He's the first to worry when they don't return as planned and the last to admit that maybe they're not coming back. He haunts the halls of Cair Paravel for days before racing to the west, cursing his stupidity- she found me in Lantern Waste, when she comes back, that's where I'll find her- and ignoring the gentle pleas of the other abandoned ones to stay in the east, to wait, to accept.
She found him the in the west, in the snow and the woods. Surely he can find her.
Summer in the west is gentle this year; he sits by the entrance of his old home, the door flung wide to rid the interior of its years-thick coat of dust, or waits near the lamppost. Always he carries his pipes, plays them for hours on end, haunting lullabies and madcap jigs, plays till his lips crack and his fingers bleed.
His songs lured her into Narnia, and she loved them ever after.
Time passes, and his songs fail to snare her again. He puts the pipes on a high shelf, where they remain until his death.
The old guard begins to die and memory of the old days, the Golden Age, begins to fade. He remains, alone and forgotten, withering beneath the boughs of ancient trees. No one comes to Lantern Waste, these days.
Ivy begins to cover the lamppost and he, too old now and too tired to tear it down, wonders what she will do when she returns, with no landmark to show her the way.
Winter whispers into the west, its snow and ice and watery, inconstant sunlight dredging up memories that he can scare distinguish from reality. Some days he mourns, others he sits by his window, eagerly watching the snow, waiting for her to come to his door all young and bright and carefree.
On these days, he tells himself that the Witch does not own him, that he will not betray this bright young child, that he will protect her. He will give her tea and play her lullabies and tell her tales of wild dances held under the summer stars, and she will learn to love his land as he has loved it.
The winter deepens and each day he waits, knowing she will return, because he'd seen it in her eyes as he'd walked her through the snow, seen the way her young face had flared with wonder at his talk of centaurs and fauns and animals that spoke as she did.
He knows she'll return to free the land of winter. And he waits.