…she goes to the graveyard often. Frequently angry, seething frustrated jealousy coiling beneath the light faint tic in her jaw. Rarely sad and acknowledging. She goes and she keeps company with the one sword while in their bedroom, Tristan perches on the windowsill and watches Arthur unwrap the other and quietly smooth a few tears down its shining blade.
If Tristan is careful, the corner of his eye will catch a flicker in the great mirror that hangs behind Arthur. He rubs his fingers together, remembering the warmed honey-thick air that clung to Arthur, and he drops his head.
Mature, post-canon, ghosts. This is a hauntingly beautiful look at Tristan’s afterlife, painfully isolated but unable to let go… until he forms an unexpected connection. Loved it, incredibly poetic and touching.