I've been thinking. Nothing else to do in these fleeting moments of wakefulness. If someone has looted my castle and killed my minions but not killed me – or woken me up trying to kill me – what does that mean? A great many possibilities occur to me but I can discard most of the obvious ones because whoever it was left my home utterly devoid of life. If it was merely control of this place changing hands, as it does with almost clockwork regularity, there would be victorious conquerors running around right? Since that is not the case, I'm a bit flummoxed – my minions are weak but not so weak as to be wiped out by something like disease or monsters; and the place is looted, so it's safe to conclude someone did this. With purpose. But who? And when will they stop playing around and introduce themselves? It's a bit irritating that everyone is dead but it's not like I really care – so whoever is responsible needs to take responsibility, introduce themselves and whatever worthless faction they represent, and restart the process of delivering tribute and whatnot. In preparation for meeting the mysterious stranger I've been practicing my self-introduction.

   My name is … Alexandria. Strange name for a demon right? Can't even pronounce it in proper High Demonic. Daddy's gift for his fledgling Demon Lord. Its been a long time since I last introduced myself to someone so the words don't come as easily anymore. Partly because deciding what language to use is always a hurdle, old High Demonic? The language I was raised on and know best. Or maybe Low Demonic? The language of the slaves and serfs. Avashim – the Elven tongue? Higemorde – the language of man? Perhaps Tullen – the language I learned so I could understand the dwarves as they screamed. I even know a bit of the Celestial vocabulary – enough to introduce myself before I kill the feathered wretches at any rate. Deciding which words to use and in what language depends so much on the other party that nowadays I prefer to forgo speaking at all. Most of my recent conversations have been with beings of low intelligence who speak a broken and bastardized version of low demonic – for these creatures an introduction is wasted because it is doubtful they will even understand the words much less the meaning. I expect my next guest will be no different – if he is so crass as to murder all my followers and disappear without a word.

   And the language is only the first of a great many hurdles. Though a great many pests and parasites have crowded around me for as long as I can remember – all eager for my words and blessings – few of them are worthy, or even able, to receive my words. Likely the vast mana that permeates the whole of my being would resonate in my voice and destroy the weak creature who foolishly wished for something beyond its power. Could I regulate that mana to a non-lethal level? Maybe. But why would I bother? The creatures that gather themselves beneath me are merely servants, unworthy of any particular attention – though I do occasionally throw out a word when an exceptionally competent servant appears (read: a servant who won't die on hearing my voice and catches me in a moment of wakefulness).

   I have made an effort to understand the strange new languages these creatures speak for those occasions. After all, constantly resting on my throne does give me a large amount of free time and the servants can't seem to help but change the language they speak perpetually. Sometimes I wake up to find they are all now speaking a further bastardized version of a perfectly good language or even occasionally a completely different tongue that they will be equally quick to modify or abandon. I make a bit of a game of it, trying to learn in only the brief moments I'm awake using my superb ability to eavesdrop. Well when I feel like it anyway. Understanding the unending yet constantly changing mutterings of my servants is a good way to pass the time when I don't feel like sleeping. Though fortunately that strange mood has been coming over me less and less as time goes on. At any rate, I'm hopeful my efforts will not be in vain and I will be able to understand the words of this new rat, whenever it deigns to reveal itself.

   I hope the rat doesn't appear. I know it will but still I hope it doesn't. How many times have I gone through these same motions I wonder? It's a bit odd that everyone is dead but otherwise it feels exactly the same as any other time power has changed hands within my domain. Each time I hope the new Grand Inquisitor or High Demon Lord or whatever idiot title they've dreamt up for themselves, will just leave me be but they never do. Always they cling to my feet and beg for me to lend my power to their worthless causes – I am apparently a resource too valuable to just leave alone in the grand games demons play. Of course they are usually more subtle and elegant in their cajoling but what does it matter? What care have I for the words of insects, no matter how sweet or loud or eloquent they may be? I just want to sleep.

   Why, after all, should I be awake? What purpose does it serve? For me I mean? In my youth perhaps I desired strength. But now I am strong. As a child I had a great many enemies to kill and a great many … well a few friends whose company I enjoyed. But one day I looked around myself to find they had all died, friends and enemies alike, ground up in that great game of demonic politics we all played with such fervor. There is a reason people call demons a long lived race that does not live very long, it's a contradictory truth and an honest insight into what it means to be a demon. For a time I made more enemies and more friends, mostly more enemies though if we're being honest, until one day they as well were all dead. On and on the cycle continued all around me until the lives of demons surrounding me seemed to end in the blink of an eye … or an afternoon nap as the case may be. Friends became merely allies, allies became vassals, vassals became servants and worthless devotees. Enemies stayed enemies though, I could appreciate their consistency at least.

   Until one day I found that I could just … sleep. The world had no need of me. My presence was a reliable pillar for my servants to rely on – but there was no need for me to actually do anything. Just my existence was sufficient. So I slept. Gladly. I was and am more than happy to let the little scurrying wretches handle anything and everything, to be free of responsibility. In truth I am only surprised it took me so long to come to that realization, demons have no particular moral code that links strength and responsibility. The strong do what they want, those that question are destroyed. I would do it again a hundred times, I will do it again a hundred times if I know myself at all – unless someone strong enough to kill me appears. If such a person arrives I only hope that they don't wake me up.

This story originates from Royal Road. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.

   For better or worse it's unlikely that such a person will appear – even if that person can kill all the little wretches surrounding me.

   After all I was a powerful mage when I was still called as Demon Lord. I was raised and nurtured by my clan, groomed for power, taught to control the flow of mana and shape reality to my will. Even now I sometimes remember the eyes of my father, hungry eyes, demanding I cast the spell a hundred times until it was perfect and then to cast it a hundred more times perfectly. By dint of his blood I needed no focus to channel the flow, by dint of his brutal training regime I learned the Old Runes – carved them into my soul figuratively and my flesh literally – and was hailed as genius and prodigy. For those eyes though it was never enough. Not when I could bend every element to my will – conjure a hail of ice and stone in a ring of fire and wind. Not when I mastered the Old Magics of time and space – warping reality, accelerating time, drawing forth beings of great and terrible power from The Beyond. Certainly not when I unveiled my mastery of so-called Demonic Magic – burning the souls of the enemies I captured for the occasion from their still-living bodies with the sickly green fire. Not even when I reached into his chest with my magic and ripped out his damned heart did that glare falter. A look of constant and unrelenting disappointment he wore with him to the grave. But it made me strong, so maybe it evens out.

   That look is perhaps what drove me so in my youth. Drove me to veraciously absorb every scrap of magical knowledge I could acquire, no matter the source or the cost. Drove me to being the perfect destructive engine every demon aspires to be. Drove me to climb the ladder as far as I did. A perpetual cycle of ripping down those above my and incinerating their souls to feed my power so I might continue to grasp at new heights. Looking back at it it seems such a waste. My life would have been much easier back then if I had embraced sleeping as I do now. After all it's not as if demons get weaker with age – the opposite in fact, as our bodies grow older and more suffused with mana they become stronger and able to contain more mana and once the increased capacity is filled it in turn strengthens the body again in a perfect circle of power and time. Lesser races might find themselves limited by lifespan or a maximum capacity for mana they can never grow beyond but those are not problems suffered by demons. It's truly absurd. And it makes you realize just how worthless it all is. Why struggle if you can choose not to? Why work for something that will naturally fall into your hands, if you just have the patience? Why take the harder road?

   Why ever be awake at all?

   For other demons the answer is perhaps because they would die if they simply slept all the time. Weaklings have need of things like food and water I suppose. Fortunately I am content to sit unmoving on my throne for all time without ever being inconvenienced by something worthless like hunger or thirst or feelings of physical discomfort. Hygiene? That's a maiden's secret I'm afraid.

   And that is the perfect existence that I, Alexandria, have carved out for myself in this sometimes little sometimes big corner of Artas (depending on how competent the servant holding the reins is of course). Sometimes I sleep. Sometimes I wake up and give a little pep to my cute minions. Sometimes I try to learn a bit about this and that by abusing my frankly ridiculous sense of hearing. Sometimes I dream. Old friends. Old enemies. I can see them all again when I close my eyes and let myself float away. No need to see the dreary throne room and begging supplicants. I can visit the things I used to care about. I can even sort of feel those parts of myself that used to care about them. Sometimes if I feel lonely I can drift along and see Amy one more time – though its been … a long time … since that last happened. And if I want I can let the dream go and not care at all. Dip myself into a smooth and inky, dreamless, sleep. It is truly a perfect life.

   My only complaint is that as the years roll along my memory fades. Even my precious dream memories of those people I remember caring about are slowly eroding. It would hardly be noticeable if not for the fact that it isn't the whole of my memory fading away. The magics I once spent so long mastering are etched into me in a more permanent manner than time can erode. I expected to live a long time even back then so I took precautions. Bound my magic irrevocably to my soul and trapped my knowledge of the Runes and Words with clever spellwork so they would be accessible forevermore. Truly a waste of time and energy in hindsight, even moreso as my dependence on such things has waned with my youth, I might even think it depressing if I ever stopped to dwell on it. Luckily I always find myself with better things to do – sleeping for instance, takes priority over brooding. Takes priority over most things honestly.

   Sadly I feel my sleep might be coming to an end soon. An issue has appeared that makes it almost impossible for me to get any rest. Much bigger than the thought of some upstart who's refusing to introduce himself. Worthless Gods and their shoddy construction abilities will be the death of us all it seems. I first noticed it shortly after I noticed my castle had been invaded, those two things might be connected actually, now that I think about it. Fortunately for me; however, I have been honing my body for millennia against incursions like this! I am confident in my ability to ignore this problem! Until it resolves itself, an altruistic third party fixes it, or I can sleep in spite of it! Whichever comes first. I don't really care. But even as I declare that so confidently, something nags at my mind.

   This might actually be an opportunity.

   If I can't sleep than maybe I should get up. Go out. Maybe meet some new people. See some new things. Build some new houses for my dreams to live in. Or build some new dreams for me to live in, once things calm down and I can sleep peacefully again. Maybe do something useful along the way, nudge things in a better direction. That sounds like a lot of work though. Too much work really. Can you even imagine? Me? Alexandria? Moving from my throne for something so piddly and inconsequential? Ridiculous. I am completely confident. No one can sleep as well as I, no matter the situation. Even if the mythical gates to the Hells themselves open and swallow all of demonkind I will refuse to wake up. This is the path I have chosen for myself, the path I have walked for years beyond counting. I can't budge on this now!