This is something we needed to do for school. It is my version of how the rose was made.

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The gods had called it, predicted it for years in the stars, the wedding between two mortals. The whole affair had been planned since the day the two had been born, the marriage of the century, blessed even before the day by Hera, goddess of marriage. The bride sat in the chair in front of the mirror, the maids fiddling with her hair, twisting it into curls that would rival the goddess of beauty, Aphrodite, filling her hair with fresh flowers brought by Antheia, goddess of flowers. The dress was made by the finest thread, and spun by Athena herself. The dress shimmered in the light of the morning sun, and was the purest white any one had ever beheld. When the maids had finished dressing the bride, she was a beauty to behold. Her pale skin was set with gems of all colors, stringing from her neck and wrists.

The bride’s father entered the room, sweeping his little girl up into his arms and whispering words of encouragement, and of how proud he was. Taking her arm, the two of them exited the room, and made their way to the garden were all were gathered. The two strolled in, eyes shinning with excitement. Looking at all who had assembled in front of the grounds, and were gazing in wonder at the bride.

The groom stood, his back tall and strong, a sword made by Hephaestus hanging at his side. His eyes shining with love for the bride. The priest gave the ceremony and the bride and groom were banded forever.

Not long afterwards the groom left taking the bride with him to their new home. She had wanted to stay, be with her family, and friends, and the ground she had grew up with but her husband had not prevailed. She had begged and pleaded not to make her leave her family, but nothing could sway him. He took her with him, ripping her away from everything she had grown up with. She loved him, no doubt about that, with her heart and mind, as he did her, but she felt lost without the things that were a part of her, if not attached. But she held herself high, as mortals blessed by gods and goddesses should, and stood above all.

Later a child was born. He was a beautiful child, and one that everyone was in love with, the kind that could do no wrong. The mother loved him, and nurtured him, like every mother should, but he too was taken from her. She cried her soul out through the night, and begged again with her husband, father of the child, to let the boy stay, but he refused, saying it was for the better, as everything he ever did for her was. The mother grieved and cried, wearing nothing but black for months on end, but she never saw her child again. She gave birth to another child, a girl this time, but the same thing happened. The love that had burned so fiercely in the maiden started to dwindle, the respect for the man she had married started to fade. They fought constantly, everything they did conflicting with the other; no peace was ever in the house.

One day the husband left, staying out late into the night. The wife sat staring out the window, worrying, and hoping that he would come home to her. Finally she saw the light of a lantern, and she sagged slightly with relief. He came through the door, and his wife jumped on to him, showering him with hugs and kisses, but soon she turned toward questions, why had he gone? How could he have? What did he think he was doing? An argument erupted; the yelling could be heard all the way to Mt. Olympus, home of the gods. Then the words turned toward hatred, the wife yelling out everything she had kept inside. He had kept her from her home, took her from her family, and stripped her of her children. She did not love the man she had married anymore. The husband had struck her on the face, as the woman started to yell even more. But when he had struck her she fell silent. She swept out the door, past her drunken husband. Leaving the life she had been forced to lead behind.

She wandered the forest, eating what she could, and cursing Hera for the marriage she had been forced to make. One night Hera came down to her, and asked her why she had left her husband. The maiden replied, “The love that you had promised was not there. It was at first, but only because I was blind. Blind to what he would do to me, to my family.” Hera shook her head, replying that ignorance was bliss, but the woman replied, “Ignorance was a fool’s tool, something that people need when they aren’t strong enough to face the truth.” With those words spoken to her, Hera parted, saying that she would pay.

Months later the woman stumbled across a hunter. He took pity on her and brought her into his home. Soon the two fell into love. But not ignorant love like before, love that the two could share without secretes, or hiding one’s self from the other. Years passed, and the woman forgot about Hera’s warning. They were never blessed with children, for they never did ask, not wanting to bring unwanted attention to the woman who had run away from her marriage.

Coming back from a hunting trip, the hunter went back to his humble cottage to see his wife, and show her the rabbit that they were going to have for supper, but he stopped when he saw the door slightly ajar. His heartbeat quickened as he quieted his steps and entered his home. There, in the center of the floor was his wife’s body, covered with blood. By the body stood the goddess Hera. She stood in a puddle of the girl’s blood, a knife in her hands. “Ignorance is bliss, forgetting things is not. It is forgetful, stupid, and perhaps shows you don’t have the courage to remember. The past is what makes the future, without the past you have no future. She forgot her past, so she has no future. She is dead.” With that Hera left, brushing past the man in the doorway, and tracking blood over the floor.

He stood there, gazing at the body of the one who he loved. Antheia watched the man cry from her place in Mt. Olympus. Taking pity on the poor man, she came down to him, and bent to the blood. “By the words of Hera, ‘To forget the past is to show you don’t have the courage to remember,’ remember. But it is hard to remember if you have nothing to remember it by.”

Kneeing down by the puddle of blood, Antheia touched it with her finger. As she raised her finger from the blood, a flower of utmost beauty bloomed. The petals the color of shimmering blood. The petal’s shape was of a drop, a single drop of ruby red blood. The thorns ringed the stem of the rose, so none could pluck it from its home. Sharp as any sword, dainty as any needle. By the blood of a young maiden it was made; the love that had ringed her, encircled her, shaped her, the flower had been made.

Antheia rose to her feet. Glancing at the man. She started to speak again, “The flower is called the rose, as it rose from the blood that was spilt from your wife. The thorns are the courage she had to run away and defy what was set before her. But they do not cover all of her, for there were faults with what she did. Remember her by the rose, and the symbol of the love for the woman. Yet see the faults and the flaws that she had.” With that Antheia left, leaving the man with the rose.

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