IKALABING-ANIM NA KABANATA - tr. CHAPTER 16
Sabihin mong mahal mo ako
Tell me you love me
DIWA
Today, I stayed at home. I felt delicate because I am pregnant. I often felt nauseous and had many aversions to food. If I did eat, I would just vomit it out.
Lila was taking care of me because I requested it from the Rajah.
"Do you feel better now, Diwa?" Lila asked.
I just smiled at her. "I'm fine now, Lila, you can go and rest."
She nodded and bowed. Soon, she was gone. Silence enveloped my surroundings.
Lila told me that I shouldn't think too much because I am pregnant. But I couldn't help but think about what was happening in our village now.
The foreigners who arrived, and the anger of Vray's father. But no matter how angry they were, they were afraid to challenge the Rajah.
I closed my eyes tightly.
I wasn't surprised when I found out I was pregnant. But why now? When... I had so many plans.
"What are you thinking about, Diwa?"
I was startled when I heard the Rajah's voice. I opened my eyes and found him standing in front of me. He smiled and attended to me. He kissed my forehead and placed his hand on my still small belly.
"What are you thinking about?" he asked.
"The problems," I answered with a small smile.
"I'll take care of the problems, my love," he said and kissed my cheek. "Don't think about those things anymore."
I closed my eyes and sighed. I leaned back and massaged my temples. "I can't help it, my Rajah. The foreigners, they are taking what is ours."
He didn't speak. I just felt his kisses.
From my cheek down to my neck. I opened my eyes and held onto his strong, sun-kissed arms. The scent of the ocean and the distant sound of waves crashing against the shore filled the air. We were in our bamboo and nipa hut, its walls adorned with intricate carvings and woven mats. I couldn't speak, and neither could he. When he looked up at me, he stared before bending down to kiss my lips. It had been a long time since we last made love.
His kiss was gentle at first, a tender brush of lips that sent a shiver down my spine. I could feel the warmth of his breath mingling with mine, and the world around us seemed to fade away. His hands, strong yet tender, moved to cradle my face, deepening the kiss.
"I've missed you," he whispered against my lips, his voice filled with emotion.
"I've missed you too," I replied, my voice barely more than a breath as I pulled him closer.
The kiss grew more passionate, more urgent, as if we were trying to make up for all the lost time. His lips left mine, trailing a path of kisses down my jawline and back to my neck, where he lingered, making my breath hitch.
"Diwa," he murmured against my skin, his voice husky with desire. "I can't bear to be apart from you any longer."
"Then don't," I whispered, my fingers tangling in his hair. "Stay with me."
His hands moved down, caressing my body with a familiarity that made my heart race. I arched into his touch, feeling the heat between us building.
"I promise," he said, his eyes locking onto mine, filled with a mixture of love and longing. "I'll always be here for you."
His lips found mine again, and this time the kiss was deeper, more intense. I could feel the love and longing in every movement, every touch. We were lost in each other, the world outside forgotten.
Slowly, he guided me back onto the woven mat, his body pressing against mine. Our breaths mingled, our hearts beat in unison. In that moment, nothing else mattered. It was just us, together.
"Tell me you love me," he whispered, his voice trembling with emotion.
I stared at his beautiful face. "I love you," I replied.
*****
The Rajah never left my side. For several months, I felt the life within me growing, a constant reminder of the profound love Rajah Maisog and I shared. Each day, the bond between us deepened as we anticipated the arrival of our child. The Babaylan, with her wisdom and ancient knowledge, finally declared that the time was near—I was close to giving birth.
The months leading up to that moment were filled with a mixture of joy and apprehension. Rajah Maisog ensured that I was surrounded by comfort and care. He personally oversaw the preparation of our home, making sure it was a haven for our growing family. The women of the village, led by the Babaylan, offered their guidance and support, sharing remedies and practices that had been passed down through generations.
The night was thick with tension, the air heavy with anticipation. The moon hung low in the sky, casting a silver glow over our village. The sounds of nature seemed to hush, as if the world itself was holding its breath in expectation. Inside our hut, the flickering light of torches danced across the walls, casting eerie shadows that moved like phantoms in the dim light. The village had gathered outside, their presence a comforting reminder of the community's unity and strength.
I lay on a bed of soft woven mats, my face contorted in pain as another contraction gripped me. The Babaylan hovered nearby, her hands moving with practiced precision as she prepared for the birth. Her presence was a source of comfort, her eyes reflecting years of experience and the calm assurance of her craft. Rajah Maisog knelt beside me, his strong hand clasping mine, his eyes filled with concern and unwavering support.
"You are strong, Diwa," he whispered, his voice steady despite the turmoil around us. "We will get through this together."
I nodded, my breath coming in ragged gasps. Each contraction brought me closer to the moment of truth, the culmination of months of waiting and hoping. The Babaylan's chants filled the room, a soothing rhythm that seemed to connect the earth and the heavens. Her voice was a bridge between the mortal and the divine, guiding me through the pain.
The night felt endless, each moment stretching as the contractions intensified. The Babaylan's assistants moved quietly, bringing water and fresh cloths. Outside, the villagers kept a vigil, their low murmurs and prayers reaching our ears. The whole community seemed to be sharing in this intimate, powerful experience, their collective energy lending me strength.
With one final, agonizing push, I felt a rush of relief as the cries of our newborn filled the air. The Babaylan gently lifted the baby, a son, and placed him in my trembling arms. Tears streamed down my face as I looked at the tiny, perfect being I had brought into the world. His small hands grasped the air, his eyes squinting against the newness of life.
Rajah Maisog's eyes softened as he gazed at our son, a mixture of pride and love evident in his expression. He leaned down and kissed my forehead, his voice choked with emotion. "Our son, Diwa. He is beautiful."
I smiled weakly, my exhaustion evident but overshadowed by the overwhelming joy of motherhood. "Yes, he is. Our future, our hope."
As the night wore on, the village celebrated the birth of the Rajah's son, their future leader. The sounds of drums and joyous singing echoed through the night, a communal expression of joy and hope for the future. But within the quiet confines of our hut, Rajah Maisog and I held our newborn close, a silent promise of protection.
In the days that followed, the village continued to rejoice. The birth of a son to the Rajah was a momentous event, a sign of prosperity and continuity. Elders spoke of the stars aligning and the blessings of the ancestors. Gifts were brought to our hut—baskets of fruit, woven blankets, and handcrafted toys. The women of the village came to offer their wisdom and assistance, their experienced hands guiding me through the early days of motherhood.
Each morning, I woke to the sound of our son's cries, his needs pulling me from sleep. The women of the village took turns helping me, their presence a soothing balm in those early, sleepless days. They taught me how to swaddle him, to soothe his cries, and to sing the ancient lullabies that had comforted generations of our people.
Rajah Maisog took every opportunity to be with us, his duties as leader never overshadowing his love for his family. He would often take our son in his arms, speaking to him in hushed tones of the world he would one day inherit. I watched them, my heart swelling with pride and contentment. Our son was a bridge between the past and the future, a testament to our promise of new beginnings.
As our son grew from an infant to a lively toddler, our days were filled with his laughter and the sounds of his playful curiosity. He quickly became the heart of our home and the village's pride. His laughter was infectious, spreading joy to everyone around him. The villagers adored him, often stopping by to play or offer small gifts.
One of my favorite memories from that time was watching Rajah Maisog teach our son to walk. He would hold his tiny hands, guiding him across the courtyard of our home. Each step was a triumph, celebrated with cheers and claps from those who witnessed it. The joy in Rajah Maisog's eyes as our son took his first independent steps was a moment I would cherish forever.
However, as our son grew, so did the presence of the Spaniards in our land. Their ships were seen more frequently along our shores, and their soldiers began to venture deeper into our territory. Tensions rose as their demands and influence increased, bringing with them a sense of unease that settled over the village like a dark cloud.
Rajah Maisog and I were on high alert, aware of the looming threat the Spaniards posed to our way of life. Our village council convened more often, discussing strategies and preparations for possible confrontations. The Babaylan offered her wisdom, reminding us of our ancestors' strength and resilience.
One evening, as we gathered in the council hut, Rajah Maisog addressed the elders. "The Spaniards are encroaching further into our lands. We must strengthen our defenses and prepare our warriors."
An elder nodded gravely. "We have seen their soldiers near the river. They are not here for peaceful trade; they are here to take what is ours."
I watched over our son with a heightened sense of protectiveness. Each day, as he played with the other children, I found myself scanning the horizon, wary of any sign of the Spaniards. The carefree days of his infancy were quickly overshadowed by the reality of our situation. Even the sound of distant birdsong could send a chill down my spine, as I feared it might be a signal of approaching danger.
One afternoon, as I sat weaving a new mat, our son ran up to me, his face beaming with excitement. "Mother, look! I caught a fish!" He held up a small, wriggling fish, his eyes sparkling with pride.
I smiled, though my heart was heavy with worry. "That's wonderful, my son. You are becoming quite the fisherman." I ruffled his hair, my eyes scanning the distant treeline. The innocence in his eyes reminded me of what we were fighting to protect.
***