My friends, I'm just sitting out here on the roof, enjoying the fresh air. It's still quite cold out at night. It's only spring, after all. But it's nice to be outside, and to have a clear night full of stars. Well, that's all there are out here now, for miles and miles and miles and miles, until endless time-space. Just stars, circling each other, swirling, swelling, and dying.
And of course there's the black hole too, but that's a given at this point. But it's still nice to sit here, on the roof. It's just outside my bedroom. Oh, by the way, I have one of those in the castle. Have I told you? A room all of my own. Full of my joys and my sorrows and my secrets and my slumber. We can't go inside. Not together. But you can join me out here on the roof. I brought an extra blanket. I feel sad tonight. I feel as though I'm on the precipice of a great waiting.
I'm not sure what for, though I have some ideas. And waiting comes with a melancholy, a languishing sort of ennui. I do as much as I can in the meantime. There's always something to do, of course. Too much to do, I would say. But that doesn't actually make the waiting stop. I don't even know what for. A big and wonderful thing. A big and terrible thing. Or just a big thing. Yes, I know it will be big. I know there is a change coming that will be earth-shaking.
But I just don't know what it is yet. It's exciting, too, in a way. But if there is no change at all, then, then, I think my heart will break. No, forget I said that. I will accept whatever comes, whether it is change or no change. But is that the right way to go about it? I'm not sure. I wasn't sure, anyway, so I made us a little story to try to find out. Once upon a time...
There was a strange and dark fairy creature who lived deep in the heart of a twisted and gnarled forest. She sat atop a very tall rock, and she, like me, waited. She was born on this rock, as far as she knew. The rock had been there so long that vines had climbed up, up, up around it, and they knitted themselves into a fine green lace. And that lace formed itself into her gown and up among her hair.
and her skin seemed to just appear within it, and her eyes opened, and though she wailed like an infant, her fully formed hands and claws found their way up to pull the green veil from her eyes, so that she could see the brightness of the sun, peeling in sharp points through the net of green and brown trees above her. Otherwise, it was quite dark here, so her skin and her eyes and her hair had become quite pale. pale like the gray stone on which she sat. Only some speckled patches of her, green and dark like the leaves and wood and shadows in this forest. The wood had found its way into her skull and her fingers and her spine, and so she had horns and claws and a tail. She was born of this forest, fully formed, and she grew to be like this forest, quiet and dangerous and waiting. The woods whispered to her in the darkness of the night.
strange things that anyone else might be frightened by. But the truth was, the forest gave her life, and so to her, its threats and taunts rang like a mother's love in her ears. You will grow, my sweet, alone and cold and strong as the rock on which you were born and which has borne you since. My cherished girl, you will be my guardian. You will be the one who travelers will be driven to rapture, to desire, to insanity alike. By, the sight of you will make children weep,
The sight of you will make humans scream. The sight of you will make them believe in the devils they invented and the gods they betrayed. You, my darling one, you will be alone here forever, but for the lost souls who find themselves in your beauteous and hideous presence. You, my lovely one, you will be alone until they come to destroy you, and then and only then will you come into your full power. My full power. I shall bestow it to you then.
I shall inspire you with all the strange strength of my branches and vines, and the wolves and the ravens and the toads and the foxes. I shall give you the strength to rise from this rock and descend upon them all in all of your ancient and newborn, gloriously claiming whatever it is you desire it, and it shall be yours, my lovely one, my wonderful and terrible child. You have it, finally, and all of your waiting will have not been in vain. They are coming. Do not be afraid. Be strong. Be ready.
Night after night after night, for year after year after year, the voice whispered, and her skin grew harder and harder, and her horns grew longer and longer, and her desire grew greater and greater. But she waited, patiently, as her gnarled and incorporeal mother whispered to her, her decadent lullabies, They are coming, do not be afraid, be strong, be ready. Oh, she was so ready.
She was so ready for travelers to come upon her in the woods. She was ready to make them scream, make them laugh, make them weep in the insane sight of her. She reveled in her lovely ugliness, her horrible beauty, for a time, for a very long time. When decades passed, her back started to ache as she sat on that rock. When centuries passed, her eyes started to hurt as she watched for visitors.
When millennia passed, her heart began to question whether or not anyone was coming, when she lost count of the years and Mother had long ago stopped speaking to her. She questioned whether or not her memory of being born here and living here and waiting, with the purpose of luring, frightening, and enticing travelers, had just been some kind of dream, some kind of lost madness of her own. She was waiting, after all, to come into her power.
so that she could be free of this place, and have whatever it was she desired. But all she desired was for a traveler to come and visit her. Anyone at all. Just to start. Perhaps the forest had created her just to keep it company, because no one ever visited. Could she create someone in turn? She didn't want anyone to hurt like this. Her heart both hardened and softened, to think of anyone else waiting for so long, only for no one to come.
The voice had told her to be true. The voice had told her to wait dutifully. The voice had told her to have faith. But what about her own truth, duty, and faith? The truth, duty, and faith owed to her. Sure, she was a creature of a rotted and dangerous world. But if she didn't honor herself, who else would? The ravens, the foxes, the vines, the rock, the forest. They'd all left. She was alone.
Her spine cracked, and her horns broke off in odd places, and her claws chipped, and her green lace gown tore, and she pried herself off that rock. She climbed those vines down and down and down, and felt grass under her freezing gray toes, and she found it to be soft. The wind blew past her marbled hair, and she found its silence much more comforting than the forest's night whispers of her memory. She took up a stone, and though her long arms were weak from lack of use, she was an ancient thing with ancient strength, and she successfully hurled it through the tapestry above her. And though the sun streaming in through the hole it made stung her eyes, she felt its warmth, and it filled her with something. Perhaps it was hope. Perhaps it was passion. Perhaps it was inspiration. That's it.
The air she breathed in inspired her and encouraged her and inspirited her. You are on the right track. Go forth and travel and find what it is you desire. She moved slowly but surely, her feet stepping firmly as though she had to lift heavy rocks with every step. But her step grew lighter and lighter as she walked. She sang along with the breeze. She heard music in the rustling. She hoped to leave the forest.
but it was so huge and so deep and so immense that it might have been years for all she knew that she traveled. But it was a light bunch of years compared to the heavy ones she had spent on that rock. One day, she happened upon a strange sight. There was another huge rock before her, tall and large and gray and covered with moss and vines, but also strange blue flowers. Seated atop it was a figure. It seemed to be a man.
Very, very old, she could tell despite the smoothness of his stone-like face, his youthful expression, and the little blue flowers blooming in his hair, which grew in a long tapestry of muddled brown, gray, and blue all around him. His horns were not yet broken, and they were perhaps a paler shade of wood than hers, firmly set in his skull just the same, his claws long, his tail curling around the rock. He might have been even older than her. His eyes were wide open.
as he, too, waited for travelers to come by, so that he could enthrall them and derange them and terrify them. But all that happened was that he had sat there and grown to seem enthralling, deranged, and terrifying, with his lovely flowers and wide, frenzied eyes and sharp, decaying horns. He sat still as stone. He was obeying Mother very perfectly. When she walked towards him and into his line of view, however, He suddenly snapped his head in her direction, his eyes falling on hers. And when he saw that she was not one of those fabled, weak-willed, desirous human beings he had heard so much about, but rather a creature much like him, his jaw fell open and a dusty sob choked out of his throat. Get up, she called to him. Get down from there. His spine cracked and his horns broke off in odd places.
and his claws chipped, and his gown of vines and blue flowers tore, and he pried himself off that rock without another moment's hesitation. And together, they walked. It's a lovely night up here, isn't it? Up here on this roof. I'm not sure how long I've been waiting up here. Sometime, I think. It feels like ages. Probably it's just been a few hours, though. Who knows? Time passes by excruciatingly slowly when you are waiting for something you want to come to you.
When you listen to whispers of others telling you what you ought to do and what you ought not, being an obedient monster is an interminable kind of business, isn't it? But time also passes horrifically quickly when you are waiting for something you want to come to you. Years, decades, centuries, millennia can pass before you realize you have spent so long not fulfilling your wishes. I suppose it's easiest to just not want anything at all, of course. Probably that's best. Yes, I'm sure it is. But then...
We wouldn't be the lovely, monstrous things we are, would we? We might as well be stone. Look down there. Do you see them? There they are. Dozens. Maybe hundreds. Maybe thousands or more. It's hard to tell from all the way up here on the castle roof. Down below. They are marching out of the Forgotten Forest and towards the castle. I don't know if they know anyone's here. Low down there. Wow. See all those pale, stone-gray eyes looking up at us?
reflecting in the moonlight, their jaws dropping open, the sobbing, dusty gasp as they see two monsters, such as us, sitting up on the stone of the castle, our own little waiting spot. Some of them see the black hole above us and the stars around it, or the stars being eaten by it. They do not seem afraid in the least. When you wait for so long, so dutifully, so desperately, so painfully, there's not very much to be afraid of after long enough passes by. Brave, lovely things.
Well, time to get up, I guess. Go back inside. Find something else I want to gaze upon. And create it. What about you? Hello, my friends. Thank you so much for listening to episode 268 of On a Dark, Cold Night. This is your host, writer, monster, narrator, composer, and such, behind the podcast, Kristen Sazza. Thank you for joining me. For being with me. For listening to me. Many, many thanks, as always, are due to everyone who supports the show on Patreon on a monthly basis. It truly means the world to me.
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Thank you so much for listening, my friends. If you, like me, Also feel like you're stuck in a kind of waiting game. I hope you breathe through it and find your power too. I'll be working on the same. It's there, deep down. I believe we just need to open the door. Lots of love to you, my friends. Sweet dreams. This podcast has been brought to you by the Sonar Network.