Villainous POV

Our castle is nested on top of a mountain. The mountain is gray; it is made out of a million tiny stones which are all gray, piled up one on top of each other to create a tall monument to nature. Of course, that is only if you are up close. From the village it is purple-ish, maybe a little blue, barely visible. Scratch that, completely invisible. Your eyes can squint all they want, but the mountain remains a hazy blur, easy to forget. You can have many silent nights strewn with nightmares (you can thank us for that) which amplify every sound and even create their own, but never can you hear the lonely wolf laying down to die or the wind running through the trees in a wild attempt to escape. But the mountain remains, tall, silent, eerie, behind everything in the town. It is the one that kills men and hangs them up on the town square, so that the wind can have a final dance with them. It is the one that lets loose the dragon so that I can laugh as the village dies, as black smoke laces the sky, as the houses let loose embers that twirl in the air before falling and creating fires of their own. The mountain is oppressive; it rules with an iron fist, it laughs at your misfortune. And I do, too. I rather like laughing, you see.

I am never lonely, I have my minions. They are obedient. There are no traces of fear upon their pale cheeks and eyes like saucers. They laugh as my laughter echoes through the halls. I only had one when I was beginning, a young kid named Joe that liked to follow me around. I had my sword, he had his magic. Together we traveled the world and were happy. I laid waste to villages to find who-knows-how-many stones of what's-his-name and he truly believed we were doing the work of good. Gullible idiot.  Look out my window and see the heavenly destruction and tell me good exists. One day, he went berserk. Naïveté tends to do that to people, when the weight of the world becomes too much to carry, the locks of ignorance that keep your brain whole just crack and suddenly you find yourself throwing fireballs at your master. I had him drawn and quartered. Taking over the country was much, much easier afterwards.

I also have my prisoners. They hate me. They are learning well. I am waiting for the hate to consume them, for it to be lit on fire and for them to die under the red and the heat the same way their homes did. Maybe, the red will cause them to kill me, but at the end it doesn't matter. I caused them to hate. I taught them to hate. I will die triumphant.

I have my wand and I have my sword. My sword is infused with darkness; it is obedient to me too. My wand has another dark master; I would like to meet him one day. Of course, that is impossible, because the last time I saw him my sword had created red to burst from him like the red was coming from me, and he died by asphyxiation. Technically, he died by way of the sword, but I like to think she choked on the red and that's how he died. It's a much better death.

But I am growing bored now. I look at my subjects and they are afraid of me. It was fun, of course, but I have somewhere better to go now. It is above me but soon it will be with me. Soon it will be a part of me. I take my sword and it turns against its master, but it was his master's will for it to do so in the first place.

Regret is the color blue, I see. And regret mixed with hate is purple. Regret turned to hate is purple, too, I can see that now. I have been strangled by that color. My minions cheer and my prisoners cheer. I hate. I regret. I am lonely, I have always been lonely. But I will see Joe shortly, so there is nothing to worry about. Unless he is dyed red too. My life is ruled by two colors, but I had no idea one of them existed.