Twisted Roads – Twisted Horror Stories by Matthew Tonks

Who Wields Destiny

“What is, what is, and this is all that is,” she says proudly, standing over the bloody and beaten man who kneels before her.

“P-P-Please, Aurora, can’t you see what you’ve become? There’s st-still time, we, we can still sa-save them, we can save them all,” he says weakly.

“Don’t be a fool, my brother. It’s over. I’ve chosen my allegiances, and we have been victorious. Why not stand by my side, be who you were meant to be, and rule this world? We could overthrow Falgan together!”

“No, not like this. Not bitter. Not twisted. Not for power,” he says, holding his head down, clenching his fists together, trying to gauge the strength he has left in his weakened body. “You’ve become someone I don’t even know anymore. The woman I called sister, the woman who fought for peace by my side, who fought for something better than this, for something beautiful, is gone.”

“Oh, for the sake of all, grow up, brother! For years, for centuries, you two have been going at it, waging a war against each other. A war where hundreds have died, millions even, while you two still continued to be children. Now, under my reign, no more will die, no more will suffer. I will rule, and everyone will obey.”

“It’s wrong,” he says softly through gritted teeth.

“No, brother, it’s not wrong. You are. And if you’ll not join me, then I’m afraid you must die,” she says, drawing a sword from its scabbard. She stares at it as it shimmers in the light, then looks back at him. “How fitting that you fall beneath your own mighty blade. A blade which has for countless eons protected you, given you your strength, made you a force to be reckoned with, a hero even. A hero whose tales have been whispered from one to the next, whose feats of bravery have been turned into songs, into prose written by men and women of true skill, men and women who will one day do the same to this moment.”

“P-Please, don’t do this, don’t make me…”

“Make you what, brother? I wish to make you do nothing else but die!” she yells as she draws back the sword.

“T-Then, I-I, I am sorry,” he says, looking up from the ground, his eyes burning into her. She feels them like hot pokers, as a tear runs down his cheek. “He who wields, commands you, strike down the imposter, take back what is mine!” he yells. Suddenly, she screams in pain, in unadulterated agony, as the sword melts in her hands, runs down her arm, and quickly encases her in a metal-like covering. Then, with one last muffled cry from her, it reforms to its shape once more, crashing to the ground before him. “I’m sorry, dear sister, but no one wields Destiny but me,” he says as he reaches out and grips the sword’s handle. The room implodes in a ball of light, and he rises powerfully to his feet, whole once more.