A sparse tale: the myth of the beginning of red heads, and their tempers

She sat, frail, pale, folded. Odin stroked his beard, his one eye contemplating a crossword. Only Frigga rose, tight-lipped, and bid her sit at her feet, and undo her blonde tresses.

The Stone comb dragged in and through,
Further and deeper as in her consternation, Frigga realized what this affair could mean.
Loki was a curse at weddings, and now his bastard wolf get: Fenris. Who would not wear a tie, and dribbled rabid hate into the wassail cup.

The Stone comb dragged in and through,
Further and deeper
Its teeth biting down in punishment.
The blood drained from her lips, only to reappear luxuriant, lustrous, till the tips of her hair.

Under the bright moon, the dye set.
She rose, revived, by the water he brought, panting his rage.
The ice has melted on his way back from the world's end.

She gathered her flaming hate around her, and left for an island,
where the clover reminded her of her lover's pug-mark,
before he stretched and entered their cave.

Every full moon she would return bringing the comb, its teeth now dry-dye-darkened.
Once a wolf cub with red fur accompanied her, hackles raised at her feet as he bared his

Teeth.

Frigga, tight-lipped, refused to go down.
Odin stroked his beard, his one eye contemplating the crossword, looking for 4 across: used to chew, times 32.