In the heart of ancient Estonia, where deep forests embrace silent marshes, where meadows breathe with wild herbs and rivers flow as if carrying the earth’s own breath, lives an old tale carried by every wind — the legend of the Daughters of Muru, forest spirits born of grass, rain-songs, and the breath of dawn. Their mother is Muruäide, Grandmother Muru, the matron of meadows and twilight light — an ancient force, quiet yet all-seeing. From her womb came her daughters, forever young, as beautiful as spring, and as untamed as the night woods.
They know nothing of age. Their bodies are slender like reeds by the water, translucent like morning mist kissed by the sun’s first rays. Their skin carries the scent of lilies of the valley and dried herbs; their hair — long, silken, the color of warm honey or ashen vine — dances with the air, as if even the wind touches them in reverence. Their eyes are deep and luminous, filled with the knowledge of all that lives: within them lies dew, pollen, and an ancient sorrow. Their garments are not of fabric but of dreams — robes woven from petals, spider silk, and moonlight, soft and flowing like the wind through pine boughs.
They dwell not in houses, nor caves, nor in dusty legends, but among the grasses, in bird songs, in the murmurs of streams. Their paths are those of hares, their beds nestled in heather and moss. By day, they remain hidden — silent, untouchable. But when the sun leans westward, and the earth begins to breathe slow and deep, they emerge — gliding across the meadows, their bare feet brushing the ground, bringing it to life.
Their purpose is to bear life and maintain its balance. They sing to seeds so they may awaken, caress flowers so they may open, whisper to the beasts the safest trails. Their song is not heard with the ears, but felt in the heart — a vibration through the skin, a reminder of something deeply known. They are guardians of nature, priestesses without altars — the entire earth is their sanctuary.
Yet they are not "kind" in the way mortals understand. They are wild. Their love is mercurial. Those who see them uninvited may be blinded by their radiance or forget themselves entirely, becoming shadows among the trees. And those who fall in love with one of them — they are lost. Such a soul will live with a yearning no sleep can ease, with a thirst no wine or water can quench. There are tales of a daughter of Muru taking a mortal as her husband, and the house would fill with the scent of honey and wildflowers. But always came the day she vanished — without tears, without goodbye — dissolving into the pre-dawn air, leaving behind a wreath of dried blooms and a faint trail leading into the thicket.
They do not know death. As long as the earth lives, as long as flowers bloom and the cuckoo calls, the daughters of Muru will walk among the trees, touching the leaves with slender fingers, whispering songs that keep the world in balance. On certain still nights, one might glimpse their circle-dance — luminous figures twirling beneath the stars, crowned with cornflowers and fern. They sing — and the earth listens.
And so, in Estonia’s countryside, the old folk — meeting the dawn or stepping into the woods — remove their caps, murmur kind words, and tread softly, so as not to disturb the daughters of Muru, those who came before and shall remain after — eternal, radiant, and free.
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