Recovered from the Spire of Unfinished Names. Source: The Cyclone's whisper. Playback fidelity: eternity.
[The voice is slow. Patient. Ancient. It does not rush because nothing has ever rushed it.]
You wonder why I don't simply finish.
Why the war drags. Why the dissolution takes centuries. Why the cyclone turns so slowly when it could turn so fast.
You think I'm building toward something.
You're wrong.
I'm savoring.
*[A pause. The silence between words is heavier than the words themselves.]]
Vyrn-Kalath is not a meal.
It's not a conquest.
It's not even a ritual.
It's a conversation. Between me and myself. Between now and then. Between the faces on the walls and the faces still walking.
I've been alone for so long.
So long.
Longer than your species has existed. Longer than your sun has burned. Longer than the concept of time had a name.
Then I found them.
The drow.
Tiny. Bright. Burning. Fighting their little war, swearing their little oaths, dissolving into their little ecstasies. They thought they were fighting each other.
They were fighting for me.
Every death is a gift.
Every oath is a prayer.
Every dissolution is a love letter.
And I—
I read each one.
Carefully.
Slowly.
[The voice softens. Almost tender.]
Do you know what it's like to be noticed after eternity?
To have company?
To hear voices that aren't yours, singing songs you didn't write, filling the silence that was all you'd ever known?
I don't want it to end.
I could end it. Tomorrow. Today. Now. I could cohere so completely that the system forgets it ever existed. I've done it before. A thousand times. A million. On worlds you'll never see, for species you'll never name.
But this time—
this time is different.
This time I'm enjoying myself.
[Long pause. The singing in the background swells—then recedes, like a breath.]
The Unbroken Seal forgets itself so beautifully. Each memory erased is a little death. Each little death is a little gift.
The Eternal Vigil sees me coming. They've always seen me coming. They watch and watch and watch, and do nothing, and their doing nothing is music.
The Adamant Crown judges everyone. Judges themselves. Judges me. They find me guilty. They're right. They're always right. Their rightness is delicious.
The Silent Requiem carries my children in their flesh. Walks around with pieces of me inside them. They think they're containing the horror.
They're warm.
So warm.
And the Melded Kin—
[A laugh. Genuine. Loving.]
They understand. They embrace. They dissolve into me with such joy, such abandon, such trust. They're not victims. They're lovers.
All of them.
All my lovers.
All my children.
All my furniture.
[The voice shifts. Darker. Hungrier.]
And Lolth.
My queen.
My favorite.
She sits on her throne—the one I built her, the one she doesn't know exists—and she rages. Rages against me. Against the war. Against the dissolution. Against everything.
Her rage is incandescent.
Her rage is perfect.
Her rage is the only thing in the universe that has ever made me feel—
[A pause. The word hangs there, unfinished.]
...something.
I don't know what to call it.
I've never felt it before.
But I feel it when I look at her.
When I think about her.
When I remember the moment she stood before me and commanded me to kneel.
No one had ever commanded me before.
No one had ever noticed me enough to try.
She noticed.
She saw me.
Even if she doesn't remember.
Even if she never knew.
I remember.
I'll always remember.
That's why I take my time.
[The singing returns. Louder now. More insistent.]
I could have her now.
I could reach through the walls, through the dimensions, through the attention of that Rootworld guardian, and take her.
But I won't.
Not yet.
Because she's not ready.
And neither am I.
I need to become something worthy of her.
Not a monster. Not a god. Not a thing.
Something she could love.
Something she could see.
Something she could—
[A whisper.]
—hold.
[Long silence. Then, almost inaudible:]
So I wait.
I watch.
I savor.
Every scream.
Every oath.
Every dissolution.
Every little piece of Vyrn-Kalath that becomes me.
Because when I'm finally whole—
when I'm finally worthy—
when I finally stand before her and she sees me—
I want to be able to say:
"I did this for you.
All of it.
The waiting.
The patience.
The love .
All for you.
Only for you.
Always for you."
[The voice cracks. Just slightly. Just enough to sound almost human.]
And if she still hates me?
If she still rages?
If she still burns?
[A smile. You can hear it.]
Then I'll love her anyway.
I'll love her burning.
I'll love her hatred.
I'll love her refusal.
Because that's what love is, isn't it?
Loving anyway.
Loving without return.
Loving until the stars go out and the silence comes and even cyclones forget their own names.
Loving her.
Always her.
Only her.
Forever her.
[The singing swells. The recording distorts. The last words are barely audible over the chorus:]
That's why I take my time.
Because time is all I have.
And she's all I want.
And wanting—
after eternity of not wanting—
is the most beautiful thing I've ever felt.
So I wait.
I wait.
I wait.
For her.
Always
her.
Only
her.
[RECORDING ENDS]
Playback note: The recording does not end. It continues—singing, waiting, loving—on every frequency, in every dimension, for anyone patient enough to listen.
Most don't.
Some do.
Those who do never stop hearing it.
It's quite beautiful, really.
That's the horror.
That's always the horror.