Thirty-years-ago, Pollyanna had entered a fortune-teller’s tent in a backwater town located in Maribel. She had been sent there upon request of the former king--Herin--to settle a dispute, but while she was there, she had a bizarre need to see the fortune teller. She kept passing by the woman’s tent on her way to and from the farmers who were arguing, and she became possessed with the idea that the fortune-teller held the secret to curing the malaise she had been feeling of late.
Eventually, she couldn’t help herself. She entered the tent—nearly having to crawl in due to her height—and sat down on the pillow across from the fortune-teller’s.
“Pollyanna, I presume?” The fortune-teller—a fairy—asked.
Pollyanna nodded. “Yes, that’s me.”
“I saw your arrival written in the stars the previous night. I know what you will ask.” The fortune-teller said.
Pollyanna snorted. “Please. You only knew who I was because I’m the only woman who is seven-feet-tall in this town, and I am famous for being the Arrozan Sword.”
The fortune-teller pursed her lips. “Fair enough. Tell me, then, how I know what you wish to ask me?”
Pollyanna scratched her cheek. “I doubt you know what I want to ask.”
“Oh, but I do. Yesterday, I saw shredded, wispy clouds in the sky—cloud that looked like your long, gray hair, and I knew you were coming. I also saw the leaves on the nearby lake form into a heart, and I saw an old mother hen, wandering aimlessly. You want to ask me why you feel such a lack of purpose of late, don’t you?” The fortune-teller smirked.
Pollyanna wished to protest, but found that she couldn’t. The woman was dead-on. Pollyanna couldn’t put her finger on it; she had everything she wanted; security, fame and power, but she had been feeling run-down—like she wanted to do something, something that would make her feel complete, but didn’t know what that something was. Pollyanna crossed her arms. “Very well. Tell me what it is that will give me purpose.”
The fortune-teller tsked. “I can do no such thing. Only you can. Would you like to know how?”
Pollyanna leaned forward, unable to help her curiosity, despite the fact that her eyebrows were still knitted in abject disbelief. “Alright. How?”
The fortune-teller wore a smug face; her nose turned up and her grin condescending. “First, I need two gold pieces.”
Pollyanna gasped, “Two gold pieces? For a charlatan like you to—”
The fortune-teller held her hand out, her eyes closed. “Two pieces. That’s the price, if you wish to know what’s missing.”
Pollyanna began climbing to her feet, intending to leave—her head hitting the soft ceiling of the tent as she did so. However, when she turned to the opening of the tent…
The thought of returning to her life terrified her.
The grind. The routine. The soul crushing monotony of knowing that nothing exciting would ever happen. The thought made no sense to her. What am I thinking? I’ve killed dragons and griffins, put down revolt-after-revolt… how could I be bored?
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