The king’s voice carried a musical rhythm as he began the next tale, as if echoing the melody of the story itself. The princess, already captivated by the flicker of the firelight and the deepening night, listened intently.
“Tonight,” he said, “I will tell you of Anahita, the Pari whose voice was said to be the most enchanting sound in the world. Her song could stop rivers in their flow, calm raging storms, and even make the stars weep with joy. Yet, it was her song that bound her heart forever to a wandering prince.”
The princess leaned forward. “A Pari with such a gift—did she sing for all, or only for him?”
The king smiled faintly. “Anahita sang for the world. She was a traveler, never staying long in one place. Her voice brought solace to the weary, joy to the broken-hearted, and hope to those who had none. Yet, for all the beauty she gave to others, she herself carried a loneliness she could not sing away.”
“Why was she lonely?”
“Because her gift, as wondrous as it was, made her different,” the king explained. “No one dared approach her for fear of tainting her perfection. Mortals adored her from afar, and even the winds carried her melodies to distant lands. She had many admirers, but none who truly understood her—not until she met the wandering prince.”
The princess’s eyes brightened with curiosity. “Who was he?”
“He was Kian, a prince who had forsaken his kingdom,” the king said. “Once destined for a throne, he had turned his back on the courtly life after a betrayal that shattered his faith in people. He roamed the forests and valleys, seeking peace in solitude. But one evening, as the sun dipped below the horizon, he heard a voice unlike any he had ever known. It was Anahita, singing to the setting sun from a hillside covered in wildflowers.”
The princess clasped her hands. “What did he do?”
“Kian followed the sound, unable to resist its pull,” the king said. “When he saw her, he was struck by her beauty, but it was her voice that truly held him captive. He did not speak right away, fearing he might disturb her song. But when she finished, he stepped forward and said, ‘Surely the gods have made you their muse.’”
The princess smiled. “And what did she say to that?”
“She laughed,” the king said, his own voice light with the memory of the tale. “She told him she sang not for the gods, but for the world, and for herself. Intrigued by his presence—so different from the worshipful gazes she was used to—she asked him who he was and why he wandered alone.”
“And did he tell her?”
“He did,” the king said. “Kian told her of the betrayal that had driven him from his kingdom, of his search for meaning beyond the walls of his palace. Anahita listened, her heart stirring with a feeling she had never known. For the first time, someone saw her not as a divine being, but as a person—a soul seeking connection, just as he was.”
The princess’s voice softened. “Did she sing for him again?”
“She did,” the king said. “But this time, her song was different. It was not for the world, or the setting sun, or the distant stars. It was for him, and him alone. Her voice wove a melody that spoke of shared longing, of two wanderers finding solace in each other. Kian was entranced, and in that moment, he knew he could never leave her.”
“But she was a Pari,” the princess said with a note of sadness. “If she stayed with him, she would lose her immortality.”
“Anahita knew this,” the king said. “She wrestled with her choice, torn between the eternal life she had known and the fleeting but profound love she had found. Yet, in the end, her heart made the decision for her. She told Kian, ‘What is the point of an eternal song if there is no one to share it with?’”
The princess’s eyes glistened. “So she chose love.”
“She did,” the king said. “Anahita became mortal, and she and Kian built a life together. Their days were filled with music and laughter, their bond unshaken by the passage of time. But like all Pari who chose love, Anahita’s fate was sealed. When their daughter was born, her strength faded. She sang one last lullaby for her child before passing away, her voice lingering in the air long after she was gone.”
The princess wiped a tear from her cheek. “What happened to Kian?”
“He carried her song in his heart,” the king said. “Though he mourned her deeply, he found comfort in their daughter, who inherited not only her mother’s beauty but also her gift for music. He spent his life ensuring that their child would know the love and sacrifice of the Pari who had given up eternity for a moment of true connection.”
The fire crackled softly as the king’s words settled over them. The princess sat quietly, the tale filling her with both sorrow and wonder. “Anahita’s song was eternal, wasn’t it?” she said at last.
“In a way,” the king replied. “Though her voice was silenced, the love she poured into her song lived on in those who heard it, in those who remembered her. And that, my dear, is a kind of immortality no curse can take away.”