“In ancient days,” he said, “they used to take the most beautiful princess up to the moon to live in a palace of light.”
His arm was around her, and she giggled.
“I bet it was cold up there,” she said.
He continued, smiling, “But ‘it was loath unto the men at that time’ to give up their dames. Especially the pretty ones,” he added, giving her a little squeeze.
She looked up into his face, her big eyes like twin moons themselves, and said, “What did they do?”
And when her lips formed the “O” of “do” he took the chance, and leaned down, forming something of an “O” with his own lips.
It was a long while before he answered her question, a moment mixed up with eternity.
“‘They made war with the moon, against the knowing once, and the moon has stayed silent since men rose against them.’ And I’m glad of it.”
She was nuzzling against him now, closing her eyes, but she gave a little, “u-hm?” sound he took as a question.
“Because,” he whispered, “if they were still taking the most beautiful women, they would surely have taken you.”
She would have rolled her eyes if she had been listening to anything but the beating of his heart.
After they were married, and their children were grown, he remembered the line and tried it again. She put her hands on her hips and called him an old windbag, though she was smiling.
Tale Told 