Revenge

 A short story

My sweaty hand was shaking slightly – grasping the rough handle of my crudely crafted knife. All my anger welled up inside of my chest as I hid in the dark shadows cast by the high stone wall beside me.

                Silently, I watched as my brother, whom I had not seen for twenty years, came into view and strolled calmly along the battlements. He was alone, dressed in fine blue fabric that fluttered slightly in the breeze, and his large crown protruded from his lock of golden hair, so unlike my own dark curls.

                Rowan had always looked more like my mother than I did. I recalled the memories of the time when he and I would play together in the court. These memories seemed so long ago that it was as if I saw them in my find through a long tunnel, stretching on into the distant past. Our mother would sit upon her chair as if she too had been born into royalty, pulling her needle in and out of her fabric continuously like some beautiful repetitive device. But she had always liked me best. I cherished her praise, and I suppose Rowan grew jealous, and it was from that that his vile actions originated.

                My hand tightened on the handle of my dagger, and I knew what I had to do. It was my duty. Rowan had stolen by birthright, for I was five years his senior, and yet it was he who strolled without concern upon the battlements of my father’s castle with his crown on his head, and not me.

                As my brother turned to gaze out across the kingdom which was not rightfully his, I stepped forwards, my eyes burning with the furious passion that had kept me alive in the desolate prison he had landed me in all those years ago – the passion for revenge. I crept up behind him, forcing myself to stay calm and not to rush ahead and give away my position.

                The untamed bloodthirsty animal in my mind created out of madness from all the years of imprisonment was screaming for my brother’s instant death, but I had just enough willpower to contain the beast long enough for me to creep right up behind my brother. I stood for a split second, my face distorted into a sneer as I physically forced my hand to stop shaking with the knowledge of what it was about to finally accomplish. And then I reached out slowly, grabbed a handful of my brother’s fine clothes, and wrenched the dagger into his back.

                He cried out and fell back, his eyes wide as he stared into my face.

                “I could never bring myself to kill anyone as pure as our parents were,” I whispered, leaning down to him, “But a brother who had betrayed me... who had killed our pure parents – well, I would not think twice before delivering him into the next life.”

                Rowan’s eyes grew even wider than they were already as he recognised me. He opened up his mouth, as if to say something – but only gave a horrible rasping breath – and then his eyes gazed upon the last face they ever saw, my own, and he lay still in my arms.

Alternate ending:

My sweaty hand was shaking slightly – grasping the rough handle of my crudely crafted knife. All my anger welled up inside of my chest as I hid in the dark shadows cast by the high stone wall beside me.

                Silently, I watched as my brother, whom I had not seen for twenty years, came into view and strolled calmly along the battlements. He was alone, dressed in fine blue fabric that fluttered slightly in the breeze, and his large crown protruded from his lock of golden hair, so unlike my own dark curls.

                Rowan had always looked more like my mother than I did. I recalled the memories of the time when he and I would play together in the court. These memories seemed so long ago that it was as if I saw them in my find through a long tunnel, stretching on into the distant past. Our mother would sit upon her chair as if she too had been born into royalty, pulling her needle in and out of her fabric continuously like some beautiful repetitive device. But she had always liked me best. I cherished her praise, and I suppose Rowan grew jealous, and it was from that that his vile actions originated.

                My hand tightened on the handle of my dagger, and I knew what I had to do. It was my duty. Rowan had stolen by birthright, for I was five years his senior, and yet it was he who strolled without concern upon the battlements of my father’s castle with his crown on his head, and not me.

                As my brother turned to gaze out across the kingdom which was not rightfully his, I stepped forwards, my eyes burning with the furious passion that had kept me alive in the desolate prison he had landed me in all those years ago – the passion for revenge.I wore the uniform that the castle guards wore, and when Rowan glanced back as I approached, he did not recognise me.

                “Possible rain tonight,” my brother said, turning back to survey the dark clouds approaching. I stepped up just behind him.

                “Reminds me of my father, really,” continued Rowan. “He would always run to the window as the rain started so he could smell that fresh smell that only rain can bring."

                Rowan took a deep breath, closing his eyes. He had a tranquil smile on his face, and my insides burned with rage.

                The rumble of distant thunder brought me to my senses. I grasped the knife in my hand extra tightly as it began to shake quite violently.

                “I am surprised you have the nerve to speak of your father so lightly,” I said quietly. “If I ever killed a relative who did me no harm at all, I would be far too ashamed to ever mention him again."

                Rowan didn’t reply, but his brow was furrowed. “What did you say?” he asked, probably wondering if he had misheard.

                 “But,” I continued, a vague smirk spreading onto my face, “if it was a relation who had done me wrong, betrayed me... I would not hesitate to drive my knife through his unsuspecting back... even if it were my own brother.”

                Rowan whipped his head around to stare at me with wide astonished eyes, and his mouth opened to speak, but before he could I lunged forwards and drove my knife into his back. But at the same time, I felt an excruciating pain in my abdomen. I lurched back, and saw the gleaming hilt of another dagger wrenched into myself!

                Rowan fell back against the wall, gasping great breaths of air like a drowning man struggling for breath.

                “Did you think,” he stuttered, wheezing between words, “that I would not spend every day haunted by the thought that you were still alive, and that you knew the truth? Did you not think that I would arm myself even in my sleep, in case you returned some day? Twenty years, and I was still prepared for your revenge. Well... I was too late to save myself... but at least... I take you with me...”

                He shuddered all over, and lay trembling. My gaze was fixed on the hilt he had attacked me with.

                “I am not sorry for what I have done,” I said, falling to my knees. “I have revenged my parents’ deaths. Even though I shall never... be king... I... have completed my life’s purpose...”

                Knowing this was surely the end – the end of all my years of waiting, the end of my troubles, the end of my revenge – I wrenched the blade from myself, and cast it aside, and then I lay down, finished.

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