Wheeling Gull Isle kasheho

When he'd spied the island floating in a haze off the shoreline, it wasn't even Mojag's intention to seek it out. He'd learned to be careful with the edge of the big water - but then, after falling asleep where he thought it could not reach him, he was awakened to the feeling of weightlessness and nothingness which the cold water instilled.

The white noise of the sea left him in a state of calm which he might not have survived otherwise, keeping the boy more relaxed than what might be considered normal for someone his age - or in this sort of situation, as he was, swept out by the tide.

The cold was immediate, and numbing. He'd kicked and tried to fight the pull of the water but he was young, and he was weak; weeks of hunger had sapped him of any budding strength the boy had once contained. As feeling left his legs and he bobbed there, swathed in salt, he thought of his mother and let out a cry.

By morning he'd been thrust upon the edge of the island and left there. Mojag was a mound of melting chocolate upon a rocky beach, left shivering by the tide. The trauma of his journey wasn't something he could face just yet - but he was very much alive, and very, very confused.