death and new life
The feeling of losing a loved one is incomparable.
The moment she felt the life exit his body, she felt a piece of herself leave with him. But Jasmine continued to cradle him in her arms, not quite crying. Her shoulders shook, though she made no sound. And then - a teardrop slid down the tip of her nose and she watched it fall and land on his chest. She cursed the drop, and the rest that ignored her protestations and trickled down her face. She was the kingdom's headstrong princess, a symbol of independence. How could she disappoint them by bursting into tears for all to see?
But the longer she held him, the longer she wept. And suddenly, she stopped caring about what anyone might have thought. He was hers and he was gone. And what was she to do now?
Carry on, of course.
But she was not so certain about 'carrying on' when she sat by the deathbed of her father. She could bear to see him like this. He had always been diminutive man, but had always displayed a measure of power and regality that she so admired. Here, however, here in the darkened room he was so small against the pillows.
"My sweet flower," he whispered, lightly touching the end of her long braid, fingering the pale blue band around the end, "you are strong. Stronger than any man I have ever known. And beautiful, beautiful as your mother once was."
Again, she felt the sting of tears pricking her eyes, unsure what to say. "Papa, you're - you're speaking as if it is the end..."
"But it is, my flower," the Sultan said, lifting his hand to her face when a single tear trailed down her cheek. "And you will hold your head high as you always have, love."
"Papa, I - love you so much," Jasmine choked, "I am so afraid of what is to come."
"Fear has a place in our lives, but you cannot allow it to alter your path." He smiled and reached for her hand to kiss it. "Please, open the window so I can smell the jasmine."
She nodded and kissed his cheek quickly, squeezing his hand before slipping away to pull the curtains back, breathing in the scent of her namesake, feeling the sun on her golden skin.
And he was gone with the breeze.
It was not until the next day that the true gravity of his death dawned on her. Jasmine had lost a father, but a kingdom has lost its Sultan. And, as she was a widowed young woman with no husband and no prospects - she was to become Sultana. Their queen and single ruler.
Never before in the history of the land had this happened. And to her surprise, there were some who had faith in her. "She fights like a man," one would say, "I shall put my trust in the princess."
Like a man. All her life, she fought against her own femininity. From her insistence to train with the soldiers to her reluctance to wear dresses and bare her midriff, as was called by the traditional clothing of the time.
At her coronation, as the crown was placed atop her head, she made a vow. She would cease to act like a man and simply be herself. Not a mere girl but a woman now, a woman who had the potential to lead the kingdom into its bright future.
She was strong. Not because she tried to be a man, but because of the life she had lived up until that point - the fighting, the traveling, the people with which she surrounded herself. Even death.