Wrong side

The doors burst open as the hero strode into the room, his companions at his back, making sure that they weren't followed into the hall. The mad king sat on his throne, a disinterested look on his face, watching as it happened - he had already been warned that the group was entering the castle, and he had no doubt that they would make it to his throne room. There had been much talk of this so called hero, and the deeds he had accomplished. The strength which he possessed. The ferocity with which he had stamped out the so called evil that was 'plaguing' the land.

"It's time we bring this to an end," the hero proclaimed, his chest puffed out and sword pointed strikingly in the king's direction. What a show off. He was following every stereotype in the book. The king wondered if he actually had accomplished anything that they had heard about - his companions seemed far more capable than he did, though that then begged the question of why they permitted him to be their leader. Was it money? Fame? Did he possess some excess of charisma? Or was the cliche appearance a front for something deeper beneath?

"Yes, I suppose it is," the king said, not budging from his chair. He rested his chin on his fist, looking the group over, knowing that they could not even approach him. The barrier that was placed around the throne was a more powerful magic than even he could penetrate - he had been trapped in the castle for some time now. And people wondered why he was 'mad.' "But before you come and strike me down, I do believe I get a final, evil monologue."

The hero didn't move, as though silently acknowledging the king's words. "This land wants nothing to do with itself," the king said, feeling somewhat bored and not being afraid to let it seep into his voice. "You may have noticed as you were stomping out the evil in the land that, truthfully, I had very little to do with it. I have imposed my rule, yes, but I have done so in order to try and stop the people from killing themselves. They are content to run themselves high and dry, and blame it on those around them. But I suppose you would not believe that. My words, after all, are only words. They mean precious little in the face of your mighty truth."

There was a long moment of silence as the hero glared at the king, hatred and contempt evident in his eyes. His group silently and slowly turned towards him, sufficiently confident that they had not been followed into the throne room. And then, unexpectedly, the hero lowered his sword.

"Yes," he said, almost too quietly to be heard. "I do suppose you are right."