Meadow

It is said that with the passage of time, all things eventually change. Fletcher is fortunate to have been spared from such a fate, at least for now. But the surge of energy that rises in the brumby as he watches the grey stallion’s posture coil into aggression, it is a safe and familiar sensation. Fletch has always been wild and hot-blooded, and this holds true and makes sense to him (even if little else does).

And so, as the familiar figure before him unfolds himself and stiffens with shock, the red brumby cannot help but snort in mock irritation, but oh, Gray knows him so well. Fletcher squeals as his friend catches flyaway strands of his mane between his teeth, and turns to snap playfully at the pony’s near shoulder. At Gray’s words, Fletcher shakes his head and a deep rumble of laughter rolls about in his chest. “Why’d you think I’m here? Lookin’ for you, y’bloody idiot,” he barks good naturedly, pulling a way to turn in a slow, lazy circle around Killegray, making no effort to disguise the fact he was sizing his friend up.

“What're you doin' here?” he drawls, humour lingering in his eyes, even as his face creases momentarily in concern and confusion. What were they doing here, so far from the place that had been home to both of them? Fletcher’s gaze begins to stray, but with a shrug, he snaps his attention back to his rugged grey buddy. “Y’know, I’m proper worried ‘bout you, t'be honest,” the brumby sobers up, expression morphing into something sombre and serious and not like Fletcher at all.

“Everything okay up there in that big head of yours?” The brumby leans close and his voice drops conspiratorially, his unique brogue becoming ever more pronounced. “ Gee, you sure know how to make a bloke feel special. ‘S like ya don’t know me at all mate.” Slowly, that crooked grin broadens across his lips, and without warning, Fletcher nips at Gray again, before darting off, bugling a challenge. “I’m definitely a prick come to kick your shaggy old arse,” he bellows over his shoulder as he takes off across the field of grass.

“C’mon Gray, you know me! One of a kind and original. Don’t forget I kicked your arse long before any of this sorry lot.” Fletch wheels around, dodging a stunned observer who he completely ignores, and skids to a halt, straightening his posture and looking back to Gray, waiting expectantly. “Real question is, what ya gonna do ‘bout it?!”