In his most precious dreams, the ones he shares with no one, it's the music that leads Will on, just as it has always done. So faint at first, hard to decipher the instrument or where it's coming from; then, ah, at length he draws closer, remembers - it's the swift serene melting notes of a harp, of course.
Glimpses from afar; red roses, and a leaping fish, and in the distance a spark of light on the horizon, white fire.
Then closer again, closer still, the music thrillingly clear now, wrapping Will in itself; it fills him up, pierces him, makes him want to laugh and to weep with the wonder of it and the beauty and then again the wonder, because it is for him, for Will, that Gwion is stringing out this stream of liquid gold, each note plucked into ripples of feeling silver, and can the bard not know that what he is really doing is spelling out the music of Will's own heart?
Their eyes meet across a crowded stage; a flash of white teeth in that breath-stopping smile, the silent promise renewed.
In his waking days Will turns his face towards the west more often, listens for thunder and the sound of rising seas, and waits for dreams.