Ildarg was in the village main square, surrounded by a large crowd which included two dragons: one of them, lying behind him, on the ground was Kirja. In front of the blacksmith was a bard with a ridiculous green costume, a comic handlebar mustache and a long, silver flute. His wife was among the crowd, holding their daughter on her hands and looking at him with a terrified look. Ildarg tried to shout at them some reassurance, but as his mouth opened up, a man in the middle, waving a giant flag with a ramping yellow dragon, shouted up.

“May the bard battle begin!”

Ildarg looked at his hands: he had a flute too. However, it wasn’t made of silver like his rival’s, but roughly made from a tree branch. Kirja’s head stared just above him, and his eyes promised a harsh punishment in case his bard didn’t satisfy him.

The blacksmith put the flute on his lips and blew. From the instrument came up a screeching, acute noise, like ten thousands handsaws working in unison. The people surrounding him booed like one man, putting their fingers on their ears. Silvane burst into tears, crying “Our daughter is going to die!” while Elise accompanied her lament. The dragon above him roared loudly, opening up his mouth and descending onto him…

“NO PLEASE, HAVE MERCY!”

Ildarg got up from his bed. His skin was all covered in sweat, and he was shaking uncontrollably. His breath was very short. From the other side of their house, Elise began crying out loud.

“Honey, what happened?”

Silvane had just stopped sleeping too.

“Nothing, nothing...just a nightmare.”

Ildarg almost felt like vomiting: he made his way outside the bed crawling on the mattress, too weak to get up fully…

“OUCH!”

He had just hit someone else in the dark. In his rude awakening, it had completely gotten out of his head: the bard was sleeping next to him, on his same bed.

“S...sorry…” he barely managed to say. “Could you...please...turn up the candle?”

“Yes, sir,” answered Rikastil.

When the light filled the room up, the bard got up to let him fall down and lie supine on the floor, waiting for the stomach ache to calm down.

“I’m sorry, I woke you all up,” Ildarg whispered.

“Honey, you don’t need to excuse yourself,” Silvane answered while caressing Elise. “Besides,” she opened the door and a ray of light hit Ildarg’s eyes, “it’s early morning. We were about to wake up soon in any case.”

* * *

Ildarg’s discomfort passed quicker than he feared. Once the sun outside fully rose above the village, he was standing up, ready to learn how to make music. Rikastil was playing his flute for Elise’s amusement; Ildarg felt a strange wave of jealousy looking at that scene. “Sir, I’m ready to begin when you want,” he announced.

“I just need to finish this melody and I’ll be there.” He continued playing his flute until the music concluded with a very long and acute note. Ildarg scratched his right thigh out of a light impatience.

Finally, the bard approached him.

“So,” Rikastil began, “what do you need to learn?”

“I need to learn how to perform one song good enough to win a bard contest and get access to a book hoarded by a dragon to cure my daughter from her mortal disease.”

“Wait, what?”

Ildarg sighed. It was quite the tale, he had to admit it. Taking a deep breath, he narrated his journey from the very beginning. When he was done, the bard’s face was between admiration and disbelief.

“You know, this is one of the most interesting stories I’ve ever heard,” Rikastil proclaimed, “should make a song out of it before or after. But seven days, including today? You’re going to face some bard that has done this job since their childhood. You have no chance.”

“Please,” Ildarg implored him, “it’s my only hope.”

Just behind them, Elise coughed strong and clear.

“Besides, I paid you,” the blacksmith added.

“Fair enough,” Rikastil commented, shrugging his shoulders. “So, do you know any song you can sing to me? Just to see your level.”

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“Ergh…” He knew what was about to come, and didn’t want to scare his baby another time. “Can we do it outside our home?”

“Why?”

“Well, it’s just that, you know, I did it once and...well…”

“If we’re in a hurry, we can’t spend the morning looking for a place where to practice. Just sing something.”

“Fine then…” Here it came. Ildarg sang one of the lullabies Silvane often hummed to Elise. At least, singing was what he meant to do, because the sound that came out of his mouth was more similar to anything else. Readily, Elise cried her lungs loud and clear: Silvane took her on her arms. “I think we’ll stay outside while you two do your stuff,” she announced, and exited the house.

Ildarg tried to smile, but his muscles didn’t answer his commands.

“Well…” Rikastil commented “it’s going to be an interesting task.”

“You were right,” Ildarg said depressed. “I have no chance.”

“You paid me, so I have to do something. We’ll begin with the most basic singing exercise. Then I’ll teach you how to play a flute. I suppose you’ve never played one, right?”

“No.”

“I imagined it. Anyway, singing. The most important part is how to breathe. You’ll need to make a long breath, and when you do it, imagine you breathe with your stomach. Like this.”

That breathing exercise continued for half of the morning. Next came some actual singing. Ildarg, paradoxically, felt like lacking air despite breathing so intensely.

“Good, you’re starting to figure out the correct breathing technique,” Rikastil commented, “now let’s warm up our voice. Sing what I sing.”

He made a sequence of Mi, Mi, Mi, Mi, Mi with his mouth, which Ildarg imitated. Somehow, he felt like those notes were possible to be sung even within his capacities. But as the bard continued, the notes increased in their pitch, and Ildarg’s throat began to hurt. In the end, he almost felt like he could spit out his uvula.

“I need water…”

“Sure. Anyway, your voice is now warmed up. Next, I’ll teach you your first song, to make practice.”

“What?”

“If we take a breath now, we’ll have to repeat the exercises.”

“I...I see.”

His stomach was growling. He hoped he wouldn’t be too distracted by the call of his stomach, already unwell from that strange breathing technique.

“So, I’ll make you sing a bard classic. One of the first songs we learn when we attend academies: I Am Never Going To Abandon Thee. You know it, I presume?”

“I’m not sure…”

“Just follow me.”

And he began singing.

To ye blessing of love strangers we’re not

Of this feeling both of us the rules know

Verily, a full commitment’s my sole thought

From none of other lads thou’ll get this love.

My sole desire is to sing thee my feels

Until one day understand I make thee.

Ildarg’s singing performance was not much better than before, but if anything, this time Elise was outside with Silvane, so he could be out of tune as much as he wanted.

“I don’t know why, but I feel like I’m being made fun of.”

“Hm, how?”

“I don’t know. It must be the song.”

“It’s just a classic. I’m sure you listened to it a lot of times, even accidentally.” Rikastil paused. “Anyway, this time you managed to catch a pair of notes correctly.”

“Really?”

“Yes! We’ll have to continue exercising. Then we can move on to the flute.”

The bard made him repeat the song an uncountable amount of times, until he proclaimed he had caught the majority of notes. In the end, Ildarg abandoned himself to his bed, exhausted.

“Can we take a break now?”

“Now we can.”

The blacksmith let his eyes close, letting himself not think of anything for a while. He really needed it; in fact, he had needed it quite often in recent times. Those few moments he managed to it, it felt so wonderful. It would be a blessing, to be permanently in that state of indefinite nothingness, alive yet unaware…

“Here is the flute you’ll be using.”

Ildarg re-opened his eyes. In front of him, Rikastil was holding two flutes; one was made of silver, the other was made of rosewood. However, it wasn’t roughly made like the one in his nightmare: in fact, it was an exquisite craftsmanship.

He got up, and grabbed the wooden instrument.

“First, the notes,” Rikastil began, “there are seven main notes in total: Ut, Re, Mi, Fa, Sol, La and Sa. There are also some extra notes that stand in the beginning, but I’ll keep things simple. Here is the Ut,” and he pressed one finger over the farthest hole of his flute, “then the Re,” and he put one more finger over the hole immediately above, “and so on. Now try with your flute. Put your fingers as I did, then blow on the tip.”

Ildarg put the tip of the flute on his lips. For a short moment, as he put his finger above the first hole, he feared it would make a noise as horrible as the one made by the flute in his nightmare. To his astonishment, instead, it produced a single, clean note.

“W...wow…”

“Well done! Now do the others.”

With a bit of uncertainty, he pressed more and more fingers, and the sound coming out of the flute increased its pitch, but was always the same perfect sound. For someone like him, who had no artistic talent whatsoever, it was already a great achievement.

“Now that you’ve grabbed the basic notes,” Rikastil announced, “let’s try some very basic tunes. Remember the song you sang?”

“How could I? We sang it so many times it’s all in my head already.”

“Then look at how my fingers move while I play it. It’s going to be a simplified version, but the important thing is you practice.”

Ildarg suspected he would end up hating that song. Hearing the same melody over and over was not pleasant, even if it was the best melody in the world. “It’s a common feeling among freshmen in bard academies,” Rikastil informed him. “A lot of my classmates used to complain because they wanted to play cooler, harder songs.”

At that moment, the door opened. It was Silvane, with Elise on her arms. The sky outside was turning red. They had spent the whole day practicing!

“How is it going?” She asked.

“I…” He had just blown into the flute so long he didn’t have any air left. His head was aching badly. His stomach was protesting loudly, adding itself to the song’s arrangement.

“Not bad, ma’am!” Rikastil announced proudly. “Your husband learns quicker than I thought.” While he said that, Ildarg’s face was rapidly becoming yellow.

“You think...you think he can do it in seven days?”

“Hard to say,” the bard admitted, “but we could find some simple melody he could play. I’ll try to write something tonight.” Ildarg was staggering. “Good job, sir! Tomorrow we’ll continue the same exercises, and hopefully I’ll have a song you can play for that dragon of yours.”

“Thank you…” Ildarg managed to say before fainting on the bad. His stomach exploded in a triumph of roars as his back touched the mattress.