The Day Absence Took the Throne – A Powerful Ethical Fable

Long before the world pulsed with invisible threads of electricity and fought wars through screens instead of swords, there existed a kingdom untouched by famine, drought, or even sorrow. Though rains fell hard and rivers sometimes swallowed the land whole, the crops always grew back stronger. The sun scorched deep lines into the earth, yet the grass remained lush, wildflowers eternally in bloom. No one went hungry. No one knew thirst. Presence — a thick, golden essence — flowed through everything. It filled the air, the soil, the souls of the people. It was abundance in purest form.

Nowhere did this radiant presence shine brighter than in the kingdom of Nervosa, nestled in a lush valley carved by time and rain. At its heart stood a palace with a jeweled roof that shimmered like captured starlight, mined year-round from beneath the kingdom. Wide, stained-glass windows gazed out like benevolent gods across the city streets, and within, ruled a king who seemed carved from obsidian and thunder.

King Merciless — broad-shouldered, silent, unyielding — was the soul of this realm. His presence loomed larger than the castle towers, casting long shadows wherever he went. The people adored him. Respected him. But no one worshipped him more than his only daughter: Anorexia.

She was not beautiful by noble standards — her hips were wide, her hair a dull brown that spilled down her back like frayed rope. Yet she belonged to the kingdom like cobbled stone belonged to the palace courtyard. Anorexia played with peasants’ children and nobles alike. She danced barefoot in rivers, carried water home in clay jars, learned to fight beside soldiers, and bled onto pages of poems she read aloud to empty halls. Her fingers were blistered from string instruments and sword hilts alike. She was real. Earnest. And every joy she pursued was in service of one man — her father.

Anorexia lived for his gaze. Every song she composed, every technique she learned with her blade, every story she crafted — all were quiet pleas for his attention. When she sat on royal councils, her lips did not move, but her eyes, vast and yearning, never left her father’s face. But King Merciless only ever looked through her — as if she were a ghost drifting through his vision.

And so she danced harder. Spoke louder. Dressed in crimson gowns and jeweled hairpins. Yet even riding beside him through admiring crowds, she felt like a shadow slipping between sunbeams.

Lovers came. Princes and noblemen sang praises of her talents, her bravery, her beauty — until they lingered long enough to see past the surface.

“I wish there was less of you,” one prince muttered before vanishing.

That night, Anorexia curled into her perfumed sheets and wept until her throat swelled. Her cries echoed through sandstone walls, but none came. Certainly not her father. Rising from her bed, she walked to the balcony where a sweet breeze carried the scent of freshly baked bread from the baker’s dam-fed oven.

She surveyed the kingdom. It had everything — food, water, warmth, music, light, adoration. Everything but what she needed.

If presence went unnoticed, perhaps absence would not.

If they wanted less of her… she would give them less.

The next morning, she passed on breakfast. At the festival, she folded her hands behind her back and refused the sweetmeats and warm honey bread. Her father didn’t blink. The court moved on. The kingdom still smiled.

But her body began to turn against her. Hunger howled in her gut, clawed at her bones. Each night she writhed on cold floors in silent agony, and each morning she stood thinner, paler, tighter laced into gowns that no longer fit. She became skilled at deception — pretending to eat, vomiting in silence, walking with grace even as her knees threatened collapse. Her reflection was a horror: eyes sunken, skin pale as salt, bones pushing like blades through silk.

Whispers chased her down palace halls. Servants fretted but never dared confront her. Her father remained silent — his eyes never meeting hers. Not even when she collapsed in the fields. Not when her cheeks grew hollow as empty bowls. Not even when her name stopped being spoken aloud.

Still, she withered.

Until one storm-split night, with lightning clawing the sky and thunder cracking the valley, she rose from bed with trembling limbs. Her body, now so feeble it required assistance each day, burned with invisible energy.

She stepped onto her balcony. Rain lashed her skin like punishment, but she stood tall.

“I wish the storm would disappear,” she whispered into the sky.

And it did.

In a heartbeat, the storm dispersed, the night turned unnaturally calm, and Anorexia understood — truly understood — who she was.

She was not a princess.

The man she called father was not her blood.

She was a God — a divine entity cast into mortal flesh, born of void and storm, adopted into a kingdom of plenty. The power in her was absence, and in that moment, she no longer wished to be seen — she wished to become unseen.

A scream tore from her throat, ancient and divine. Servants rushed to her room, freezing mid-breath as they gazed upon her glowing form. And at last, he arrived. King Merciless, gripping the hilt of his sword, eyes wide.

Anorexia laughed — a soft, bitter sound that curled around the room like smoke. She stepped into the air, weightless, her bones like flags raised in mourning.

“You ignored me in presence,” she intoned. “Now behold me in absence.”

Her hands trembled with divine force as she lifted them. Her voice rang through the night, soaked in ancient power:

“As my body faded, you said nothing.
As my soul cried, you gave nothing.
From this void, I give you nothing in return.”

She cast her spell.

The crops didn’t wither. They simply ceased to exist.

The bread in ovens turned to air. Water vanished from wells and rivers alike. Fields once green became colorless husks. Lakes became basins of dry earth. Jewel mines collapsed into silence. Presence itself was peeled from the land, layer by layer, until nothing remained but absence.

Even now, they say Anorexia still walks among the remnants of Nervosa. If you walk alone at night, you may feel her close by, pacing with your footsteps. But when you turn to look, there’s no one there.

Only absence.

🌑 Moral of the Story

Even in a world full of abundance, neglect can starve the soul. Love that goes unspoken, unnoticed, or withheld can cause a person to vanish long before they are gone. Absence is not always the opposite of presence — sometimes, it is its final form.