The Dragon Who Was Afraid of the Dark

The Mountain of Embers was home to forty-seven dragons, and every single one of them could breathe fire.

Every single one, that is, except Pip.

Pip was small and green with ears like little triangles and scales that shimmered when the sun hit them. During the day, he was wonderful. He chased butterflies through the meadows below the mountain, collected interesting stones and talked to the sparrows who nested near the summit.

But when night came, the other young dragons breathed out their little flames and their caves glowed warm and gold and safe.

Pip breathed out.

Nothing.

Not even a spark.

“Maybe tomorrow,” his mother said, smoothing down his scales with her big, warm paw.

But tomorrow came and went. And the night came back.

The other young dragons didn’t mean to be unkind. But sometimes they said things without thinking.

“Pip can’t make fire,” said Grumble, the biggest young dragon, as they gathered for their evening lesson with Old Ember.

“Can’t even light a candle,” added Smudge.

Pip looked at his feet. He had very nice feet, he thought. Green and shiny. But it was hard to feel good about your feet when the rest of you felt so small.

Old Ember was the oldest dragon on the mountain. She was enormous and dark red, and her scales were like ancient armour. She had seen everything, forgotten nothing, and slept through approximately three civilisations.

She heard what Grumble and Smudge said.

“Come here, Pip,” she said.

Pip came. He had to climb onto a rock to be at eye level with her, which was embarrassing, but he did it anyway.

Old Ember looked at him for a long time. Her eyes were the colour of deep amber, full of something ancient and serious.

“Do you know,” she said, “why young dragons breathe fire?”

“To stay warm,” said Pip. “To be safe. To see in the dark.”

“Those are the reasons others think,” said Old Ember. “But the real reason is simpler.” She paused. “A dragon breathes fire when they are ready. And a dragon is only ready after they have felt the dark and stayed anyway.”

Pip frowned. “What do you mean?”

“Every dragon who breathes fire,” said Old Ember, “spent at least one night alone in a dark cave. Frightened. Cold. And chose not to run.”

Pip looked at the other young dragons. They were flame-bright and confident. He had never imagined they had been afraid of anything.

“I’m afraid of the dark,” Pip admitted.

“I know,” said Old Ember. “That is exactly why you haven’t breathed fire yet.” She did not say it unkindly. She said it the way you might tell someone that the key to a locked door is already in their pocket.

That night, Pip went to his cave.

He did not call for his mother. He did not bring extra stones or pretend he wasn’t scared. He stood in the doorway as the mountain went dark around him, and he breathed in — and breathed out — and looked into the blackness of his cave.

It was very dark.

It was very quiet.

Something rustled in the shadows.

Pip’s heart hammered. He took one step back.

Then he stopped.

*Bravery*, he thought, *is not the absence of being scared. It’s what you do when you are.*

He didn’t know where he’d heard that. Maybe Old Ember. Maybe his mother. Maybe he’d always known it and just needed tonight to remember.

He stepped forward.

Into the dark.

He curled up on his sleeping stone, wrapped his tail around himself, and listened to the mountain breathe around him — the deep, slow breath of forty-seven sleeping dragons, warm in their firelit caves.

He was cold.

He was scared.

He stayed anyway.

At some point, without noticing exactly when, he fell asleep.

And in his sleep, he dreamed of the sun.

He dreamed of how it felt on his scales during those long meadow afternoons — warm, and gold, and *alive*.

When he woke, it was morning.

He opened his eyes.

He took a deep breath.

And he breathed out.

A flame. Small. Wobbly. No bigger than a birthday candle.

But real.

Warm.

His.

Pip stared at it. His little flame flickered in the cool morning air.

Then he laughed. Loud and long and pure, the way only someone who has just done something very hard can laugh.

Old Ember appeared in the cave doorway. She looked at the tiny flame and nodded slowly.

“There it is,” she said.

“There it is,” said Pip.

*The End.*