Cinderelo {A Queer Cinderella Retelling)

Bonus:Brave

I'd like to enter this book for the Wattys 2024. I've never been able to enter anything for those before as an avid fanfic writer so I'd like to try and get my words past the 50,000 words limit somehow. I need over 4000 more to qualify so that's the aim, now. To somehow... Yeah. Let us begin.

I made it! Almost 6k, enjoy~

The story of Brave goes that Merida, a fiery-haired and hearted young woman, is being pushed into marriage by her controlling parent. To be as she is and do as she wants is blasphemous in her mother's eyes. After all, even today, many can't imagine how a woman could possibly survive and thrive without a man by her side as head of the family, protector and provider. Those who dream of a life beyond such expectations will always exist, however and one of them was a young seamstress, living in a small town in a kingdom long ago and far, far away.

Polly was intrigued by the future Queen's idea. She thought the girl mad, certainly but what fun it could be. To think, all she had to do to stick it to the rich was pretend to be head over heels for a lady. While she had no experience with romance or crushes whatsoever, she was determined to give it a try. Properly courting the Princess would get her paid, thus, it was in her best interest to learn how to flirt as seductively as possible, her confidence during the wedding a thing of the past as she skittered here and there for ideas after a life happily lived devoid of romance.

She'd thought of such attachment as foolishness for a very long time which made her the odd one out when all the girls she'd ever met saw their wedding and future children as the peak of their very existence. Children were a no for Polly; she was tired enough of them after having to care for her twin siblings from the moment they were brought into the world. Never a moment's rest at home.

While the mischievous little things played, she'd be stuck darning everyone's socks, doing the cooking, doing the washing and cleaning, all under the watchful eyes of her omnipresent and omniscient mother.

Being from another country meant they had to work twice as hard, the strict woman would always say. All Polly knew was that, much as she loved the imps that were her very blood, she never wanted to give birth. A strange way to think when procreation seemed so tied to womanhood in everyone's minds, parenthood an inextricable piece of being alive to practically everyone she'd ever met.

Luckily, she had chosen as a child to accept the bizarre nature of her mind, rather than fear or shame it.

Who needs a husband, anyway?

Polly decided, in her desperation, to call upon the service of her friend and co-worker, Art, when the romance books got more and more ridiculous and unrealistic with time. It started off quite awkward for both, especially since her mother got excited every time he came over. A few years ago, she would have cut off her right arm if she simply said a boy's name but now that she was 'ripe for marriage'? There was no escaping the woman's irksome joy as she welcomed in her possible son-in-law, clueless to the fact that he was teaching her daughter how to court someone else entirely.

A she rather than a he, to be more precise and all the more damning.

Arthur did his best to prepare her, telling her some sickeningly sweet things to say and do. He'd prodded her about who all this practice was for once or twice but as usual, she didn't share much. She liked to keep things close to the chest, especially since this specific thing involved money and royalty.

The more gold she made, the sooner she could leave home and send them a monthly stipend while living far, far away.

The first day, she got on horseback and rode all the way to the palace, dismounting with a huff. Many turned to look at her, partly because of the strange colour of her hair but mainly because she had chosen to wear her riding britches for an easier journey. She realised it might've been best to change outfits in the woods but before she could depart to return more presentable, an older woman hurried up to her, clasping her hands with pure glee in her eyes.