This is a dream. No, a nightmare.

His thoughts seemed to bounce dully off the sides of his brain, just as the waves lapped relentlessly against his face, slapping and stinging and and making every orifice burn with salt while the wind screamed overhead and threw spray into the air until visibility was more or less nonexistent. Every now and then there would be a break from it all, and the ocean would seem to ripple smoothly and endlessly before him, sparkling and ethereal in the moonlight. He had just enough time during these moments to blow water from his nostrils and hope that he'd suffered the worst of it, that it would be smooth sailing back to his homeland from here on out, before the tides turned on him yet again and threw him around in the water with even more gusto than before.

At some point he accepted that he was going to die, either by drowning or by the fever he could feel burning behind his eyesockets. He would not die without fighting, however, so he sputtered out a little prayer like the ones he'd heard his mother use, pumped his legs harder, and kept filling his lungs with air despite the water that threatened to flood them.

Somehow, eventually, he washed up on shore. Orhan's thick winter coat was soaked flat against his skin, and his skinny body trembled with exhaustion. The sea had stolen all his body heat, yet still he felt as if there was a fire raging within him that had melted away all his cognition. He was only vaguely aware of the pale sand beneath him, or of the sky above heavy with cloud; none of it mattered anyway. He lay on his side with the ocean licking at his hooves, too tired to move further inland and too tired to even remember how he ended up on the ground. Meanwhile, a long, thin gash on his hind leg bled profusely, staining the sand beneath it a shade of red so dark it was almost black. He might have groaned at how much it stung, if everything else was not hurting that much more.

Darkness took him.

When he awoke, it was to a morning so bright he could scarce open his eyes for fear of being blinded. Eventually, though, he could see there was no trace of the storm that had nearly taken him the night before; the sky was blue and cloudless, the sand warm and dry, the tides quiet as a sleeping foal. The ocean had come further inland during the night, and his legs were completely submerged in a soft, lukewarm bath. Every other breath, he could feel its foam tickling his belly. He might have enjoyed the serenity - and the fact he was still very much alive - were it not for the fiery aching that still weighed him down and made the space behind his eyes hurt profusely. He was sweating, too, though his wounded leg had thankfully stopped stinging.

He closed his eyes and dreamed of a snowy plain filled with shaggy horses.

Some time later, he opened them again and found it was just after noon. He had no desire to move, but his mouth was as dry as parchment and his stomach tying itself in knots. He had to find sustenance soon.

A ways down the beach, beyond the stars that swam in his vision, there was a dark, blurry horse shape entering the ocean. Kazga? was his immediate thought. What is she doing here? Feebly, the young stallion opened his mouth to call for her, but all that came out was a low gurgle. It's so warm... so warm...