Messages from the Past

1996 CE Laniakea.

A young boy ran across the beach, laughing as his feet splashed the waves. The beach was long, and the sands were white, and he was alone. At least, he was alone, until upon the gentle breeze came a haunting tune, a tune of the ancient north, of his home country. He had always loved the history of the dominion he lived in, and this haunting tune brought back the images his mind had conjured of the stories of old, of great lords, of a devastating war, but it also carried within the melody the story of loss: once, the Dominion of the North was split into two great powers, the icy lords of the north, and the dragonriders of the south, how, in one, devastating conflict, all that was buried in ashes.

He continued running, towards the source of the melody, and soon saw a figure in the distance. A tall, shadowy figure, with his hair drawn into a bun, looking out to sea. The violin he was playing looked normal enough, but the melody carried, in almost unearthly fashion. The dark figure did not stop playing as he drew near, and soon came into being as a man of the far south, dressed in robes of all black. He had the look of a greying, seasoned fighter, from eras ago, with stark lines on his face, and an alert, ready posture. His eyes were closed, and he did not open them, not until the boy approached within only a couple feet of him, curious. Then, he stopped playing, and opened his eyes to behold the curious young boy, with wind-tousled blonde hair, staring up at him. He smiled.

“What’s your name, young lad?”

He spoke the language from the north perfectly, without hesitation. His voice was soft, but carried within it hints of memories decades old, and an almost world-weariness.

“I- Jon Carren, sir!”

“Carren, hm. Your mother ever told you not to talk to strangers?”

Jon was caught off guard by the question, and could only stammer out the beginnings of a reply. The old man laughed, and began playing again, another tune, also full of sorrow and bygone eras.

“It’s all right. I’m just an old man, who likes to wander these beaches. The North always had better beaches, in my opinion.”

“You play very well.”

“Oh, I’m not that good. I just like to reminisce about the past, and forget about the future, but thanks, Jon.”

They fell into silence, as the old man continued to play his mournful tune.

“You know,” he began, “seeing such a young lad like you, so full of potential, it reminds me of my own childhood, how I threw away my own, and by some divine will of God, got it back again.”

He sighed, heavily, “Adrakarisn rodan nwaretán árasa.”

Jon was at a loss for words; he could not reply to the man’s previous sentiment, nor understand what he said after.

“Don’t make rash decisions, kid; who knows what consequences lie in wait if you do. Who knows how many lives could be affected by your actions. I know that mine have touched the lives of countless millions…”

Regretfully, he looked into the waves, lost, and Jon began to feel sorry for him. Whatever he did, he felt sorry for what it caused, and he looked vulnerable. The song stopped, but Jon thought he could still hear it on the wind. The old man lowered his violin, and seemingly, without it being there in the first place, he was empty-handed. He turned to look at the boy, and ruffled his hair.

“Run along, now. I’d best be going.”

Reaching to the top of his head, he untied his hair, and let it flow free. With that small gesture, the face seemed to transform, and Jon felt a sort of familiarity, as if he had seen this man somewhere before. Wordlessly, the former turned, and walked away, slowly, along the beach. As Jon watched the figure shrink, he could swear he saw the faint shadow of a white dragon following him, but as he blinked, they both were gone.

Jon was alone on the beach again, with the summer sun, and the white sands.

Author's Note

If you don't get the context, that's fine.