Ancient chronicles whisper that the Moon has a heart, and it dwells in the form of a fairy. On nights when silver light spilled over marble palaces like liquid starlight, fate entwined her with a prince—a man born beneath the sign of shadow and light.
Long ago, in the far East, in the timeless city of Samarkand, there lived the seventh prince. He cared not for crowns, nor for kingdoms, nor for battles where the vanquished had no hope. The throne and the power of empires held no allure for him.
Instead, he delighted in poetry, in the delicate weaving of patterns, in the mysteries of the stars and the Moon. He studied the wisdom of religions, and tended gardens that bloomed with impossible beauty, each tree and flower a testament to his gentle heart. Though he journeyed across distant lands, he always returned to his garden—his sanctuary, the soul of his days.
Because he turned from the throne and shunned the sword, his brothers feared him not, nor plotted against him. Handsome he was, with open shoulders, serene features, a smile warm as sunlight, and eyes that seemed to read the hearts of men.
One night, as the Moon awakened and climbed the heavens, spilling her silver radiance across the earth, the prince found sleep eluding him. He rose, softly, and wandered into his enchanted garden.
Unseen by the guards, he carried a sheet of parchment and a quill, his instruments of verse. Among the flowering trees, he strolled slowly, marveling at the life he had nurtured. At the heart of the garden, a stone waited; he seated himself upon it and began to write.
When his poem was finished, he reclined upon the grass and gazed upward at the Moon, brilliant and full, floating in an endless sky of stars.
And then—a streak of silver fell from the heavens, a spark of magic, vanishing into the garden's bushes.
Startled, the prince approached, and there she was: a girl bathed in moonlight, as if born from the Moon itself. Her wings shimmered like molten silver, her hair glimmered pale as lunar light, and her body seemed carved from crystal. Her eyes were dark as the night sky, and her sparse freckles sparkled like distant stars.
Seeing him, she recoiled, fear trembling in her gaze.
"Do not fear," the prince said softly. "I will not harm you."
The fairy's eyes searched him, wary and uncertain. The prince knelt, dipped his handkerchief into the garden's crystal stream, and said,
"Stay still. It will not hurt."
Tenderly, he cleansed her wounded wings, blood-stained and delicate. Recognizing his kindness, she yielded, allowing his care.
"I have no medicines with me," he said. "I can take you to healers—they will mend you."
"No, kind prince," she whispered.
Rising, she turned her wings toward the Moon. And then, a miracle: silver light filled her feathers, and her wounds began to heal, glowing as though touched by starlight itself.
When the Moon's glow faded, the fairy lowered her wings and looked upon the prince differently now—no fear in her gaze.
"You are not a man of war," she said. "There is only silence in your heart."
The prince smiled.
"I am but one who listens to the stars," he replied. "And you… who are you?"
She hesitated, as if weighing how much of her truth a mortal could bear.
"I am the spirit of the Moon," she murmured. "The guardian of night's light. I may not touch the destinies of men."
The prince rose, bowing his head in reverence.
"Then why did you fall from the sky?"
Her gaze lifted to the Moon, slightly dimmer in its ascent.
"Because I have watched your garden too long… and you."
A hush of silver light enveloped them.
"You must leave?" he asked.
"By dawn," she answered. "With the first rays of the sun, I shall vanish."
The prince paused, then offered her the parchment with his freshly written poem.
"Then let me leave this with you," he said. "So that the Moon may know her light was loved upon the earth."
She took the page, and the words shimmered as if inscribed not with ink, but with light itself.
"When a heart writes," she said, "even the Moon can hear."
They spoke long into the night of the Moon and the stars, drifting across the endless, deep sky.
"Your poem has touched my soul," she whispered. "May I keep it?"
"Of course," he replied. "Take it."
"And in return," she smiled, "I shall carve your words into a moonstone and gift it to you."
Together, they wandered the garden. She spoke of the world of fairies: those of Moon and Night, Sun and Day, and the fairies of the four seasons. Each clan had its own appearance, its own purpose, its own destiny. Queens and kings watched over them, guarding balance, granting trials, and bestowing tasks.
The prince, in turn, spoke of his kingdom: of palaces, gardens, and the stars he studied beneath the night sky. They laughed, shared wonder, and something new began to stir within their hearts—a feeling still unnamed, yet undeniably there.
They did not know what it was, but each glance between them made their hearts beat in quiet recognition.
They did not notice the approach of dawn.
The fairy trembled.
"I must go," she said, stepping back.
"Do not leave," he pleaded.
"Please understand…" her voice faltered. "I do not wish to leave either. But if the sun rises, I will vanish."
Reluctantly, he released her hand.
"Wait," she said. "I shall return for you. And we will be together."
"Take me with you now," he whispered. "We will be happy."
"I cannot—not yet," she said.
He did not wish to let her go. Then she gently placed her palm upon his head. His eyes closed, and he sank slowly to the grass.
When he awoke, the sun was rising. Anxiously, he looked around—and saw it: a stone of wondrous form, gleaming with shifting colors. His poem was carved upon it, and on the reverse side were the words:
"Wait for me.
I will return someday,
my dear, my beloved."