Işık runs for a long time, blind and disoriented and drowning in sand.

His panicked flight is stopped only when he collides suddenly with a shadow-turned-solid, the impact bruising against his narrow chest. It knocks the wind from him and he reels for a moment before pressing himself up against the staunch object. It presses back. He takes base comfort in the presence of another living thing in the midst of this mindless storm and drops his head, tucking it in the hollow between his chest and their hip, drawing in deep gulps of air that is blessedly sparse of the flying grit. His ears slant back in defiance of the storm and he slits his eyes to wait.

Each inhale is a boon even as his breath clouds hotly between them. She smells of horse, of mare. A memory flickers past his eyelids and he gives it a mental shove. There is a light spice to this mare's coat, something that sharpens his senses pleasurably, something that enhances the already rich scent of her sex. His nostrils flare to take more of her in, and vaguely he becomes aware that the wind is buffeting less, the darkness that descended over the land withdrawing now to let the sun touch down again. The heat surrounding them becomes dry rather than cloying.

Işık peels himself away from the mare and steps aside to shake himself out. Dust hangs in the air. His throat feels scratchy, his tongue thick, and his nares feel dry all the way up to the backs of his eyes. He knows better than to snort to clear his nose. Always, it had been an issue as a child, and he has no desire to taint the air he breathes now with copper. He draws in another breath, appreciative of the relatively clean air and the mare's aroma.

She stands under a pair of mismatched trees, the only apparent landmark within these endless dunes. His eyes travel her dark body appraisingly. "What luck," Işık says, his voice hoarse from the storm, a hint of flirtation in his tone. His gaze snaps back to hers.