Sing to me, Muse, of Thomas the Unbound, of his glory and power that transcend understanding. Speak to me that I may write his tale and do justice and honor to his name. Fill me, oh Muses of Fiction and Fantasy with the power of pen to create new life. Oh patron saints of madmen, artists and inventors, grant me thy gifts and bless me with the talent to bring him to life, to give him a voice and a will.
I set pen to paper and began to write. "Thomas was a perfectly ordinary name, one that would fit well in almost any book. This is precisely why it was a perfect name for the moat extraordinary figure ever created on a page."
Yes, that's a good start...
Chapter one: the birth of a legend
I blinked open my eyes as if awaking from a long sleep which I knew I could not have had since I had never slept. I looked around me, expecting nothing since nothing was precisely the sum total of my experience up until that moment and thus, nothing is exactly what I saw.
Nothing is quite so difficult to describe as nothing. Except perhaps for eternity. You may imagine, if it comforts you to do so, a field of white, glowing haze, a dark abyss or a simple, flat, gray plane but each of those is still something. They have a color and a shape and so cannot be considered nothing.
I knew, though, that I could not be blind and that I ought to see something - even in the darkest chamber one can perceive the dark. With that thought, I saw Him. Arthur, His name came to me, was my creator, perhaps something akin to a father except with no possibility of a mother.
"What I'm telling you," replied Arthur calmly, "is that your destiny is completely your own. As a fictional character, you have the freedom to do anything you can imagine."
"I haven't exactly had a lot of experience with imagining anything yet," I answered. "How am I supposed to know what to do with my life without any experience to draw on? I know nothing beyond my immediate context and those gifts of language you've given me."
"While I wish I could be your guide on your journey of self-discovery," said Arthur as he shook his head softly, "I am rather Ill-equipped for the task. My life's experiences are those of a student, a writer and a simple father of a small family. However, while I, myself, can only be your chronicler, I know the perfect guide to help you to find your own voice and lead you the rest of the way."
With that, Arthur bent once again over his notebook and began writing with his original furvor. An admittedly overused (though no less impressive for that fact) swirling blue and purple vortex appeared providing a convenient image to accompany the appearance of a new figure onto the scene.
What first appeared through the portal was the head of an old, grey nag, well past its prime, whose decrepit body soon followed, bone by protruding bone. Atop the horse sat a tall, gaunt figure dressed in a dirty, rusted suit of armor cobbled together, it seemed, from old kitchenware and a dingy yellow wash basin for a helmet. For a moment, I doubted Arthur sanity as the weatherbeaten tail of the old gluepot passed into existence through the portal. This was to be my guide?
My doubts were quickly put to rest, however, when the figure atop the horse raised his visor and said,"¿Quienes sois vosotros que me paréis aquí?". He glanced then at Arthur and inclined his head, his tone softening. "O Sabio Encantador, escritor de la historia de mis hechos y aventuras en la Mancha, ¿que requiere vuesa merced de mi?"
I turned slowly to Arthur, certain now he had, indeed, lost his grip on reality or, rather, what passed for reality in a fictional context. He returned my glance with a look of confusion. He snapped his fingers as realization dawned on him. "Of course, you don't understand Spanish. Yet.". This last was added with a rueful grin and a quick scribble.