Fortune

One.

The Fool

Her fingers bleed from pulling strings to tight, metal wires caught on fingertips that pluck tiny notes woven together in a melody she can never perfect. Her father stares at her, crosses his arms and scrutinizes every mistake, every wrong note or finger placement. She is not perfect and her father loathes her for it, angry eyes cut through her efforts. Talison practices dancing with their aunt, silly jigs and ballroom waltzes, street performance and entertainment worthy of the king’s court. Talison is perfect but their father is never satisfied, too boyish, not the daughter he wanted, but a fine boy if he says he’s one nonetheless. Samara’s big brother is the epitome of everything she wishes she could be, long dark hair that curls in elegance, soft blue eyes contrasted to brown unblemished skin, long ears and sloped nose, a perfect elf.

    Their father is proud, a Suntree Elf, a perfect entertainer of the Emperor's court, gone long way on a journey to the next kingdom over. Their father wanted to see the world, bed pretty women, but instead he ended up with two children, a beautiful elven boy and a pretty half-elf girl whose mother was a human.

    “Chin up, eyes wide, mouth closed, Samara. Elven woman need to be flawless. Quintessential.” She tries, and she is, a perfect daughter to a renowned entertainer, a nomadic man with a wanderlust for life, for exploration and unfamiliar faces. But it is never enough for him, never enough for a man with everything, a man who can never be satisfied.

    To her aunt, she is perfect. A surrogate daughter to a surrogate mother, a little girl with a greed for life, an appetite filled with the laughter of her childhood in the moments spent spared away from her father’s watchful eyes.

    Her aunt sings lullabies, tells her stories of her mother that she never had the pleasure of knowing. Talison braids her hair, pretty golden coils into tight braids that trail down her back, woven with wildflowers from the meadow near the church.

    Their aunt passes away, and with her the memory of Samara’s mother. Samara and Talison sleep next to each other that night, curled into one another as they cry for the loss of the only kindness they have ever received.

    At age sixteen, Samara falls in love with a girl. She is a painter, blue acrylic smeared across  pale freckled skin, the color of her eyes. Samara is smitten, invites her to dance, to sing, to be young and beautiful and full of life, of love together. They are only in the town for a year. Talison hones in his magic, goes to school and learns while their father makes a living at a local tavern, and Samara runs around like a youthful hoodlum, a definition rebellious teen.

    Her days are spent frequenting the upstairs apartment of the local baker's shop, his daughter fawning over Samara as she uses paints her father has spent days working to buy her. They met on a grocery run, notes bound to loaves of bread addressed to “the pretty girl with gold eyes,“ notes returned, slipped in with coin, to be given to “the baker's daughter with the rustic smile.“ Draped over chairs and lined with silk dresses, Samara poses and laughs and talks, kisses the girl in between brush strokes, two young girls with the world in the open palms of their joined hands.

    After Talison has all but finished school, they leave, swift as rain, forgettable as a shadow. Samara doesn't say goodbye, only casts a glance as they pass by the bakery, passed notes tucked under her cloak, bound together in twine.   

    She tells herself love is fleeting, that is not meant for a sixteen year old girl, not meant for her. She is a free spirit. As unconfined as the music notes that fall from her fingers when she plays.

    There are many more girls in her lives. A choir girl, a Tavern Owner’s daughter. An A class pianist. Each one she has fun with, each one she exchanges letters and tiny notes. Each one she leaves without saying goodbye, parcel of bundled papers ever-growing tucked under her cloak.