Silverlight Terrace gobaith

The terrace is like a field of dreams, especially at night. The moonlight bounces off the snow, turning into a bright, glittering expanse under the vast curtain of dark, spattered with stars near and far. All is silver here, except for Llewellyn. The prince is golden, still, in this argent land; golden he always will be.

He pads down from the Moonspear and across the open ground, more restless than ever. His dreams have been growing more vivid and more terrible with each slumber. He sees faces long dead and places long fallen, things that have come to pass and things that will never be. All in stark detail, burning themselves into his mind—and take time to fade, even when he wakes.

His breath fogs on the cold air, and snow falls, the flakes gleaming white against the sun-glow of his pelt. On he walks, with no clear purpose but to clear his head. Maybe he will grow tired enough to sleep, eventually. Perhaps the gods of fate, or what have you, have willed him to freeze out here.

Or. . .

Perhaps God has something else in mind entirely. For in the sea of silver night, he sees the golden light of day, as if staring into a pond and finding his reflection.

He rushes toward it without thought.