Wheeling Gull Isle shanti

set for December 15

he spent his last days at the plateau among family, soaking in their presence. playing with the grandchildren, jesting with arjun, comforting simbelmyne. he saw so much of the varied facets of himself in the young ones—but none were him as a whole. and that was good. he hoped he had passed on the best traits only, and if not, any negative traits would be washed away by the good in their mother, in easy, in the morningside blood.

aditya could not sleep. he paced in restless pain, increasingly lethargic, unable to urinate without his parts burning like fire.

the sun rose above the horizon, and the clouds were at bay. after days of snow, the sky was clear. he set his golden eyes upon the blue expanse, smiled, and set a course for the northeast, along the coast.

one final glance was spared for the plateau, his heart clenching like a fist at the sight.

it should have been mine.

but wasn't it? his descendants were born there; his blood thrived there.

and after all, he was too old to waste much thought on what could have been. aditya left it behind, instead, heading at a slow and deliberate pace toward his final destination.

---

low tide, and the land bridge cut through the shimmering waves. knowing he had little time to spare, he stepped onto the narrow expanse of sand. the pawprints he left would be washed away within hours; soon, the island would be truly an island, isolated from the rest of the world.

he reached its shore just as the tide began to swell inward again.

where had he washed up, all those years ago? even if he remembered the scene exactly, aditya doubted he could find it. somewhere on the beach, anyway, eyes crusted with sea salt, kelt tangled 'round his limbs. lost, helpless, at death's door. . .

but coelacanth. she had been there. his mouth split in a grin at the thought, her sleek dark form and glittering cerulean gaze in his mind's eye as if it were only yesterday.

and who was to say it wasn't? what was time? should he have lived tens or dozens or hundreds of lives before this, his time spent within the body he inhabited at this moment had been naught but a blink of an eye. one blink, and coelacanth had been there. another, and he'd found happiness in morningside. another, and he was a father of multitudes, and a grandfather of even more.

aditya walked the very edge of the beach, enjoying the feel of his ankles in the surf. the great inner mountain was a bulwark to his inside, but he would not pursue those heights today.

no, he longed for the sea and the sea only. he always had.

when he'd exhausted himself—the sand being so heavy—aditya laid down, curled in a ball with nose to tail, and fell into a contented slumber, the last sensation the susurrus of waves in his ears.

---

he woke again at sunset, the sky beginning to darken and bleed into shades of pink and orange and indigo. aditya rose, stretched, yawned, and carried on. swallowed. . .and found no resistance to the action. he sat back on his haunches, lifting a forepaw to scratch at that infernal collar—

it was gone.

he found all of a sudden that he felt lighter, more lively. aches gone. vision clear.

he stood and turned, slowly, and found himself looking at his own still form—agouti fur threaded with silver, collar intact, eyes closed. as if he gazed upon himself, sleeping. . .

but this was no slumber.

ah, hariji, aditya breathed, tears coming. they rolled down his cheeks, spilling in rivulets through the thick fur at his ruff. thank you, he prayed silently, for letting me die here. with dignity. after all, was there a more beautiful place to die?

and with—

was she here? would she be here? her granddaughter existed on the plateau, bound to dutch. old enough for a granddaughter. . .she must be old enough by now.

but she did not appear.

peace be, he whispered to coelacanth's spirit—wherever she might be.

---

regardless of her absence—and that of so many others—he felt their presence regardless. the warmth of his mother, glued to his side as she'd been at the very beginning. his uncle, foolhardy and funny. dear old grayday, the father he'd always wanted. others, so many others.

nando, lost to the sea. their misadventure had brought him here in the first place. and just as one life had ended, another had begun.

aditya wondered which spirit would be born in the wake of his demise.

all the best, mere dost, he whispered, laughing quietly at the absurdity of it. for this world could be—often was—a harsh world. . .but every sour moment was matched by a sweet second or two. and that had made all the difference for him.

but it was time to go. he was waxing too much poetic in his own mind, and the sea was calling.

aditya did not know what awaited his soul next. he only hoped that the sum of his parts was judged to be more kind than cruel, more happy than sad, more good than bad.

wasn't that the point of a life lived well?

the old man was young again, and he turned to the sea, looking upon the waves that had captured his heart from the moment he'd set eyes upon them. within the water, he saw every face he'd ever loved—his children, his women, his friends. he would catch one brilliant, fleeting glimpse of them as he descended into the ocean,

and as he did so, the various composite parts and personality of the wolf called aditya began to disintegrate altogether into the great blue expanse.

his soul remained, but that, too, would be borne elsewhere;

again, and again,

becoming one with all, and all in one;

living on in the stories of his kin, and those who learned from them.

---

somewhere, a new life blooms.

farewell, my handsome wanderer.