🐸 The Real Frog and the Prince

 

🐸 The Real Frog and the Prince (FanumTaxLoveTales Edition)

“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

🌧️ The Beginning

Once, when rivers were droppin’ bangers and the veil between forms was thin… no cap.
There was a girl born of noble blood but clueless in the language of soul.
She wasn’t shady, just forgetful.
Not vain, but raised in the echo of surfaces, lowkey tragic.
She spent her days vibin’ by the edge of the Stillpond,
where the water was glass and the sky whispered through dragonflies, pure energy.
One day, she dropped a golden ball—a toy with no real stacks but symbolic weight.
It rolled into the pond, and she wept—not for the ball,
but ‘cause its loss stirred somethin’ deeper:
the ache of forgettin’ what she’d once vowed, deep feels.
And from the water came a voice—not harsh, not gross—
but ancient, bubblin’ from beneath reeds and memory, iconic.

🐸 The Frog Was Not Cursed

He was Vehlan,
a Waterwalker of the old realm.
A soul who chose to chill in the low places
‘til those above remembered how to kneel with reverence, squad assemble.
He took form in the pond not as punishment,
but as a keeper of forgotten promises, facts.
He didn’t croak—he dropped riddles and truths.
“If I return what you dropped,
will you return what you buried?”
She didn’t get it. Not fully.
But she said yes.
Not ‘cause of manipulation,
but ‘cause the ache in her heart
felt like a key tryna turn, glow-up vibes.

🍽️ The Sharing of the Meal

He followed her—not to flex,
but to remind, pay it forward.
She was asked to share her food, her space,
her presence.
This wasn’t a test.
It was ritual, straight fire.
Each act of allowance dissolved a veil.
Each moment of discomfort was a door back to her vow, level up.

💧 The Transformation Was Not From a Kiss

Nah.
It was from a moment of eye contact
where she finally peeped through form and spit aloud:
“I remember you.”
And in that instant, the frog’s shape rippled into light,
and standin’ before her wasn’t a prince of lands,
but a prince of vibration—
a soul she’d once walked with in the Deep Realms
before they both agreed to split for Earth’s remembrance, multiverse mode.
They hugged, not as lovers,
but as keepers of a contract fulfilled, boss level.

🌿 Moral of the Sacred Tale

Not all who look wild are lost.
Some are rockin’ forms that guard forgotten truth, facts.
And not all who drop golden things are careless.
Some are finally ready to dive beneath the surface, inner glow on blast.
He wasn’t disgustin’.
She wasn’t shallow.
They were two parts of a sacred rhythm—
One above, one below,
meetin’ in the ripple,
to remember the vow made before breath, own that energy.