She Loves Me, She Loves Me Not

Chapter 2 - The Dried White Roses

   "Why are you late?" My father roared at me by way of a greeting. I just got to his shack in the wood outside of town. He lives just west from my home about ten minutes walking. The shack was old and falling apart just like my father. There was only three rooms in the whole house, a living room, a bathroom, and a bedroom. There was only two rickety chairs in the living room and an end table in between them. The two chairs faced the wood burning fire place that kept the place warm at night and during winter. There was a layer of dust over everything and it smelled strongly of musk.
   "I had to go to Patrick Lloyd's place. His wife was murdered so I had to talk to him about what he wants to do for flowers." I grumbled. That was my least favorite part of the job. I didn't mind honoring the dead but all the emotions were annoying. Death happens to everyone at some point. It may happen suddenly but it's bound to happen eventually.
   I got this attitude from my father as he huffed and dismissed my reason as he said, "It happens to us all."
   He let out a wet cough that shook his body. I winced from the sound. I hated the fact that his health was failing so quickly over the last two years. He refused to come back to my home to let me care for him. He was stubborn and preferred to be all alone.
   "Stop looking at me with pity. I don't need your pity. I thought you were stronger than this. You're just like your mother." Disgust filled his voice as his jade eyes glared at me from under his mop of silver hair.
   He knew exactly what to say to ignite my anger that burned within. I met his eyes as I said, "I'm nothing like her. She abandoned us and is hiding behind the king as his new wife. I would never be such a coward."
   He smirked, "Good. Let's not waste anymore time. Get outside and let's run some drills."
   He stood up and grabbed his cane and made his wobbly steps toward the door. I followed like I did almost every day to train.
   He used to be the best warrior and commander the king had. That was until the king had called a meeting with my father and had sent his men on a mission without his knowledge. That mission had cost all of his men their lives. He retired after that. He couldn't serve a king he didn't respect. The king had taken more then just his men. My mother had left my father and married the king twelve years before my father retired. Something in him changed after that. He had become angrier and felt betrayed by both his wife and king.
   My mother had followed him when he'd moved to this shack and gave birth to me. She'd said she would always follow my father no matter where they went. But that was a lie. I was only six when she left. I never understood why she'd left. My father had always told me that she'd left because she hated us. That's why she'd married the king and had another daughter. Over the years since then, my father has taught me all he knows about fighting, tracking, calculating outcomes, reading enemies, and what to do with any sort of injury.
   A smile and a nod were the most I could get from him that indicated he was pleased with how I was learning. When he wasn't pleased he would make sure I would not make that mistake again. I had multiple scars to prove that.
   One of my scars was from sword fighting practice. I was dueling against my father in the clearing behind his shack. He was in much better health back then. It was when I'd first started a relationship with Luke, about four years ago. The same time I'd left the shack and moved into the cabin. My mind was not focused and it had been obvious to my father.
   He'd quickly backed me up to a fallen tree. All of his weight had went into bringing the two hand sword down on my head. I'd been able to bring mine up in time to block. But failed to notice the sudden lift of pressure off my sword as he'd kicked me square in the stomach and sent me flying into the downed tree. My leg had hit the tree causing me to spin. I had no control over my sword as I went crashing down. The sword dug into my side causing blood to gush out immediately. I laid on the ground trying to get breath into my lungs from having it knocked out of me. I'd clutched my side and had clenched my teeth to keep from screaming. I'd been in so much pain.
   My father had come over and looked down on me and growled, "This is why you never let things distract you. You have a crush on a boy? Get rid of him. He is only a distraction and will not help you. You're sad about leaving and being on your own? Get over it. I can't baby you your whole life. Got it?"
   My face had been scrunched in pain. I finally had my breath back but I couldn't form words so I'd just nodded.
   He'd bent down to examine my wound, "Move your hands so I can see. I'll teach you what to do when something like this happens."
   I'd obeyed and he taught me how to make a tourniquet. That way I could make it however far I'd need to go inorder to reach supplies to disinfect and close it. He had helped me up and made me walk back to the shack. He'd said, "I'm not always going to be here so you can't rely on me to always come to your aid. You need to do this by yourself. But, I wouldn't take too long to get to your supplies to disinfect that. The infection could spread quickly and your chances of survival will get smaller."
   I can still remember the pain when I had picked up the pace to get inside. Once I had made it inside my father listed all the items I could use to disinfect it. He'd pushed me down on one of his chairs facing the fire that had been burning in the fireplace.
   "I'll do it this first time so you don't actually die from not doing it well enough." He'd grabbed a bottle of alcohol and poured it onto my wound and wiped it occasionally. A scream erupted from me from the pain.
   My father had smirked, "That's not even the worst part. You're wound is deep and it won't stop bleeding on its own."
   Sweat ran down my face as I'd panted out, "What does that mean? Am I going to die?"
   "No. It means I have to cauterize it." He'd said flatly. I turned pale. He'd grabbed the poker from the fire and had laid it on my wound. Another scream erupted from me right before I had passed out. It had left a permanent scar on my left side.
   He taught me many things. Tough love was the only way to learn. You won't survive if you are weak and babied. Don't talk just to talk because that could be used against you. Don't show too much emotion because that could be used against you. Not everyone was able to handle this way of learning but to my father that was the only way to teach.
   Sometimes I didn't care for it. Coming home to tell my father about how well I'd done in school only to get a head nod. But when I came home from school and had been crying because someone kissed the boy I liked. I'd been greeted with back handed smack to the face "You're a fool! You can't display your emotions like that or tell such things so openly. What did you expect to happen? There's no such things as friends when they are tempted by any thing they desire. You displayed weaknesses and they were exploited. Do not make this mistake again. I taught you better than this."
   Many things were drilled into my head and one that I held the closest was death before dishonor. This is why I kept dried white roses as a reminder at my home and the flower shop. A dried white rose meant that death was preferable to loss of virtue.
   That was the only thing I'd learned from my mother. The love of flowers and the history of them. Many used flowers to send messages to others years ago. Many don't remember the old ways and just saw the pretty flowers and colors.
   My mother was the definition of weak according to my father. She'd always displayed her emotions. At least at first. She used to always have a smile on her face. Her dark blue eyes were like ocean waves with rivets of sky blue. I got my obsidian black hair and tan complexion from her. But over the years she'd became silent and distant. And one day she never came back.
   "I'll always love you Dahlia. Do you know what a dahlia means?" She'd asked while she stroked my hair one night while I laid on my makeshift bed. It had been just a pile of blankets on the floor in the living room. I shook my head. "It means dignity and elegance," she kissed the top of my head. "Don't let your father take that away and make you into something icky, okay?"
   Back then I was confused by what she meant. But now I understand. She didn't want me to turn into an unfeeling brute, a slob. But you could be a fighter and still be elegant. Is that why she left? Did I disgust her? It didn't make sense to me. Why would you break a promise to your family to always be there over something like that?