In the days of old, when the earth was young and not yet full of growth nor singing seasons, the fair folk had begun to walk upon that land from distant shores yet to be seen by any mortal. For in the great dark fells and moorlands are shores edged by a vast sea, where none can sunder the horizon from thrashing ebony and fir-green waters. And from this sea came both the stars and their people, for in the midst of their sailing, lanterns of gold had been strung about to divert the enduring lamentation of the darkness itself; for the Sky would mourn in lonely yearning for a greater tale than that of an abyss, and so the people sang in turn their souls in sweet accordance with the Sky like honey, or a sort of ambrosia, which the Sky seemed to absorb into his tears and lift to himself in array of scintillate stars that hummed forevermore in this glory. But these stars, who bathed and feasted in the vast and revered Kingdom that was their lord, seldom judged it their time to grant the light that ensued their giving, for as they shone with vigor like glass in the whisperings of a fire, they willed not to be seen by any man, lest he bow in the presence of the light of some nameless majesty. For the folk would never die, but rather land upon the shores and forsake the seas, giving the light of their souls not to the Sky, but to the fire of earth.
And so dim these stars soon became in the wake of their labors; so slowly did they cease to shine, until the last glimmer faded into shadow, and the world was once more cast into the night, when the great waters and sullen lands none could manifest from the horizon.
Thus became the despair of the earth, when the Great Shadow covered the land, and was called Varnissë, the Eternal Night; and so, lest the great beacons were awoken, the crest of the mightiest mountain of Doth Amaren saw the same as the deepest crevasse carved under stone in deep places of the world.
And so it was, for ages waiting for light to come once more upon the world, that the first children of darkness waited for light to make new what once was, and to keep it forevermore. And those who lived upon that land cried to the stars, though dim had been their light, for as long as the Sea was not sundered from the sky, no dream of light dared show its face upon the early children.
Their eyes turned dark and deep as they fled into themselves, a loneliness burned from within, and the world slowly faded into the promise of eternal slumber and twilight. All that was fair turned foul, and what once was slipped slowly until it was altogether forgotten. They sank into holes of the land, bitter at the sky and the traitors of that domain, and through tunnels did they build great halls lit by firelight, and painted their grievances and remembrances for the generations to come; for they could not bear to have them forget that their ancestors had once seen light in the heavens, ere the coming of the unforeseen night. But some, delving further, had become void of any hope, and claimed the mastery of despair. They chose to become one with the stone of earth, and dwelt forever therein.
Still, some remained upon the great shores of the sea, though their eyes could see not; but they watched ever for light to appear and bring once more into being a horizon. They watched for hundreds of years, until history was no more than legend, and hope turned to myth.
These, who remained loyal to the stars, and who loved them, were the Children of the Sea. And they were called the Shenoí, holding forevermore the remembrance of the light that was once given. And the flame of their eyes dwindled not; rather, they sought a revived time to come, ever heartened that it would return, and that one in the sky would pity their doom. The Sea became salted with the shedding of the tears of the forsaken, whose hope had began to fade as once had the Stars: dim and now hidden. Music they sang into the dark, and as the cave dwellers had wrought carven statues and stone canvases, so too did they breathe forth the faint memories of the light that had once shone brightly upon its people. Comfort they sought in their lament as melancholy chords made their way into the firmament.
But Varnissë would not grow tired of hearing their songs, and no comfort came, save in the light of fire; and some of the Children of the Sea began to disband from that place, wandering into blackness, searching for composure of grief-driven minds; they died then, in the dark.
But there was one, a single soul that would not hear of such anguish, and none could turn her from her purpose. She was called Tírien, and was revered not among her people, for she had never been known in songs or tales. But within her persisted the love of the Stars, and the realm of the welkin she never forgot. Thus, she refused to stray from the shore, for surely, she thought, the Stars would not remain adamant without just cause, for as long as even only one soul endured in the love of Light, the earth would not lose its purpose.
And she sang in solitary harmony with silence, until at last Varnissë waned from her; a Star saw her mourning, and drew nigh from the heavens to the earth.
And so the last of the Shenoí saw a horizon come to be once more, for, beginning from a throbbing dull flash of violet in the firmament came an array of white and silver, and the Shenoí hid their eyes, as they had forgotten such a radiance, and the effulgence harkened upon them greater than any fire could ever tell. They rejoiced and sang in the coming of the light as it shone forth, penetrating woeful slumber; and the sea gleamed as scintillate silver in stone. Thus did the Children find reward in their faith, but the ones who had likened themselves with stone wept in despair, and their caverns have been dampened with tears all the days since.
The Children of the Sea held feasts and songs to honor this new star that had risen from the depths out of pity and sympathy for the abandoned. This light in the heavens they called Autilne, the Sun, and he danced with them in their rejoicing. But as evening came, Sun grew weary, and rested from their merry-making.
Thus once more came the night, and the joy of the people was dwindled, for they knew not of the rebirth of the Sun ere the coming of dawn. And so the land lay once more in darkness, for no lamp had yet been wrought to heed to the people during the hours that the Great Star slept.
But still Tírien waited, and sought the rebirth of day in the coming of the first light beyond the wall of night behind which Autilne had retired. For within her, his fire remained kindled, and lingered within her eyes and soul. This light she desired, for it granted an end to her enduring lamentation, and she knew that she loved Autilne.
When the dawn emerged and Sun stretched his rays, bathing the people in warmth and serenity, many things began to grow upon that which had been barren and black, and what was forgotten sprang into being. Bright flowers grew, holding within them colors that had been before unknown to them. In the veil of shrouding darkness they held beams in their blossoms, and in blooming, released beloved rays. Trees bore much fruit under the warmth, and sprouts rose high to praise and welcome the King of the Sky.
Thus did wandering eyes behold the awakening of the earth.
Then Tírien ran earnestly to the shore, where she held her hands to a great height, reaching to Sun’s rays, where she could hold them close, as they were dear to her. But out of the empyrean a great voice bellowed; it was full, strong, and comforting, yet perfervid to Tírien, who stood enamored by his calling.
‘What is it that thou has desired, Daughter of the Sea?’
‘My lord,’ she answered, ‘I am but a lowly servant of the earth who seeks not but what you have already given. But my people still fear the night, as long have their memories lingered of the waiting of your coming. I yearn only to forever be blessed and share in the light you have given.’
Autilne looked upon Tírien, and her face glowed fervently in his light. For she beheld his gift, and rejoiced in it; and this light remained in her eyes, shining upon her brow, for the rest of her days. But ardently she wished to spare her people from their fear of Varnissë, and their anxiety that Sun would also refuse his face, and turn reluctant and adamant, as the diminished Stars before him.
‘O Tírien of thickening waves, shining as silver glass upon the open sea, my endurance shall span all the ages of this earth, and timeless shall it ever remain. But thou hast shown great love, and blessed are they who remain faithful to my rays. Thou speaks for thy people, and I shall grant thy yearning wish.’
And upon his bright arms was the Sea thrown in chords sweet and praising. Thus was this Daughter of the Sea lifted to the light of her beloved. Her face shown ever brighter, and in the heavens did she share her realm with the King of Daylight. But while he slept from the wear that ensued from his labors, she, the Queen of the Night Sky, smiled upon her people, and upon her was laid raiment of silver showers. She gave to the Shenoí the reflected light of the one whom they sang of, who had brought them out of despair.
And she called herself Silvaeä, the Moon, by day taking the appearance of a fair lady clad in the purest white of the light of her beloved, and by night, she took the embodiment of a star, radiant and shining upon the reaching mountains and moaning trees, her face glorified by her reflected light of the King of the Realm of day,
And remained thus forevermore.