There would be no more travel past the neighboring lands, as her mother's belly had swollen. Her mother had birthed a girl and a boy as the blind prophet in the Timbana Temple said she would. It was a celebration to behold in Salazā.
Twins meant abundance and were said to bring plentiful plants, the clearest of waters, and more crystals, gold, and silver. And to Salīa's surprise, it had. More travelers had come with more offerings, and more traders of their own filled their pockets.
The only one that wasn't pleased was Salīa. She had more jewels than she'd ever need and more stories than she'd ever heard, yet she saw her mother less and less as the twins aged.
"What beautiful children."
"They deserve many blessings."
"They look like they'll be quite special when they're older."
It certainly was a contrast with how the village gossipers had spoken about Salīa. While her beauty was certainly a ceaseless topic with all the, "look at those long, golden curls," or the, "her crescent eyes are so deeply blue and everchanging," and of course, the many, "her hips are quite large…ahem, it's quite nice," comments, she can't recall many saying she deserved much blessings or that she'll be quite special at any age.
If she were being honest, that wasn't entirely true.
Once upon a time, many did praise her and even smiled back at her. It's not like she wasn't a lovable child. She'd greet everyone with a beaming smile and always say something sweet about them, leaving them to say, "Bless you."
And she was always special in her own way. Her ethereal singing and enthralling storytelling were once highly regarded throughout the land. To top it off, she was skilled in baking, healing, ala-bala, tree-swinging, and strategy games like esche.
She became so well-versed in combat training that even zazi apprentices didn't dare spar with her, and she was a swimmer only bested by fish.
Of course, there were many more things to add to such a list, and she got great joy in seeing how many would remark on it. Though it didn't last before all those things were scoffed at and dismissed ever since that incident.
Now it was…
"What a horrible child."
"She deserves much suffering."
"She looks like she'll be quite difficult when she's older."
Those were still tame compared to some of the more inappropriate cuss words that circled around calling her a demon child. Of course, they weren't referring to her mother as such. Queen Saoa was beloved by all.
Not only was she attractive, but she was deeply compassionate and undeniably clever. Her way of leading the people rivalled that of many other rulers. Yet her choice to have Salīa without her father being known did welcome many tales of who he might be.
And it was only after that incident when demons seemed to follow Salīa's lead, that it cemented in the minds of many villagers and even those within the realm.
The twins, Amandla and Awethu, were also born without their father being known. Yet all that followed them was love. Their presence brought so much abundance to the land that it welcomed year after year of ceaseless celebrations.
Salīa didn't mind that, though. She'd always fear that the villagers might spit that venom on her siblings, and knowing that they hadn't once was more than she could have hoped for.
While the ones saying those things clearly didn't think about it, it did have Salīa crying many times in the shadows.
But what did it matter if she did?
Demons don't cry, right?
That's what she'd tell herself to try and stop, but the sobbing took years before the tears ever dried up. Her mother used to hold her a lot during these times.
Salīa could faintly remember how calm it felt, like the lulling of tropical waves, to be half-asleep as her mother would comb through her curls, humming native lullabies. She'd be dazing off but hum along, and her mother would always tell her how sweet she sounded when she sang.
"I could listen to you forever," she'd say. "The twins will love you once they're here."
Salīa thought so too. When they were born, she'd go to their cradles once her mother was resting and sing to them. And it was true.
They giggled and wrapped their small fingers around Salīa's hands whenever she sang. She'd do this often, yet one time Queen Saoa had woken and immediately made her way to them.
"Ma, you're right, they love—"
"What are you doing?"
Salīa stood statue when she saw her mother's face. It was unmistakably dour and deeply perturbed. She stood protectively over the cradle and stared at Salīa as if she were no less than what the gossipers called her.
"Ma—I was just singing—they always love it when I—"
"Salīa," her mother growled, her face lowering heavily. "Did I say you could go near them?"
Salīa's frozen smile had dropped.
"Ma? You didn't, but I didn't know I couldn't. But look at how they're smiling and—"
"Do not go near or touch them without my permission."
"But—"
"Do you hear me?" she raised her tone, her stare chilling and eyes unblinking.
The babies began crying, yet Queen Saoa kept her eyes firm on Salīa, and Salīa did not dare ask to comfort them. A hollowness latched onto her chest as the air got unbearably cold.
"Yes," Salīa bowed. "Sorry, Ma. I didn't mean to—"
"Go to sleep."
"But—"
"Now."
Gossipers calling her a demon child never stung as much as her mother looking at her as if it were true.
She wasn't sure what had made her mother so angry to treat her so cruelly. The next day her mother seemed gentle again. She never did explain why she was so unkind the night before. Yet as the years passed, this, like many other things, was just another something Salīa had to get used to.
Amandla and Awethu only wanted to get closer to Salīa the older they got. And only once they could walk did their mother allow them to play together.
They were eager to learn many things from her. To sing the songs she once sang. To read the books she opened. To even wear the same clothes she wore.
"Salīa, do you like this cake?" Amandla would ask after attempting to bake something, as Salīa had.
"Salīa, can we play ala-bala again?" Awethu would ask as soon as Salīa got within his eyesight.
"Salīa, can you tell us a story?"
That was possibly their favorite thing to ask just before they rested. And it was no surprise. For Salīa wouldn't just sit and tell an ordinary story.
It would be elaborately narrated with singing of poetry and dancing in moments, and theatrical gestures as the character would. Yet all of this was heavily watched over by assigned guardians or within her mother's presence.
Salīa almost felt like a prisoner being allowed to get fresh air in a forest for good behavior, yet all within a tight cage.
Yet this cage only existed when her brother and sister wanted to be around her. Though they never seemed to notice this themselves, and it was unlikely anyone told them of the rule, as they'd always cling to Salīa and ask if they could join her when she left their home.
She never had the heart to say no, so she'd always find a way to leave when they were busy eating or learning lessons.
There were a few times in which they were allowed to join her, but it became unbearably uncomfortable. As Salīa was used to gliding through the village, sometimes undetected. Yet with her siblings trailing along, so did an army of zazi.
She bared with it the first few times and taught them how to tree-swing and swim in the waterfall, yet all the lingering eyes were too much. She had just gotten used to being called such foul things, she didn't want to also have to adjust to people suspecting that her mother felt the same about her, and that's why her siblings had so many guardians to protect them.
Though in the end, it didn't matter how they felt. As Amandla and Awethu always ran straight into her arms and greeted her with unshakeable smiles.
"Look, what I made you," Amandla said.
"No, look what I made you," Awethu would nudge in.
They always cutely ran up to her with something new to get attention, whether a painting or wooden carved figures of them. It made it easier to forget who else was watching.
She'd proudly scoop them up and spin them around, for she truly loved them and had no interest in letting them think otherwise. So, each year for their birthdays, when they asked her to make them cakes instead of the servants, she wasted no time.
One birthday, while they were chomping away with some friends they had made and all had sung, her mother, who had watched from afar, waved her hand.
"Sweet Salīa, come sit with me."
Salīa felt a mushy warmth fill up her chest. Her mother hadn't called her Sweet Salīa in a long time. She sat a respectable distance away, her head bowed. Though her mother asked her to come closer.
"Should I comb your hair?"
"Really?" she lit up.
She didn't intend to be so pitiful in how happy she got in asking. Yet her mother chuckled and nodded.
Salīa tried nodding just once, yet found she couldn't stop doing so or beaming with smiles until her jaw ached. This too had been something she hadn't been asked in a while.
Her mother was always quite meticulous, slow, and caring in each brush and tender with the tangles Salīa often accumulated.
There was no humming from her mother this time, just silence until her mother's hand trembled. Salīa opened her mouth to speak yet was cut off by her mother saying, "I'm sorry."
"Sorry? There's nothing to be sorry for, ma."
"Just hear me." Her voice even trembled, having Salīa want to turn to comfort her, yet was too scared. "I'm sorry about the time at the cradle."
Oh.
Salīa wanted to say she didn't have to say it, but her mouth wouldn't move. Thinking back to that time had her trembling.
"I was worried about things that had nothing to do with you, but I blamed you still and handled it poorly. Babies can be fragile, and I feared that…well, anyway.
I know you meant well, and I know you'd sooner end your own life than watch harm come to them. I know because I'd do the same for any one of you."
Her arms wrapped around her daughter as she kissed the back of her head, knowing that Salīa was struggling to suppress her sniffles.
"And of course they liked your singing. Just a few hums from you is enough to make even the bitterest soul go sweet."
Queen Saoa was rendered to tears, and Salīa spun around, hugging her tightly. She even dare tease her mother and say, "You're a bit of a cry-baby, you know that?"
The servants' eyes widened at Salīa's words, fearful of what Queen Saoa might do. Yet all she did was chuckle boisterously and say, "Oh, shush. You're worse than me, just look at you."
Her mother was right. For just as her, Salīa's face was soaked in tears and her eyes red as more poured down. They held on for a while before her mother continued combing.
Once down, she sighed and said, "While I am sorry, some things must remain the same. I don't want you to be alone with them. You understand?"
Salīa felt those words pierce through her chest and almost had her yelling that she did, in fact, not understand. But she just nodded.
"Ok. You don't want to ask me why?"
"No," Salīa said. "Because if you wanted to tell me, you would. And if you don't, I'm sure there's a good reason."
She didn't see it, but her mother was stunned at such a response. And her mother didn't say anything to counter it either.
"Salīa," Amandla and Awethu ran up, both tugging on her hands. "Come play."
Salīa sighed, about to refuse, yet her mother said, "Go have fun."
And so, they did.
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