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

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.