Songs and Memories

Songs were words. Songs were more than words. Songs were substance, they were reality, they were tangible. In fact, the more he looked, the more he saw that the world was spun out of different songs, different melodies woven together until a new one soared out of the rest, the chorus being more than a sum of its parts. The twitter of a bird as it sought its lover's nest, the flutter of butterfly wings as it reached up to the blossoming flowers, the trembling of leaves as a caterpillar slowly crossed its breadth, they were all melodies. Life was a song in and of itself, with each new verse being formed in each new second that passed.

And as such things, a song could either break a heart or heal it.

Sitting under the night sky's faint blue glow, he listened to the wind. The sound used to be nothing to him before, the wind was the wind rustling the leaves. Now that he bothered to look, however, he heard new voices. Some in pain, some in grief, some in joy. Some cried for the help he couldn't give, and some prayed in hopes for the living or the dead, or for a dream unfulfilled. They were all part of a voice he couldn't hear, his own being only a member of the chorus, intent upon his own sheet music and instrument. He couldn't even begin to imagine the whole orchestra.

Would she? No, not even she. Even if she could hear threads of melodies he couldn't begin to dream off, she herself still wasn't able to listen to the true music of everything. It was just too vast an embrace for her little arms.

He gazed at the sky again. So vast. So many stars. And each of them had their own little melodies, their own symphonies sung of life and vigor. Even the dead side of those stars sung in their quiet little voices of rock and stone. He wondered if there was another song still, made of all those little voices that he couldn't even imagine, forming into one massive chorus. Was it existence? He didn't know, and he didn't plan on knowing. If she didn't, there was no way he could possible know.

The blue glow in the sky was soft, almost heart-rendingly so. He could almost hear its voice, calling to him in less than a whisper, but he couldn't. The boy knew there was a slight murmur, the way the light seemed to grow into outstretched arms welcoming him, but he heard nothing he could understand. Maybe his father would, but his father was dead. He himself was born here. He simply wouldn't be able to understand. He didn't even know where to look.

Reaching a hand into the pouch on his belt, the boy produced an old, worn out ocarina. It'd seen so much wear and tear and use, but its voice was still as sweet and clear as ever. Nobody would believe that it was this little instrument and a heartfelt belief that saved life as they knew it, but nobody would argue the value of it. The ocarina was enchanted by the mages of Vane itself for its eternal voice; as if they wanted remember its past by. It could be played normally, but if one knew how it worked, the ocarina was magic.

He touched it, thought, put it up to his lips and let go. The magic flew, and the music flowed from it like honey. He missed it. The blue night sky seemed quiet for a moment while it played, allowing him a little safe recluse in memory. He didn't want to hear the sky. Just the song, just the song and the images and voices it called up in his mind.

The boy touched the ocarina again, and the music died down. He put it back in the pouch and went silent for a while. The wind tousled his hair as if in comfort, and the sky began to sing again. He couldn't stand this much longer. It was reminding him of too many things, more memories than he'd care to remember.

And so the boy stood up, looked back at the lights behind him. They were grieving and he was too, but they didn't mean much to him anymore. They would always have a special place in his heart, this little village on Caldor Isle, but those little lights were no longer the beacon to lead him home. His father's cave was even less of a home to him.

And so it was. One minute he was himself as many of the younger people knew him, one minute he was his old self as his friends remember him by, and the next he was the beast of legends. There was nothing left to stay for. He flew.

For the next few decades, people would remember the day that the last of Dragonmaster Alex's kin died as the same one when the White Dragon's silhouette crossed the light of the Blue Star, never to return. Then, in a mere flip of a few centuries in its absence, the ice covering the crystal mountains that were the dragon's cave would devour the isle whole and leave it encased in memory, never to live again. Some would say it was because the Dragon was no longer there to keep the ice from flowing, and some would say it was because of the changing climate, an evil at work. And there were some who say that it was nothing at all, a mere change of tune in Althena's song, and who would dare to second-guess Althena in her decisions?


And as centuries passed the little isle by, it was forgotten, its song forever echoing in icy caves and caverns with no one to hear but rocks and snow.