Several increasingly absurd incidents have occurred over the past few days.
Eventually, this evening’s events created enough psychological pressure that I felt genuine urgency to continue writing inside this journal.
Miss DeLuna claimed writing helps reduce stress.
Unfortunately, the primary source of my stress currently remains Miss DeLuna herself.
When we arrived at Port Roderick several days ago, Spathian — who does not deserve to be called my older brother unless revolutionary ship engineering somehow legally qualifies as redemption — arrived at the harbor screaming:
“WIIIFEEEEE!! YOU ARE HOME!!”
The moment I heard that sentence, I immediately understood disaster was approaching.
Daddy.
Mommy.
Ronan.
All three nearly suffered visible cardiac failure.
Which became considerably worse when Miss DeLuna screamed back:
“HUUUBY!! I AM HOME!!”
Then proceeded to sprint directly toward Spathian before both of them escaped together through the harbor like criminals fleeing divine punishment.
At the time, I believed that incident alone already exceeded acceptable levels of social catastrophe.
I was incorrect.
By the following morning, rumors regarding Spathian secretly marrying a mysterious western noblewoman had apparently spread across half the city.
Several merchant families discreetly attempted to verify the information.
One older guildmaster directly asked Daddy whether House Roderick planned to establish western territorial alliances through marriage.
Daddy stared at him for approximately seven seconds before walking away without answering.
Honestly, reasonable response.
Unfortunately, tonight became significantly worse.
This evening, House Roderick received honored guests.
A visiting Elven prince accompanied by one of his senior advisors.
Due to my familiarity with Sindarin and limited Quenya, Daddy assigned me translation duties during dinner.
This is uncommon, though not unprecedented.
Roderick Street occasionally negotiates with older races when trade routes require it.
Usually such meetings are formal.
Controlled.
Predictable.
This one stopped being predictable almost immediately.
Dinner had already begun when Miss DeLuna and Spathian returned from wherever they disappeared earlier.
Judging by the smell of machine oil and smoke surrounding them, I suspect the answer involved spoons somehow.
The moment they entered the room, the Elven advisor suddenly stood from his seat.
Immediately.
No hesitation whatsoever.
Daddy noticed.
I noticed.
Even the prince appeared mildly surprised.
The advisor then approached Miss DeLuna directly with the kind of composure usually reserved for ceremonial audiences.
At the same moment, I noticed Spathian instinctively shift slightly in front of her.
Protective reflex.
Miss DeLuna gently caught his wrist before he could fully step forward.
A subtle gesture.
Barely visible.
Enough to stop him instantly.
Then the advisor smiled politely and spoke in Quenya.
Fluent Quenya.
Not simplified ceremonial phrases.
Actual High Elven speech.
“Aiya, aranel yendë nossë DeLuna.”
“Hail, princess daughter of the House of DeLuna.”
At that exact moment, my brain ceased functioning temporarily.
Because Miss DeLuna answered immediately.
Calmly.
Without even pausing to think.
“Elen síla lúmenn' omentielvo, ar sírë le.”
“A star shines upon the hour of our meeting, and peace upon you.”
The pronunciation was flawless.
Not scholarly.
Natural.
As though she used Quenya often enough for it to become instinctive.
The advisor’s expression shifted almost immediately afterward.
Not surprise exactly.
Recognition.
“Úquenyo ná i omentielma i chronicler sinomë.”
“I did not expect to meet a chronicler here.”
Miss DeLuna tilted her head slightly.
Then answered just as smoothly.
“Síve ninye, úquenyo i omentielma i nóre lyë sinomë.”
“So it is with me. I did not expect to meet your people here.”
She spoke one of the rarest and most sacred languages on the continent with the same energy most people use when discussing weather.
For context—
Most nobles cannot speak Quenya properly.
Most merchants cannot even identify it.
Even among educated circles, the language survives primarily through ceremonial usage, archived records, and ancient treaties.
Meanwhile Miss DeLuna apparently converses in it casually enough to terrify me spiritually.
Before I fully recovered from this realization, the Elven prince himself suddenly stood and joined the conversation.
And somehow the situation became even more absurd.
Not because Miss DeLuna failed to understand Quenya.
But because they deliberately switched into Sindarin instead.
Familiarity.
Informality.
The kind used between old acquaintances rather than diplomats.
The prince smiled warmly.
“Mae govannen, hiril DeLuna.”
“Well met, Lady DeLuna.”
Miss DeLuna smiled back immediately.
“Mae govannen, a gín.”
“Well met to you as well.”
The prince studied her briefly afterward before laughing softly.
“I lû veleg i cenin le, tîthenneth nîn, a si hiril vael.”
“The last time I saw you, you were only a little girl. Now you have become a fine lady.”
Miss DeLuna answered without hesitation.
“Hannon le, a le ú-changen even a phith. Avo nae, ernil Elowen.”
“Thank you. And you have not changed even a little, Prince Elowen.”
At this point, Daddy had stopped eating entirely.
Ronan looked moments away from demanding explanations from reality itself.
Meanwhile Miss DeLuna continued speaking as though this situation remained completely ordinary.
Prince Elowen eventually added:
“I lû i nana nîn istas le awartha i 'aladh', le ú-bedithon i aníra le ad-'aladh i ostir nîn.”
“When my mother learned you had become a traveler, she wondered when you would visit our capital again.”
Miss DeLuna nodded politely.
“Gwae an i Rîan Galadriel, ni ad-'aladh i lû toltho, ad-'aladh i ostir lîn.”
“Tell Queen Galadriel that I will visit when the time comes. I will visit your capital.”
I would like to emphasize once again that she said this calmly.
Calmly.
As though receiving invitations from Elven royalty was a completely routine inconvenience.
Eventually dinner continued.
Somehow.
Though Daddy spent the remainder of the evening periodically staring at Miss DeLuna with the same expression merchants usually reserve for discovering an unknown clause hidden inside a contract moments before signing it.
As for me—
I think I finally understand why instinct kept warning me that Miss DeLuna was not normal.
At this point, “runaway noble” may have been an optimistic theory.
I will stop writing here for tonight.
Miss DeLuna once claimed writing helps reduce stress.
Based on current evidence, I believe she may have lied.
Or perhaps the issue is simply that remembering these events in sequence causes direct psychological damage.
More importantly—
I am beginning to question whether following Miss DeLuna to Isla de la Luna is truly a wise decision.
Unfortunately, I have already committed emotionally, financially, and logistically.
Which means I will probably continue anyway.
I should ask Daddy for advice tomorrow.
Though I strongly suspect he will simply tell me to prepare additional contingency contracts first.
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