About Fire, Memory, and the Beings Between Worlds
In Romanian mythology and folklore, the world is never fully divided. Between the seen and the unseen, between life and death, between humans and nature, there exist boundary beings—spirits that appear when borders grow thin. They reveal themselves at night, in water, in forests, in dreams, or in places where fire is lit with intention.
This candle collection is an invitation to encounter ancient archetypes still alive in collective memory: the Iele, the Știme, and the Moroi. Each scent, each flame, is conceived as a portal, a form of remembrance and respect for the forces that once explained beauty, fear, loss, and the mystery of the world.
Lighting a candle thus becomes a ritual gesture: a moment of listening to stories that are not spoken aloud.
IELE
In Romanian folk traditions, the iele are imagined as young women of unearthly beauty, who always appear in groups bound by numbers considered magical: three, five, seven, or more. They are immortal beings, ageless, with an existence more ethereal than material, permanently poised on the threshold between the visible and the invisible.
They appear especially at night, by moonlight, in isolated spaces—hidden forest clearings, riverbanks, deserted crossroads, or even floating through the air. Their appearance varies: sometimes they wear white, airy garments; other times they are covered only by thin veils that follow their movement. Their hair is almost always long and loose, often adorned with flowers, and their beauty acts as an irresistible yet dangerous attraction.
The dance of the iele is among their best-known manifestations. After midnight, they dance in a circle, holding hands, accompanied by enchanted music said to resemble no human melody. The sounds of panpipes, flutes, or violins seem to come from the air itself, as if played by unseen musicians. The song is so beautiful that anyone who hears it can no longer resist its call.
The places where they have danced remain marked. The grass is scorched in a perfect circle, the ground appears touched by fire, and these spaces are avoided for a long time. It is said that such traces appear especially between Sânziene and Saint Elijah’s Day, a period considered charged with magic, when the boundaries between worlds are fragile.
The nature of the iele is dual. They do not do harm for pleasure, but they punish the violation of boundaries. Anyone who surprises their dance, steps into their traces, or disturbs their revelry may be “taken by the iele”: lost in mind, weakened in body, or estranged from the self. The punishment is not violent, but rather a loss of inner balance, as if the person had been displaced from their rightful place.
Yet in some stories, the iele can also be benevolent. If not provoked, they may bestow beauty, luck, or an extraordinary talent. Still, closeness to them always remains risky, an experience on the threshold, between ecstasy and loss.
ȘTIME
The știma of the waters is a boundary being, tied to the depths and the hidden force of water. In traditional imagination, she appears as a feminine presence of strange beauty, alluring and unsettling at the same time. She does not belong to dry land, but to places where water becomes reflection, silence, and depth.
According to folk beliefs, every river, lake, spring, or even well has its știmă. They dwell in the depths of waters: in clear mountain springs, in lakes with unreachable bottoms, in vast marshes, or in flooded underground caves. They are said to have hidden dwellings, sometimes described as crystal palaces, inaccessible to humans.
The știma rarely reveals herself. At times she may be glimpsed at midnight, when the moon reflects on the water, floating above the waves or sitting on a stone, combing her hair. At other times, her presence is felt without being seen: in the unnatural stillness of the water, in whirlpools that appear suddenly, or in the inexplicable attraction certain places exert on those who approach.
In some legends, the știme are linked to the souls of the drowned, whom they gather into their underwater realm. Those drawn by their charm may remain in the depths for a time as enchanted beings, and some never return, becoming water spirits themselves.
The știme are considered guardians of the balance of waters. When benevolent, they keep springs clear, rivers within their banks, and fish plentiful. When angered, they can unleash floods, dry up wells, or force waters out of their beds, spilling them over fields, not out of cruelty, but as a response to the imbalance between humans and nature.
The știma is neither good nor evil. She is a living, ancient force that demands respect—a reminder that water is not merely a resource, but sacred territory, and that those who ignore its power risk being drawn beyond its limits.
MOROI
The moroi appears in Romanian folklore as a being of imbalance, a presence that threatens the order of the living. It is a complex entity, with different forms of manifestation but the same essence: it feeds on the vitality of others and disrupts the community.
In old beliefs, moroi are born from situations that break the natural order of death. It is said that the souls of unbaptized children or of those who departed without proper rituals remain suspended between worlds. These wandering souls cry out at midnight, seeking fulfilment and redemption. If unheard, they may transform into restless shadows that return among the living.
In some accounts from Bucovina, such souls appear as wandering flames, crossing the night as omens of misfortune. They do not attack directly, but bring illness, loss, or death through their mere passing.
The moroi is not only an apparition of the dead. In Transylvania, the term often refers to a living being, a sorcerer or witch, who goes out at night to steal the “mana” of livestock: the milk, fertility, and luck of a household. Here, vampirism is not directed at the body, but at abundance, slowly draining the community.
In the southern regions of the country, moroi are linked to guilt and the past. Those who oppressed their families during life are said to return to continue the same oppression beyond death, haunting those left behind.
Regardless of form, the moroi remains a creature of night and threshold. It does not strike head-on, but undermines: it weakens bodies, disturbs dreams, brings misfortune and barrenness. Some traditions say it is harder to banish than the devil, because it is not a foreign spirit, but a lost human soul.
At its core, the moroi is a story about unfinished things, about forgotten mistakes, missing rituals, and memories that refuse to fade.
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