This is a collection of stories and tales that have been passed down through the centuries and across many generations. Rumor has it that there must be at least a grain of truth in each of them.
The Tale of the Sailor and the Mermaid
Once upon a time, there was a sailor who loved the sea.
Saltwater flowed through his veins, and the evening light, which sank into the waves every night, danced in his eyes. His constant companions were the foam on the waves and the wind in his hair. His hands were rough from the rope, his skin sun-tanned, but his lips were as soft as rose petals.
One day, his boat plowed through the waves, over high mountains and deep valleys, the wind filling his sails with fervor. The wood of the planks creaked as the boat approached a rocky outcrop in the water.
A mermaid sat on the slippery rock, combing her golden hair.
The sailor fell in love with the mermaid, and the mermaid fell in love with the sailor.
Every day the sailor sailed to the mermaid, and every day she waited for him until his boat appeared on the horizon.
One day, as he once again headed for the mermaid’s rock, he was especially looking forward to seeing the woman of the sea. He had brought her a gift and wanted to ask her if she would come with him.
She sat on the rock, brushing her hair while singing sweetly. The sailor gave her two wonderful pearls, which he had spent weeks diving for just to give to her.
The mermaid smiled and kissed him gently.
The sailor asked her if she would come with him.
Her smile faded, and she stared at her fish tail before looking back into his eyes.
There were unshed tears in her eyes.
The mermaid vanished into the roaring waves, and the sailor into the spray of the churning sea.
The sailor has his place on the boat, and the mermaid has her place in the sea. In what world is fate so cruel as to bind two hearts together, even though they can never have each other?
Every day, the sailor stood at the bow, staring out at the vast blue and thinking of his mermaid.
Drip, drip, drip.
Every day, the mermaid sat on the rock, brushed her hair, and thought of her sailor. The light danced across the sea and caught in the nacre of the pearls that have adorned her ears ever since.
Drip, drip, drip.
Even today, their tears fill the sea with water and salt for all eternity.
The Tale of Love and Suffering
Once upon a time, above the sky of Tamenium, sometimes the sun shines and sometimes the moon. Sometimes it is day, sometimes it is night.
The sun rises and follows her course, sending bright light to every corner of the world. She wanders across the sky, following the sky’s path, day after day. Sometimes, just before she lies down in her bed, she can see the moon on the horizon. Yet with every step the moon takes toward her, she is pulled away from him.
The moon rises and follows his course, casting silver light upon the treetops. He wanders across the sky, following the sky’s path, night after night. Sometimes, just before he settles into bed, he can see the sun on the horizon. Yet with every step he takes toward the sun, he is pulled away from her.
Every morning and every night that dawns, the sun and the moon see each other for only a few minutes. The sun sends him her most beautiful and intense orange, and the moon sends her the silviest glimmer, before they lose sight of each other again and the horizon separates the two lovers once more.
Once every hundred years, the sun and the moon meet. Some say they spend one night together. Some say they spend one day together.
If you look up at the sky on that one day, once every hundred years, you will see the sun and the moon tightly entwined, united as one. Silvery light mingles with deep orange, casting colorful light across the sky.
After this night together, the invisible threads begin to pull at them once more, and the century-long cycle of love and suffering begins anew.
The Tale of the Lovers Sacrifice
Once upon a time, in a quiet valley hidden between silver mountains and whispering forests, there lived a young wanderer named Sarion. He carried the heart of a seeker within him—always on a journey toward something he himself could not name. Some called it happiness; others, destiny. But deep down, it was longing.
One evening, as the sky glowed with violet hues, he met her.
Her name was Helia.
She stood on the shore of a lake whose waters shone like a mirror of the stars. When she turned toward him, it was as if the world had ceased to exist for a single breath. Her smile was quiet, almost fragile—and yet it struck him like a storm.
From that moment on, nothing was the same.
Sarion stayed in the valley; he had reached the end of his journey. Days turned into weeks, and every hour he spent with Helia felt both fleeting and endless. She told him of the ancient songs of the forest, of dreams she never spoke aloud, and of a melancholy that lay like a shadow behind her eyes.
And he listened. Every word, every syllable.
When she laughed, his heart beat faster. When she was silent, he sought her closeness. And when she looked at him, he felt as though he were losing himself in her sea-green eyes.
One night, as the moon hung high above the lake, he found her alone. Her eyes were in tears, as if she had long since said goodbye to something that had not yet happened.
“I can’t stay,” she said softly. “I don’t belong in this world. It’s time for me to go.”
Her words hit him like a cold wind blowing straight into his face.
“Then I’ll come with you,” Sarion replied without hesitation.
Helia shook her head gently. “That’s what lovers say. They want to hold on to what brings them happiness.”
“And what do those who love say?” he asked.
She stepped closer and placed her hand on his heart.
“Those who love… set free. Even if it tears them apart.”
In that moment, he understood.
As dawn broke, Sarion stood on the shore while Helia slowly faded into the light. He didn’t hold her back. He didn’t ask her to stay.
He just smiled—with tears in his eyes.
For he had found his answer.
He hadn’t just been in love with her.
He had loved her.
The Tale of the Love Tokens
Once upon a time, there was a wanderer who roamed the dusty alleys in search of desperate souls. In his leather pouch, which dangled from his belt, were golden coins that jingled with every step.
When he arrived at the marketplace, he sat down on a bench and waited. The souls came to him as usual. They always found him.
A young man approached him and asked for his services. The wanderer reached into his pouch and pulled out one of the gold coins. On one side was love, on the other, death. The wanderer flicked the coin into the air and let it fall into the dust at his feet. The young man sank to his knees and died. The wanderer picked up the coin showing death and blew the dust off the ancient gold.
Next, an elderly woman came to him and asked for his services. The wanderer reached into his pouch again, pulled out a coin, and flicked it into the air. The coin landed in the dust; death glinted in the sun. The woman sank dead to the ground.
The wanderer traveled from town to town, letting the coins in his pouch jingle with every step. Yet the wanderer was just as driven by longing as the poor souls who sought him out.
In the next town, a beautiful young woman approached him and asked for his services. His eyes lost themselves in hers as he pulled a coin from his pouch. He hesitated, and the coin lay cool in his hand.
He could see the longing in the beautiful woman’s eyes, even though she was smiling. He flicked the coin into the air, and it bounced on the cobblestones until it came to rest. It showed love.
The wanderer sank to his knees, and the beautiful woman caught him and held him in her arms as he died. The man who had roamed the streets his whole life and lived off the desperate longing of souls felt no more longing. He had arrived. With his last breath, he lost himself in the beautiful eyes that finally set him free.
The beautiful woman laid him to rest and placed two coins on her restless wanderer’s
eyes, the side bearing the word “love” facing up. He had finally found peace.
The Tale of the Weavers
Once upon a time, there were three sisters who shared a farm. The three girls could not have been more different.
The youngest sister was quiet and well-behaved. She loved to sleep in the hay with the sheep and shear their wool with a pair of silver scissors.
The middle sister was sad and lonely. She loved to sit in an armchair by the fireplace in the house and spin the wool into the silver thread of fate.
The oldest sister was the most capricious of the three. She loved to sit in the shade under an apple tree and tie knots in the silver thread.
Sometimes she would take a ball of yarn belonging to one person and another belonging to someone else, tie them together, and knot them so that people would meet in their lives. Sometimes, however, she took strands in her hand and untied the knots, so that people would lose sight of one another again. Sometimes the eldest sister was so full of pain and anguish that she tore the yarn apart, and the silver threads were carried away into the sky by the wind, just as people are carried away from life.
Fate is born, knotted, and torn apart.
Unpredictable. Arbitrary. Cruel?
The Tale of the Weeping Siren
Once upon a time, on the edge of a quiet, forgotten forest lay a dark pond whose water was as black as obsidian, even on the brightest day.
There she lived.
A siren with eyes as clear as moonlight and a voice that silenced even the wind. But unlike in the old tales, she did not sing for joy – she wept.
Every morning, when the first mist lifted, she gathered all her strength. Slowly she pulled herself onto the shore, her shimmering scales turning to delicate skin, her fin to wavering, slender legs. For a brief, precious moment, she stood on land.
For him.
But no sooner had she taken a step than she collapsed – as if the world itself were pushing her back. Breathless, weak, and compelled by an invisible force, she crawled back into the pond, where the water swallowed her up like an inescapable truth.
She tried again every day.
And every night, when the moon lay silver on the surface and the world fell silent, she emerged and sang:
I loved you in a quiet way,
In words I never dared to say.
You smiled, but not for me to keep,
And left me wandering in too deep.
Not every heart is meant to stay,
Not every love will find its way.
Some dreams are built, then drift apart,
Still echoing inside the heart.
So I remain with what once grew
A silent wish that reaches you.
For all that’s left when love won’t start
Is longing… and an aching heart.
novels by chiara 