Blood Of The Innocent | 𝔐𝔞𝔤𝔫𝔦𝔣𝔦𝔠𝔢𝔫𝔱 ℭ𝔢𝔫𝔱𝔲𝔯𝔶

02

Mihrimah added a final stitch to the tulip she was embroidering and looked up at her mother, whose eyes were focused on something far in the distance. "Validem?" she asked softly.

Hürrem started as though she had forgotten there was another person in the room. "Yes, kızım? What is it?"

"You're thinking of Bayezid, aren't you?"

Hürrem sighed deeply. "How can I think of anything else? My son is locked in a dungeon."

"At least he is no longer in the kafes, Validem. You know how badly he was faring there." Mihrimah left unspoken the fact that they did not know if he was faring any better in the dungeons. They had been forbidden from seeing him, and Sultan Selim's spies seemed to be working harder than ever to ensure they did not. Equally terrifying was the unknown reason for the move. Princes who were imprisoned in the palace dungeons did not often leave them alive.

The door swung open, and one of Hürrem's trusted servants rushed in, breathless. "Sultanım!" she cried, hands clutching her skirts. "Hünkarım has gone to the dungeons!"

Hürrem shot to her feet. "Allahım! Selim will kill his brother!" She made for the door.

"No, Validem, he could never!" Mihrimah protested. "You mustn't antagonize him, he is just returned!"

"Antagonize?" Hürrem seemed to grow to twice her size with her anger. "He has already locked his brother in a cage! Am I to sit idly by while he slaughters his kin?" She spun around once more when a knock came at the door.

The door opened, and one of the palace guards entered slowly, his face drawn with a somber expression. Behind him stepped another figure, draped in blue.

"Bayezid?" Hürrem asked, her voice breaking as she approached him slowly, as if she feared he would vanish. "Oğlum?" She rushed forward, pulling him into her arms, burying her face in his neck. His skin was cold, and his cheeks rough and unshaven, but he still smelled of her son. Tears of relief brimmed in her eyes, but she scarcely noticed that he did not return her embrace. She turned to the guard. "When did this happen? Does Hünkarım know of this?"

The guard nodded gravely. "It is my understanding that Hünkarım freed him from the dungeons himself."

"Allah'a şükür!" Hürrem pulled Bayezid in once more. Mihrimah watched on with a gentle smile, though her eyes carried a hint of worry.

Hürrem pulled back to look at her son. "Come," she said, trying to pull him toward the divan she had occupied until moments before. "Come and sit. Let me hold you once again."

Bayezid resisted her tugs, his eyes staring past her into the emptiness beyond. "With your permission, Validem," he spoke quietly, almost inaudibly. "I would like to return to my chambers."

"Bayezid?" Hürrem asked, confusion and concern filling her voice. "You're free now, oğlum. You will never go back there. Now come." She tried to move closer, but again, he pulled back.

"Bayezid?" Mihrimah's sharp eyes noticed something unsettling. "Bayezid, are you hurt?"

Hürrem too noticed for the first time the bloodstains on her son's sleeves. "Bayezid?" She reached for his arm, but he stepped away.

"It is not mine, Validem."

"Then whose is it? Bayezid—"

"It is the blood of an innocent." His voice was distant. "With your permission..." He bowed slightly, turning to leave the room, his steps slow and heavy. His mother and sister stood in silence, their tears flowing as they watched him retreat.

"Haci Agha, what happened? What was done to my brother?" Mihrimah asked, her voice thick with sorrow.

"I do not know, Sultanım," the servant replied, his voice laden with regret and grief. "I do not know."

Hürrem placed a hand on her heart, her eyes fluttering shut as tears continued to slide down her face.

Bayezid walked slowly down the corridor toward his chambers, his mind numb. He forced each step with a mechanical precision: left foot, right foot, left foot, right. The stone walls around him all looked the same—cold and unending. The torches that lined them cast light but offered no warmth. He didn't notice the sound of footsteps until they were nearly upon him.

"Bayezid!" Raziye threw her arms around him, quickly followed by a beaming Cihangir.

"Allah'a şükür," Cihangir breathed, pulling back as Raziye cupped her elder brother's face.

"We were so worried, Bayezid! Çok şükür, you're back safely! Does Validem know? Have you seen her?" Bayezid nodded slightly.

"They must be so happy! Come, have dinner with us!"

"We'll have the cooks prepare your favorite dishes," Cihangir added, practically bouncing with youthful energy. But the light in his eyes dimmed when he noticed Bayezid's vacant expression. "Bayezid?" His voice tightened with concern. "What's wrong? You're out now, you're free."

"I want to be alone."

"But—" Raziye began, but Bayezid ignored her, walking past them toward his chambers. His siblings watched him go, their joy replaced by a growing sense of dread.

"What happened?" Cihangir asked, his voice cracking. "He's out now. He's supposed to be alright!"

"Shhh, Cihangir." Raziye rubbed his arm. "Maybe... maybe he just needs some time?" She did not sound confident. "He just needs some time." She repeated the words, more to comfort herself than her brother. "Come, let's check on Validem." She had no doubt that their mother would be more devastated than they were at the apparent mental state of her once-carefree son.

The door to Bayezid's chambers closed behind him as he gazed around at the familiar surroundings that now felt alien. The luxurious couches and cushions seemed too soft after months spent on cold stone floors. The desk with its ink and pen, too purposeful when all he had done for so long was drown in his thoughts. The windows let in too much gentle light when he had become so accustomed to darkness. He couldn't even bring himself to look at the bed—a place where hopes and dreams had once been born. Hopes and dreams that had been murdered, along with the love he had killed.

His eyes focused on the mirror across the room. Slowly, as if in a trance, he approached the reflection. His face was gaunt, his lips cracked, and dark circles framed his hollow eyes. He had seen this ghostly image before, in his brother, Mustafa, before his execution. The same empty eyes. Haunted. Dead.

His own eyes stared back at him, filled with sorrow and self-loathing. "I don't know," he whispered, his voice trembling. His hands balled into fists, and tears slipped from his eyes for the first time that day. He was shaking, his breath quickening. The smell of iron hit the back of his throat, and he looked at the blood on his sleeves.

It was too much. His stomach twisted, and he collapsed to his knees, scrambling for the chamber pot. He barely managed to pull it out in time before retching violently. The image of the woman he had loved, headless on the floor, consumed him. Each heave tore at his soul, the guilt and despair overwhelming him. Tears of sorrow mingled with those of physical pain as he sobbed.