Braemar has always been good at not thinking about things. This is a skill he has utilized heavily ever since he’d come to the islands a year or so ago. He has filled his days with leisure, self-indulgence, mischief, hedonism, and a little bit of violence here and there to spice things up. He has wandered without rhyme or reason, with no plan or idea of what to do with himself other than what feels right in the moment.
But as the days grow shorter and the heat of summer is chased away by cooler temperatures, Braemar finds himself becoming less and less gratified by his life of leisure. Last year the prospect of breeding season had excited him, but now that it is nearly upon the islands again, Braemar feels only the smallest twinge of interest. Thinking about autumn reminds him of what he had done to those two mares, and he is not sure he trusts himself not to do it again.
Darker thoughts of the past have been creeping on his consciousness, too, and he is beginning to struggle to find enough distractions to keep them at bay.
Killegray.
Killergray.
Killer.
He is standing at the edge of a meadow when Fletch finds him, lost in a reverie, as he frequently is these days. At first he barely registers the shout directed at him, but the thump of hooves brings him back to earth and his gaze slides to stare blankly at the stallion making straight for him. For a moment, Braemar misreads the stallion’s body language as aggressive, and he drops his head an inch, ears pinned back against the thick tangle of silver mane as he prepares to defend himself.
But then Braemar sees that lopsided smile, and his foggy brain registers the broad accent that he has not heard in so long. Gray. No one has called him that in so long. His posture straightens, his ears prick, and he opens his mouth in a brief gape of shock that reveals blunt yellow teeth. “Fletch, ya absolute bawbag!” He exclaims, reaching forward to nip playfully at his friend, his tail lashing in enthusiasm. “I thought you was some prick comin’ ae kick me arse! What the fuck ya doing ‘ere?”
(Translation:
bawbag: ball bag, i.e. scrotum)
5; highland pony; dapple gray; 14.0hh |
