In the grand room of the Dahabi castle, Princess Aisha, a tender seven-year-old, stood beside her mama. Her small hand was securely clasped within her mother’s, providing a sense of comfort and reassurance. The atmosphere was filled with anticipation as the King of Thalabed, accompanied by his eight-year-old son, entered the room.
Her Baba, the King of Alkuthban approached King Harun of Thalabed with a warm smile, extending his hand in greeting. “Welcome, dear friend to Alkuthban.” The little boy, whom she supposed to be the prince Hassan whom she had heard so much about, looked at her, his green eyes squinting as he took in her golden dress. “Come with me to my office. We have much to discuss.” Her Baba said, his voice carrying an air of diplomacy. The two kings retreated to her father’s office, leaving the children and her mother in the grand room.
“Aisha. Take Prince Hassan with you to the drawing room to play with your toys.” Aisha bowed her head to her mother, ushering him behind her as she rushed out of the grand room. They ran to the lavish drawing room which was adorned with ornate furnishings and vibrant tapestries. Princess Aisha and Prince Hassan found themselves alone. Their young hearts were blissfully unaware of the tensions and conflicts that surrounded their families. They were more so unaware that their lives, their souls were to be sold and become tangible. Innocence and curiosity radiated from their eyes as they began to play with her toys.
Aisha, with her curly locks bouncing with every step, tugged at Hassan’s arm, urging him to join her in a game with her favorite toy castle. His eyes sparkled mischievously as he picked to play the prince. Both children immersed themselves in the game, their laughter and childish delight echoing through the room as they created a world of their own imagination within the confines of the palace walls with all but a mini castle to play with. “This is beginning to bore me. How about we play chase?”
The young prince, fueled by exuberance, playfully pushed Aisha, intending to engage her in a game of chase just as he had asked her. Aisha lost her footing and tumbled to the floor, her small frame crashing against the carpeted surface. Her face was scrunched up as she let out a whimper of pain. Tears welled up in her eyes, threatening to spill over. She had twisted her wrist.
Hassan, unaware of what he had just done, chuckled at Aisha’s fall, dismissing her pain. “You are so weak!” He had teased continuously, his voice laced with superiority. His words pierced through Aisha’s fragile emotions, intensifying her distress as more tears spilled on her reddened cheeks. “Why are you crying? You barely fell!”
Aisha sniffled, her teary eyes meeting Hassan’s gaze. Being the child that he was, barely at the age of maturity, Hassanrepeated those foul words, calling her weak continuously as Aisha sat on the ground. He told her to get up but she did not. Frustrated, Hassan huffed before he left the drawing room behind with Aisha sitting on the floor, her cheeks and nose red from the tears.
Those words remained with her for long. She never seemed to forget them. He called her weak. Maybe she was weak?
That night, the word haunted her dreams as she heard a voice chanting it in her head. Weak.
From that day forward, she vowed to never cry. She vowed to ignore her pain and distress. She vowed that she would not be weak just as the childish prince had named her to be.
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