His timidity is such a wonderful foil for his friend, so anxious about what he has no right to presume about this place. He has no reason to presume that the horses here are at all so horrible as he voices - bold and pompous and incorrigible as his day-wake nightmares would spook him with. No. Perhaps Montserrat is right, this time.
He is unsure, of course, enough that it makes him cock a hoof and shake himself out as Monty tosses his head and turns flat over in the grass like a spring-giddy fool. August has hardly so much fear in him that Monty’s antics wouldn’t work - and the mouthfuls of grass taken in his silly position makes the flesh stop twitching in haunches and shoulders in the same way it stopped him from the anticipatory footwork he stilled at last.
"I suppose so. At least we will never go to bed hungry, so full of life as this place is." And it is only too well and good that he was such a pushover. He did not want to be afraid, of course, so letting go was much easier for him than for most. He lays himself down, rolling twice before rolling finally onto his belly to sigh as he balanced his whole head and neck by the push of nose into soil and let his eyes droop. "It’s just as well, anyway. I was getting worn out from all the constant ‘going elsewhere’. I miss just being ‘home’, you know?"
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