All caretakers have a love for the Tree, but some express this love differently. Maiden took care to nurture Tree's roots, and to tend to its infant buds. Philomel, however, was one who expressed her love through sweat and song. It may seem strange that these two things should go together: we think of sweat as dirty, as the waste product of toil, of nothing but the result of a body being subjected to harsh conditions. Song, on the other hand, seems salubrious in its lack of struggle, transcendent and ethereal, impossible to distill to physical form. But really, sweat and song have much in common, and the essences of both mingle in the rose. Philomel understood this fact perhaps better than any caretaker, as she often sang while she worked. The rhythm of her breath and of her lyric matched that of her movement. You'd think her breath would have been labored, but maybe singing came easier to Philomel than breathing. So for her, song and strain were the same activity, and both were in honor of Tree.
When it comes to caring for things that grow, there is always work to be done. And just as with all other labor, caring for Tree comes with just as much struggle as there is ease. Because Tree serves as the first home of all green things, there are just as many spines and thorns as there are vines and fruit. One day, as Philomel was toiling away, she was working in one of the more hard-to-reach and body-tight spaces between Tree's interlacing branches. She came to a point where it was hard to turn without sticking into a pricking sharp thorn, but having spent years getting to know Tree's shape and shifting she was able to work even here without much trouble. However, Philomel was also so used to the pricking sticking feeling of the harsher parts of Tree that she hardly noticed when a particularly sharp barb poked through her skin and she began to bleed. Droplets dripped down, mingling with sweat, and all the while she continued to sing. Philomel's blood, sweat, and song seeped through the porous bark of Tree, mixing in with some of its own being. From this spot there sprouted new leaves, new stems, branches, and thorns. All the while, Philomel continued to sing. She sang, and sweat, and sang, and before long the new plant recognized itself in her tune. Before too long a new flower began to bloom.
Thus was the birth of the rose, the first and blood-red. Philomel we now know by many names and many new songs, Nightingale we call her. In various lays it's often sung that Nightingale sings to Rose having been enchanted by the blooming scent. But this is not the case, as Rose gets her sweetness from Nightingale's sweat and song. If this seems strange, think on what you know of these two things: both sweat and song can be quite intoxicating. And what do we ask of rose-fragrance but a sense of reprieve? And where else do we find such a thing? All benefit that one can gain from body damp and melody we now find mirrored in Rose's sweet.