I come from a place where water was often treated as more precious than gold, more valuable than oil; where one could wander across a desert chasing mirages for days without a drink, where water fell from the skies so fast and heavy that soon it was rising up from underneath you, swallowing you up, where water flowed along riverbeds and creeks at a happy pace, and one could race a stick floating atop it; I once lived in a realm whose very existence depended upon the availability of this fickle substance. And now I find myself, surrounded by it.

Days had passed, at least, that was all the stallion could assume. He was exhausted, his stomach was full of the dirty, murky, saline liquid, his lungs burned with the effort of keeping him oxygenated, his eyes wept dry tears that combined with the abysmal depths below. The sound of waves crashing thrashed against his eardrums, a constant ringing pounded at his cranium, but somehow, he had felt something different beneath his feet, something tangible. Is this my death? he wondered, not knowing what death was supposed to feel like and so open to questioning when it would come upon him. For surely death would find him before anything else did.

But death did not find him first, rather, a beach did. Or did he find the beach? Or was it something else entirely, not the water, nor the steed, but a greater entity that delivered him upon the white sand of the Endless Blue? Endless it was not, for he had come from there, somewhere, somehow, through the mystical gates of Helovia that existed in the great blue beyond. The crimson beast collapses once the water is no longer present to keep his bodice buoyant, vaguely he sees the pale sand that he rests his crown upon, sand that is not dissimilar to the hue of his flaxen tresses. Though he did not have a mane at this point, it having been freshly docked in preparation for his delivery to new owners, his forelock did grow and obscure his chocolate eyes from viewing the world.

He could not lift his crown, he was lucky that his sides rose and fell with breath. He felt numb, everything was cold, and yet there was a burning heat roaring from above, scorching his pink nose and causing him to squint behind chestnut lashes. He knew of sunlight, his homeland was labelled a sunburnt country after all, even the sands of the deserts within Australia were red – red like the stallion’s very pelt. He knew of vast coastlines as well – had he returned to the land who were shipping him away, for what he understood was a large sum? It meant little difference to him, only a different handler with a different tongue to bring him feed and drag him around an event.

With a grunt his flaxen tail lifted from the ground, counterbalancing the effort of his crown lifting also. He struck the sandy beach with a shaky foreleg, unable to rustle the other one yet. He shivered still, his insides still hadn’t quite recovered their normal temperature or sensory abilities. Snorting, he was not surprised that he found his airways damp and heavy with mucus, his breath was raspy – but hell, he was breathing. Deep, never-ending cocoa eyes peered about, looking for something he did not even know – he was lost. Testing the still air with his crimson nostrils, he wondered at the scents he smelt, unaware of just what he had been delivered into. After his breathing had settled a little, he found himself less unstable, and somehow, managed to get all four feet supporting his masculine frame. It was not without wobble, but it was there, at least.

Drenched, half cloaked in sand, the chestnut steed stood, unknowing of his surrounds, and utterly perplexed.