Once upon a time, in a dreamy garden wreathed in delicate mist, there stood a tower, ever still.

Remote and timeless, it gazed solemnly upon the mundane world.

Majestic, yet fragile, fabled, yet pristine, it nestled deep within the very heart of the planet.

On a faraway island, guarded by an impenetrable door…

A distant paradise… Lost and immaculate…

A fairy tale began in this everlasting haven.

 

Born eons ago, from a union between an incubus and a mere human, this immortal being, this court magician, was condemned to mere observation.

After having orchestrated the rise and fall of a great kingdom, his inexorable punishment was thus:

To observe the human world, from the pinnacle of his watchtower, until the stars ceased their gleam.

But this being bore no sorrow for his fate, for he cherished humans with an abiding affection.

Observing them had always been, even before his seclusion, his most treasured indulgence.

And as he was spending this cherished moment of his in the ageless garden, an unusual aura emerged.

The magician lifted his gaze as the shooting stars above reversed their descent, soaring back into the cosmos, while the rocks suspended in the air trembled and quivered as if stirred by an unseen force.

While this haven was usually bathed in an ethereal pink glow, stemming from the myriad of flowers that, like a celestial carpet, stretched endlessly into the horizon, a cataclysmic event veiled it in shadows, as dark as the abyss.

Like a relentless maw of obscurity, eager to consume all luminance, night draped the garden for the very first time.

Perhaps it was fate’s way of declaring that the magician, who had found too much pleasure in his punishment, had now been deprived of his last vestige of solace.

Engulfed in this void, he was bereft of the sight of the human world.

In this timeless chasm, eons could’ve passed in what seemed like mere moments, making it impossible to discern the passage of time. Yet, after what felt like an eternity, the magician, yearning for an end to his solitude, intoned:

“Oh Avalon, my cherished Avalon, what fate has befallen you?

My magic, though potent, feels utterly futile; nothing can restore your radiant splendour.

Such a grievous fate I must now bear… Forever alive, yet forever blind… What purpose do I now serve?”

Anticipating only the echoing void, the magician was startled to discern a faint buzzing near his ears.

With a flick of his wand, he made contact with a creature that skittered across his palm with its countless tiny legs.

Revulsion sent shivers down his spine, and he instinctively flung the creature away. Yet, as if conjured from the depths of a haunting dream, a throng of these shadow-born beasts swarmed over him, enveloping him completely.

With sudden clarity, the magician ceased his struggle and whispered, “Oh, Insects of the Abyss, I commend thee for your mercy. You, benevolent spirits of the void, have heeded my plea, offering release from my torment. I regret any harm I’ve caused, and I shall not resist your embrace.”

Swept away in this tide of darkness, the magician’s consciousness slowly ebbed away.

 

Its body dissolving into the void, a silhouette plummeted.

Devoured by inner demons, it fell endlessly into a chasm without end.

Encounters were the last expectation in such desolation.

One was sightless; the other, voiceless.

For each utterance he made was steeped in lies.

His entire essence was a lie.

A monstrous, yet beautifully woven lie.

The pretender, who had masqueraded as the king of fairies, was, in truth, a sovereign of curses—a being not so unlike the role he had played.

After deceiving and betraying those for whom his heart held true affection, he was now succumbing to the infinite depths of his personal abyss.

An abyss forged from an existence riddled with deceit.

He believed himself consigned to an eternity of nothingness…

 

“Oh Avalon, what has become of you, Avalon?”

A voice echoed in the darkness.

“Who is this asshole perturbing my sleep?” The king of deceit muttered, irritation lining his words, but the other voice persisted as if oblivious to his presence.

“My magic is rendered impotent; nothing can restore its former grandeur.”

“What glorious state? Is he mental? This is the bottom of the abyss, forever and ever.”

“Such a dire fate I am to endure… Condemned neither to perish nor to behold… What course is left for me?”

The disembodied voice concluded, continuing to disregard the king of lies, who felt his indignation surge at this oversight.

“You motherfucker! You think you can keep ignoring me like this? Forbidden to die? That’s me you’re talking about! Guys, go eat him whole! Who does he think he is?!”

However, the instant the monarch of the depths dispatched his swarm of insects to devour the uninvited guest, he was engulfed in a cascade of blinding light.

Shielding his eyes with his forearms, he felt the icy embrace of the abyss recede, replaced by a gentle, comforting warmth.

And when he dared to open his eyes once more, he found himself standing in the midst of a vast garden.

 

Though the court magician had resigned himself to his fate with arms wide open, he could not succumb to the insects’ assault. Acclimating to the peculiar sensation of insects traversing his skin, he realized that nothing had truly altered, and he yearned still for a twist in his story.

 

Though the king of lies had accepted his new surroundings as an interminable dream, he found this radiant garden, though immaculate and resplendent, to be painfully bright, and he pined for the shadowy depths of his former domain. He longed for Blanca, the moth whose life had expired before his leap into the abyss, and found that even pacing the length of the watchtower thousands upon thousands of times could not alleviate the tedium that gnawed at him.

 

The beauty of eternity lies in its assurance that, within the boundless span of infinity, even the rarest of occurrences is destined to unfold time and again. Thus, after an incalculable stretch of time, the same marvel came to pass a second time.

The fabric of reality was gossamer-thin, and realms as disparate as the garden at the nadir of the world and the vast, all-encompassing abyss might, on occasion, brush against one another.

The king of liars greeted the encroaching darkness with a fervour, plunging into the nocturnal embrace with laughter spilling from his lips, a poignant relief flooding his being, his eyes brimming with tears of elation.

Yet, to his astonishment, upon his descent, the abyss blossomed with light, its shadows painted over with the same ethereal tint as the garden.

The concept was unfathomable—a chasm bathed in such soft illumination could scarcely retain the title of abyss.

The myriad insects, perturbed by the abrupt flare of light, scurried for refuge beneath the wings of their master… All, that is, except for those that adorned the court magician’s form.

Confronted with this enigmatic figure, the king of lies advanced. “Who are you? What sorcery have you wrought upon my abyss?”

But the silhouette offered no reply.

Deeming it devoid of life, the king settled down to await yet another shift in his fortunes … once more.

The light in the abyss waned, its lustre dimming, until darkness reclaimed its ancient throne.

It might have been mere moments or eons since night had swathed the endless chasm that a voice, once silent, now rose from the silhouette swarmed by insects.

“Is someone there?” it asked, simply.

Startled, the king of pests squinted into the void, but of course, in such pitch blackness, no sight met his eyes.

“Are you now deigning to notice me?” the king spat, bitterness lacing his words.

A heavy silence lingered, stretching so long the king almost believed he had conjured the voice in a dream. But then, an answer came.

“I am deeply ashamed if I have shown disrespect. I acknowledge you now, though before this moment, I could neither hear nor see you, despite my utmost efforts. My name is Merlin. And you are?”

At the mention of that name, the king’s eyes flew open wide. For even he knew of Merlin, the fabled court magician of Camelot, the hallowed seat of the Round Table.

A genuine smile unfurled across his face as he declared, “I am Oberon, Faery King Oberon. A pleasure, Merlin.”

“Curious,” Merlin mused. “Moments ago, your aura was entirely different… But it should have been apparent that I stood before royalty … before Oberon himself, sovereign of the fey. What serendipity to meet here.”

With these words, the night cloak of the abyss’s king transformed into a regal blue butterfly.

“Worry not, Magus of Flowers,” chuckled Oberon, “this is all but a dream.”

“A dream, of course,” Merlin mused, his voice tinged with realization. “Then perhaps, you might assist me by dismissing these insects from my person? I find it hard to appreciate your form with them blocking my view.”

“Alas, I hold sway only over the Fae, not these creatures. And in this dark, you would see naught anyway.”

“Darkness, you say?” Merlin’s tone held a note of puzzlement. “Yet I perceive a light, faint through my closed eyelids.”

Oberon searched the void to no avail; no light was to be found. “That, too, is a fragment of the dream.”

The conceit of eternity had orchestrated a meeting between such antithetical beings, defying the cosmos’s will.

“Since time stretches before us without end, would you indulge in a tale?” Merlin proposed.

“Stories are a rare delight,” Oberon agreed.

Merlin smiled. “Since you are a king from a time long before, I thought you might be interested in the story of Camelot.”

Oberon, of course, knew all there was to know about Camelot, but he acquiesced regardless. Even the most renowned of tales could serve as a diversion from his ennui.

Merlin’s storytelling was impassioned and animated, and Oberon considered that his talent for discerning people’s true feelings and intentions was probably unparalleled, save for one individual.

He spoke of the knights of the Round Table, dwelling considerably on their king, of course, oblivious to the subtle shift in his listener’s expression.

“... King Arthur’s convictions were such that she could not defy her dream, even if it meant forsaking all semblance of humanity…”

“What the fuck are you blabbering about?!” Merlin’s recital was abruptly curtailed.

“I’m sorry, did I utter something amiss?” Merlin queried, taken aback.

“Fuck. Shit. Oops. No swearing, no swearing.”

“Did my tale vex you? If so, I extend my apologies.” Merlin chuckled with a touch of embarrassment.

“It’s not that. You simply prattle about matters beyond your ken. Or rather, you’ve failed to grasp something fundamental.” Oberon huffed, agitated.

“And what might that be?”

“This girl’s feelings. You’ve utterly misunderstood them. It’s due to people like you that she was burdened with responsibilities too colossal for anyone being to bear. Feeding her lies like ‘you’re the only one who can do it’… Naturally, she believed it! Naturally, she discarded her humanity to become an instrument of fate. Her dream, her convictions—they were never hers. She adopted them because she was convinced they were her sole purpose. She yearned simply to wear gowns, to dance, to concoct chocolate, for fuck’s sake...!”

Baffled by Oberon’s tirade, Merlin contemplated a rejoinder. “This interpretation is indeed one possibility, but having witnessed her closely, I—”

“Then you must have observed with your eyes shut, for you’re leagues from the truth.”

“And how would you presume to know? Is not Oberon merely a figment of Shakespeare’s imagination? You have no ties to Camelot.”

“I’ve seen her…” Oberon confessed. “ … Much closer than you ever did. I’ve beheld her genuine self. The facade she presented to you was a mere masquerade, compelled by the expectations thrust upon her. To presume to speak of her so freely repulses me. She never confided in you, not once. Do not fancy yourself knowledgeable of her!”

Oberon gasped for breath, his ire causing his body to radiate heat. As they began to ache, he pressed his palms into his eyes, as if to drive them deeper into their sockets.

“It seems we have a misunderstanding here… The woman of whom we speak may well be two entirely different individuals.”

“There is but one King Arthur!”

“Indeed, there may be one King of Knights, but no King of Fairies.”

Oberon’s vision dimmed to blackness. “What…?”

“You said it yourself, you are but a figment… A Midsummer Night’s Dream. No Faery King lurks in the abyss, commanding legions of insects and acquainted with King Arthur. Your falsehoods are quite transparent, you know?”

A night shroud, the dominion of the king of pestilence, once again enfolded his skin, erasing any trace of the Faery King Oberon from the abyss. “You destroyed her life…”

“I appreciate your sentiment, but on the other hand, she achieved feats monumental to the annals of mankind. You hold her in high esteem; take pride in her deeds,” Merlin suggested, even as the insects’ bites on his skin intensified, a sensation akin to agony.

“You piece of shit!”

“That may be true, I might be deemed reprehensible. Yet, I am untroubled if it meant contributing to a venture so majestic. I bear you no ill will; had circumstances allowed, I would have urged you to remain by her side.”

“I am ensnared in no such predicament,” the king of deceit spat. “This abyss is my realm.”

“Ah, it all becomes clear. This explains why you eluded my perception… Your entire essence is a fallacy. You are an insect of the netherworld, but my eyes are attuned only to reality, such is the legacy bequeathed to me.”

“So, why can you perceive and communicate with me now?”

“Isn’t it evident?” As an insect scuttled away, Merlin’s face was exposed, the voids where his eyes once were now grotesquely evident, ravaged by voracious consumption. “My sight has been relinquished.”

The king of pests, appalled by this revelation, commanded his swarm to vacate the sorcerer’s flesh forthwith, retreating beneath his wings.

“My gratitude, King of the Abyss,” Merlin acknowledged, retrieving his wand that hovered in the gloom, and with no uttered spell, he conjured light within the boundless chasm.

Vortigern, blinded by the sudden luminescence, shielded his eyes with his arms, wailing in torment.

“Henceforth, I shall know this presence, Vortigern. No longer must you conceal your essence from me.” The light laid bare the extent of Merlin’s wounds, a tapestry of suffering across his form.

His eyes still stinging, Vortigern spat, “I never concealed my presence from you, you insufferable fool!”

While he remained sightless, Merlin drew near the king of falsehoods, tracing his visage with a caress. “No swearing, remember?” He laughed with a gentle warmth.

Vortigern, unaccustomed to such tenderness, clicked his tongue in disdain and brushed Merlin’s hand away. “Extinguish this dreadful brightness; I am blind!”

“Would it not be inequitable were you gifted with sight while I am deprived?” Merlin ribbed as he receded into the glow. “Besides, you pathological liar, you are as blind in the abyss as I.”

“Where do you wander?” called out the king of pests, now that distance grew between them.

“To my garden…” Merlin gestured toward the light. “But fret not, handsome butterfly. Should solitude weigh upon you, my whereabouts are no mystery!”

“It’s a moth!” Vortigern rolled his eyes. “And how shall you pass your days, bereft of your watchful gaze upon the world?”

Merlin pondered before replying, “I do not know. Perhaps you might provide companionship whilst I ponder? There is much I could learn from your tales of King Arthur, after all.”

 

Vortigern looked back into his abyss, brooding what he should do henceforth, lost in contemplation for a very long time.

Merlin was now far, far away, his light extinguished forever.

There is a saying that moths are drawn to light, and the king of liars was no exception. Like flowers to insects, like truth to lies, Merlin and Vortigern were two sides of the same coin, and the latter could not bear the solitude, now conscious of this immutable truth.

Perhaps he could have endured an eternal solitude if he had remained blissfully ignorant, but once he had savoured the nectar of roses, nothing could quench his ceaseless yearning for honey.

He recalled the sole thought that had crossed his mind while in that garden—that he would have found greater enjoyment had he not been alone—and he longed for Blanca fiercely, for the immensity of the haven did naught but amplify the echo of his solitude.

Did he subconsciously command his insects to consume Merlin’s eyes in a bid to free him from his power … or perhaps from his loneliness?

For one who can only observe, never participating, might indeed be the loneliest entity in the cosmos.

And so, without direction, Vortigern began his meander through the abyss, in search of an exit.

If he persisted for eons, surely a miracle would manifest once more, and the gates of Avalon would part the abyss again.

He resolved to be prepared for when that moment arrives.

“Like an army of monkeys could ever compose Shakespeare,” Oberon chuckled, his laughter reverberating through a maelstrom of curses.

 

The curtain never descended upon this ceaseless garden, for by its very nature, it was infinite.

Yet, it is whispered that, beyond measureless spans of time, long after humanity’s epilogue, the sightless magus, ensconced amidst perpetual flora, detected the unnatural shift of a stone.

And he beamed with wild delight, assured that his vigil had not been in vain.

Beyond the constructs of time and space… Two kindred spirits convened at the precipice of reality … at the very Boundaries of the World, where they intertwined their destinies for eternity.