A red sunrise blooms over the edge of the water, bringing with it the promise of a winter squaller. Silas watches the sea churn against the rocky shore, wrestling with his desire to leave Tinuviel and the knowledge that the time left to do so was growing thin; his window was closing with each passing second. Soon, the storm would roll in and make the stretch from the Cove to the crossing isle impassible, or nearly so. Too dangerous for him to attempt it, even with all his coltish bravado.

He paws at the dirt, dipping his head to snatch a few of the sparse blades of chewy grass. It’s not that big a deal, he thinks to himself, trying to ignore the other needling voice in the back of his mind, the one that told him is mother would worry herself sick - and what if he got lost - or worse, misjudged the storm and didn’t make it in time?

He didn’t want to prove a point just for the hell of it, but damn did he want to prove that he was old enough to make his own choices for once.

And what a better way to do it than getting the hell off this island?

Before he can talk himself out of it, he picks his way down the craggy path to the water’s edge, into the bone-cold sea. His teeth chatter and he clinches them, stubborn head thrust forward as he plunges deeper, further away from the comforts of home and solid ground beneath his hooves. His muscles fatigue quickly, not used to swimming any sort of distance, much less in the dead cold of winter. He pushes through it, chest heaving with the effort. At some point, he concedes that it is pure stubbornness that drives his journey, an absolute need to prove himself to be the independent and able stallion he wants to be perceived as.

A crack of thunder from the sky sends a shock of fear through his veins, reminding him that despite what he wants, he is not much more than a boy playing pretend. The lightning that follows is close, too close for comfort. Panic edges in, creeping into the cracks in his confident veneer.

His trepidation is eased by the shadow of land in the distance, growing closer with each thrust of his adrenaline-fueled legs.

When sand drags along the bottom of his feet, he throws himself forward into the shallows, gasping with relief and a newfound blossom of confidence. His heart pounds violently behind his ribs, the sound of his pulse a roar in his ears. I did it. I fuckin’ did it!

His eyes scan the area, a concerning thought occurring to him as the exhilaration of surviving the swim starts to wane. His eyes narrow, nostrils flaring as he gulps down large lungfuls of air, the unfamiliar smells overwhelming his senses. ”Where exactly am I,” he murmurs, suddenly worried that he might not have thought this plan out well enough. Without the excitement of survival pumping warmth into him, the cold overtakes him, freezing the confidence he felt moments before in its tracks.

Briefly, he considers that his mother was right - he isn’t prepared for this at all.