This was his morning: lazy sunlight filtered through white linen curtains, a warm breeze that brought the smell of the summer sea, somewhere the sound of music. He slept in today, drifting in and out of smokey dreams. (The air has been clear for weeks but the court still smells like the charred remains of a camp fire. He is convinced that the smell of smoke will taint the rest of his life.) Eventually he rose and shook off the dust and hangover of last night's adventures. Eventually he began to walk in search of a story, or a poem, or a song, or just companionship.
He stops walking when he sees Regis. "Hello, young prince!" The black pegasus folds himself into an elaborate bow. Right leg extended, left tucked. One wing stretched forward and the other back. It is an overdramatic gesture, sure, but its decadence pleases him.
After a moment he straightens, and considers the apple that sits cradled by his telepathy. It is small and green and plucked several moons too early, but Mateo had looked forward to eating it anyway. There was a poem to be written about unripe apples, and he would be the one to write it.
But not today. Mateo's attention turns back to the dun with a warm smile. "Apple for your thoughts?" He gently offers the green apple to the boy, floating it in his direction.
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