Roan had been born knowing what he wanted to do with his life: sing. With choirs, community theatre, on a stage in front of a sold-out crowd--it didn't really matter, so long as he was basking in that spotlight and soaking up that applause.
In school, he'd easily secured solos at every recital. He had a gift, a voice from heaven. He knew this, without arrogance or conceit and it was confirmed by his classmates, his teachers, his friends, his caretaker. Why should he not use this gift and share his creations with the world?
He loved performing and singing so much, he took every club and opportunity he could to hone his skills. The natural talent was there, yes, but he also knew that there was plenty he could learn. With voice lessons, he learned to control his natural effervescence, learned to inject vibrato, breath control, played endlessly with scales and arias. He learned to sing in different styles: opera, pop, country, even the occasional rock and roll.
As puberty came creeping closer, he could sense that his voice was beginning to change. He was terrified, what if it meant he lost his glorious range? What if, like so many other boys his age, his voice dropped and his voice was truncated to a--heaven forbid--commonplace sound?
Nervously, he had sought out his vocal teacher to express his concerns. Signing was his life, his truest passion, his everything. What would become of him if he lost it?
But the teacher had prompted him to sing something, sot hey could assess the changes in his vocal chords. It still didn't take much to encourage him, and so Roan had sang his little heart out.
The teacher had listened thoughtfully, and at the end of his mini performance had smiled kindly.
"Roan," they murmured, "With your training and frequent practise, you have kept your throat limber. While some of the highest notes may not be as effortless as they once were, with continued training, you'll keep them. You are what we call a Countertenor. It's actually the lower ranges which are more likely to give you trouble."
Roan had teared up, the butterflies in his stomach unusual for him when it came to singing in front of anyone. But the relief would not be stemmed, and he flung himself at the kindly teacher, clinging tightly and nodded, weeping, glad that this shining gift he'd been given would be his to keep.
