The Three Princesses by Cassie Wright

Once upon a time there was a Woodsman who lived by a very dark wood in a cottage with his only son. His wife had passed away while giving birth to his boy, and ever since the Woodsman had treasured his son as the light of his life. Each morning he would tend to the babe and then carry him into the woods with him so that as he worked and chopped down trees he could keep his boy close by and safe. As the years passed his son grew, and many were the days that the Woodsman chopped while his boy played and laughed in the long dark grass, chasing black butterflies and marveling at the ancient trees.
    Each night they would return home, several large trees stripped and bound to an axle which their two horses would pull along a rutted track until their cottage came into view. Each night the Woodsman would entertain his son with stories of the woods, of the monsters that lived there and the adventures that young princes had had beneath the great canopy. He would set a fire burning within the fireplace, cook a pot of stew, and sharpen his ax as his boy sat close by, listening with his little chin in his hands of talking foxes and white ravens, of witches and wizards and gnomes and wolves. Each night the Woodsman would tuck the boy into bed, and each night the boy would ask him, "Father, are there really such monsters in the woods?"
    And each night the Woodsman would smile and say, "No, my son, they are but tales. Sleep, and know that I love you."
    This continued for many years. The Woodsman grew strong and broad-chested, his beard thick and his hands powerful. He made enough each year to keep them in house and home. Eventually his son grew old enough to cherish independence, and one morning he asked his dad if he could explore the forest alone.
    "Alone? I'm not sure that is a good idea, my boy."
    His son, nearly ten years old, looked at him imploringly. "I've been in the woods my whole life, father, but never left your sight. I know the song of the thrush and can follow the path of the fox, I know elderberry from poisonous nightshade, and I just want one morning to explore."
    The Woodsman set down his wooden spoon and considered the boy. His young face was earnest and his eyes shone, and with a sigh the Woodsman realized that he could no longer keep him close by his side every day. "Very well, my son. Today you may explore where you will. But be by the glade where I'm working by midday so that we may lunch together. Understood?"
    His son leapt up with a whoop and ran round the table to embrace the Woodsman. Grabbing his coat, he ran to the door, and turned with a brilliant smile. "I'll see you at lunch, and what tales I'll have to tell you!" Then he ran out the door and was gone.
    The Woodsman smiled for awhile, and then slowly his smile slipped away. He looked out the small open window at the forest close by, and thought of his wife dead these nine long years. He thought of her smile and her merry laugh, her way with animals and her infinite patience. He thought of her hips as she walked, the sinuous way she moved that would drive him mad with passion, and how she would always pause and look over her slender shoulder at him in a manner that he could not resist. Sadness washed over him, and he said out loud, "I miss you, my love. I miss you more each year. Our boy is growing, and soon he will be gone, and then I will be alone in our home, alone with memories of a life we should have shared together."
    He stood then, and took up his ax. It was a mighty ax, with a haft of yew and a blade of black metal that his father had told him had been forged from a fallen star. It could bite into a tree so deeply that only four swings were needed to fell even the greatest of oaks, and once a passing noble had offered him five gold coins for it, but he had refused. The handle was smooth and polished from years of his holding it, and it was his most prized possession. With his ax in hand, the Woodsman left his cottage, harnessed his two horses, and