Meadow

Any unease evident in Gray’s posture went straight over Fletch’s head. (If he’d had the intention to answer the muttered question, he would’ve said: “Who the hell knows?”) He was transient, his mind wandering, seeking something familiar. (Because what was he on about? Honestly, Fletch couldn’t remember.) And he found it in his friend’s familiar taunting, the biting words a challenge that the brumby had risen to meet before, and no doubt would again in the future. A wicked grin tugged at Fletcher’s lips. (But he remained silent, because he’d never admit out loud the blankness in his memory. Couldn’t even be sure it was blank you see, and he’d not willingly give Gray an opening to call him out as being old and forgetful on an uncertainty.)

“Right, you’re askin’ for it mate,” the chestnut barked with a bellow of laughter, and dug his hooves in, charging to meet the grey head-on. They clashed together spectacularly, Fletch making a right ruckus as he was winded from the collision and knocked off balance. After a moment, he regained his footing, and went on the offensive, shoving and snapping at Gray’s shoulder. Slowly, the flaxen-haired brute gained ground, and after another few moments spent tussling, he raised his head in victory, spitting out hairs from his companions mane that must’ve caught between his teeth.

Fletcher snorted loud in the grey stallion’s ear, and swaggered off a few strides. “Ain’t had fun like that since we last tussled. Y’know, for a wee little ankle-biter you sure put up a good fight, mate,” Fletcher wheezed with laughter, that crooked grin plastered to his face again, and his eyes shining, almost too-bright. He shook his shaggy mane out, and glanced about the meadow, breath beginning to even out. “So, ‘sides from being hassled by this ol’ drongo, what else you do ‘round here for fun? Certainly seems a lot different from home, yeah?”