I must apologize. Before I begin the story of my friends and myself, I should warn you that it is exceedingly dull. There is not much that goes on outside the castle, and all that occurs within it is unspeakable.
However, there is a story to tell for you today. One as old as my identity might suggest, but not as old as I am, for I was there when this strange occurrence took place.
This is the story of our castle.
This castle, or rather, mass of cement and bricks, was once nothing but a heap of cement and bricks, piled and glued together by a nameless builder who had somehow convinced himself to build such a monstrosity. It sat on this very plot of land, this lovely plot of land, for centuries, and I sat within it as the only valuable thing in inside.
This castle hosts, and has hosted, many strange things. For instance; this land was once a farmland, and the farmer, angered that the builder had doomed the land with such an embarrassment on his former property, tossed a dead pig into the castle, spat on the building, and fumed all the way home. Now, why he did that, I can't guess, but it's the only story behind the animal carcass, which had the entire floor reeking within a week. The bottom floor already smelled terrible, but I'll have to explain that later.
The builder who'd crafted the terrible pile of rocks was a heavy drinker, which might explain why it was so poorly built, as it explains the many barrels he wheeled into the castle each day when he came to work.
The only way I know that those barrels held liquor was because, when he was shaping the room I sat in, silent as the stone that I technically once was, he would take one barrel at a time, pulled the top up, scooped some of the bronze liquid into a bowl, and downed it. I lost count of how many times he did this repeated action while he worked on the room that I call mine. When the barrels went shallow, he carted them down another corridor, and slow, sluggish steps echoed through the castle, down to the half-built cellar.
The half-built cellar was, for centuries, only one-quarter-built, and that time came after the time that it was half-built. You see, there came a day when the previously abandoned cellar was next on the to-build list of this alcoholic builder. When he descended into the underground room, there was about an hour of silence before a scream emitted from the steps, and the echos of an enormous crash flew through the castle. Rubble cascaded in on the worker and took down another quarter of the room, making it one-quarter built.
That was the event that marks the beginning of the wait.
A day, a night, another day, another night. Time flies when you're a statue, your empty gaze set toward nothing but a cracked wall of jagged-cut bricks. The only saving grace was the window above me, and it was because of that window that I survived the years that I survived without going entirely insane of boredom. I don't really know how my friends managed it.
This window told me the time, the season, and the generation. Once upon a time, I thought, One. Two. Three. Four. Five. Six... I lost count a long time ago; I'm far into the trillions by now. I knew that somewhere in the world, someone must have been born the very moment I began my counting, and I had wondered for trillions of seconds just how they were doing, if they were alive and well. I called this person the beginning of generation one. Even now, I find myself wondering what generation I am on.
This much is irrelevant, I apologize. I am easily distracted. I come here to tell you the story of all of us, not just myself. Do forgive me.
Eventually, on one of these nights, there came a pound on the heavy front door, whose rusty latches and cracked boards did little to keep the grumbling intruder out. There came another harsh hit to the door, and the planks collapsed and fell to the bricks of the ground with an echoing clatter. A draft rolled through the room as the dust settled around the remains of the door.
"We made it! Er, I made it! Awesome, that's awesome. Geez, this place is dark." a masculine voice, younger than the builder's humming and frustrated growling suggested, commented.
Heavy, clumsy steps led toward a dusty stake, meant to be a torch. After moments of mindless fumbling, the man finally came to light the torch with a scrape.
"Old fashion stuff, I like it, I like it. I'm diggin' this atmosphere." the man laughed as he pulled the stake from its perch.
Bright blue eyes and dusty blond hair glinted against the fire, so close that I was about to worry that it might catch. The man strolled toward the shelf on which I stood, examining the tattered books and meaningless papers as he rolled by. He stopped when he came toward me.
"Hey, it's a statue! I like statues, I like statues. Let's name you... Stephano!" he declared childishly. He reached his free hand toward me, and picked me up, turning me around like a rag doll. He reached over to his sleeve and wiped off a coat of dust from my face and sword.
"Beautiful. Okay Stephano, which way to the cellar?" he asked me. I was beginning to think he was insane, asking a statue for directions.
"To the left." I found myself saying. It took me a moment to realize that I had just said something understandable, in English, and out of a statue's mouth. Then I discovered, I wasn't even that anymore! The man had let go of me, and I had somehow gained the balance to stand on my own, eye level to the stranger, too!
Looking down at myself in astonishment, I noted that my skin was still golden, just as my garments and sword were, but I was functional. Alive.
"Woah, Stephano. Woah there." the man uttered, looking about as shocked as I was, his eyes wide and mouth ajar.
"Jesus Christ, what have you done?" I muttered, shifting my gaze from myself to the strange person, but he could only shrug.
"Your guess is as good as mine. But hey, where did you say the cellar was?" he asked, suddenly totally recovered from the witnessing of a statue coming to life. I rolled my eyes, pointing toward a branched-off hallway.
"I told you, it's to the left. And what's your name, anyway?" I demanded. The man grinned cheekily, as if excited to tell me such a simple thing.
"It's Feliks, but you can call me..." here he bent his elbow my his side, made a fist and howled, "Pe-ewdiepie!"
"Why does your nickname contain syllables than your actual name?" I questioned. Feliks gave me a weird look, so I brushed off the question.
"Whatever. Do you want to get to the cellar or not?" I sighed, beginning to walk toward the hall.
"Yeah, let's do it!" Feliks cheered, racing in front of me and down the path. Heaving another sigh and rolling my eyes, I knew that this was the beginning of my story, the end of my wait.
My friends' story begins very soon indeed...
Hooray, worst chapter ending ever! Sorry dudes, I just got really lazy there at the end. I will most likely continue to upload. Most likely, I don't really know for sure. My break is coming up, so I guess I'll have more time... aaaand I'm rambling! So sorry, I'll let you go right after the out-tro(intro, out-tro, you know?).
Requests are guests, reviews are pets, favorites and follows are humble requests.
Have a great day today and a better tomorrow!
-DCI