The Dragon Who Forgot Every Word

Princess Sura had announced the terms herself. No jousting. No fire-breathing contests. No who-can-roar-loudest which frankly everyone was tired of. One poem each. Performed in the Great Hall. In front of the entire court. Whoever moved her heart could have her hand.

The four suitors arrived on a Tuesday.

Suitor One was Lord Brax. Lord Brax was enormous. Lord Brax had scales the colour of midnight and a voice like a thunderstorm that had been to finishing school. He had been practising his poem since approximately birth.

Suitor Two was Lady Venn. Lady Venn wore seventeen rings and had written her poem in three languages including one she had invented herself specifically for this occasion.

Suitor Three was Duke Cinder. Duke Cinder arrived with a small orchestra. Nobody had said anything about orchestras. Duke Cinder had not asked.

Suitor Four was Finn. Finn was: Medium sized. Slightly rumpled. Holding a piece of paper that he had folded and unfolded so many times it had gone soft like cloth.

Finn was also completely absolutely catastrophically terrified.

His poem was good. He knew it was good. He had written it at his kitchen table at two in the morning when the words had simply arrived like they sometimes do when nobody is watching.

The problem was the people. All those people. All those eyes. All that quiet waiting to hear what he did with the quiet.

Lord Brax went first. His poem was thunderous and magnificent and rhymed perfectly and the chandeliers shook and three smaller dragons in the audience wept openly. Princess Sura nodded.

Lady Venn went second. Her poem was in three languages and the invented one turned out to sound like wind through very expensive trees. Princess Sura raised one eyebrow. This was considered a very good sign.

Duke Cinder went third. The orchestra played. Duke Cinder performed. At one point there were fireworks. Inside. The ceiling would need work. Princess Sura looked at the ceiling. Then at Duke Cinder. Then at the ceiling again.

Then it was Finn's turn.

Finn walked to the front of the Great Hall. The Great Hall was: Very great. Very hall. Very full of eyes.

Finn looked at his poem. His poem looked back.

He opened his mouth.

Nothing came out.

He tried again.

Nothing.

Not a word. Not a sound. Not even the beginning of a sound. Just Finn standing in the enormous quiet of the Great Hall holding his soft folded paper going absolutely nowhere.

Lord Brax coughed. Lady Venn looked at her seventeen rings. Duke Cinder's orchestra shifted uncomfortably in their seats.

Ten seconds. Twenty seconds. Thirty.

And then — Princess Sura stood up.

She walked across the Great Hall. All the way to the front. She stood next to Finn. She looked at the soft folded paper in his hands. "May I?" she said.

Finn looked at her. He nodded.

She took the paper. She unfolded it carefully all the careful folds he had folded and unfolded since Tuesday. She read it.

The Great Hall waited.

Princess Sura read it once. Then again. Then she looked up at the court at the chandeliers at Lord Brax and Lady Venn and Duke Cinder's uncomfortable orchestra — and she read it out loud.

Finn's poem. In Finn's words. In her voice.

It was about a dragon who had things to say that mattered enormously and a world that was very loud and very large and very full of eyes. It was about the kitchen table at two in the morning. It was about the words that come when nobody is watching. It was the truest thing anyone had read aloud in the Great Hall in living memory.

When she finished the court was silent. Then Lord Brax started clapping. Then everyone.

Princess Sura folded the poem back up. All the careful folds. She held it out to Finn.

"I already know what moves my heart," she said.

Finn took the paper. He didn't say anything. Some things don't need to be said out loud.

The orchestra played anyway. Nobody had told them to stop.