A 21st century fairy tale

One fine day many years ago, in the early years of the 21st century across seven seas and seventy countries, in the midst of junk in the form of black and white and ones and zeros met our prince and the princess. And then bloomed a flower, as delicious and as sweet, as beautiful and as pure a flower you have ever laid your eyes upon. The flower of eternal friendship.

And thus began the journey of our prince and our princess. A journey into the unknown, a journey of discovery, of knowing, of realization, a journey based solely on words. And oh how beautiful a fairy tale did those words weave. How beautiful a picture did those words paint. Words that wove lyrical poetry, hmmms that spoke of unsaid love, dotted punctuations that said everything when the sentence ended. Words which you wouldn't exchange for the biggest prize in the land.

And then it was that hour. The hour when atlast they shall put a face to those words. On a moonlit night, when the hands of the clock struck the midnight hour, walked our prince and princess towards that promised meeting point, her fingers nevously straightening her glasses, his hands fumbling with the box of matches. And then the prince saw the princess. And he knew the words were true, they had to be.

And thus began another journey. A journey like you have never heard of. A journey of pure joy, of laughter, of blissful happiness, of joyrides on a newly bred stallion, of princely well planned outings that ended in much laughed about disasters, of feigning sulkiness, of being childishly happy when the other tries to make up for that feigned sulkiness, of stealing stills. A journey of unsaid love.

Ahh!! Unsaid love. Alas. Maybe our prince wasnt him, maybe the words that had so merrily weaved this fairytale defected him when it mattered most, maybe our prince had let the moment pass by. But shouldnt she have known that he would always get it to rain for her.

And so walked away our prince and our princess, trampling to a cruel death that flower they had so carefully nurtured. Words that once weaved magic, now spun a Black widow's poisonous net. That trusted stallion, the sole witness to that magical journey, dies with a broken heart. And still they walk, determined to put seven seas and seventy countries between them.

But wouldnt that bring them to a full circle, I ask. Cant that flower bloom again then? Shouldnt it rain again in November?

O Prince and Princess nobody likes a tragic fairytale. Let the words weave their magic again. One last time.

Postscript: Broken rain link is now repaired. Let the hills come alive with the sound of music