Tears of the Starmaiden

Music brought her down, death returned her home.

— From the tale of the Starmaiden

Many ages ago, before even the roots of the Celestial Tree pierced the world, there lived a harpist amongst the Silvareni. A clan of high elves whose voices could tame the wind, make angels weep and whose lifespans ran like rivers through centuries.

His name was Elion Mirthalen, called Talindorëa (ta-LEEN-dohr-ay-ah, from talinno (to drift or float) + dorane (tale, song)) by his people for it was said the chords he played could weave dreams. His harp he named Nimrael, and it was strung with threads of spider-silk with a frame carved from a white ash tree grown atop a fallen meteor. Elion played not for fame nor coin, but in search for something he could never truly articulate. An ache for a beauty he had yet to find. A yearning for a place he’d never been.

Halls were filled with elven kin who travelled from far and wide to hear him play, and he gave them what they wanted and rejoiced in their joy. But still, there was something within him that longed for something more. So each night, before he went to bed, he’d climb a small hill outside of town to face the stars as he played, letting his fingers find new notes and new expressions without his mind meddling too much in what was created.

And each night, unseen by him, one amongst those stars listened.

She was called Imra. Woven of light and given voice at the dawn of the firmament. Among her kind, it was forbidden to look too long at the world below. For mortality was a song too sorrowful, too raw to behold. For a star, a mortal life, even that of elven kind, is but a minute or an hour at most. Still, Imra looked. And listened.

Because Elion’s music was not full of sorrow, death or loss, but brimming with yearning wrapped in joy. And Imra who had known only perfection found herself weeping at imperfection’s beauty. Night after night she descended a little lower in the sky, her light dimming to mortal eyes though none appeared to take note. Finally, after many years, unable to bear the distance – she fell.

On the plain beneath the hill she struck the earth with such a force that a stone dislodged and struck Elion hard. Startled, his music stilled and his eyes found the cloud of dust billowing from below. Without fear he leaped down the path and found her laying there, broken and radiant, cradled in a bed of silver ivy and glass. And when she spoke, her voice sounded like a thousand winds.

For a year and a day, Imra lived beside Elion who was so besotted with her. She could not walk far from the hill for the gravity was too much for her frame to handle. So he built her a house to shield her from the rain. He brought her stories and fruits and every melody he had never dared to share with anyone. The other Silvareni missed him so, but could see that for the first time in his life, Elion was whole and Imra too. At their first touch, she sang to him, and from their harmonies the first twilight songs were born followed by those of dawn. Songs neither of this world nor beyond it.

But stars are not meant to stay on the ground below and the day came when the heavens called her home. The stars had waited patiently, but when the sky’s balance began to crack and constellations wandered a bit too far, they sent a silence to find her.

This silence fell without warning or hesitation upon their perfect home. The strings would not sing, nor their voices carry. Imra knew what it meant, and in her sadness her glow faded till it was nearly as dark as any mortal being’s. But still she stayed until the silence deepened and the darkness too. Snuffing breath from life, making bones brittle and fragile.

With Imra by his side, kissing him with love and tears, Elion died when the silence reached the beating of his heart.

Some versions of the myth says he chose it, laying down his harp and standing between her and the stars above. Imra, in grief and rebellion, poured her essence into a single vine in their garden by the hill. From it grew grapes of silver and blie, fed by moonlight and mourning. The wine it bore was her only offering to the world and the heavens that stole her voice and her beloved Elion.

In time she returned to the sky, but her light is dim and she has not sung a single note since.

The Ballad of Elion and Imra

Also called “The Harp and the Falling Star”

I.

In Silvareni, 'neath ash-tree pale,
Where whispered winds through starlight sail,
A harp whispered soft, no hall its home,
But far it sang where stars did roam.

Alone he played in twilight fair,
And silver chords did thread the air.
Many were those who came to hear,
The music that Talindorëa did endear.

II.

From heights where flame-born spirits stray,
Where Night’s own daughters weave the day,
She gazed upon the world below,
A child of light and deepest shadow.

Her name was Imra, still and bright,
A maiden clad in woven light.
Yet mortal song her heart did touch,
And made her in the sky dip too much.

III.

She fell too swift and burned the land,
And crashed into the moonkissed sand.
A flame in hush, a sigh, a gleam,
As though she woke from star-born dream.

He found her veiled in ivy’s fold,
With starlight caught in frost and gold.
She breathed no words, but he did see
A soul ensnared by destiny.

IV.

Oh wanderer, tread soft that place,
Where star once fell with mortal grace,
And should you taste her weeping vine,
Sing not her name, but drink her time.

Their days were brief, though fair and deep.
For stars do not in silence sleep.
Yet from their song the dusk was born,
Where night and music met the morn.

V.

But silence rides on shadow’s plume,
And songs must fade like rose in bloom.
The Choir roared in stillness crowned,
Sent forth the hush that seals all sound.

He bowed his head, his harp unstrung,
And stilled the fire from which he sung.
To keep her light, he gave his flame,
And passed away without a claim.

VI.

She wept no storm, nor rain, nor flame,
Nor called aloud her lover’s name,
But where she fell, in sorrow deep,
The vines of silver woke from sleep.

In moonlit grove the wine now grows,
Where grief in bloom eternal shows.
And hearts that drink, though lost and torn,
May dream of love once gently born.