Get up, his mother commanded of him.

Had he energy to spare, he might have laughed bitterly. Instead, Orhan continued to pant through his nostrils and stare at the wet sand as a sheen of sweat began to glisten on his buttermilk coat in between the ragged patches of dark, thicker winter fur. Moments passed like this, with only the rhythmic hiss of the sea and the cries of distant birds to break the monotony. Eventually he let his eyes wander toward the frothy waves that lapped at his side, and something reddish caught his eye. The sea had washed away the stains, but otherwise it was unmistakable: a long, jagged cut in the black hair of his left rear leg, no longer bleeding but still shockingly raw. Oh, he thought simply, but said nothing, not wishing to draw his mother’s attention and make her worry more.

Still, that was all it took. The memories were coming back to him now, in hot flashes searing through his brain. He closed his eyes, overcome and overwhelmed by it all, and wanting to do nothing more than lay back down and slip back into blissful blackness. Something told him if he did that, however, he might not wake back up. You need food and water and shade, now.

Limbs trembling, he made himself stand, only for his front legs to buckle and send him sprawling knee-first back onto the ground with a hard grunt. He caught his breath, then tried again. Is this what it feels like to be a newborn? If so, he was amazed that any horse lived to see their first birthday.

He was swaying on his feet, but at least he was up. Head hanging, nostrils blowing hard and fast, he stumbled foward and hoped El Aran would guide him in the right direction.