In a grey kingdom where the sun had not been seen for years, in a proud city of pale flowers, sick with plague and hunger, there was a palace where the candles never went out. The air in its rooms was thick with soot. Thunder walked over the roofs at night, and the gilding on the walls had gone dull, as if gold itself had grown tired.
In one of those rooms sat the king's son, a young man on the edge of his life, and wept without knowing why. It was not his conscience that troubled him. It was the meanness of the world, and the voice that had filled his head since childhood, his father's voice: there is no sun without clouds. There are no princesses; those are tales for fools. And believe me, my son, there is no God.
And he believed.
Until one night, darker than any before it, he slipped past the sleeping guards and broke his father's command. He walked through wet streets out of the city, across grass that had died for want of light, into a forest so black that it swallowed the stars, full of rustling he could not name. Somewhere between sleep and waking the world began to turn around him. And through the fog came the voice again, his father's voice, repeating what it always repeated. He lay down under an old oak and slept.
He woke to a sound he had never heard: birds singing to the sun.
On a hill stood an old man with a grey beard. Below, in a valley full of light, young women walked through green meadows with flowers in their hands and wreaths in their fair hair. The prince asked the old man how a sky could be without clouds, and who these women were, so bright that his heart stopped. The old man said: look for yourself, there is not a cloud in the sky, and every one of them is a princess. Then there must be a God as well, said the prince. The old man smoothed his beard, smiled, and said: I am God.
The prince ran home. Father, I have seen the sun in a clear sky. I have seen princesses. I have spoken with God.
The king repeated, word for word, what he had said all his life. And when his son insisted, he asked only one thing: tell me, did the old man stroke his beard? The prince remembered, and said yes. A red stone flashed in the crown like an angry eye, and the king laughed from his high throne. That is the sign of a sorcerer. He fooled you. You would not have been fooled if you had listened to me.
So the prince returned to the meadow, and this time he came as an accuser. You will not deceive me again, he said. My father told me who you are. The birds went on playing in the clear sky, and the old man answered him gently, like a father: it was not I who deceived you. You came here yourself, so it was meant to be. The sun shines in your city too, brighter than here, and there are princesses there more beautiful than these. But your father the king has cast a spell on his own son, and you look straight past them.
Bitterness closed around the prince's chest. He said goodbye and went back.
Father, he said, then you are no king. You are only a sorcerer. Tell me the truth. Just this once.
The king looked away. He lowered his head. And without a word, he stroked his beard.
Then the one on the meadow is God, and you are the liar. And what will be left of my life when your spells are broken?
Nothing, said the king. Nothing will be left.
I will not live like this, among lies, said the prince. I would rather die. Order my death.
And Death came in. The prince began to shake. She was already dragging him towards the block when the meadow rose before his eyes like a beautiful dream, the light, the wreaths, everything he had seen there. And he cried out: stop. I cannot die. Let everything stay as it is. I will live somehow.
Death stepped back and was gone from the palace at once.
And the father, for the first time in his life, held his son close, and said quietly, kindly: you know, my son, you are about to become a sorcerer yourself.
That is how the vessel was filled. The young man who had seen God chose to live without him, and the grey kingdom gained its next king.
This is the prince on the day after. His armour still speaks of his blood: the steel of an old house, the bearing of a king's son. But the face that rises from it is black now, and horned. It is the face of the side he chose.
The artist counts this among the most important works of the whole collection, because he made the other choice long ago: the magician who does not deceive. Everything in this picture is real. The steel is real plate armour, the light is real light, the lake was a real forest lake. In 2026 beavers drained it. It now exists only in this photograph.
Shot on 18 July 2024 at dusk, entirely in camera. Retold after the ballad "Skazka" (The Tale) by KASTA, words by Shym, born from John Fowles' fable The Prince and the Magician.
(Fine Art Photography. Created in July 2024.)
