The Mark of True Love

There was once a young couple, engaged and soon to be wed. Both were from the same small village, his house next to hers. Both shared the same circle of friends and the same few enemies. They were happy, and together they were strong.

But they weren't always together. And once, while he was away hunting, there came a terrible, sudden storm. She worried for him and went next door to await his return with his father and mother. They lit candles and set them in the windows against the gloomy night.

The downpour had caught him by surprise and so he took shelter in a cave. Soaked, miserable, and feverish, he crawled inside and found a deep, dank cavern. In the center of this rough chamber dwelled a short crooked witch in a hovel of bat shit and gathered bones.

Though the cave was cold and damp, the witch kept no hearth. And though he was hungry, she had no food. But she did offer him company and bade him to visit with her until the rain had spent itself. He did so and they passed the time in sport and conversation. They wrestled and spit and shared crude humor, and he forgot his fever and his loneliness away from home. But as the night grew long he could not sleep, worried about his love.

All this time, several small glowing frogs had been following the witch about and provided an eerie, curious light. The witch crushed one in her fist and painted his forehead with it. "Now you will dream of your true love," she said, "Your true love will receive you and know that you are here and well."

However, in his sleep he dreamed not of his betrothed, but of another. And in his dream they loved as though their love was well-worn and familiar.

He awoke the next day, outside the cave where there was now no cave at all. The sky was sunny and clear. He only vaguely remembered his dream and it troubled him at first, but then he put it out of his thoughts. It was all fever dream, and it had passed with the night.

Returning home, his love and his family were there in the doorway still waiting and worried. Seeing him at a distance, they cheered and made merry. However, she could wait no longer and raced to meet him halfway. They laughed and blew kisses until she was almost in his arms. Then she stopped and pointed to his face. Her face slack with surprise and dismay.

"What is that on your brow? Why is that written there?"

He touched his face and felt the mark still there.

"It was for you, my love. So you would not worry. And here I have returned, see? There is no cause for alarm - I will wipe it off like so."

But it did not wipe away. And she fled from him, crying. At his home, his family turned their faces from the mark, and his father pointed without looking.

"Go and wash your face by the river," the old man said, sternly and without looking.

Though confused, he did so, kneeling at the river to see his reflection. But the water's surface recoiled and churned in disgust; the reeds rustled from the shallows and whispered in the wind.

"Liar," they wailed.

He drew his hunting knife and held up the keen polished blade. It was a gift from her and he kept it well. He looked into the mirror it made and sought to read the mark upon his face.

But no sooner did he level his gaze than the metal rusted over completely.

"Liar," it hissed.

He fell to his knees, his face burning, the mark hot and searing. He scratched at the maddening itch forming there above his eyes. He howled and pulled at his flesh. Taking up the ruined blade, he drew it along his jaw and up and around. He was a skilled and practiced hunter, but the skin came away messily, ragged. The face as he finally saw it, through the tears and the blood, was strangely his own, well-worn and familiar.