Wheeling Gull Isle picks himself up and keeps climbing for the prize again

@Driftwood — whenever you wanna!

It had been almost a full month since his arrival on their shores and the wolves of Undersea had expertly put the boy back together.

Although he lacked many things (a memory for one, a voice,) he was at a point now where he could be escorted from his haven and left to enjoy the summer sunlight, at first for short periods but gradually for lengthier ones. His ribs were still quite tender, and he needed a guide when walking anywhere, so he was still frequently visited by his caretakers — others, too, had taken notice of him since the mitexi, and from time to time Mou caught glances of these strangers roaming through the grass on their errands or simply watching him.

He found that the world outside of his hideaway was much more open than he anticipated. The air had an odd smell that took some getting used to, but within a few days Mou had adjusted to it. His adventures out of the hollow were gradually made longer and longer each day in both time and distance, and at this point he was on a grassy burm that overlooked one of the endless beaches.

Mou did not know he was on an island; it mattered little except for the fact he would go no further, even with prompting from his caretakers — it was enough to smell the sea every day, to watch it beat ceaselessly along the tiny coast, but he was reluctant to go anywhere near it.

His explorative expeditions had grown slower and more tentative ever since he had discovered that this lovely little island contained such hidden dangers as murdercrabs, murderponies, and goodness knows what else lurking among the secret facets of its jewel-like beauty. One thing that brightened his day and increased the tempo of his feet with enthusiasm however, as he picked his way along the shore's edge and peered carefully and suspiciously down into the clear waters, was the tantalizing taste of a familiar scent that the sea breeze playfully skirled to his nose. He highstepped through the lapping waves, tail flagging high as he trotted in the direction of the wolf he had seen at the last Mitexi. As he trotted up the shore however, leaving a trail of wet pawprints in the sand behind him 'til the scruffy, sunbleached grasses wicked the moisture from his pads, it took him a moment to recall what Seelie's soft voice had called the quiet cloudy-furred male.

He offered the still-hurting creature a wide, gentle smile to accompany the softly-wagging tail. ...Mou? he offered up tentatively. Driftwood wasn't quite sure what to make of the man; the strange male didn't quite seem to be all here, somehow. Drift felt that there was something faraway in the male's eyes, and a certain pensive distraction to his entire demeanor, which made Driftwood himself wonder if the guy was even totally aware of where he was standing here and now. Driftwood could identify with this somewhat, however—and weren't most all of the islanders in the end castaways themselves in some form or fashion anyhow? This particular male seemed to have been even less fortunate than most, however. Driftwood's eyes flickered across the wide, angry scars inscribed deep into the neck and chest. He couldn't for a moment imagine that this reticent and retiring shy thing could in any way have deserved or instigated the events which led to such marks; they inspired only more pity and empathy in Drift's heart, and made him wonder what kind of monster could have done such a thing. It was all in the past, though; Mou was safe and sound now in his new home, and Driftwood knew that he himself was far from the only one who would strive to make sure nothing bad ever happened to this poor wretched innocent ever again.

He stepped closer to offer a comforting nuzzle of greeting and peer into the other's face, trying to divine where and what it was that the strange and silent Mou was seeing in his mind's eye this day. Hello. How are you? he said quite softly, trying to be sensitive to the other male's seeming habitual reluctance to respond and the likelihood that the answer was that he was still in great pain in ways Driftwood himself could only dimly guess at. ...At least when Mou surfaced from his memories and daydreams, even if only briefly, he could hardly find himself in a more restful and bucolic scene than this, thought Driftwood. Assuming the ponies and crabs kept clear, anyhow. Driftwood himself had always found the motion of the waves both soothing and alluring, however, and assumed that despite whatever hardships may have brought him here that Mou would feel the same.

Wherever the boy's mind wandered, it would return and he would be empty for a time. If he thought of anything or anyone it was uknowable, as even his own mind could not fathom to drift for long. But he was, for a time, consumed—and so he did not notice the stranger's approach or his spoken words. Rather, he was not a stranger. Had Mou been present he would have recognized the beachcomber from Maegi's mitexi, if not by name then by the look of him. 

Mou was trapped in the memory of the sea. Of it's grip, her grip, and he couldn't see the difference between the crackling of the waves across the stones and the sound of his bones being split; the taste of the salt water he had nearly drowned on and the blood that had poured from his neck; the red that stained him, and the red that winged at him across a cliffside—

—how are you? came an unfamiliar voice at a level too loud for his ears, but it served to sever whatever connection he'd had to the ephemeral, and Mou's focus resumed. The misted look in his expression became sharp and pointed, and he seemed to spook within his flesh, turning sharply with a sudden intake of breath when he realized he was not alone.

A meek smile slipped across his pale face, then. Trying to be friendly, or at least return the sentiment of kindness and attention to his visitor, he clicked an answer fit for a bird: Mm, hmm, keh, It took some thought and some fooling with his breathing to get it right, but his emphasis was present as he tried to affirm, he was okay, but could not say it. The boy dipped his nose in a friendly nod to the stranger then, and sighed, Oou? And you?

As soft and gentle as he had tried to be in intruding upon Mou's state of distraction, the other male still flinched a little. Driftwood winced, too, though mostly inwardly; that was not the foot he had wanted to start off on. Whoops. Mou seemed to recover quickly enough and come back to himself, thankfully; Driftwood's face brightened with a wider smile in response to Mou's own. The Seawolf cocked a droop-tipped ear and listened hard to Mou's breathy words. It took a little bit of guessing to divine their meaning, but seemed fairly clear for all that, in this instance. (And he had thought Seelie was soft-voiced, wow!)

Driftwood bobbled his head back at the other, eagerly, and said, Oh, I'm doing fairly well. It's a lovely day today, isn't it? He looked first up at the skies, with the few clouds studding it pristinely white and far-off, and then across at the gently lapping waves. Just the sight of it all caused Driftwood's tail to stir. Were you looking at the ocean? —I can help you across the shore, if you'd like, he added brightly, seeking some way to make himself of better assistance as ever. The water is extra-nice on a day like this, you know. Yes, surely the gentle waves would be a good thing for poor Mou, and help him reconnect with where and who he was. Driftwood ought to know. He grinned at his packmate, thinking that this happy prospect would certainly make up for his interrupt-y-ness, at least. Though it didn't seem like whatever thoughts he had intruded on were particularly happy ones, so far as he could see. He wasn't about to grill Mou to make sure though, what with the cloudy-furred male's continuing difficulties with speech and continued struggle to recover in general. It didn't seem an auspicious time to talk about it even if Mou had particularly wanted to.

He had not met anyone like Driftwood during his stay so far, and it took him by surprise when a flurry of words came from him. Mou had half-expected that each wolf would be the same: quiet and soft like Coelacanth, serious and grim like Reed. This wolf was not of those tropes — he launched in to details and was awash with interest in the surroundings. Mou smiled awkwardly when the quiet returned and a moment later, realized he hadn't quite caught it all. Not that he couldn't understand or couldn't hear, but, he had been surprised and — well, it didn't really matter. But he registered now that he was being invited closer to the sea.

Not wanting to disappoint the stranger (he was eager to please at this point in his recovery since there was little he could do as compensation for all their effort), he struggled to his feet and with shaking limbs, began to descend the grassy knoll. Mou did not want to go closer to the sea out of fear he might fall in again, but he felt compelled to at least try since he had company. If anything did go wrong then at least he'd have someone to help him. He got a few paces before he had to stop, and sagged against the earth, looking at his new companion apologetically.

Mou put him in mind of a wobbly-legged newborn fawn as Driftwood watched those shaky white legs stilting awkwardly forth. It took no more than a few breaths for Mou to slump earthward once again, however, having shifted himself no great physical distance. Driftwood spared a moment to silently admire his fellow wolf's bravery and strength of character; it had to be hard to have to work so much for even these few trembling steps, and yet Mou kept on truckin' regardless, as best as he could. Here, let me help, Tahou, said Driftwood, and matched deeds to words as he slipped up beside and half-under Mou, to assist in hoisting the other back onto those unreliable feet as best as Drift could manage. It shouldn't have to be so terribly hard to move such a tiny span, Driftwood thought with resolute determination, but then, that was what a pack was here for, was it not? Mou might need more assistance than most, at least in his current state, but every wolf had their strengths and weaknesses, and the thing that sent them apart from all the other creatures—or darned well ought to—was that their companions could always, always count on one another to help prop one another up through whatever moments of weakness or uncertainty any one of them might run into.

Come on, it's not much farther, coaxed Driftwood, taking his own strides that were kept as slow and solid and sure as their owner could make them. He'd be like a rock for Mou to lean on; or a drifting log to cling to in uncertain waters, for that matter. The corner of Driftwood's mouth quirked up. He wagged his tail and looked at Mou with mingled encouragement and sympathy both, trying to mentally will him his own strength to freely share. It would take them awhile to get to the water's edge but Driftwood was stolidly resolved that regardless if it took all day and night the two of them could and would manage it—together. He could practically hear the triumphant chords of background music swelling as he assisted the other (howls and the crashes of waves in Driftwood's mind, doubtless, but dangit I'm ttly hearing pieces from Hercules drowning everything else out in his little brain mmkay :P Or Chariots of Fire? hahaha).

It never once even crossed his mind that Mou might not want to go quite that long or far, in reality.

It should not have surprised him, but somehow it did, that the stranger was abruptly next to him and helping him to his feet. It did not occur to Mou yet that he was a part of this pack and not just a piece of detritus that had washed ashore for them to gawk at; he knew he held a fondness for the medics (perhaps that was a sort of stockholm syndrome to a degree), and adored the dark-coated Seelie with her little children (who he still thought, maybe, could've been his—) but he could not contribute. They were expending time, energy, and resources to fix him, but to what end? So he could struggle down the beach? Sullenly watch their children? Eat their food and rage about the injustice of it all?

Of course, had he known what came before, Mou (at least in this current incarnation) might've seen the justice of being thrown in to the depths from the cliff. He might have even agreed to seeing Screech assaulted by his sister, or left behind by his best friends. But life was cruel; such images were locked away and the key was long since lost. There had been justice, he just didn't know it.

Come on, it's not much farther, the man said, and he wasn't wrong. It had taken some time for the ruined boy to make it even this far, but as the pair got closer to the beach, as he felt the first grains of sand grind underfoot, Mou felt his whole body grow tense and his haunches even quavered a little; he was staring out at the waves that came in, went out, came in, went out—and suddenly he stopped. He descended his rear-end against the sand and looked as if he wouldn't go any further. A look to Driftwood, one that said, no no no, was all he could muster—even his fearful whimpering was too breathy beneath the shifting tide.

A sudden record-scratch stop that took Driftwood by surprise: he lurched to a halt half a step beyond where Mou did, planted his sandy-furred feet wide and turned to look back at his packmate with wide-eyed surprise and complete befuddlement. Driftwood couldn't for the life of him imagine they could have been going too fast; the slow and limping progress they had made as they tottered their way to the beach might have been a marathon of epic proportions for a baby mouse, but only just, and certainly nothing larger, and that alone had taken them several minutes. Driftwood's eyes raked up and down the form of the other with alarm and concern, and then softened sympathetically as they met the single pleading eye of the other male.

It's all right, he said coaxingly, his soft voice pitched to overcome the soft swoosh of the waves, unlike Mou's own. It won't hurt you. I promise. Driftwood took a moment to make sure Mou was adequately propped up as he moved his browner form a short distance away. Driftwood patted and stomped at the sand in demonstration, wagging his tail high and wide. See? Beach time was fun time! No time to be scared! Driftwood glanced back at Mou with a small but encouraging smile before taking another several strides to go and stand where the lapping waves could tickle his toes. Driftwood turned to face Mou with a wide, confident grin and a proud lift of the chin. See? The water was great! Drift trotted back to Mou with swift confidence, carefully maneuvering his body to try and prompt Mou's upward and onward once again. His voice began to grow brighter and louder as he continued with increasingly jocular assurance. You'll like it! And I'll be right here beside you, making sure you're safe. Okay?

He didn't wait for an answer, not really—could one really even expect one from poor Mou, anyhow? It undoubtedly stunk to lose one's voice almost entirely, but Driftwood was bound and determined that that little stumbling block wasn't going to keep Mou from playing in the island's beautiful waters, not even a little. He perked his ears at his fellow wolf, the kinked tip of the right drooping down as if to point commandingly at Mou: up to you now, move those feet. Driftwood nudged his dark noseleather at Mou, a motion sympathetic and coaxing both.

The wolf gave him promise after promise that the sea would not harm him, but there was no getting over the all too natural fear he held. Not that simply. He was only one wolf and if the sea did wish to keep him, it could easily overwhelm his weak self and drag him back to the depths — why risk his life?

I'll be right here beside you, claimed Driftwood. Mou still felt very resistent, his anxiety spiking regardless of what was being said. But the wolf was making an effort. They didn't have to go very far. With a sigh Mou got back up again and staggered towards the wet edge of the beach where the water spread the lowest. He bent to inspect the water, much like a child might test a new thing, and with some further coaxing from Driftwood he took a few steps in to the water.

Yes...yes, that's the way! Driftwood's tail wagged in furious glee. He wanted to jump for joy, rather literally, at what might seem like insignificant baby steps for anyone else but which were obviously huge mountain-cresting strides forward for someone who had been so weak and traumatized as Mou. Driftwood stopped himself before his own weight had shifted more than the tiniest bit, however; much as he might want to dance about like a fool to express the joy bubbling up within him, Mou here needed him to be stolid and strong, a self-contained and sturdy rock upon which his shaky-legged packmate could steady himself no matter how unevenly the waves might tug at him. So Driftwood's tail danced around extra-wildly, to make up for the expressiveness the rest of his body must wall within himself, for now.

But, Don't drink it, Driftwood did admonish Mou, watching the other's muzzle dip experimentally. Okay, it might seem stupid and obvious, but one never knew...better safe than sorry, right? And Driftwood wasn't certain to exactly how puplike a state Mou might have regressed; somewhere in his mind he subconsciously figured that since the scarred male had spent so much time and effort striving to relearn how to walk, it stood to reason that most everything else might have to be relearned as well. And that was Driftwood's job right now, as he saw it: to do his part in helping his packmate relearn everything he'd need to be as well-rounded and productive and happy an inhabitant of their island as possible. Though Driftwood was also eager to see Mou rediscover the wonder and joy of simply being in and with the sea, too: how could anyone possibly fail to delight in the pleasant beauty, the supportive bouyancy, the fascinating clarity and splashy fun of it all...? These were unconscious assumptions on Driftwood's part, and so although he made certain to keep the bulk of his body pressed supportively up and under Mou as much as possible, he also kept moving forward with as wide and eager steps as he possibly could, helping to walk Mou out toward increasingly deeper waters even as he himself enjoyed the sensations the gradually cooler and deeper waves had to offer. Quite soon if he had anything to say about it they'd be where they could swim about at least a little, which (to Driftwood at least) was obviously the whole point of living at the seaside after all, wasn't it?! Right foot, then left; here we go! Isn't the sea beautiful today—just about the perfect temperature with that summer sun beating down on our coats like this! Mou wasn't very talkative, after all, so Driftwood just kept talking more, practically filling in both sides of the conversation all by himself. He unconsciously assumed this too would be helpful and reassuring to poor near-mute Mou. Friendly voice, friendly packmate, friendly waters...Mou had nothing whatsoever to fear or lose in blindly and eagerly following his lead, right? Sure. ...Lacking much of a past of his own, in his mind, Driftwood couldn't even begin to fathom how terrible it could possibly be to have such memories piling up in one's head in an unexpected and sudden emotional deluge and weighing one down.