text: [Themes: grimdark fantasy]
  
  Choice
  
  "My lord," says Andruxius as you enter. The room is dimly lit by a circle of candles that surround Talia's bed. Her chest doesn't move, but you've been assured by the sorcerer that time for her is moving more slowly than it is for everyone else. The man is odd by any measure, even requesting the bodies of any dead rodents discovered in the castle to perform his experiments on, but over the years you've come to trust him. You're convinced time really is moving slowly for her. Besides, the candle on the table next to her bed has been burning for fifteen years, and if Talia wasn't actually breathing, she'd have rotted away by now. Yes, at this point you fully trust Andruxius.
  
  The same cannot be said of your household, however, for roughly half of your servants and freemen left in the days following the baby's murder. But that is no priority to you, nor has it ever been. Only Talia matters. You clear your throat.
  
  "I was told you needed to speak with me," you say to the darkly robbed man.
  
  Andruxius sighs. "Yes, my lord," he says in a tone not dissimilar from a minister at a funeral. "Unfortunately, your wife is nearing the end of her time."
  
  "But you said she was detached from the timeline of this world!"
  
  With the patience of a grandfather teaching a toddler to read, Andruxius says, "Yes, my lord, but detached from the timeline of this world does not mean she has no timeline at all. Her body has been dying all these years, and now I fear she will not last more than a few days." Your vision blurs as you consider those words. You desperately need to speak to her again, if only to confront her about the troubadour. In truth, however, you simply miss her and want to see her smile again.
  
  "Is there something that can be done," you say through tearing eyes.
  
  "Yes, my lord, but it will require a great sacrifice, one which I do not think you will be willing to make again." He looks directly into your eyes, his expression saying that you know exactly what he is talking about.
  
  "You already took the troubadour's bastard fifteen years ago, Andruxius. What more can I give you?"
  
  He places his hand on his chin. "It's true that you have no more children to give me yourself, my lord, but have you not servants? I believe I saw a young girl running through the courtyard not two days ago. The Hunstman's daughter?" You cannot believe what you are hearing, but at the same time, you know what this man is. You've always known, but you do not care. The only thing you care about is Talia. "She appears to be the right age for what I need," says the sorcerer. "If I had her, I could fashion a ritual that would not only prolong your wife's life further, it would allow you to come into her circle of protection once a month. Perhaps to even speak to her eventually.
  
  You've already sacrificed an innocent for Talia before. Doing so again, however, may be something you cannot stomach. "If I allow you to take Huntsman Willaimson's daughter," you ask, "can you guarantee me that my wife will live?"
  
  "For another extended period of time, yes." He smiles at you. "In fact, I can guarantee that you can finally penetrate the circle of candles. You will be able to touch your wife again, my lord." Your breath catches in your throat. To be able to touch her soft hands again, to be able to kiss her cheek, to smell her hair. This is something you've dreamed of for more than a decade.
  
  "However," continues the sorcerer, "I cannot promise you that she will completely regain consciousness. This is a temporary measure, my lord. A simple extension of her life."
  
  How much is your love worth, you wonder. It is certainly unfair that a child should be taken by this sorcerer. But it is equally unfair that your wife should die. The girl is nothing to you. Weighing your love in one hand, and what little of your morality and integrity remains in the other, you make your choice.
  
  > refuse to let the sorcerer have the girl
  Refuse
  
  You take a moment to reflect on the evil you have done, all for love. When did it get this out of control that you'd seriously entertain killing a little girl? Of course, she wouldn't be the first child you killed. The troubadour's bastard certainly did not deserve his fate. But you were overcome with rage, fear and grief. Perhaps that absolves you to an extent?
  
  No. It cannot. Innocents died at your hands for your love. But even that was not your first sin. You should have known from the beginning that Talia had no interest in you. Her smile all those years ago at your father's party was merely a courtesy to the son of her father's lord. You became the count and used your influence to force a girl of sixteen to marry you, a man of twenty six, whom she had no affection for. It's no wonder she fought depression and sought the arms of another man.
  
  Taking a deep breath, you look at Andruxius in the eyes and say, "I cannot do this again. The girl will not die for my wife. She is an innocent."
  
  Andruxius, looking slightly annoyed, shakes his head and says, "You did it before, my lord. What's changed?"
  
  "Nothing other than I see what a monster I am." After taking a long, quiet moment to gaze upon your wife, you say, "Do what you can for her, and I'll name you my heir. But for now I would be with my wife." Andruxius hesitates a moment, then nods his head and leaves.
  
  Gazing at your wife, it feels strange not to see her chest rise and fall, yet to know that she is sleeping. Her skin, paler than it ever was when she was well, is still as beautiful to you as the setting sun. You take one more moment to watch her, and then you head to the desk. Taking pen to parchment, you write some instructions to those of your household who remain, and then walk to the window.
  
  The curtains are thick and strong, as you hoped. You carefully take one of them down, and then tightly roll it into a long rope. Setting it down a moment, you push the desk until it is underneath the chandelier. You know the mounting is sturdy; you set it yourself. You jump down and grab the curtain, then climb back up and toss one end around the chandelier. Tying it carefully, you strengthen the knot on one end, and then make a noose on the other.
  
  As you stand on the desk looking at your wife one last time, the noose around your neck, a single thought creeps into your mind: what if Andruxius caused your wife's birthing difficulty all those years ago? What if he used weather magic to create the storm to keep doctors from being able to help? He kept her alive, yes, but he had access to your library, your castle, and any number of animals to perform his disgusting experiments on. As your grief is replaced by rage, you try to remove the noose, but your foot slips, and the desk topples over. The life choking out of you, all you can do is stare at your wife as you die.