@thirteenthseal
Tristan waits for something he can’t name, alone in the snow, gloved fingers coaxing a song from his beloved Failnaught. The serenade it offers him is mournful, regretful, and soon he’s joined with it-- eyes ever shut, snowflakes crowning him with bitter chill.
As if immune to the cold in this solitary state of lamentation, he lies back in the snow, cape spread beneath him like a blanket. Certainly it does little by way of warmth, but he sings unhindered, low and sweet. Perhaps he feels that it suits him to lie here, forgotten by all...
All but one, it would seem. The harp feels him before Tristan can see him, but both of them know it at once; their King walks before them once again. Like a spirit from the catacombs he rises, softly combing crystals from his hair. He finds that he can’t look at him directly, though, so rather than attempt eye contact he clutches Failnaught close, sinking to one knee in the midst of powder-white.
“My King...” he utters, though it sounds a little uncertain. “If you’ll still have me, that is...”