sky. "Help me find my friend. Guide my way." His crystalline eyes raked the stars, searching for a sign, any sign. And--there! To the south! Perhaps he'd imagined it, but one star winked brighter than the others suddenly, a gentle pulse, before resuming its normal brilliance.

He was not one to ignore the voice of the asteria, and Phocion took off at a gallop, gaze fixed on the southern horizon. He'd only been running for several minutes before he came across a bay, and saw a lone figure standing in the waves, staring at nothing. The gold of his pelt, reflected in the moonlight. . .

"Cortland!" Phocion yelled, racing toward the form, not even sure whether or not it really was Cortland, but wanting so desperately to believe. . . "Cortland!" His snowy pelt darkened with damp as he splashed through the water, tail wagging furiously. He stopped a tail's length away from the boy and his scent assailed him; breathless, Phocion butted his head into Cortland's shoulder, burying his muzzle in the thick fur of his ruff.

"I was. . .so worried," the priest gasped, voice muffled. He pulled back to look at the boy, almost sobbing in his relief. "Couldn't find you. . .Ava said you'd gone. . ." He drew closer once more, drawing his friend into his embrace for as long as he'd allow.

The sound of his name and the splashing of water drew Cortland's attention immediately; a familiar scent surrounded him, and his heart skipped. Phocion! The cry spilled from him before the stark male had reached him. He turned and raced to meet his friend, forgetting all but his joy to see him again. Even under the cloak of night, Phocion seemed to glow.
The Mayfair met his embrace enthusiastically, tail a golden blur behind him as he nuzzled into the other. He could not stay still, rubbing his face against Phocion's neck and chest for several long moments. No words came to him yet; he pressed several brief kisses to both his friend's cheeks instead, and backed up only for a moment to dance around him, tail waving.
He melted back into the silvery plush of Phocion's fur, this time with something to offer: I'm sorry. The words were quiet, raw. I— I didn't mean to run so far. I didn't know what to do after— He stopped and swallowed hard, figuring Ava had told Phocion everything already. After what happened with Ava.

He shook his head at Cortland's apology, shrugging it off. He didn't need it, not at all. Maybe later, when they'd had time to settle down, and the joy of reunion had worn off. . .but not now. Certainly not this very instant. Phocion felt nothing but happiness in this moment.

Then Cortland spoke softly, explaining his decision, and the white priest pulled back, looking intently at the boy. "What happened, Cortland?" he asked, not knowing--of course--his friend assumed Ava had told him everything. "What did Ava say to you?" His eyes narrowed. "Did she hurt you?"

He had taken a liking to the woman, it was true, but any harm done to Cortland was inexcusable. One nod of affirmation from the boy and he'd be off to find her as soon as it was appropriate. How he'd hold her accountable, he didn't know. There were rules for this kind of thing in the tribe, but here? No pack, no order?

He'd probably just have to take some of her blood. Maybe all of it, depending on what she had done.

The boy shook his head quickly when Phocion asked if she had hurt him. No— it wasn't her fault. Wait, she didn't tell you? He felt sick again— sick like he had been in the field, he remembered. Trembling, he pressed on; suddenly, he needed to. She had a strange scent, and it made it hard to think. I don't know what we did— it's hard to remember, but I didn't like it, but I was the one doing it. I don't know why I didn't stop— or why I didn't like it. Ava seemed like she liked it, and I thought I liked it, but I didn't. It felt dirty, after.
Cortland took a couple steps back through the water, breathing hard now. He felt exposed in the worst way. So I ran away. And then I felt sick, or something— I thought I was going to die. The last few words came as a whisper. I feel sick again.

It was probably the most words he'd ever heard tumble out of Cortland's mouth, and he stood, stupefied, waiting for the boy to exhaust himself. It took a couple of moments for it to click in his head, and when it did, a watery smile made its way onto his face, hanging on the verge of collapse.

Truth be told, he didn't know what to think. Of all the ways the tribe had altered his brain, sex was changed the most. Where he'd once been a fiercely virile young man, now he felt almost neutered. Sex was done in dark places, sequestered from the rest of the pack. Women in heat were led away by their mates--for mates were chosen before that mess began--and would return to the tribe after a week's time. Their bellies would swell--

Phocion blinked in slight horror at Cortland as he realized what this encounter could result in. He was quick to morph the expression into something kinder, though worry still curdled in his stomach, turning it over and over until he became nauseous. He shook his head, closing his eyes. Trying hard not to picture the two of them. . .together.

"Breathe," he murmured, while he himself took a deep inhale, letting it out in a long puff of air. His eyes opened once more and he looked at the boy, drawing forward to nuzzle at his neck. "Breathe. It's okay, Cortland. It's all right. It's all right." He continued to whisper gentle words like these, at a loss for anything else suitable to say.

He didn't understand the emotions he saw in Phocion's expression; he still didn't understand what he had done. Cortland shrank in on himself as he watched his friend react. At the very least, he knew now that he had done something terrible. But how terrible? Would the ethereal male leave him— run him off, even? Would he deserve it? The Mayfair shivered more fiercely, imagining he must but dreading it desperately.
Then, Phocion drew closer. The sunset boy had not expected comfort. He froze for a moment, trying and failing to understand— but Cortland was too raw, too fragile to question for long. He sighed softly at his friend's touch, pushing his nose into his fur. For several beats, he was quiet, pressing close; he felt fragile, needy. As if he might shatter in the embrace, but needed it more than he had ever needed anything.
I'm sorry. Cortland's second apology was somehow more broken than the first. It came, this time, with the knowledge that he could not undo this— he could not fix it. He didn't ask now what exactly it was he had done— clearly Phocion knew, but Cortland wasn't sure he wanted to yet. Not with the memory of his friend's expression still burned fresh in his mind.

He embraced Cortland once more, still shaking his head. "No, no, you don't have to be sorry," he insisted softly, closing his eyes. Images of orphaned puppies--much like himself--quickly flooded his brain, and his eyes snapped open, a small shudder running through his body, lifting the hairs on his spine. No, that wouldn't do. Not at all.

If there was even the slightest chance Ava was pregnant, they must seek her out right away. Phocion would not let a single child go fatherless; he was absolutely adamant that both parents be there for their children. No matter what it took. Even if it meant Cortland could not be his--not his entirely, anyway.

"I lost track of Ava, when I went to find you," he murmured, almost as if to himself, though addressing Cortland in an off-hand fashion. Where could she have gone? "Should we track her down? Did she have a home, before she found us?"

There was also Poet--he hadn't seen the woman since their meeting in Neverwinter Forest. He'd meant to keep her close, but the situation with Cortland had thrown things into chaos, and he'd lost track of her, too. Poet was more dear to him than Ava, it was true--but it was not her belly that could swell in the coming weeks.

Slowly, his trembling calmed, then halted entirely. Everything he needed in this moment, Phocion gave freely; tears welled in his eyes at this thought. His breaths still came shallow, erratic, but it felt different now. A small tremor swept along his spine— even that was a different feeling. He was hyper-aware of the warmth between them, of Phocion's fur mingling with his own. Foreign as the emotion was, it both terrified and thrilled him. Cortland pressed closer, whining so softly it was barely audible.
When he mentioned Ava, the spell was broken. The sunset Mayfair didn't move, but the warm glow encasing him faded all too quickly. He closed his eyes and sighed softly; it was a weary, forlorn sound. I don't know, Cortland admitted after several beats. She was... mysterious. It was true— the woman had appeared so suddenly, and had offered so little of herself. A spike of concern shot through him nonetheless at the news that Phocion didn't know where she was. What if she was gone forever— what if it was his fault? He tensed, emotions threatening to spill over once again.

Phocion was relieved when the boy finally started to relax, only to find him tensing up once more. A low murmur caught in his throat, he ran his muzzle through the plush fur at Cortland's shoulder, pressing his nose against the warmth. He felt at once all-powerful and incredibly vulnerable; the guardian of this young man, yet he was keenly aware of the harm Cortland could do to him, should he want to.

He might as well have rolled over and shown his belly. He hoped that by showing Cortland his heart, his friend would do the same. Quiet, timid Cortland.

She was. . .mysterious. Phocion wished she would come back. He'd liked her, found somewhat of a kindred spirit in the woman. Bathed in the light of a rosy moon. . . He couldn't fault Cortland, nor her. Spirits were high. The timing fell into place. They'd only done what wolves had done for thousands of years--if it wasn't such a tradition, would they be standing here? Certainly not.

"That's okay, it's okay," he whispered, addressing both of them once more. He pulled back, blinking gently at the golden man. A small smile made its way over his lips, slowly reaching his eyes with a muted glow. "I'm going to Silvertip Mountain. Will you join me?"

The Mayfair felt fogged and electrified at once when Phocion's touch again tracked through his fur; it was overwhelmingly strange, to bounce between such vastly different emotions. He soaked in the feeling nonetheless, and was disappointed when Phocion moved away once again. That fell forgotten when he registered the invitation extended to him. Cortland blinked once, twice, eyes wide and blank.
Of course. The words were quiet but full of conviction. He pressed forward abruptly, muzzle seeking his friend's cheek first; he nosed the soft fur there, trailing to the base of his ear. The boy daringly smoothed his tongue over the velvety outer shell, and lost his nerve there. He lowered his head slightly to bury his face in Phocion's neck, repeating himself even more softly this time: Of course I'll come with you.

*melts*

The touch, it--he couldn't describe it. It sent not a jolt but a wave of serenity through him, rippling over his body like the water against their legs. He closed his eyes, taking a breath and enjoying the moment of silence that fell over them. He was coming. Cortland was coming with him. Everything would be all right.

He nuzzled the boy gently, pulling back to stare up the coast, where they would soon find themselves under the comforting shadow of the mountain he'd once called home. The moon was bright and would guide their way. And once they were there. . .

"Fengari, watch over us," he intoned in the ritual language, looking to the sky. He gazed upward for a long moment before resting his gaze upon Cortland, at once both gravely serious and ready to burst out of his pelt with the excitement of it all. "Let's go, then," he said, and excitement won over, breaking from his maw with a giddy giggle.

Grinning, he butted his head gently against Cortland's shoulder and dipped his nose, splashing the boy with a spray of cool water before wheeling and racing away, water flying in his wake. "Let's go!"

He shivered slightly at the strange language Phocion used, following his gaze to the sky. The feeling of the priest's eyes on him again drew his attention back, his own silver gaze reflecting many emotions. Cortland was, in some small way, nervous; this would be his life now. The sun's warmth and light would be scarce for him, and the mountain he would call home was both unfamiliar and, as far as he knew, nowhere near any ties he might have in this land. The priest would be his only friend, if Ava did not come back.
The Mayfair smiled at Phocion's urging; he regretted nothing. The splash caught him off-guard, but before he could react his friend was running. He took off after him with a laugh, not at all minding the way the water soaked him through. He was determined to catch the priest— and when he did, he'd... do something. Probably sit on him until he apologized.