And when he is, Things tend to come into sharper focus, despite the fact that their edges shimmer and flicker, being that they are mostly dreams, following the illogic of dreams, and riding the stormy seas of Sleep. (There are many kinds of Sleeping -- but that is for another Story.)
There is Time, and then there is Timeliness.
And always there is the Story, with its Unfolding, and Chapters, and Small Deaths, and Small Beginnings.
There is time, in its usual pace and pattern. Then there is Time. Weaving and wobbly. Spiral and labyrinthine. Permeable and translucent, really. Always dripping with anomalies and aberrations, always stained with magic, barely hidden yet rarely noticed.
The question of When is at the root of all tales. Even the ones that only we can tell.
The question of Why Now has only one answer. Because it is When it must.
Once again upon a Time.
There was a King.
And there was I. An overlay of possibility. A sliver of thorn stabbing through the cold. A knife of light through the mist. A trick of the Night. A gift. A hidden hope. A truth waiting to be spoken. A dream of a Dream.