The next morning came and the blizzard, it seemed, had died down a bit. The sun seemed to be having an off day, and was doing only the bare minimum, illuminating the landscape not unlike mildly ineffective fluorescent light bulbs in a convenience store whose best days were some twenty years ago. It was, all things said and done, dim. The fresh snow was stark by contrast to the grey skies, and there was a part of him that felt bad for trudging through it the way he did. The last leg of their journey had been fairly easy, partly because of the improved weather. The wind no longer tried to freeze the air in their lungs; the cold no longer inconveniently whipped their scarves in their faces at inopportune moments. Instead, it was simply freezing, and the silence, the crunching of snow under their feet, the icy cold, had created an atmosphere of stillness. A world figuratively and literally frozen in place. It was only a few hours of walking, and the Hero tried not to take too many breaks. For one, it would give the sweat in their clothes the time to cool off and freeze them all the way through. The other was that he wanted to get this over with. 

The Black Castle came into view. It was, indeed, ominous. Not only was it ominous, it was the kind of castle that other castles looked up to and wanted to be like when they grew up. It had parapets and machicolations and buttresses, often in places where they weren’t strictly speaking necessary. All over were gargoyles and statues, banners and etchings and reliefs. It was a castle that looked like it had been designed by an architect with a severe caffeine addiction and unlimited supply of pencils, told not to stop until they ran out of graphite, paper, or, ideally, both. To call the castle ornate was an understatement. It was like calling the surface of the sun ‘a bit warm’ or invading Russia in winter ‘a slight goof’. It was a big castle, the Hero decided, though he’d seen bigger. As he approached, he heard a gasp behind him. His companion had clearly only now looked up and must have seen the fractal disaster that was the castle. He absent-mindedly wondered if the castle had a lot of pigeons. Depending on the eating habits of the gargoyles, the castle could be either literally or figuratively pigeon-heaven. 

Slowly, the large gatehouse came into view, its front gate wide open like a gaping, inviting maw, the large, toothy portcullis hanging heavily overhead only adding to the illusion. The Hero walked in without pause. To his companion, it looked as if he fearlessly trod into danger. In reality, he simply really wanted to stamp his feet on ground that wasn’t powdered water, and being out of the snow was as much of a relief as he figured it would be. Besides, he wasn’t worried. If he had things figured out correctly -- and he definitely sometimes did -- the place was likely deserted. There would be no armed guards, no gnomes or kobolds or trolls or even mild variations thereof. Besides, getting food and supplies up here would be impractical bordering on the impossible. The only one here would be Her. 

He looked behind him to see his companion take down her hood and shake off her cloak. He watched for a few seconds, waiting until she was ready, then nodded. “Your fingers not too stiff?” She shook her head.

“Not for this.” If the situation had been different, that might have called for a mildly vulgar joke, perhaps even a lewd joke or a dirty limerick, but neither of them were particularly in the mood about short comedic poetry about a girl from Malinger, even if she was a singer. He put his hand on his sword -- the sharp, metal, stabby one -- and moved into the castle. The woman was right behind him. The walls of Black Castle were tall, imposing, and just as much of a graphic designer’s nightmare from the inside. 

The two of them walked across a large courtyard which was sheltered, if not from the snow, then at least from the wind. Some crows watched them ominously. One of them squawked in a way that sounded suspiciously like a gleeful little snigger, and the Hero shot them a look. They shot one back, eyes big and beady. He glared. They glared more. He gritted his teeth and stared at them full force, which the birds seemed to accept as being the match-winning point, and flew off. Consciously, he was aware that ominous corvids were part of a decor like this, but he wasn’t looking forward to the rest of his day, and he didn’t need any sass. Not even from crows. 

Him and his companion reached the large front gate, which was unlocked. Not surprising. There is no real reason to lock your door when you live on the edge of the world, on top of the tallest mountain, surrounded by a magical blizzard. As he entered, he did briefly wonder if it ever blew open because of the wind, and how bad it was to heat up a place like this. Although, for someone like Her, that probably didn’t really matter. He closed the door behind them and looked around. Long, bland hallway. He’d seen the kind before. Some tapestries showing the history of the Great Demon King, his ascent to power, etcetera. He didn’t even really give them a look, though he slowed down his pace to allow his companion a moment to stare. He wasn’t interested in the story being depicted. For one, he did not care. For another, he had seen this story before, when he’d killed the Demon King ten years ago. That was -- he had to pause for a moment -- the second time he’d saved the world. Huh. Time flies when you’re having fun and/or keeping the free world free. 

The Demon King had been an unpleasant figure all-around. He was rude, largely unfamiliar with the concept of personal hygiene and, for that matter, decency, personal space or volume control, and, perhaps more importantly, had been known to engage in killing, attempting genocide, and general large scale mayhem. The Demon King had been, the Hero had quickly understood, a real bastard. He had also, apparently, liked neither dogs or cats, which was a ridiculous character trait to have. It was something he had brought up on more than one occasion, too. So the Hero had unceremoniously turned him into paste by dropping a castle tower on him. Some things just had to be done, and he had done them. He noted, as he walked down the hall, that the tapestries left out the part where the Demon King, who seemed to be portrayed as heroic in this story, had been turned into a sort of purple-brown smear on the ground. They also seemed to try to imply that he had given a heroic final speech after having been slain by the (obviously treacherous) human, leaving out the part where his actual last words had been ‘Hahahuhhhrhgh?’. In the defense of the artists who had woven the tapestry, that was a lot of h’s to put into a single word. Wouldn’t want the story to be as ridiculous as the reality had been. 

They came to a large set of doors that had light coming from behind it. There was also some warmth seeping in through the crack. He looked at his companion. They both knew this was it, the woman’s hands raised and glowing a gentle purple, but the Hero didn’t draw his sword yet. For one, pushing open a large set of doors dramatically was a lot easier to do with both of your hands free. Second, with his sword out, he wouldn’t be the first adventurer to rush into danger only to find himself rapidly inhaling the wrong end of his sword. If he was going to stumble on entering the Evil Throne Room -- which was undoubtedly what was behind that door -- it wasn’t going to kill him. Even with decades of experience, he was well aware that one of the leading causes of death among the heroically-inclined was overzealousness. After you killed a dragon, it was hard to imagine being killed by a toy car on the stairs, which made it all the more important to take precautions. 

Dramatically, he pushed open the doors with both hands, letting them swing widely. They had been better oiled than he’d imagined, and their dramatic swing was slightly marred by the fact that they hit the walls on either side and then immediately bounced back, and both of them had to do a little hop forward to avoid getting smacked in the face by the giant wooden doors. This led to his entrance being a lot less imposing than he’d hoped, and he really hadn’t expected it. Giant wooden doors had to be loud and groaning, hard to open, ideally maybe even creak. It was traditional. At least a lot of the Evil Throne Room was up to snuff, even though there was a noticeable lack of cobwebs or skulls lying in corners. 

The room itself reminded him a lot of the old Demon King’s throne room. It had been in a castle not unlike this one, a few hundred miles south. That one had been his, well, summer home, by the lake, and from there he had launched his assaults on the free world. Getting there had been a mess and a half, with unkempt roads and even more unkempt soldiers, but eventually, the Hero had managed to push the Demon King and his army back to his castle, where he slew, smote and inconvenienced the King and his most loyal -- and dangerous -- commanders. The throne room had been a real battlefield, and in the end, not much had been left standing. At one point, the king had been trying to hit him over the head with the throne. Not his most glorious moment, that. Right now, however, this particular throne was currently occupied by someone a lot different from the old Demon King. Well, in some ways. In others, she was very similar. Same set of horns. Same dark reddish skin, like a particularly vivid grape. Same stature, which was over nine feet tall (without the horns). Same eyes -- big, red, glowing, malicious. 

What also drew his eye was the way in which she wasn’t like the Demon King. There was a lot more leg, for one. Not that she had any more than the standard two, but they did seem to occupy a lot more space than those of her predecessor. There was also the little crown, which was a lot smaller than that of the Demon King. Finally, there was her battle-armor, which left a lot less to the imagination. He couldn’t help but wonder if that was deliberate. She appeared to have been expecting him.

“I have been expecting you,” she said with a breathy voice. Some traditions were just not made to be ignored, after all, and it seemed like the Demon Queen (or, colloquially, the Demon Dragon Queen, although that was a bit of a mouthful that not everyone was keen on) was in the mood to uphold at least the most important ones. She was lying, of course, but he didn’t know that. He had missed the part where she had noticed him at the last minute and had rushed to her armory, gotten dressed as quickly as she could, and had only barely managed to sit down just in time to look like she had been waiting for him with a bored expression on her face. 

“I’m here to stop you,” he said, because he knew the steps to his side of the dance just as well. He’d played this part a couple of times -- one time with a giant snake and a lot of garlic bread, which the bards always failed to mention -- and he knew his lines. 

“Okay,” she said, and the Hero felt the tension in the room dissipate a little bit. 

“Okay?”

“Yeah. I mean, it would be silly of you to come all this way and not try, right?”

“Do you know who I am?” he asked. The situation wasn’t going exactly as he had planned, and it was confusing him a bit.

“Well, yes. You killed my father.”

“Exactly!” he said, glad that things were getting back on track. “And now, Evil Demon Dragon Queen, I have come t--”

“Thank you for that, by the way,” she said, interrupting him with a little smirk. 

“What?”

“Thank you. If you hadn’t killed him, my mother, his brother, one of my sisters, my brother, my grandmother, or I would have, but you know… it saved us the hassle.”

“It saved… you…”

“The trouble of having to kill him, yes.”

“Why?!” The Hero took a step forward in annoyance. He had completely lost control of this situation and it wasn’t sitting well with him. Sure, she was playing the haughty bits perfectly, but the threatening part was absolutely missing, and it was causing him to break his stride. “Why kill him?”

“Because he was an embarrassment,” she said. “Loud, obvious. Begging to be slain, really.” The Demon Queen stood up. “Though I suppose you’re here to kill me, too.”

“Yes,” he said, and drew his sword.

“If we have to,” the Demon Queen responded, and drew a long, thin sword of her own. Behind the Hero, the young woman raised her hands, which crackled with arcane energies. “Is it too late to tell you that we don’t have to do this, join me, etcetera?”

“Yes,” he said, and raised his weapon. 

“I’m just… not in the mood?” she tried. 

“No, that’s not going to work today,” he said. “Your evil will end. Here. This night.”

“It’s two in the afternoon.”

“This afternoon.”

“My evil hasn’t even started yet,” she said, and he could swear she was pouting. He frowned. She was Evil Incarnate, after all, so her objection felt dishonest. Right? “But if it’s a fight you want,” she said, and the air between them exploded.

Elamimax

I'm hoping y'all will enjoy the story going forward! I'm hoping to write a lot more of it, as it's in a style I've always adored myself.

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