Çiçek knows the seasons have changed by the number of birds in the trees.

During the months, her babafather had said, when the temperature drops in the northern lands, and the ground turns white with snowfall, many of the winged creatures that lived there flew south. Some come for food, others for warmer climates, but come they do: the Ridge, already loud with background noise, suddenly fills to the brim with a brand-new symphony of song. The emerald tones of the canopy flash brighter with dancing spots of color, yellow warblers and purple martens and scarlet tanagers and so much more. Hurricane season is on its way out, and the breeze on the beach weaves cool fingers through the wavy tangles of her mane and tail. The blistering edge of the constant tropical heat has been taken off, too; the sun splashed mare welcomes it, enjoying the lightness it brings to her steps, and she can tell the rest of the island’s inhabitants did, too. Winter on Atlantis, she quickly learns, is an explosion: of growth, of possibility, of life, new and old and everything in between. She is surrounded by life, bombarded with it from all directions, and she thrives within the merrily chaotic atmosphere.

So much, in fact, that she has come to notice the life that grows now within her. Çiçek often finds herself returning to the little cove where she and Solomon spent their limited time together, grazing her pink lips across the sand where his scent might still linger. She smiles to look back on it, the need they’d felt for each other, the unseen forces that pulled them together, over and over again… She hasn’t yet told Faolain or Rivaini about the deal she struck with him beforehand, but at that point, so soon after, it was too early to tell if her heat was fading due to the turning of the season or because she had taken up with child. As the weeks roll on, however, this feels… different. The palomino doesn’t pull away from her friends, per se, but she’s not driven to find them out of necessity, and the influx of activity in the jungle is enough to distract her for hours at a time. She’s never been pregnant before, and even now it’s much too early to show anything physically. What had Leya said? When you know, you know. Does she know?

Çiçek picks along the well-worn footpath down the mountain, deep in the heart of the jungle and even deeper in thought. The dappled light peeking through the trees that stretch high above her mixes with the spots on her hindquarters to make a kaleidoscope of shining gold and cream. Her platinum mane falls in tousled rivers down her back, devoid for once of petals and still damp from a dip in the lake. The trail here is easy, not too steep, and she keeps her eyes up as she ambles along, her slim ears perked forward. A flicker of something catches her attention; Çiçek stops, squinting in order to pick it out again. “Ah!” she says under her breath as she pinpoints it: there, just ahead, sprouts a tall, wide tree, covered in tumbles of climbing wisteria vines. Darting around the long ribbons of lavender blooms, illustrious kelly-green wings shimmering in the light of the sun, flits a green-breasted mango. Çiçek has seen hummingbirds before, but this one particularly captivates her. It’s bigger than what she’s used to seeing for such a small species, iridescent like sea-glass, with long white wing feathers and a shock of crimson at the tail. Beautiful. She watches it for many long minutes as it drinks its fill of nectar, paused quietly on the path so as not to frighten it. Her patience pays off: when the glimmering thing has finished its business by the tree, it zooms into the darkness behind her, whizzing just above her ears so that she can hear the rapid beat of its tiny wings.

Çiçek smiles. She glances briefly behind her, even though the bird is long gone and she can’t trace its flight path, and when she turns back to continue her way down the gentle slope, a self-indulgent chuckle rumbles in her throat. She can think of one other place where she’s seen a green like that. As she walks, she can’t help but to look skyward again, her words soft with affection as she remembers the feel of deep emerald eyes on her sun-warmed skin.

“Thank you, sevgili,beloved, for the gift.” Whether she means the gift of the northern flocks or the gift of the babe growing within her, she’s not really sure.