Fulfillment

By Rachel Dib

I lifted the sword—and set it back down. Pursing my lips, I glared at the weapon, then picked it up again.

The clanking of blades drifting in from the courtyard beckoned to me. Taunted me. I clutched the hilt between my palms.

Squeezing my eyes shut, I visualized the exercises my father had drilled into me. They’d become so routine I could perform them in my sleep. All I had to do was join the others training in the August heat—make my father proud.

Exhaling slowly, I lifted the sword higher, turned toward the door, and halted mid-step. Shoulders slumped, I slipped the sword into its sheath and leaned it against the wall.

Despite knowing my father would be disappointed, I couldn’t gather the will to embrace the sword and train with the other Fae my age. I just didn’t have a warrior’s spirit.

My gaze drifted to the lute gathering dust in the corner. The instrument had once belonged to my grandfather, and it showed its age. Small cracks perforated the otherwise smooth surface. A dark teardrop stain marred the light wood just below the lute’s neck. Still, I considered the object the most beautiful thing in the world.

My grandfather had started teaching me to play at the age of four. I could still remember how it felt to sit in his lap, the instrument pressed against my chest as my grandfather helped me position my hands over the strings.

My father hadn’t been thrilled about the lessons. “You’ll turn him soft, you will,” he’d often growled. “Fyn should be out wrestling with the other boys. Build some character.”

To which Grandfather replied, “And music doesn’t build character?” And as King Mosilum’s personal bard, Father dared not challenge him. What Grandfather said was law—even when that meant teaching the son of a Fae lord to strum a lute rather than properly swing a sword.

I bit my lip, daring myself to retrieve the instrument. My heart desired it. My brain demanded it.

My gut twisted at the temptation.

What if Father walks in? Or Mother?

Unlike my father, Mother wouldn’t admonish me outright. Instead, she’d stare, brow furrowed and lips pressed in a thin line before she wandered away to perform some mundane chore. She’d let me feel her distaste through subtle glances. Her quiet disapproval was always far worse than my father’s rants.

I flicked my gaze back to the sword. It’s silver wolf-shaped pommel glimmered with malice. The wolf’s gaze mocked me. I wrapped my arms around myself, flinching under the weight of my family’s expectations.

What’s wrong with me? I dropped my head, overwhelmed by shame and doubt. Everything would be so much simpler if I could just pick up that sword and be who I’m supposed to be.

My grandfather’s voice flitted across my mind: But who do you want to be, Fyn? What path do you choose? That is something only you can decide.

“Easier said than done,” I whispered back. Even as I spoke, my gaze traveled back to the lute.

I could almost feel the instrument’s smooth body under my palms and the bite of the strings beneath my fingertips. It had been so long since I’d played, the calluses I’d once formed from constant practice had vanished. They’d be easy enough to regain, though. I just needed the opportunity to play.

I took a step toward the lute. Then another. Before I knew it, I cradled the instrument against my chest and tucked it under my right arm. I brushed my fingers over the strings. Closing my eyes, I reveled in the discordant hum. Even out of tune, the sound lifted my spirits.

With a contented sigh, I adjusted the tuning pegs. Some I tightened, others I loosened until each string vibrated at its proper pitch. When I next strummed the instrument, I couldn’t help but grin.

After running a few scales to loosen my fingers, I plucked out an old folk song my grandfather used to love. As the notes filled the room, I imagined the many times I’d sat by the hearth listening to that tune and others like it. My grandfather’s baritone voice had melded so well with the lute, it had been difficult to distinguish man from instrument.

Just as the last notes of the song faded, the front door flew open. Jolted from my daze, I could only blink up at my father. I registered staunch disapproval written in his dark gaze, but I had difficulty distancing myself from the bliss of a few moments before.

Then I knew. I’d found my calling—the one thing in life that made me feel alive. I was never going to be a warrior. But a musician… that was something I could aspire to.

And nothing Father says will change that. Smiling, I rose to my feet, lute in hand. Grandfather was right. Only I can choose what path I take.

My father’s eyes narrowed. “Why aren’t you outside training? You’ll never be chosen for the king’s guard at the end of summer unless you present yourself during drills. Prove your worth.”

Lifting my chin, I hugged the lute. “I’ve decided not to join the guard. I’ll prove my worth another way.”

“By playing that?” He motioned to the instrument with a snort. “You want to waste your life nursing a talent that’ll mean nothing in the end? You’ll end up a pauper.”

I tilted my head. “Grandfather didn’t.”

“Your grandfather was a special case.” My father lifted a brow. “Do you know the likelihood of you achieving the same? Practically nil. If you hadn’t noticed, the king hasn’t chosen another bard since your grandfather’s death.”

“No one has been good enough.”

“And you think you will be?” He scoffed.

I shrugged. “Maybe, maybe not. But whether my music touches one person or none, whether I rise to the level of king’s bard or not, I’ll have found self-worth. And that’s all that matters.”

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Rachel Dib is a stay-at-home mom of three small children. After marrying a soldier, she left her home state of South Carolina to live in random places across the United States. Her short fiction appears in anthologies published by Havok Publishing, Ye Olde Dragon Books, Iron Faerie Publishing, Brigids Gate Press, and The Last Line literary journal. She also was awarded Havok’s “Most Prolific Author” for 2022 and 2023.

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