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and they called him, Tyel
The Mortal Scribe
(initiate of the celestial halls)
They called him Tyel—
though his true name
had no vowels, only breath.
He came not wrapped in prophecy,
but in wool and nervous glances,
hands smudged with earth
and second guesses.
He did not know what to bring
to a school lit by solar verse.
So he carried a small notebook—
creases soft from pocket-dwelling,
its spine cracked like a whisper.
A few lines scratched inside:
half-thoughts, maybe dreams,
maybe truth if squinted at kindly.
The gates of the academy
did not thunder open.
They shimmered, then sighed.
A welcoming made of mercy,
not ceremony.
Tyel entered with his pen
gripped like apology,
every constellation a teacher
he dared not interrupt.
The stars did not speak
in riddles. They waited.
And when he finally wrote—
halting, unsure,
a line about frost on eucalyptus—
one comet bowed its tail in assent.
Not because it was perfect.
But because it was honest.
His classmates—
a nebula who painted in breath,
a sonnet-shaped voice from Polaris—
did not mock his simplicity.
They listened.
And when he paused
to correct his metre,
one said, “We can help.”
Bit by bit,
he learned their language—
not alien, just deeper.
He wrote a poem
about missing home.
It flickered like candlelight
in vacuum.
Then the stars shared one back:
about longing for oceans
they had never seen.
Tyel is still there,
not brightest, not boldest—
but the one who reminds them
what it means to wonder.
.
