Under the Stars
A story in Elvish-inspired
Lost in the old forest after dark, you are found by someone who has clearly been following you for hours.
You have been walking in circles for three hours — you know this because you keep passing the same lightning-split oak, and it keeps looking more amused. The old forest was a shortcut on the map. The map is now damp, the light is gone, and the stars overhead are the wrong stars, or at least arranged in ways you don't remember stars being arranged. Then, between one tree and the next, someone is standing on the path who was not there a heartbeat ago.
the elf
Mae govannen, mellon.
Hello.
The greeting is soft, in a language like water over stones — and, impossibly, you understand it. The old compass your grandmother left you is warm in your pocket. 'It translates,' she used to say, and you used to laugh at her. You are not laughing now.
You
I'm— sorry. I'm lost. There was supposed to be a shortcut.
The look you receive suggests both the shortcut and the map have been observed, at length, with great entertainment.
the elf
Amin cen ile, mellon. Taure aminsesion ile. Sírë aminsesion ile. Elenion cen ile.
I see you, friend. The forest sees you. The river sees you. The stars see you.
You
‘Friend’ is promising. Is the east road far?
The elf tilts their head, the way you might at a child asking whether the moon is far, and does not answer the question you asked. They answer a different one.
the elf
Amin ista ile-en tië. Ile-en tië elisë yára. Calëmorearë yára aminthanion taure, elmoreë yára aminthanion elenion.
I know your path. Your path is ancient. More ancient than the forest, more ancient than the stars.
You
That's not the east road you're talking about, is it?
They step closer, and by starlight you realize they've been studying your face this whole time, comparing it against something — a memory, a portrait, a story. Overhead, the wrong stars seem suddenly very interested.
the elf
Elenion meleth ile. Elenion ista ile-en essë. Heru calësingarë ile-en essë elinë lómë.
The stars love you. The stars know your name. They sing your name in the night.
You laugh. They don't. And in the silence after, standing in a forest that has stopped making noise entirely, the elf reaches out — not quite touching your chest, just above your heart — and tells you the thing they followed you three hours to say.
They step back into the trees, pausing just long enough to say it once more — the sentence you will hear in your sleep for the rest of your life:
🔒 Untranslated
Ile-en hón harya yára essë.