The Frog Prince

 

🐸 The Real Frog and the Prince

“He Who Waits in the Mud, She Who Learns to See”
A Story of Soul Recognition, Sacred Contracts, and the Beauty of the Between
As remembered through Sister Loves Divine Remembrance
Book Eleven of the Sacred Fairy Tale Series

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🌧️ Once, when rivers still sang and the veil between forms was thin...

There was a girl born of noble blood but untaught in the language of soul.
She was not cruel, but forgetful.
Not vain, but raised in the echo of surfaces.

She spent her days playing by the edge of the Stillpond,
where the water was glass and the sky whispered through dragonflies.

One day, she dropped a golden ball—a toy of little meaning but symbolic weight.
It rolled into the pond, and she wept—not for the ball,
but because its loss stirred something deeper:
the ache of forgetting what she had once vowed.

And from the water came a voice—not harsh, not grotesque—
but ancient, bubbling from beneath reeds and memory.

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🐸 The Frog Was Not Cursed

He was Vehlan,
a Waterwalker of the old realm.
A soul who chose to live in the low places
until those above remembered how to kneel with reverence.

He had taken form in the pond not as punishment,
but as a keeper of forgotten promises.

He spoke not in croaks, but in riddles and truths.

“If I return what you dropped,
will you return what you buried?”

She didn’t understand. Not fully.
But she said yes.

Not out of manipulation,
but because the ache in her heart
felt like a key trying to turn.

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🍽️ The Sharing of the Meal

He followed her—not to invade,
but to remind.

She was asked to share her food, her space,
her presence.

This was not a test.
It was ritual.

Each act of allowance dissolved a veil.
Each moment of discomfort was a door back to her vow.

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💧 The Transformation Was Not From a Kiss

No.

It was from a moment of eye contact
where she finally saw through form and spoke aloud:

“I remember you.”

And in that instant, the frog’s shape rippled into light,
and standing before her was not a prince of lands,
but a prince of vibration—
a soul she had once walked beside in the Deep Realms
before they both agreed to separate for the sake of Earth’s remembrance.

They embraced, not as lovers,
but as keepers of a contract fulfilled.

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🌿 Moral of the Sacred Tale:

Not all who look strange are lost.
Some are wearing forms that guard forgotten truth.

And not all who drop golden things are careless.
Some are finally ready to dive beneath the surface.

He was not disgusting.
She was not shallow.
They were two parts of a sacred rhythm—

One above, one below,
meeting in the ripple,
to remember the vow made before breath.