Edan

One by one, the dragons open their mouths to join the choir’s unison.

Some hum the notes low, deep in their throats, like a rumble; some’s voices thrill high, resonant and bright; most stay somewhere in the middle, adding their parts to the overall harmony. They join, dragon by dragon, until the piece is so rich with voices and ranges that the listener’s heart gets caught up in it, too – and then they fall quiet, dragon by dragon, leaving only the hatchlings’ bell-clear trebles. It’s Edan’s first performance of such magnitude – his first festival out of the nest – and though he is between his siblings, his friends and his teachers, his voice cannot quite reach its usual volume. An uncharacteristic fear has hidden in his chest, right where his heart is, and it feels like it is pulling his voice back in his throat, down towards itself, every time his parts come up.

In the break between songs, his mentor turns to him. “I barely heard you there”, they say, and Edan’s pride swells up in his chest before they can even finish – “Is everything alright, lil sprout?”

“They’re all too loud”, Edan grumbles, scowling at the crowd. The unreasonably big, unreasonably deafening, unreasonably staring at him crowd of complete strangers. It’s one thing to sing at home.

“They’re loud because they’re exited, lil sprout! I’d be able to tell if they weren’t, yes?”

His teacher looks around, then crouches to whisper to the boy with the edge of a muzzle:

“I think you’re doing pretty great.”

“…Is this a secret”, Edan whispers back after a small pause.

“Only because we can barely hear you”, his teacher winks at him, straightening up. Edan thinks about those words as the rest of the singers gather, readying up for the performance.

There are no doubts of his existence by the song's end.