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

forward-dated a week

For many days, he drifted in and out of consciousness; sometimes he was awake enough to eat, to whine at @Phocion because he couldn't talk, but mostly he slept. It was a deep, healing sleep— the Mayfair was still young, and though recovery was slow, it was possible. He didn't know that, though.
As far as Cortland was concerned, this was the rest of his life. He felt broken, weak. Speech had not returned to him— in its absence, he found many fears. Would Phocion think him damaged irreparably— stupid? Some days he felt hazy, but Cortland was certain he wasn't. But then— perhaps he wasn't certain; would he know if he was stupid, now? He hoped so. This was at the front of his thoughts during his brief waking moments, and often it drove him to frustrated tears.
Today, when he woke, something felt different. Not just the fact that Phocion was pressed against him, but— oh, Phocion was pressed against him. Whatever small difference he had noticed was forgotten, and he nuzzled into his friend affectionately. Phocion's touch was the only thing he had been able to find comfort in, since the fall (which he still didn't actually remember); even eating was still unpleasant, given his healing tongue. So he had been bolder about it than usual, even— maybe a little uncharacteristically demanding, sometimes. Just a little.

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.

Phocion's quiet greeting sent a flutter through his heart. He pressed closer, making a soft noise almost like a whine. Good morning, he wanted to say, maybe a little teasingly. Instead he trailed his nose through the priest's fur, only glancing up when he felt his stare upon him. Perhaps he was waiting for the same thing Cortland was; perhaps they'd wait forever.
The Mayfair tried again nonetheless— but nothing would cooperate. The wrong sounds came from his mouth, and he clamped it shut. Tears instantly welled in his eyes; he closed those, too, and buried his face into Phocion. I'm not stupid, I'm not. Please don't think I'm stupid.

His face twisted in angst as Cortland opened his mouth only to have unintelligible sounds come out. Shaking his head--both in a soothing manner, and because he was disturbed by the noise--Phocion drew his tongue over the Mayfair's forehead, making shushing noises.

"It's all right," he said, though not really sure of what he was reassuring. Would it really be all right, in the end? Was Cortland doomed to be mute, forever? "Here, come lay down and I'll hold you," he suggested, flopping back a little ungracefully to his side and curling his paws in invitation. A drowsy half-smile fluttered across his face, eyes glittering.

Words didn't need to be shared for them to show their love for each other. . .even if his greatest talent was words. Whatever Cortland needed in this moment, Phocion was sure he could provide.

Phocion's distress did not go unnoticed; suddenly shamed by the burden he had thrust upon his friend, Cortland trained his gaze on the ground beneath him. He was soothed slightly by the gentle licks over his forehead, but not entirely. There were so many things he wanted to tell Phocion— so many words they had not yet exchanged, and now the Mayfair had none to give. He whined again, quietly. The priest's invitation went ignored for several beats, though not purposefully.
When he did respond, it was slow. Moving still brought discomfort— but he was undeniably eager to take Phocion up on his offer. He crept closer, lingering for a beat to rub his muzzle gently against Phocion's if the touch was allowed. Then, he tucked himself into his friend's embrace. Another soft whine escaped him; talk to me, please. He knew the priest was tired, but— oh, how he wished to hear his voice! Cortland often thought he could lose himself in the sound. And right now, there was nothing he wanted more.

It took awhile for him to come around to it, but finally, Cortland settled in beside him--though not without a few whines, of which he couldn't discern a meaning. Nevertheless, Phocion snuggled closer, pressing his nose against Cortland's for a brief instant before resting his head against the ground, looking at the Mayfair. Studying the gleam of silver in his eyes.

"You know," he said after a short while, because the silence was starting to drive him mad, "that star in the north, the very north, that never moves? All the other stars move through the night, but not this one. Ypsilos."

Oh, how he wished it was night! This story would have more meaning if Fengari shone down upon him now. He stifled a yawn, continuing. "Ypsilos was one of the first children born to Fengari and Erastia. Like Iliana, he was big and bright. . .but unlike his sister still to come, he had no envy in his heart. Instead, he wanted to help others.

"So instead of running around with his other siblings, engaging himself in other pleasures, Ypsilos stands like a statue in the sky. High above, never moving. He points us, the children of the night, in the right direction, even when we are hopelessly lost. He is the tireless navigator in the stars."

Phocion chuckled, cheeks flushing with heat a bit as he looked down, slightly abashed. "Don't know why I thought of that, just now," he remarked, stretching a little. He stifled yet another yawn, blinking apologetically at Cortland. "My mind's not the sharpest, when the sun is up."

He could have cried when Phocion finally began to speak; instead, he smiled, the expression best described as delighted. His tail thumped gently against the ground as the priest told his story. Ypsilos— he committed the name to memory, watching his friend with sparkling moonlight eyes. A guide of sorts, in the sky; Cortland rather liked the idea. He wondered then if there was a reason Ypsilos lay to the north— he wished he could ask.
Instead, he admired his priest, smile brightening with fond amusement at his last words. Cortland leaned closer, brushing his nose against Phocion's cheek. He let the touch linger, grooming the fur there softly for a few long moments; he was still mindful of his healing tongue (it was something you never quite forgot). As he pulled back slightly, he whined again, low and drawn out— but this was a pleased sound, something to express his joy and gratitude at what his friend had provided. Still, he mourned the loss of words in this moment.

He returned Cortland's smile, admiring the way the sunlight turned his golden pelt into something even more magnificent. He detested the sun--as they all should--but he would admit, if only to himself, this one small beautiful sight it provided. He ran his tongue along the boy's forehead, if he would allow, then pressed his muzzle into the bronze ruff, finally letting loose a tremendous yawn.

"I'm tired, Chrysos," he said as soon as his jaws had closed, blinking sleepily over at Cortland. "You know how I am, during the day." He stretched, long and languorous, even wiggling each individual toe in the process. A contented smile bloomed across his face, sleep pulling at the edges of his mind.

Phocion rested his head upon Cortland's shoulder, closing his eyes, his tail drifting idly to and fro on the ground behind him. He wished his friend could tell him a story; he would love to hear one, as he drifted off to sleep. But no matter. Phocion was never one to forget his blessings--he was lucky to have Cortland here, alive, with him. On Silvertip Mountain.

That thought alone set fire to any notion of distress he carried with him, these past few days.

A contented noise almost like a purr rumbled in his throat at his priest's touch. He leaned into it, smiling slightly as Phocion yawned. Chrysos, he called him, and something warm fluttered in his chest. At that moment, his desire for speech intensified tenfold; words sat heavy on his tongue now, ones he had never thought to say before. Now that he could not, they were at the front of his mind. Nothing was more important.
Cortland took to grooming whatever part of Phocion he could reach, still quite gentle and tentative. It didn't hurt his tongue so long as he was careful, though. All he could think was that he wished he could talk. He pressed closer against his friend, willing himself not to shed frustrated tears as the words he desperately wanted to say played on repeat through his mind. It was maddening. Eventually the Mayfair tucked himself against Phocion to sleep as well, though not without a single mournful whine, a sentiment he would forget upon waking until it inevitably struck him again: I love you.