Wheeling Gull Isle you were beautiful

“M — uh?”

The soft, hollow rasp of his ruined voice was loud to Coelacanth, who had begun to fear the worst despite the gritty determination she put on display for her colleagues. “Mou,” she confirmed gently, long, slow strokes of her tongue smoothing the fur between his ears and down his nape. She was reasonably sure that he could hear her, and she believed erroneously that he knew and remembered her, so she cracked open her weeping heart to show him the glittering geode of love and sorrow that had crystallized therein. “My friend die,” she breathed into his ear. “I fight and fight — ever, ever! — so you live.” Oh, Doe! Oh, Grayday! Oh, Aditya and Dawn and Sunny, Eventide and River and Kitten!

“Mou fight and fight,” she urged him. “To stay. Please.”