A/N: Another extremely short story based off the quote. Written originally on tastyword, where my friend and I exchange prompts. (My God. This is the third time I’ve typed this in about five minutes. Lol. I’ve published two other ones. ::sigh::)

The Moonlight

But if they press me sharply
Or harry me through the day
Look for me by the moonlight
Watch for me by the moonlight
I'll come to thee by the moonlight
Though hell should bar the way

Every night by the trickling stream, the moon would shine down upon the waters, sparkling as if by magic.

Every night she would come. Her rich, wine colored gown she reserved just for these nights sweeping behind her, the heavy velvet brushing over the underbrush with a soft rustling.

Every night he would come. His plain black shirt and pants he reserved just for these nights making him a shadow, making her doubt his existence on occasion.

Every night they would express their undying love for one another, kissing as the moon turned the dark forest into a land of magic, where nothing could touch them.

A soft wind would rustle the leaves, but would leave the lovers' clothes and hair untouched. They were suspended in their own world, where nothing could touch them.

It was on that last night, everything changed.

"My darling, I don't know when I'll be able to come again." He said, wiping away the tears that shining on her ivory skin.

"Please. You can't leave me." She begged, clinging to his clothes that masked his true identity. "I love you."

"They're tightening their grip. I can't keep running from them. They will catch me sooner or later. I can't put you in danger." He kissed her forehead gently. "I love you. Promise me...you'll wait for me. Every night, as we always do. In this clearing as the moon shines down on you, wait for me. Someday, I will return." He stood, walking away with one last look of longing at his love. She cried for some time, waiting for him to return.

She returned to the stream every night. She would gaze at the moon, waiting for her love.

He would never come for her.

She would always wait, even as she heard the rumors from the village. The rumors that said the son of the leader had gone missing. That all available persons were searching for him.

She knew better.

Yet she still waited. Even as the other women in her poor village remarked on how translucent she was becoming. They called her a wisp, a ghost. Her favorite. A moonbeam.

One day she just stopped coming back from her nightly journeys to the stream. She had turned into what the others in the village had predicted. She was nothing more than a spirit, flickering in and out of the shadows in the forest.

Her ritual continued nonetheless.

She would always wait for her love. A figure dressed in deep wine, floating an inch above the waters of the stream, always glistening in the moonlight.