From time immemorial, he had been watching from his deep, ancient hiding place. Neither time nor space meant anything to him, but especially not time. He would never be worn down like a mighty rock by the passing of years. The time of a man’s life was merely a momentary blossoming, flourishing, and withering in the time that he kept. Like a flower that blooms and dies overnight, so was a human lifetime in his eyes. He moved on, unaffected by time or space like a great, flowing river. But unlike a river, he would never dry up or burst his banks, he would not change his course or his existence. He was not confined by anything, but neither did he seek to overcome. He was the ancient one, yet he was always young. He had waited for so many, many eons there, in his shadow realm, granting the world his light and kindling it with the warmth of his breath.

He looked down upon that world which had once been so bleak, cold, and lifeless until he had shone down his majesty upon it. The foolishness of those sad creatures below had always astonished him, but at the same time greatly interested him. He had long watched their vain toil and wondered when, if ever, they would find harmony. By what he knew of them – and he knew all that there was to know of them – it seemed that they should not find order for a very, very long time…even for him.

And so it came to pass that he watched from that great hidden space as men-at-arms joined in battle on a lonely mountainside in a cold, barren countryside. There came a crashing, biting, slicing, crushing, cracking, cutting, flaying, roaring clatter as armored men plunged forward into the fray, hacking away at each other for a reason lost on most of them anyway. In the swirling vortex of blood and iron that followed, few men could withstand the awesome power of their own weapons. The field was soon drenched with crimson puddles, and the grass was painted red with life-blood.

As the fog of war fell all around and the din and clatter and roar of man and horse receded into the distance, a young man was left lying beside a butchered horse, his face and chest covered with clotting blood, his body shaking from painful spasms as he tried desperately to catch a final breath of the bitter air. His life had reached its end; this the youth well knew it. Soon enough he would be taken by Gwynn and consigned to the netherworld. A single tear rolled down his bloodied cheek.

To his ear, however, there came a whisper, as of the wind. Words of his bravery flooded into his ears; words of his father's bravery; words of his father's father's bravery, and more yet. The dying youth, once pleasing to the eye but now savaged and breathing his last, closed his eyes; his heart was glad. Only the name of the god of light escaped from his parched lips: Mabon.

And Mabon, the silent watcher, who had condescended to reassure the dying one, told him of how he would not be forgotten and lost to Gwynn.

Soon enough, the youth died there, his head lying against the horse and the voice of Mabon still whispering in the air. The god looked down from that ancient cove and saw the body before him, and a feeling of temptation came over him. Long had it been since he had last walked upon the earth in human flesh, felt the grass beneath his feet, the water run through his hand. Long had it been since he had tasted the fruits of that world or felt the warmth he had given to a human hand. Long even had it been since he had served counsel to a king, though he had once seen fit to whisper to Utherpendragon, the father of Arturus the Bear. Long had it been since he had felt...anything.

And so, without a noise at all, the body vanished from the field and Mabon knew what it was to feel life again.