"And thats why the roses have their thorns", Rosa finished, clutching Thóranna in her lap, who was captivated by the sound of her mothers voice.
"Bed time"
"No mama!" Thóranna squirms. Rósa sets her on the bed and looks at her with a firm eye.
"Hurry up now, or Grýla will take you in her sack with the other naughty children, boil you up and eat you!"
Thóranna hid under the blanket and was quiet. Rósa looked down and laughed to her self silently, turning to get into her own bed.
A knock and a small voice made her turn and look at the door
"Rósa, a letter have arrived for you from Breidabolstader." Rósa took the letter and dissmissed the servant, turning to sit on the bed and breaking the red seal of wax and began to read the letter.
A tear traveld down the valley of her cheek, droping on the paper and bluring a word, like the first drop of rain on a downpour that would last for days.
"Dead," she whispered, aghast, looking foward into nothing. She lay back on the bed now, staring at the ceiling, noting that the hay needed to be changed, trying to think of anything, ANYTHING, than the fact that he was dead.
She stayed in this satae for an indefinate amount of time, only rising breifly in the early morn to put Thóranna back down. Her eyes did not close once at this time either, she just kept staring.
She didnt evem react with the usual "Good morning", when her husband, Olaf, kissed her on the cheek. He thiughy nothing of it, as Rósa had turned to face the wall.
He continued to the kitchen and starting to eat breakfast, by the sounds of Thóranna fusing and the kettle whistling. It wasnt to all this noise had been that Rósa finally fell into a dark deep sleep.
Rósa awoke early the next morn, before the sun rose, before the first bird chirpes. This was when she set out for her greatest friends house, Lagartha, as she awoke early aswell and had no husband to order her aroud.
She was rhe subject of much gossip as she never married, preferring to live alone in and inherited house and servants. Rósa stood infront of the door, raising her hand to knock.
Lagartha, who had seen her coming up the arch of the hill, flung the door open and pulled Rósa into a tight embrace.
They stayed locked in that embrace for a few moments more.
"Come inside Rósa, surely you must be freezing ?"
Rósa looked at her with dead eyes. Lagartha, realising her mistake turned and scoled herself and grabed a bowl of gruel for herslef and her friend.
"So i guess you've heard then", Lagartha enquired, after taking a mouthful of warm grains.
"Yes", was the only word that could fall from her mouth. Lagartha looked down.
"I guess you would never of thought she had it in her, being his servant and all..." Lagartha trailed of, sensing something was amiss. She looked up and saw that Rósa was staring at her with pericing eyes
"Who?" The syllable trembled of her chapped lips. She sat down her gruell on the bench next to her and turned her head towards Lagartha.
"You know, the servant girl, Agney, Agenen, something like that", she sputtered, looking away from the fire that was buildimg in Rósas eyes. Abruptly she stood up
"I have to go", she croaked out, turning and almost tripping in her haste to leave.
And she ran
She ran out as fast as she could towards her home, tearing inside and finding her bound poems and tearing back out, ignoring the crys from Thóranna and Oláfs starled questioning.
She started running again to find her place, their place, and sitting down on the worn log in front of the burnt out fire place. She reached foward and grabed a peice of charcoal and began to write.
She took all her sadness, all her grief, all her anger and put it into her poems. There she sat for hours, belling rumbling, throat thirsting, until the sun began to sink into the earth and she had poured her broken heart into the words.
She returned home at dusk and collapsing into her bed she slept, but did not dream.
The next week everyone was buzzing over the poem the Skáld-Rósa and preformed at the local weekly council meeting, many speculating, but some know the threat behind this poem.
Oh, how my heart will weep
When I hear of your defeat
No time for lie
Your death is nigh
Soon you will be peat
