[P] the shape of the water

[Ossian]

This was his third moon without Ama, but - of the three - it was his grandest yet. Asterion, a man he had come to know as kind and chimerical, had guided him into Terrastella on that bitter morn, with the frost glittering ornately on his ebon hide and the redolence of a new beginning in each lung. This world, vast and perpetual, had absorbed him - his yielding mind quite suddenly drunk on such an alien land that had swallowed him whole. Behind orange suns Ossian had consumed the gentle swell of the fields and hills, passing by the swamp (of which he decided was a place that might haunt him within his dreams) with breathless alarm, and finally, following in silent vigil behind Asterion, the ocean child made of freckles and constellations had laid eyes upon the Citadel. It was like everything and nothing he could ever have imagined. 

To himself, he had kept. The swathes of people bustling about the Capitol startled Ossian, their nondescript hum setting his skin aflame with unease; what else could be expected from such a sheltered creature? Hours ticked into days and days washed into weeks as the watcher watched on, engrossed in the absorption of these strange customs and walls and bodies. Fascinated was an understatement. And though he was glad to be relieved of the deafening solitude which initially had driven him into water, there was a fermenting disquiet bubbling beneath his dark skin. The granite canvas sky over Dusk's keep seemed smaller than his by ocean, the gulls fly refused to fly in this far to meet him and oft the white-haired boy found himself aching for salt and brine and sand. For it was not only the water he missed, but the plethora of beautiful components that made up the oceanfront - the only world he had ever known.  

Ossian could take it no longer. Breaching the wind, he rose one clear dawn from where he slept beneath the stars (the idea of sleeping deep within the keep frightened him, still) and took to the west with a boyish vigour he thought perhaps - with Ama - he had lost. Time seemed to melt into oblivion as he moved swiftly, blood singing in his ears, pushing the thought of all else from his mind; there could be nothing but the sea. Down, down, down the coastline he traversed, angular limbs twisting against the bleached chalk until at last! Sand. Ossi closed his eyes, a gust of wind enveloping him so that his endless stark hair billowed and cavorted as though taken up by the very happiness that was blooming within.

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NOTES: @cyrene it ends quite abruptly but i ran out of time, sarry!