Çevik swam through the warm ocean. His legs kicked gently, propelling him forward under the bright sun. Salt crusted his lower lip and his withers. He could taste it on his tongue. Despite his youth being spent in the cold of the north, he indulged himself in the warmth he found on the other islands.

He enjoyed the sun more than the bitter frost.

In the warmth he felt himself come alive, unfurl like a flower ready to blossom. Çevik spots her from the ocean, he watches her carefully and quietly as he bobs in the foaming waves. She is pretty, he thinks, and well kept. The stallion swims closer to the shore until his hooves make purchase on the rocky sand and he pulls himself from the ocean. Droplets of water spray around him, his body soaked and cleaned from the mud usually caked about him.

“Excuse me,” he calls out to her, still standing knee deep in the waves. The sun burns across his back. “I have been swimming a long time and I’m not sure where I’ve ended up exactly.”

It is an innocent lie. It is enough to talk to this pretty mare. Çevik walks steadily up towards the shore, stopping just to the point only his fetlocks are submerged in the water in case he must dive back in to get away from the mare.