Liset Rosaire, a woman who reached an infamous reputation at a young age. She was known as the devil of the North. Some considered her a legend, a tale one would tell to men who thought of doing horrible things to women. Though this legend, she was very real. She was wanted for hundreds of murders, castrations, theft, and acts of humiliation to men in every direction of Scandinavia. In some parts of the countries she was worshipped as a vengeful spirit who protected women, and saved them from monsters that were men.
She considered rape an act worse than death.
“With death, I determine when I die. The moment where my arms are too weak, and my legs are too slow. The moment where the gods turn away from me, and my friends leave me… and the moment you give up on me, that is when I die. I determine that, through my actions, my opportunities and path. No one chooses to be raped. The pain I receive in battle leave me when I die, but when someone is broken like that, that pain lasts longer than death. That is the reason I end the lives of those who commit such actions. Do you understand, Thomas?” She would justify her actions to me. She justified them with such bold eyes, and firmly believed her actions were right. I couldn’t question her logic, and couldn’t deny her.
Something about her, something about her resonated something great inside my heart. She somehow stopped my soul from feeling so burdened. She understood me, and with the same hue of green my eyes had, she looked at me with such enthrallment, such protectiveness. It was like I was the only man she didn’t despise.
I remember when I saw her for the first time; I was fifteen years old, and my father had pushed me to an early death. I had received several wounds from his and his friends, his so called brothers. I was bleeding through my bandages, my legs grew heavy, my arms grew numb. I was losing a lot of blood. Some of my tattoos showed in between the stitching of the bandages. My temperature was too high, and I thought I had met my end. I had two broken fingers, and felt the fragments of broken bone in my shin as I walked. I had taken too much of the willow tree powder to see clearly.
When I fell to my knees I coughed blood; I turned onto my back, and leant against the tree. I drifted in and out of consciousness, and after, perhaps, awakening for the fourth time, a woman had approached me, pulling my left eye open, judging my condition. I remembered her green, piercing eyes… was that what my eyes looked like? No wonder people stare. She asked me the same question three times, “Are you Trinson’s son?” It took until the third time to realise she wasn’t here to end my life. When I nodded, she went through the sack that I had stolen from my father, along with his cloak, and sword. She took out these round balls of mixed powder, and a cloth full of herbs. Before I fell unconscious a fourth time, I remember what a beautiful voice she had.
She had a pale face, long rose-like hair, a dark red-ginger tinge in her hair that made it shine like the red petals of a rose. She had a curvaceous body, and a scar along her neck; a horizontal one. Something about her petrified me, but as the same time, attracted me to her. I wondered if I was attracted to pain. When I woke up, she had gone, and I was left on my own to survive. Though, that was only the beginning of our story. For, she went to put my father off my scent, and it gave me enough time to escape, she didn’t abandon me.