They told me it was fairy gold, that it would be gone with the dawn. They were wrong; it has not melted away, for all that the boy has.
He told me it was rose gold, the rarest, most precious gift of his homeland in the mountains, a gift of princes. How could I doubt his return, when he had left such an earnest of his intent?
That tale I tell his son, for a son needs a father to be proud of, and how many misfortunes might have befallen the most ardent suitor before he could return to his bride?
But had I borne a daughter, I might have told her the tale the ring itself tells, for a girl needs to be wary of plausible lads whose gold rings leave a green mark on the hand.
I’ve been attempting brevity for this month’s 101fiction submissions. I think this one works better if you don’t know the theme – it’s sadly an old, old story – so I didn’t try too hard to edit it down to 100 words.