YOUR NARRATOR: 

Ahh, there you are. Hello, my friends. 

You know, because I've been feeling the impending finale of whatever this long and winding story you and I find ourselves sharing, I've been feeling a little sad and afraid. Sad, because I shall miss this, truly. I will miss having you to speak with, every week. And afraid, because I don't know how this will end. Will I end, entirely? Will I disappear? Or, worse yet, will nothing happen? Will everything finish with a whimper, and not a bang, and will you hate me all the more for it? I hope not. I hope you will be satisfied, whatever the outcome. Even if it's sad, even if it's quiet. I hope it will simply be...enough. 

But, that is ten episodes away, and ten episodes is almost a lifetime. Isn't it? 

I shouldn't keep talking about it, so early on. I shouldn't stretch this out. But I am afraid. 

Ah, well. 

I ought to get to my story, but first I should tell you where I am, shouldn't I?

I'm keeping it a secret this week. 

Because, to be honest, I'm with you. 

I grew too lonely in that dark place that was underwater but not quite underwater. 

It filled my cruel lover with fury and terror to know that I could easily leave, yet again, but I did it anyway, because it is in my nature to run, and I am no longer afraid of letting my nature dominate. 

I grew lonely there. So, I disguised myself - not out of necessity, but out of desire - so that I could insinuate myself in your public spaces easily. 

Just so that I could pretend, if only for a little bit, that I am one of you. 

Who knows how many more moments such as these I will have? 

That is all I'll say of that. 

This week, I have a story for you about an old man, who also felt his own finale approaching. 

He had been traveling for most of his long, long years. He was alone in the big, wide world; for, when he was young and adventurous and cunning and quick, he had made terrible mistakes based solely on impulse and desire. More on that, later, I suppose. However, as such, he had doomed himself to a lifetime of running. This suited him well enough in his younger years; one night in a tavern here, a couple days at a countryside inn there; and he had enjoyed the company of other rogues and renegades as he went.  Now, however...now that he was old and frail and unrecognizable as that young man from long ago, he allowed himself the luxury of slowing down and resting for longer. And with rest came reflection, and with reflection came the realization that he had perhaps squandered his life away. So be it, he thought to himself. He deserved it. 

One evening, he was traveling across a country mountainside alone, and a terrible snow storm came upon him. He could barely see in front of him for the darkness and the snowfall. He had only a lantern and a walking stick. Hours and hours went by, and he felt that surely this would be his end, and he almost welcomed it...until he saw, dimly, in this distance, a little cottage. 

He painstakingly made his way towards it, and when he reached its door, he knocked several times. No one answered. He tried the doorknob, and found that it easily opened. He slammed the door shut behind him, and locked it. 

The entire place was dark, and just as frozen as it was outside. His lantern showed him that the place had been completely deserted for some time; there was barely anything in there. A little cot, decked with hay; a table, a nightstand, a few candles here and there; and a hearth. Some abandoned pots and pans. Leaves and detritus, dry and brittle, scattered around the place. 

He found a few pieces of old, rotting wood next to it, and with a little help from the hay from the cot and his own lantern, he soon had a warm fire to warm his bones. 

He fell asleep, soon enough, curled up by the fire. And when morning came, the sky was clear. 

He was tired and ill from his travels the night before, but even still, he wrapped himself up in an old woolen blanket, and took a step outside. The sight of the sun was a comfort to him. He looked around, unsure of where the storm had taken him, and his shaking legs took him on a short walk, not daring to stray too far from the cottage he now claimed as his own. 

He saw the trees, green and thriving, but something about them struck a chord in his long and fogged memory. He saw an ancient sign posts pointing towards towns in the distance, their names and distances carved into the wood faded and covered in ice and illegible. This sight, too, seemed to echo in his mind, though the origin of that echo eluded him. 

And then he saw the lilac bush. 

[The sound of a woman whispering - strange latin floral taxonomies -  and singing, echoing and distant]

Huge and very alive, the purple vivid against the white snow, it made him stop in his tracks. Even if he had a green thumb and knew that lilacs often survived in winter, there was something about this particular growth that made his heart pound violently against his ribs. He had seen this plant before. This exact one. And he hoped to never see it again. Yet here it was, against all odds, half a century later. 

He knew this place, yes. And he feared it. But somehow, he always knew his feet would take him back here. 

He went back to the cottage as quickly as he could, and shut the door. He locked the door. He pushed an old table with his aching muscles, and barricaded the door. 

He shuttered all the windows. He lit another fire. He lit the candles. 

And he saw that, what he at first thought was just dried leaves and dirt gathering in the corners, on the night table, by the bed, hanging from the ceiling, was not quite that. 

They were little bundles of herbs, plants. Flowers. Hair, even. Wrapped together with old, faded, yellow ribbon. 

He did not stop to think who this cottage belonged to. He was hot and exhausted with fever, now. It was all he could do, to boil himself some snow over the fire to drink, to keep the blanket tight around his shoulders, and to fall asleep by the fire once more, coughing, and afraid. 

When he awoke, it was night, and the fire was now only ember. He could see his breath in front of him. 

And, he could see that, dangling in front of the hearth, wrapped in a ribbon, was a little bunch of bright, fresh lilac sprigs. 

Of course, it hadn't been there before. 

He looked over, and the door was still locked and barricaded. The windows were still shut. 

Yet, there it was. 

He quickly snatched it, and looked at the yellow ribbon that held it together. Shaking, he threw it on the embers, which roared into a great fire once again. No time to be afraid, he thought to himself. He instead added a log to the revived flame, and made himself warm again. 

It was not only because, as many people did, he believed that bringing lilac into the house was bad luck. It was not only because he needed the warmth of the fire. 

It was the sight of that flower, its particular shade of purple, and the yellow of the ribbon around it. Not old and faded, as the ones in the cottage were. But new. And, just like the lilac bush outside the cottage;  painfully familiar. 

The night crawled by so very slowly, and his cough was growing worse, and his fever deepened. The old man sat up and warmed his hands. 

And he heard, outside the cottage, light footsteps falling. Slow, gentle, but persistent. 

He stayed perfectly still. 

He heard a voice, singing a song...something he hadn't heard since he was a young man. 

[The woman's voice, singing, the same melody as before; a little louder now]

He squeezed his eyes shut, but the sound did not go away. He tried to fall asleep and therefore be free of it, but he had no such luck. One hour, two, maybe even three, went by, and that song continued, driving him mad. Until finally, he ran to a window, and threw it open. 

The voice stopped. All was silent, and all was still. 

Until his heart leaped into his throat at the sight of someone - only shadow, in the darkness - running by, screaming. 

And they were gone as fast as they had come. 

"Where are you?" He cried out. "What do you want with me?" 

No sound. All was quiet again. 

Until he heard the sound of wood being dragged across the floor behind him. 

It was the table. It was being slowly pulled away from the door. He shook, and beads of sweat fell from his forehead. 

Then, the sound of the little metallic deadbolt being slid from the door followed. 

And the old cottage door  creaked open, one inch at a time. 

No one stood there, however. The old man lit his lantern, and walked to the doorframe. 

Instead, in the snow, were a few little lilac flowers. 

They led into a trail. A trail of tiny, purple flowers. 

Despite his racing heart and his feverish brow and the weakness in his lungs, he knew he had to follow them. He must. He owed her that much. 

He followed them out to the edge of the wood, where he saw the lilac bush once again. 

He stared at it. He considered his options. Burn it down? rip it to shreds with his bare hands? Run? 

He could do none of these. 

He would die tonight, no matter what he did. He felt it in his bones. It was his time. 

But of course, it had to be here. Of all places. 

He closed his eyes and breathed deeply. 

When he opened them, a scene played before his eyes like a theatrical dumbshow. 

A girl ran through the trees, frantic, afraid. A beautiful young woman, he could see, but what he couldn't see was how talented and gifted she was. How clever. How strong. Her eyes were wide as she glanced behind her. The old man saw now that her eyes were purple. And around her wrists and ankles and neck, where a wealthy woman might wear elaborate jewelry, she only wore simple yellow ribbons. 

There was a man chasing her. They both wore summer tunics, and the snow was replaced with green grass. This had happened in the summer, and that was how he was seeing it once again. The young man smiled and laughed and called to her. He had her singing in the woods as she gathered her herbs, and she ran from him. His words were sweet and cajoling, because he didn't see her fear. He didn't acknowledge her fear. He only knew what he wanted; and that was to catch her up and spin her around and hold her close and convince her she was wrong to run. He didn't mean her harm. 

But it didn't matter. She wanted nothing to do with him, and the old man could see the fear in her eyes. Careless. Unthinking. Unfeeling. Selfish. He whispered all these words to himself, as he watched the phantom of his younger self in pursuit.

The nymph, for now he knew that nymph she was, ran and ran, her eyes too busy looking behind her to notice the fallen tree at her feet or the large rock just ahead of her. 

It happened quickly, but it was terrible. She fell upon the rock. And the young man saw her, and called out, horrified. He knelt by her, trying desperately to revive her. No, no, no, he hadn't meant this, not at all...and yet he had caused it, hadn't he? He wept, he wailed, he tried to do what he could. But as the blood spilled upon the ground, so dark it was almost purple too, from the back of her head, she would not respond. 

And then, it happened. 

Little purple flowers sprang from her open mouth. 

They grew from her ears. They sprouted from her hair. 

They climbed around her limbs, growing up towards the sky. The most beautiful, bright, clear, and delicate lilacs. A great lilac bush sprang from where the nymph had fallen. 

And it thrived, even now. 

The old man closed his eyes once more and whispered, "I'm so sorry." 

When he opened them again, it was winter once more. The vision had passed. Yet the lilac plant stood tall and strong. 

And the young woman was in front of him. 

[THe whispering/singing returns, once more]

Yet she was a little different. Sprigs of lilac grew from her temples. Her lips were a pale purple. Her eyes glowed violet in the moonlight. Tiny lilac petals clung to her skin, here and there. 

"So sorry," he repeated, tears falling from his eyes. 

She nodded, ever so slightly, to him. 

And she walked to him, and reached out - he flinched just a bit - but she only placed a tiny cluster of lilacs behind his ear. 

He fell to the ground. 

It was his time, now. 

He felt peace for the first time since that day so long ago. 

And she stayed with him as he went in peace.

I had heard such stories of nymphs running in the woods before. But when I saw this girl, purple in the moonlight, I somehow hadn't expected something quite like her. 

I saw the young man, too. He was in the same wood, and he had a sprig of lilac behind his ear even still. But he dared not go near her. He feared her, even still, even now. 

And now, she only ran for joy; her glittering laughter echoing through the trees. 

It is in my nature to run, too. 

Let's see where I run to, next week. 

Goodnight, dear friends. 

[Eerie theme music plays]

Hello everybody, and thanks so much for joining me for Episode 89 of On a Dark, Cold Night. This is Kristen; the writer, host, composer, and all around podcaster. I hope you're taking care of yourself and staying well.