“This room is under the seal of the Asphalt Eye. Neither of us can harm the other here. Nothing said in this place can be heard outside. We are alone.

Speak your piece, child.

***

I see.

You have come here to stop me. With words.

The coming battle will be terrible, whoever wins, and you do not wish it to happen. Having no other weapon you hope to talk me out of it.

You hope that the right words spoken here will change my course. That I can be unlocked like a door in one of your world's story-games. Find the key to open the treasure chest; find the phrase to melt the Wicked Queen's heart.

You hope, despite all appearances, that my malice is not absolute, that remorse and pity are not entirely dead in me. And for the nothing that is worth, you are right.

As an earnest of good will you have given me back my familiar, the pewter dragonlet stolen from me by the High King's granduncle a hundred years ago. You certainly did not have permission for this; you took her from the vaults yourself, risking severe punishment and the loss of dear friendships. I cannot fault your courage, and indeed I am grateful. I have missed Philbert bitterly. Thank you, child.

My gratitude will not stop the battle.

You have given me a precious gift, and in return I will give you exposition. You do not know how things work here. Very few do.

This world is built on a Story. Many worlds are. Not yours; that has many stories, tangled together and getting in each other's way. There is freedom in that, perhaps; when stories are blocked, characters have room to choose. We do not have that freedom; we have our Story.

It is not very original. There is a tyrant with grim Powers and a monstrous army. There are the noble scrappy forces of Good with their army. There is an unlikely hero from some tiny dust-hamlet or forgotten island or, as in your case, from outside this world altogether; some Chosen One who through pureness of spirit and occult prophetic nonsense can tip the balance and save the day.

The Story is trite, but it is ours; we have repeated it a thousand times and we will repeat it again and again while this world lasts. Which is to say; if we stop repeating it, our world ends.

So I am here, the tyrant, the Wicked Queen. I do not wish to be Wicked; I do not wish to be Queen. What I wish means nothing.

You can tell nobody of this, by the way. They will hear you speak nonsense-words or some other topic entirely. It is an irony of the Story that only the Wicked One may know of it, and the Chosen One if they choose to tell them.

The Story is not altogether fixed. There is a little give, some room for variation. The Chosen One may fail first time around, and the forces of Good be defeated; and then there will be a time of great darkness until the Chosen One returns, scarred and hardened, or maybe their grandchild, to complete the unfinished work. You should maybe prepare for the chance of this.

I do not think it will happen this time. Most likely you will succeed, and your allies overthrow me, and I will be put to death mercifully or made to dance in red-hot shoes according to the temperament of the King. Or die on the field, or escape and be heard of no more. Then I will be finally free of the Story and this crown. But until then I will fight. I am the Wicked Queen and I must perform my Role, and I must perform it to the full. I can not throw the game. I can not take a dive. And however loudly my heart screams I can not pull my punches. I can not show mercy. I must be Sauron and Palpatine and Jadis. I must order my torturers, unleash my demons, fire my Death Star. I must fight this battle, and if I win then may the gods help my people. But if I hold back then there will be nobody for the gods to help.

I have no more to say. You have been kind; you have restored Philbert to me, and you will always have my gratitude, for the nothing that is worth.

Leave, child. The meeting is over.”