Nothing Special

She used to think she was special, to catch the Sultan's eye as she did—as she had. Before the Sultan, she thought she was nothing special. So she had black hair? So did most of the women in Agrabah. In England, she would have been exotic, beautiful even. But here, in the desert land of Agrabah, she was nothing more than another servant walking around the palace in hopes of perhaps having a single conversation with the Sultan. But she wasn't in England, and in Agrabah she was just another woman, regular in every way. She scrubbed things and kissed royals' feet. She was normal.

Then the Sultan took interest in her, insisting on taking her out, bringing her flowers, charming her in every way possible. Gifting her rubies and diamonds and all the other kinds of jewels any person could ever imagine. She thought that when the Sultan took her to bed, life would be different. That he would propose, marry, and make an honest woman out of her.

Now, as they carry her newborn daughter away, leaving her covered in her own blood and womb fluids, she thinks she should have known better. She cries for the midwife to give her her child, to let her see the girl's sweet face at least once. Just once, she begs, and to no avail. The midwife ignores her, handing the newborn to the Sultan, who had been absent for the entirety of her labor. No one looks at her; she knows they think she is beneath them, all the medicine men refuse to so much as touch her. She sobs as her newborn wails, aching to hold the baby girl and sooth her, but the Sultan does it first, rocking her in his arms. It is a sweet sight, and if the fact that he was taking her from her before she so much laid eyes on the baby wasn't hanging over her head like a knife on the guillotine, she would have enjoyed it. But it is and she doesn't; she cries for her baby girl, nameless and faceless and still loved, because she carried that child and loved it before this man, the Sultan, had ever even laid eyes on her.

She wants to see her baby girl's face. Kiss her forehead. Hold her, as every mother should have a right to. That nameless child in the Sultan's arms with beautiful dark hair is hers, not the Sultan's. The Sultan has the entirety of Agrabah, he does not need her baby girl the way she does.

She can only see the crown of the girl's head, the silky dark locks of hair that mark the child has her daughter. Hers. She begs, again, to be allowed to hold her, to love her. Again, she is ignored. She wants to see the girl's eyes, hold her soft body in her arms and be allowed to fall in love with her as only a mother can. But the Sultan kisses the baby's forehead and walked away, leaving the girl's mother—his own lover—in bloodied pain, not so much as looking back.

She should have known. She is nothing special. She is nothing more than a womb on legs. She is not someone who should be allowed to hold, to see, the newborn princess—her daughter—because she is not worthy. She is just a concubine.

She is still crying as they clean her and force her out of the palace, though she is barely able to walk on her own two legs. She leaves, crying, sobbing, and without knowing so much as her daughter's own name. Because, after all, she had just been a concubine to the Sultan. Nothing special.