It's not a choice.

Tilla looks at her sister, sickly and weak on the bed, and then she looks at her father, grey hair, face full of wrinkles, and slumped shoulders, holding Sissi's hand. She looks down at her own hands; the skin tough and calloused, her skin tanned from constantly working outside and dry and flaky from doing all the laundry. 

It's not a choice. They all know Sissi won't survive the coming winter, won't live to see the next spring. It's an inevitably, a certainty. Sissi is dying, and now Tilla can do something about it.

So it's not a choice.

She packs her bag in the middle of the night, while her sister breathes weakly on the bed, in pain even in her sleep. Her father is snoring in the only other room and the faint moonlight is the only thing lighting up Tilla's path as she walks away. Her feet are heavy on the rough road, hardly qualified to be even called a path. The gravel that was once laid upon it has been defeated by the foliage, and weeds press up from below. 

In the forest, animal sounds are all that can be heard. Tilla keeps her head down, her feet swift, and her breathing quiet. It takes her a good hour to reach the proper road west, which will eventually lead to the capital from which the Queen reigns. But that's not precisely where she's aiming right now.

After another half-hour of walking, Tilla reaches her goal. A guard outpost sits buried by the side of the road, haphazardly built and one harsh wind from falling over. The hay on the roof looks to be rotting, and the stench of musk, sweat, and blood lays heavy around it. Tilla hesitates for longer than she's proud of, pacing in front of the door for a good five minutes before she draws herself up into a straight knife and knocks on the door.

The guard that opens it, after some muffled cursing, is old, fat, and wet. He squints at her, his eyes beady. "Wha—" he finally slurs out, toppling against the doorframe and visibly resting against it.

Tilla inhales deeply and says, voice strong as she can make it, "I wish to marry Queen Merione."

The guard falls over. He makes a strangled sound, pushing himself up and clinging to the doorframe as he stands again. Tilla steps to the side again, to stay out of his way. She clasps her hands behind her back so she can't bite on her nails, and narrows her eyes so she can't bend her gaze. 

Standing again, the guard rubs his eyes until they look a little more aware, and wheezes out, "You—you're sure?"

"Yes," says Tilla. She straightens her back and tries to project an image of certainty, of confidence. The guard lets go of the frame and squint harder at her until at last, he seems to come to a decision. With not another word, the guard disappears back into the tiny shack, and soon loud noises fill the air. Tilla stands utterly still, only moving to switch which leg she's keeping her weight on, and waits for the guard to return.

She doesn't really have any other options.

The guard reappears, slinging a pack over his shoulder and jamming his sword into his belt's sheath. "We'll set off right away," the guard says, not even locking the door as he starts to walk. Tilla bilnks owlishly at him for a moment, then grips her own bag tigther and hurries after.

Her brows furrow as she follows, the night still clinging to the world. "Just like that?" she can't help but ask, some part of her assuming that things would be more difficult then this. She... well, Tilla's not anybody, so shouldn't people, logically, protest her marrying a queen?

The guard scoffs, giving her a pitying look over his shoulder. "Lady, our queen has married over fifty people, and all of them've died. We don't exactly get a lot of volunteers these days. So straight to the palace you go. If you're the first one there, Queen Merione will likely marry you right away. And if not..." the guard's voice lowers, but not to the point where Tilla can't hear him. She wonders vaguely if she should be offended when he says, "you can always just stick around until the next bride dies."

She scowls. It is—not a bad plan. But Sissi likely won't last that long, and Tilla can't think about what ifs right now. Her mind is too full of pictures of her dying sister, her down-beaten father, her dead mother.

It's not a choice. It's a must.

It's the only thing she can do.

She adjusts the grip on her bag again and speeds up until she's walking next to the guard. The road is actually wide enough for two people here, and they walk next to each other in silence. The guard doesn't really pay her any attention, but he doesn't go faster than she can handle. And while Tilla's mind is still running, while her knowledge tells her she's walking to her death, she really can't find an ounce of regret.

It's a stupid thing to do, isn't it? But marrying Queen Merione will give Sissi the best care in the kingdom, in return for Tilla's sacrifice. She won't need to worry about her family anymore. Tilla will ensure they'll live.

So in the end, it's not a choice. It's an inevitability, a certainty. 

It's the only thing left for Tilla to do, and so she will. Sissi will live, and maybe Tilla will be the one that won't last the winter, but she knows she will be treated well. Queen Merione's brides may be doomed, but in return they're treated like goddesses for the short time they have left. 

...Tilla won't regret doing the only thing she can to save her sister. She won't. Even if she—when she doesn't live. She won't. Sissi will be saved, will be taken care of, and that's all that matters.

hoodwinked

Sporadic updates, posted 2 weeks after they go up on Patreon.

This is a low-priority novel, as I currently have 3 regularly updating BL novels as well as some other stuff on Patreon. Low priority means that updates will be scarce and at the mercy of my schoolwork. I have been too busy recently, so have not yet written ch2. 

In addition, this is my first serious try at a GL novel (which I'm excited about!). And please do consider supporting me on Patreon if you enjoy my writing!

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