fezilietrain

[fezilietrain]

The Courtier Who Laughs Too Loud

A man can conquer kingdoms and still fear the sound of another man making her laugh.

The dining hall in Ibrahim Pasha’s palace was elegant in its restraint — polished marble, tall narrow windows casting long lines of sunlight across the table, the centerpiece arranged with pale tulips and sprigs of rosemary, an Ottoman nod to foreign guests. The table itself was European in style — long and stately, a symbol of diplomacy more than tradition — and tonight it was set for ten.

Süleyman sat at the head, with Ibrahim to his right, Hatice beside him. Hürrem sat opposite them, close enough to speak to easily, far enough that he could study her without suspicion. She wore a gown of emerald silk, understated by her standards, but no less arresting. Her hair was woven with thin strands of gold, barely visible, like sunlight braided into red.

The Florentine noble — Lord Giuliano di Spada — was seated near her, two places down. He was young. Keen-eyed. Fluent in Ottoman, though he seemed to enjoy inserting Italian flourishes, as if to remind them all of his roots. Ibrahim had spoken highly of his connections, his quick mind, his loyalty to the Medici.

Süleyman had no reason to dislike him.

And yet.

The meal began gently. Saffron rice, roasted quail, stewed apricots. Conversation wove easily around trade routes, Venetian envoys, the paper mill recently built on the outskirts of Istanbul. Giuliano spoke well — concise, well-informed, appropriately deferent — but every so often, his gaze flicked sideways toward Hürrem. Never too long. Never enough to accuse.

But enough to notice.

At first, Süleyman told himself it was habit. Hürrem drew attention — it was a law of nature. And she, for her part, was perfectly composed. She drank sparingly. Offered a few opinions, all relevant. She knew how to be watched.

It was nothing.

Still, he watched her more closely.

By the third course, the wine had warmed everyone’s voices. Giuliano began telling a story — something about a winter storm near Genoa, a broken carriage wheel, a monk who mistook him for a ghost. It was well-told. Quick-witted.

She smiled.

Süleyman sipped his wine.

Giuliano added another flourish — some small, dramatic gesture — and Hürrem gave a soft hum of amusement. Not quite laughter. Not yet.

But her eyes shone.

He felt it then, the shift. A quiet discomfort at the base of his ribs.

A moment later, Giuliano made some sly comment — the kind meant to surprise, to provoke — and she laughed. Just once. Light and free, like air caught in sunlight.

It wasn’t flirtation. It wasn’t seduction.

But it was joy. Undiluted.

And for a moment, it wasn’t his.

Across from him, Ibrahim glanced up. Noticed. Then turned back to his plate like a man well-practiced in silence.

Hatice’s fork scraped gently against her plate.

Süleyman said nothing.

But his knuckles tightened slightly around the silver goblet.

The laughter faded, but it left a mark — like the echo of a dropped goblet no one acknowledged.

Süleyman’s posture didn't change, but something in him retracted. The indulgent half-smile he had been wearing for most of the evening faded by a breath. He still looked every inch the Sultan — serene, composed, almost untouchable — but now his silence had edges.

Hürrem noticed. Of course she did.

But she didn’t look at him right away. Instead, she tilted her head slightly, listening as Hatice asked Giuliano about his travels. Hürrem smiled politely. Engaged. But her lashes lowered for a second too long. Calculating. Like a cat who’d heard a sound behind the wall.

The meal wound down with pleasant formalities. Dates and figs were brought out, and serbet was refreshed, but Süleyman declined. He spoke only when necessary. And when he did, his voice had cooled — not with anger, but the practiced frost of someone who cannot afford to speak emotionally and remain sovereign at once.

When the guests finally rose, and polite goodbyes were made in the marble corridor, Süleyman lingered only long enough to nod curtly at Giuliano before turning toward the guest chamber where he was to stay the night.

He didn’t look at Hürrem again.

She didn’t try to stop him. Not there. Not in front of Hatice. But her hand curled around the edge of the silken sash at her waist, and her mouth set with that same subtle defiance she wore in the harem during their first battles — when her rank was nothing and her will was everything.

Later, when the palace had gone quiet, she found him in the side salon — the one with the red glass lamps and the view of the courtyard garden. He stood with his back to the open window, hands clasped behind him. The moon cast sharp lines across his face.

He didn’t turn.

She stepped inside anyway.

“Sultanım,” she said softly, as if formality might soften the blow.

Still, he didn’t move.

“I’ve come to ask if something’s wrong,” she continued. “Or if you’ll keep wearing silence like armor.”

At that, he looked at her. Not sharply — but slowly. Measured, like someone weighing damage.

“You laughed,” he said.

A beat passed.

“I do that sometimes,” she replied, tilting her head. “It’s not a crime. Yet.”

“It wasn’t that you laughed,” he said, finally stepping toward her. “It was that he made you laugh.”

His voice was quieter than before. Not cold now, but stripped of that protective grandeur. He looked not like the Padishah who ruled the world — but like the man who had once handed her a single tulip, in secret, as if it were rebellion.

“You laugh for me,” he said. “You smile because of me. That has always been mine.”

There was no fury in him — just a raw, unshielded ache he had no practice hiding.

Hürrem drew closer, stopping only when she was close enough to see the small tremor in his jaw.

“I didn’t give it to him,” she said. “It slipped. That’s all.”

He looked away. “You belong to the man who built you a palace. And still I feel threatened by a look. A laugh.”

“Because you’re human,” she said simply. “Because love makes fools of gods and emperors both.”

There was silence between them, but it wasn’t empty.

“I’ve never feared losing power,” he confessed. “But the thought of losing you — even a sliver of you, a breath, a glance — it undoes me.”

“And yet,” she said, stepping into his space now, placing her hand on his chest, “you pull away, as if distance could keep you safe. As if I haven’t already ruined you.”

He laughed — not loud, not free, but real. The sound of surrender.

“I did laugh,” she admitted. “But only because it reminded me of something I’d forgotten.”

“What’s that?”

“That I never used to be this careful with my laughter,” she said. “Before you, before this life. I used to be reckless with joy.”

“And now?” he asked, his hand covering hers.

“Now,” she said, “I treasure it. Because I want you to be the only one who sees it.”

He looked at her for a long moment.

Then, gently, he kissed her — not as a Sultan, not even as a lover, but as a man who had wandered too close to doubt and been pulled back by truth.

The lamps burned low. The courtyard outside stirred with wind. But inside the salon, all was still.

And somewhere beneath the silence, laughter waited — not a threat, not a weapon, but something shared. Something safe.

[fezilietrain]

Title: “The Shape of Their Silence”

Premise:

After a long council day, Süleyman overhears a tense conversation between Hürrem and Ibrahim — hushed voices, too quiet to catch, but sharp with tension. He doesn’t ask about it. He waits. Watches. Broods. But the silence between them becomes a third presence in his chambers, and soon he can't help but try to pry it open. Because he trusts them. But he doesn't believe them. Not completely. Not anymore.

The Shape of Their Silence

It is not love that makes him jealous. He is not that foolish.

It is not the shape of Ibrahim’s mouth, or the way Hürrem’s voice softens when she says his name. It is not that he suspects betrayal — not the kind that would wound his pride. It is worse than that.

It is the silence.

It happened three days ago. He walked past a side corridor, footsteps soft from long habit. Their voices — hers sharp like cut glass, his cold as marble left in the sun — halted the moment he turned the corner.

They stood close. Not improperly. Not even warmly. But the air between them had been charged. Not like a flirtation. Like a standoff. Like two mirrors, held face to face, each waiting for the other to break.

They bowed. Said nothing. Dispersed.

And still, he thinks of it.

Hürrem hasn’t mentioned it. Neither has Ibrahim. As if they’ve agreed — he doesn’t need to know.

But Süleyman is a man who has built his life on knowing. Weighing. Measuring. Secrets are weapons, and silence is often the sheath.

He finds her alone that night, her hair unbraided, draped in pale blue silk that doesn’t try to flatter — and flatters all the more for it. She doesn’t look up as he enters.

“You fought with him,” he says, without preamble.

She doesn’t pretend not to understand. “We speak often. It’s rarely peaceful.”

He steps closer. Slowly. “Why?”

Now she looks at him — and the look in her eyes makes something in him curl in warning. Not anger. Not defiance. Pity.

“He doesn’t love you the way I do,” she says.

The words land between them like a dropped blade. He stares.

“And you think that gives him reason to hate you?” he asks.

Hürrem’s mouth twitches. “No. I think it makes him... curious. About me. About what you see in me that you don’t in him. He wants to know if I bewitched you. If I’m hollow. If you’ll grow tired of me, like a beautiful object that stops being useful.”

Süleyman’s fists clench. “He said that?”

“He doesn’t need to. I see it in his face.”

A long pause.

“And what do you say to him?”

Now, Hürrem rises. She walks toward him, slow as moonlight, steady as judgment. She stands close. Closer.

“I tell him I would destroy him,” she says, voice quiet. “I tell him I will always protect what’s mine.”

“And am I that?” he murmurs. “Yours?”

She cups his face, lightly. “Only when you forget you’re the Sultan.”

He closes his eyes.

That is the thing that burns. Not the fear that Ibrahim desires her — but the fear that he understands her. That they have some language of ambition and sharpness that doesn’t need words. That they recognize the fire in each other, and see no need to name it.

He pulls her to him.

“I want to know what you said,” he whispers into her skin. “Every word.”

She presses a kiss to his jaw. “Then ask him.”

He flinches — and she feels it.

“Why does that anger you?” she asks softly. “That I won’t lie?”

“Because you could,” he breathes. “And I’d believe you.”

That silences her.

In the morning, he will rise before her. Order the guards out. Leave the tray of untouched fruit and pastries where it is, unsweetened tea in his hand. He will pass Ibrahim in the hall. Say nothing. But his eyes will linger too long.

And Ibrahim — ever loyal, ever silent — will bow.

But he will not look away.

[fezilietrain]

Title: “A Dream He Does Not Name”

(Suleyman & Hurrem | soft, restrained intimacy | a night after shared nightmares)

The silence between them is not angry.

It’s just too full.

Hurrem turns her face away from him, but not out of distance. She simply can’t stand to look at the shape his body makes when it curls inward like that — stiff, wounded, spine taut like a bowstring. He lies on his back, unmoving, as if refusing even now to react. As if sleep was a war he lost and now he must lie perfectly still in the rubble.

Her own nightmare clings like ash. She won’t speak of it. He wouldn’t ask. That’s the way of it between them sometimes — this unspoken pact to pretend the fire doesn’t reach the bed.

They are both too proud, too well-practiced at silence. Too used to carrying pain like a scepter.

If she had cried out, he might have held her. But she did not. She never does.

And if he had reached for her, she would have taken him in her arms, pressed his forehead to her breast, and told him the truth — that he is not alone, not unloved, not doomed.

But he hasn’t moved.

And so they lie in silence, facing different walls, hearts beating loud in separate chests. The palace is quiet. Only the coals in the brazier shift softly, sighing like a voice too old to warn them.

In the morning, everything is heavier.

The attendants come and go on quiet feet. The eunuchs do not ask questions. Even the younger concubines in the harem move more gently, sensing the storm in the air — something unspoken between the sovereign and his sultana, like smoke from a fire no one saw.

He doesn’t speak to anyone at breakfast.

She doesn’t ask him to.

The second night is worse.

There are no dreams, but no sleep either.

He sits at the low table long after the candles have burned low. Not reading. Not working. Just sitting.

Hurrem watches from their bed, propped up on one elbow. The room smells of myrrh and cold metal.

“You’ll make yourself sick,” she says.

“I’m not tired.”

Lie. His shoulders are sagging.

She does not reply. He doesn’t look at her.

There is a glass dish on the table, untouched. Seker Agha must have sent the pastries again. Rosewater-soaked, syrup-laden, gleaming in the half-dark like jewels.

He doesn’t like sweets. Never has.

She wonders — not for the first time — if it's because sweetness is joy, and joy, to him, is unbearable.

He finally comes to bed just before dawn.

Lies beside her without undressing. Doesn’t touch her. Doesn’t sleep.

She turns toward him, and rests her forehead lightly against his shoulder. She can feel the tension in him — not fear now, but grief, like a wound just beginning to rot.

“Was it your father this time?” she asks, very softly.

He doesn’t answer. But that’s answer enough.

She closes her eyes. She remembers the stories. How he died in a tent, far from home, eyes fixed on a son who could never please him.

The way Suleyman speaks of him — rarely, and only ever with the edge of steel.

“I dreamt they took you away,” she says, not because she expects comfort, but because the truth is easier than silence. “Not by force. You let them. You left.”

Still, he says nothing.

It makes her want to shake him. Look at me, damn you. See what you do to me. See what I would do for you.

But instead she reaches for his hand. His fingers twitch at first, as if unsure how to respond. But then they relax.

She presses her lips to his knuckles.

“You don’t have to tell me,” she says. “But don’t lie to yourself. You are not made of iron.”

At that, he finally turns.

His eyes are open, red-rimmed. But dry. Always dry.

“I am not allowed to be anything else,” he says.

“You allow yourself to love me.”

His eyes don’t flicker.

“That is not weakness,” he says. “That is punishment.”

The words hit like stone. She breathes through them, doesn’t flinch.

“Then let me bear some of it.”

Her hand is on his chest now. She can feel his heartbeat — still fast, still guarded.

Slowly, she shifts closer. She doesn’t embrace him. She simply rests against him, soft and quiet, cheek to his collarbone.

After a long moment, he lets out a breath — not a sigh, not a release, just air, moving again. The first thing he’s given up in days.

And then, carefully, as if the act costs him dearly, he wraps one arm around her back.

The silence is warm now.

He presses his lips to her temple. Not a kiss. A reminder. She is real. He is real. They are still here.

Later, just as dawn begins to slip gold fingers across the walls, she wakes to find the room empty.

She sits up. The brazier is stoked again. The window is closed. And on the low table: a pot of tea. A single cup. Two pastries.

When he returns, he carries no tray — just the quiet in his eyes, and the faintest dusting of sugar on his beard.

“You ate one,” she says.

He shrugs. “Couldn’t let it go to waste.”

She laughs, only a little. “Since when do you care about waste?”

He sits beside her. Pours the tea.

“I don’t,” he says. “But I thought of you, and the way your eyes close when something sweet surprises you.”

She watches him drink. Watches the way he doesn’t flinch.

And just before she sips from the same cup, she leans forward and kisses him.

It tastes like tea. Like sugar. Like a man learning, slowly, to want again.

[end]

[fezilietrain]

I'm so glad that no matter what I can sleep soundly every night knowing that no matter how pressed some unfucked losers are, Süleyman and Hürrem spent 40 years of loving eachother and fucking every night and nothing can change that💖🙏

[fezilietrain]

"Even the Palace Trembles" – Part III

In the hour when the world is quiet but your mind is not.

HÜRREM

She had turned away from the lantern light not because she wanted darkness — but because she could no longer bear to see herself in it.

Everything hurt. But what hurt most was not knowing if she was the poison in this love.

Why did she act this way?

She wasn’t cruel. She didn’t mean to be cruel.

But sometimes — one word from him, one shift in his tone, one perceived coldness — and she’d crumble. Or erupt. Or say things she didn’t mean. Things she only said because she needed him to feel how much she was hurting.

Control. Emotion. Fire.

All of it had lived in her long before Süleyman.

She had learned to survive — with wit, with will, with sharp edges and harder walls.

But with him, she didn’t want to survive.

She wanted to belong. To rest. To feel safe enough to be soft.

So why couldn’t she stop breaking everything when she got scared?

She clenched the fabric beneath her, her jaw tight with silent crying.

Why do I do this?

Why do I feel so out of control around the person I love the most?

Why do I become someone I don’t even recognize?

She’d never been like this with friends. Never fought like this. Never felt this… ruined.

But they never had the power to undo her like he did.

They never held her heart in their hands.

With Süleyman, she was bare. All her old wounds — the ones from childhood, from abandonment, from never feeling like enough — they bled here. And she hated that she bled on him.

But she also saw his wounds too.

SÜLEYMAN

He sat on the cold stone bench of the terrace, not caring that his robes had dampened with night dew.

The stars had no answers.

He was a ruler of an empire. A man whose word shaped laws and fates. But with her?

With her, he was a boy who wanted to be enough.

He never intended to hurt her — yet he did. With distance, with pride, with heat of temper he couldn’t always control. And he hated how easily he could wound her with silence or a glare.

And then he'd feel guilty. And when he felt guilty, he’d grow cold — because guilt was not something a sultan should wear.

So instead of reaching for her, he’d wait.

Wait for her to calm. Wait for the storm to pass.

But sometimes it didn’t pass. Sometimes it became another war between them.

And God help him — he loved her. More than he’d ever loved anyone.

But loving her felt like sailing through a storm that never cleared.

They both needed control.

They both feared abandonment.

They both had fire in their blood and glass in their bones.

And when they clashed, the palace itself trembled.

He remembered how she’d looked earlier — too quiet. Not the usual rage. Just that haunted silence, the one that came after she'd broken inside and was too tired to scream anymore.

And he hated that look more than anything.

He buried his face in his hands.

Is this what we are? Beautiful and doomed?

He could still feel her — as if her soul pressed against his from across the stone walls. Even when they were apart, she lived inside him like a second pulse.

He wanted to go to her.

But he also wanted to give her space.

He wanted peace.

But didn’t know if they were capable of it.

The Silence Between Them

In their separate chambers, they were mirrors.

Both wondering if the other had finally reached their limit.

Both questioning whether this was real love — or trauma in disguise.

Both knowing that their love was rare, deep, and wildly alive — but also dangerous when left unchecked.

They wanted to grow.

But didn’t know how.

They apologized. They promised.

But then came the next blow-up, and the cycle began again.

And now… they were tired.

Not just of each other — but of what the love brought out in them.

The darkest parts. The fears. The fire.

And the ache of never knowing if things could truly change.

Hürrem rose from bed near dawn. She hadn’t slept.

Neither had he.

Somewhere, across the palace, the call to prayer echoed — soft, distant, steady.

And in the hush before the palace stirred again, one thought echoed in both of their minds:

We can’t go on like this.

But I don’t want a life without you either.

[fezilietrain]

[fezilietrain]

## **ACT I – The Quiet Before the Collapse** *(Set-Up & Emotional Foundations)*

**Themes**: Longing, fragile hope, illusion of belonging, emotional control.

### **1. The World & the Brothers**

- A world scarred by volatile magic—its remnants feared, hoarded, and suppressed.

- **Kael**: Born with uncontainable magic. His body cracks under the weight of it. He lives in isolation by *his own will*, believing he’s protecting others—especially his brother. He submits to daily energy drains to remain stable.

- **Lucen**: His brother. The golden one. Revered as a strategist, a soldier, a leader. He speaks gently to Kael, checks on him often, pretends to care.

But every soft word is laced with guilt-tripping. Every kindness is transactional. It’s all to keep Kael *compliant.*

### **2. The Tower & the Girl**

- **Aeris**: New to Lucen’s elite circle. Sharp, emotionally attuned, a little too curious.

- She hears whispers about a creature in the tower. A cursed thing, too dangerous to let roam.

- She goes to find it—and instead finds Kael. Sick, shivering, unguarded. Human.

### **3. Secret Kindness**

- Aeris returns. Again. And again.

- Brings medicine. Light. Comfort.

- Kael is stunned by her kindness. He doesn’t know how to accept it—but he *needs* it.

- Their bond builds quietly, cautiously. She sees more of him. He hides less.

- For the first time, Kael dares to imagine another kind of life.

### **4. Lucen & Aeris**

- Meanwhile, Lucen begins a relationship with Aeris. It’s real—there’s care, even passion—but it’s restrained. He keeps walls up.

- Neither tells Kael.

- Kael continues to fall—both for Aeris, and deeper into dependence on Lucen.

- He trusts them both. Doesn’t realize they’re *sharing something he aches for.*

### **5. False Peace**

- Kael is permitted to join select missions. The others in the unit keep their distance.

- Lucen plays the watchful brother. Always calm. Always in control.

- Aeris is caught in the tension—her affection for Kael growing, but hidden.

- Kael feels the strain. He doesn’t fit, and he knows it. But he wants to believe he’s *wanted*.

- The illusion of peace holds. Barely.

---

## **ACT II – The Lies That Burn** *(Descent, Betrayal, Breaking)*

**Themes**: Broken trust, unraveling identity, emotional abandonment.

### **1. Aeris’s Enemies**

- Her past returns to haunt her. Old enemies, powerful and relentless, seek what flows in her blood.

- Lucen discovers the threat—and chooses to protect her at all costs.

### **2. Lucen Leaves With Her**

- He departs with Aeris in secret to neutralize the danger.

- Aeris hesitates. She doesn’t want to leave Kael—but Lucen convinces her.

- Kael is left behind. Again. Told nothing.

- (Optional: Riven, a soldier in their circle, grows worried and eventually turns to Kael for help.)

### **3. Kael’s Breaking Point**

- Aeris is captured. Lucen nearly dies trying to protect her.

- Kael arrives last—unleashing cataclysmic power, tearing through their enemies to save them both.

- But when he turns to Aeris… she *flinches.*

- Just a breath, a shift, a flash of fear in her eyes.

- And that’s all it takes. It destroys him.

### **4. The Truth Comes Out**

- In the aftermath, Kael confronts them. Demands honesty.

- Lucen cracks.

- “You think I did all this for *you*? You were always the threat. The weight. The shame.”

- “I’ve kept you alive because I *had* to.”

- The mask falls. Lucen’s “care” was control. His love, a leash.

- And Aeris… doesn’t defend herself. Doesn’t deny the fear.

- Kael breaks.

### **5. The Descent**

- Kael vanishes in a monstrous blaze of power—half man, half force of nature.

- What little hope he held is gone. All that remains is fire.

---

## **ACT III – What Becomes of Broken Things** *(Climax, Tragedy, Aftermath)*

**Themes**: Ruin, shattered love, sacrifice, the echo of memory.

### **1. Kael’s Rise**

- From exile, Kael gathers an army. Those broken by the same world.

- He no longer hides his monstrous form.

- His grief sharpens into rage. His name becomes myth. A storm wrapped in skin.

### **2. Lucen & Aeris Strained**

- Lucen returns, hollow. Haunted by what he said. By what he did.

- Aeris carries guilt like a second heart.

- Their relationship withers. Too much was buried. Too much was lost.

- They both feel Kael’s absence—*and fear his return.*

### **3. One Last Chance**

- Aeris finds Kael. Tries to speak to the boy she once saved.

- It’s too late. Kael doesn't believe her, he's too far gone.

### **4. The Final Battle**

- Kael and Lucen clash in a brutal, surreal duel—magic against magic, grief against guilt.

- They fight not just each other, but *years* of silence, pain, and love twisted by control.

- Kael is not trying to win. He’s begging to be *seen.* His final act of evil is not just about the destruction of the world; it's also a desperate cry for Lucen’s attention—a final, bitter attempt to force Lucen to recognize him

### **5. The Sacrifice**

- Lucen strikes the killing blow. Not out of hate—but mercy.

- Kael dies softly. Getting what he wants.

### **6. Aftermath**

- The world is saved. But something sacred is broken.

- Lucen and Aeris drift apart.

- Kael becomes legend. A warning. A ghost written into history.

- And somewhere, deep in the silence that follows—his story lingers.

Okay here are the 3 acts...

[fezilietrain]

"The Grand Vizier’s Birthday"

The halls of Topkapı shimmered with the golden glow of late afternoon, the hush of the palace broken only by the rustling of silks and the murmurs of secrets exchanged in passing. Ibrahim Pasha strode through them with measured steps, his mind occupied but his expression as unreadable as ever.

It was his birthday.

He never celebrated. Not in Parga, where his childhood felt like a faded dream half-drowned in the Aegean. Not in Istanbul, where his name echoed through the courts and streets yet felt foreign in his own mouth. He was Ibrahim Pasha, Grand Vizier, Serasker, the Sultan’s right hand. And yet, his own existence felt like a borrowed script—except when he was with Süleyman.

But today, something was amiss. The palace was too still. The air too charged. He knew Süleyman well enough to sense mischief when it brewed.

He turned a corner, only to be met with the sharp scent of rosewater and the rustle of embroidered skirts.

Hürrem Sultan.

The rivalry between them was as old as her first step into the harem. She had clawed her way up from a concubine to Haseki, while he had risen from a captured boy to Grand Vizier. Two outsiders, both closest to Süleyman in different ways, forever circling each other like wolves.

Hürrem smiled, tilting her head in that way she did when she wanted to pretend at innocence. "Grand Vizier," she greeted smoothly.

"Haseki Sultan," Ibrahim replied, inclining his head just enough to acknowledge her power but not enough to submit to it.

Her eyes flickered with amusement. "A special day today, is it not?"

"Is it?" he said, feigning ignorance.

She hummed, stepping closer, her voice lowering conspiratorially. "Come now, Pasha. Surely you know what day it is."

He exhaled through his nose, his lips pressing into a thin line. "If you mean my birthday, it is hardly worth mentioning."

"Of course," she mused, examining her nails. "What is a birthday to a man who belongs nowhere?"

His jaw tensed, but he did not give her the satisfaction of a reaction. Instead, he smirked. "And yet, here I am. And here you are. Perhaps belonging is more than just origin, Haseki."

Her lips curled. "Perhaps. Or perhaps some of us build our own empires, while others merely serve in another’s."

He chuckled. "And yet, I do not seem to be the one confined to these halls."

Her smile sharpened like a dagger. "Not yet."

They held each other's gaze, the silent war between them burning in the space between their words.

Then, before either could push the knife in further, the sound of approaching footsteps interrupted them.

Süleyman.

He swept into view with the effortless authority only he possessed. His eyes flickered between them, recognizing the tension but choosing to ignore it. Instead, he turned his full attention to Ibrahim, and his expression softened.

"Ibrahim," he said, his voice warm in a way it was with no one else. "Come with me."

Ibrahim arched a brow. "Where?"

Süleyman only smiled. "You'll see."

Hürrem stepped aside gracefully, offering Süleyman a knowing look. "Enjoy your day, Pasha."

Ibrahim didn’t reply. He simply followed Süleyman, curiosity—no, something deeper—pulling him forward.

—

A few hours later, Ibrahim found himself on a ship.

A ship.

Süleyman had planned a surprise trip, pulling him out of the palace and onto the open sea, away from politics, away from whispers of intrigue, away from everything. Just the two of them, like it had been in their youth—before crowns and titles, before Hürrem, before the weight of the empire had settled onto their shoulders.

"You planned this," Ibrahim said, arms crossed as he studied Süleyman, who sat opposite him on the deck, the evening breeze ruffling his robes.

"Of course," Süleyman said simply, pouring them both wine. "Did you think I wouldn’t?"

"I didn’t think you cared about birthdays."

"I don’t." Süleyman handed him a cup, his eyes gleaming. "But I care about you."

Ibrahim hesitated, then took the cup. The weight of Süleyman’s words settled in his chest like an anchor.

He turned his gaze to the horizon, where the last light of the sun met the endless sea. For once, he felt—perhaps not at home, but at peace. Here, with Süleyman, there was no borrowed script, no foreign name. Just the two of them, as it had always been.

He exhaled, shaking his head with a small smile. "This is absurd."

Süleyman grinned. "You’re welcome."

And for once, Ibrahim allowed himself to enjoy it.

Mahidevran sat in her chambers, seething.

Not just regular seething—biblical seething. The kind that could curdle milk and make flowers wilt. The kind that made her feel like she might actually combust into a pile of useless, bitter ashes.

Because today was Ibrahim Pasha’s birthday.

And not only was he being celebrated, but Süleyman had taken him on some grand adventure while she sat here in her irrelevant corner of the palace, utterly ignored.

It was always Ibrahim and Hürrem. Hürrem and Ibrahim. Hürrem clawing her way to the top, Ibrahim standing smugly at Süleyman’s side, both of them existing to make her life a never-ending nightmare. And Süleyman? Süleyman barely looked at her anymore.

She gripped the edge of her divan so hard her knuckles turned white. "I hope they both fall into the sea and drown," she muttered.

Her maid, wisely pretending to hear nothing, adjusted a cushion.

Mahidevran’s chest tightened. She felt ill. The rage, the jealousy, the sheer injustice of it all—she was going to die. Right here, right now, in this cursed palace where no one gave a damn about her anymore.

She collapsed dramatically onto her pillows, hand over her forehead, cursing every single person who had ever wronged her.

No one came.

No one cared.

And that, that was the worst part.

[fezilietrain]

Yellowjackets / Jennifer's Body

Twinnem you guys 🫶

[fezilietrain]

Only Mine

The corridors of Topkapı Palace were never silent. Even in the deepest hours of the night, whispers of intrigue curled through the halls like mist over the Bosphorus. Servants moved like ghosts, viziers plotted in hushed voices, and in the heart of it all sat the man the world called Kanuni, the Lawgiver, the Shadow of God on Earth.

But to Ibrahim, he was simply Süleyman.

The boy he had laughed with in the gardens. The man whose burdens he had sworn to share. The ruler whose throne he had helped secure, brick by brick, victory by victory.

And yet, Süleyman had never felt farther away.

Ibrahim had spent his entire life at his side—first as a slave, then as a friend, then as something more, something deeper than words could define. He had fought for him, bled for him, killed for him. He had built his entire existence around the light of Süleyman’s sun, basking in its warmth, even when it burned him. But now, the shadows were creeping in.

She had taken his place.

The woman with the fire-bright hair and the cunning mind. Hürrem. She was not the first woman to lie in Süleyman’s bed, but she was the first to make Ibrahim feel powerless. Others had come and gone, their names barely worth remembering. But she had dug her claws into him, her whispers like a slow poison seeping through the air. Süleyman had once shared his thoughts, his dreams, his secrets with him. Now, he spoke them to her.

And Ibrahim—his most loyal servant, his most trusted friend—was left grasping at memories.

He told himself it didn’t matter. That he had no right to jealousy, no claim to Süleyman beyond what duty allowed. He repeated it in his mind like a prayer, but his heart refused to listen. Every moment Süleyman spent with her, every decision he made without consulting him, felt like another crack splintering deep inside.

And still, Ibrahim would die before letting him see it.

Tonight, the palace was quiet.

The two of them sat by the reflecting pool, the water catching the moonlight in silver ripples. A game of chess lay half-finished between them, abandoned as the conversation drifted to easier things—memories of their youth, of nights spent staring at the stars, dreaming of conquests yet to come.

For the first time in what felt like years, Süleyman looked at him—not as a ruler looks at his vizier, but as a man looks at his dearest friend.

“You seem lost in thought,” he observed, watching Ibrahim with that keen gaze that missed nothing.

Ibrahim hesitated. How could he explain the weight in his chest? The war waging inside him? That every time he looked at Süleyman, he felt a desperate need to hold on tighter, as if he could stop him from slipping through his fingers?

Instead, he forced a small smile. “I was just considering my next move.”

Süleyman chuckled, shaking his head. “You will lose, as always.”

Ibrahim feigned offense. “You underestimate me, Hünkârım.”

Süleyman’s smile softened. “I could never.”

The words sent something sharp and aching through Ibrahim’s chest. How easy it was for Süleyman to say things like that, never realizing how deeply they cut. He looked at him, at the way the candlelight flickered against his skin, at the lines on his face that had not been there in their youth.

He wanted to reach out.

To pull him closer.

To tell him that no one in this palace, in this empire, in this entire world could love him the way Ibrahim did. That no one else could protect him the way he could. That only he truly understood him—not Hürrem, not his viziers, not even his own family.

But Süleyman was not his to claim.

So instead, Ibrahim picked up his cup of wine and took a slow sip, letting the bitterness settle on his tongue. “Do you remember the first time we played chess?” he asked.

Süleyman leaned back, eyes glinting with amusement. “Of course. You lost then, too.”

Ibrahim shook his head, chuckling. “I let you win.”

Süleyman gave him a look of pure disbelief. “You let me win?”

“I had to ensure your pride remained intact.”

Süleyman laughed, warm and full, and for a moment, the weight in Ibrahim’s chest eased. This was what he had been longing for—not the power, not the titles, not even the influence. Just this. The laughter, the teasing, the ease of being together without the weight of the world pressing between them.

For a moment, they were just Süleyman and Ibrahim again. Two boys who had dreamed of conquering the world together.

But moments were fleeting.

And as Süleyman’s laughter faded, Ibrahim felt reality creeping back in. Soon, the night would end. Soon, Süleyman would leave, and Ibrahim would return to his chambers, drowning in thoughts he had no right to think.

He looked at the man before him—the Sultan, the ruler of millions, the heart of the empire. The man who had once belonged only to him.

And he wished, more than anything, that he could stop time.

The night stretched on, the stars blinking lazily above the reflecting pool. The chessboard between them remained abandoned, the pieces standing frozen in their last positions, forgotten in the wake of nostalgia.

Süleyman sighed, running a hand through his beard. “You know,” he mused, “if you had truly let me win all those years ago, I might have believed you. But I know you too well, Ibrahim.”

Ibrahim smirked, swirling the wine in his cup. “Do you?”

Süleyman shot him a look. “You think you’re unreadable, but I see through you.”

Ibrahim doubted that. If Süleyman truly saw him, truly knew the depths of his devotion, he would not be so careless with his words, so unaware of the storm brewing inside his grand vizier.

But he let it slide, as he always did. Instead, he reached for one of the fallen chess pieces—a knight, its ivory surface smooth under his fingertips. He studied it for a moment before speaking.

“There’s something about this game that reminds me of Alexander.”

Süleyman raised an eyebrow. “Alexander?”

Ibrahim nodded, twirling the piece between his fingers. “He, too, saw the world as a board to be played upon. A vast empire to be conquered, move by move.” He paused, lips curving into a faint smile. “Though, unlike us, he did not have the patience for drawn-out strategy. If the board did not suit him, he overturned it entirely.”

Süleyman laughed. “Ah, the Gordian Knot.”

Ibrahim inclined his head. “Precisely.”

Süleyman leaned forward, resting his elbow on his knee, eyes glinting with interest. “And what do you think, Ibrahim? Was he right to cut through the knot, to disregard the rules set before him?”

Ibrahim hesitated, tilting his head. “It depends.”

“On what?”

“On whether the knot was meant to be untangled at all.” Ibrahim set the chess piece down, fingers lingering on the polished board. “Alexander believed in destiny—that he was meant to rule, meant to reshape the world to his will. So he did not waste time unraveling what he could simply sever.”

Süleyman studied him, a thoughtful expression crossing his face. “And you? Do you believe in destiny?”

Ibrahim looked away, focusing on the rippling surface of the pool.

Did he?

Perhaps, once, he had. When he was a boy, dragged from Parga, terrified and alone, he had believed his fate was to be forgotten, swallowed by the vast machinery of the empire. But then Süleyman had chosen him. Plucked him from obscurity, placed him at his side, shared his dreams, his laughter, his trust.

And Ibrahim had thought—perhaps foolishly—that their fates were intertwined. That his place was at Süleyman’s side, always.

But fate was cruel.

“I believe,” he said at last, voice quieter now, “that destiny is only as strong as the hands that shape it.”

Süleyman hummed, sipping his wine. “A poet’s answer.”

Ibrahim chuckled. “And what would yours be?”

Süleyman leaned back, exhaling. “I think Alexander was right.”

“Of course you do.”

The Sultan laughed. “You sound disappointed.”

“Not disappointed,” Ibrahim murmured, tilting his head. “Just… unsurprised. You, too, are a man who would cut through the knot rather than waste time unraveling it.”

Süleyman smirked. “And you?”

Ibrahim turned the knight in his hands once more, thoughtful. “I think I would try to untangle it. Even if it took me a lifetime.”

Süleyman shook his head, amused. “And that is why you will always lose at chess.”

Ibrahim smiled, but his heart ached. Because Süleyman was right. He would always play the long game, always maneuver carefully, always cling to the hope that patience could change the course of fate.

But some things could not be unraveled. Some things were simply taken.

Like Süleyman had been taken from him.

They fell into silence, the quiet hum of the palace gardens wrapping around them like a familiar embrace. The night was warm, the air thick with the scent of blooming jasmine. In moments like these, it was easy to forget the world outside the garden walls—to pretend that nothing had changed, that they were still young and reckless and untouched by duty.

Süleyman sighed, stretching. “Recite me something,” he said suddenly. “A poem.”

Ibrahim quirked an eyebrow. “Have you grown so weary of your own poets?”

Süleyman grinned. “Indulge me.”

Ibrahim huffed a quiet laugh, then fell into thought. There were many poets he could choose from—Attar, Rumi, Nizami—but tonight, his mind drifted to Al-Mutanabbi. The great Arab poet who had lived centuries before them, whose words were laced with longing and pride, devotion and sorrow.

He closed his eyes, voice steady as he recited:

"If you see the lion bare his teeth, do not assume he is smiling.

If the sea appears calm, do not mistake it for weakness.

I am the one whose pain is hidden behind laughter,

Whose wounds are covered by pride.

Do not think me unscathed just because I do not bleed before you."

When he opened his eyes, Süleyman was watching him closely.

“A warrior’s poem,” the Sultan murmured. “And yet… it sounds like mourning.”

Ibrahim smiled, though it did not quite reach his eyes. “Perhaps it is both.”

Süleyman held his gaze a moment longer, as if searching for something beneath the words. Then, he nodded. “It suits you.”

Ibrahim let out a quiet breath. Did it? Did Süleyman know what he was saying, what lay hidden beneath those verses? Or was he, as always, oblivious to the war raging inside the man before him?

They sat in silence for a while after that, the night stretching on, the chess pieces untouched between them. Ibrahim wished he could stay like this forever—just the two of them, talking of poetry and kings, pretending that nothing had changed.

But dawn would come, and Süleyman would return to his empire. To her.

And Ibrahim would be left with nothing but echoes.

The night deepened, the stars hanging like scattered pearls over the gardens of Topkapı. The world outside these walls was vast, endless, filled with whispers of war and politics, with power shifting like sand in the wind. But here, beneath the flickering lanterns, there were no sultans or viziers—just Süleyman and Ibrahim, two men bound by fate, by history, by something neither of them could name.

Süleyman stretched out, his posture relaxed, his gaze lost in the waters of the reflecting pool. “Tell me, Ibrahim,” he mused, “if you had been born into another life—if you had not been taken from Parga, if you had never stepped foot in this palace—what do you think you would be?”

Ibrahim hesitated, caught off guard by the question. It was something he had never allowed himself to dwell on. The past was a closed door, locked and forgotten. And yet, there was a time, long ago, when he had been a different boy, one who knew nothing of sultans and conquests, only the scent of the sea and the call of the gulls.

“I think,” he said slowly, “I would have been a scholar. A man who spends his days reading poetry and studying the stars.”

Süleyman smirked. “You are already that man.”

Ibrahim chuckled. “Perhaps. But in another life, I would not be bound by duty. I would not spend my days wading through court intrigues or leading armies into war. I would simply… be.”

Süleyman hummed, thoughtful. “A peaceful life.”

“Yes.” Ibrahim exhaled, watching the ripples in the water. “And you?”

Süleyman tilted his head, considering. “A craftsman, perhaps. A goldsmith. I have always admired the way delicate hands shape metal into something eternal.”

Ibrahim smiled, though there was an ache in his chest. Delicate hands. Süleyman had wielded swords, had bent the world to his will, and yet there was still a part of him that longed for the simple beauty of creation.

“Do you remember,” Süleyman continued, “when we used to steal away to the old library?”

Ibrahim laughed, shaking his head. “You make it sound as if we were criminals.”

“We were,” Süleyman insisted. “No one was meant to enter those rooms without permission.”

“You were the Şehzade,” Ibrahim pointed out. “No one could stop you.”

Süleyman smiled, lost in memory. “We would sit for hours, reading the histories of Rome and Persia, arguing over which empire was the greatest.”

“You always favored Alexander.”

“And you always defended Caesar.”

Ibrahim shrugged. “Rome was built on law and order, not just conquest. Alexander burned brightly, but he left only ruins in his wake.”

Süleyman smirked. “And yet, you admire him.”

Ibrahim hesitated, then admitted, “Yes.”

Because how could he not? Alexander had been brilliant, reckless, larger than life. He had conquered the world with a dream and a sword, bending empires to his will. But he had also died young, alone, surrounded by men who had once worshipped him but would soon tear his empire apart.

A fate Ibrahim feared more than anything.

“You remind me of him, sometimes,” Ibrahim murmured.

Süleyman arched an eyebrow. “Do I?”

“Yes. You are relentless. You see the world as something to shape, to mold. And yet… I wonder.”

Süleyman frowned slightly. “Wonder what?”

“If you will be happy once you have it all.”

A long silence stretched between them. The only sound was the wind through the cypress trees, the distant echo of a nightingale’s song.

At last, Süleyman sighed. “Do you think Alexander was happy?”

“No.” Ibrahim shook his head. “I think he was never satisfied. I think he reached for the horizon, only to find it slipping further away. And when there was nothing left to conquer, he had nothing left of himself.”

Süleyman said nothing, only watching him, his expression unreadable. Ibrahim swallowed, suddenly feeling exposed.

He had spoken too plainly.

“I do not wish that fate for you,” Ibrahim added, softer this time. “I would rather see you as a goldsmith, shaping beauty with your hands, than a king who has conquered everything and lost himself in the process.”

Süleyman’s gaze softened. For a moment, he looked as if he might say something, something weighty, something true. But instead, he only chuckled, shaking his head. “You worry too much, Ibrahim.”

Ibrahim forced a smile. “Someone must.”

The night was drawing to a close now. He could feel it in the air, the shift in time, the knowledge that soon, Süleyman would leave, and this fragile moment would end.

Ibrahim looked at him, truly looked at him. The man who had given him everything, who had raised him up from nothing and placed him at his side. The man he had sworn to protect, to serve, to love—though never aloud, never in a way that could be spoken.

Slowly, deliberately, he reached out and took Süleyman’s hand in his own. He lifted it to his lips, pressing a lingering kiss against the back of it. A gesture of loyalty. A vow.

When he pulled away, his voice was quiet but steady. “No matter what comes, I will always be by your side, Hünkârım.”

Süleyman’s eyes darkened for a moment, his fingers twitching slightly in Ibrahim’s grasp. And then, something shifted. Understanding flickered there—deep and unspoken. He did not ask for clarification, did not press for words that neither of them could say.

Instead, he reached out and placed a firm hand on Ibrahim’s shoulder. A touch that was steady, grounding.

Then, with a small, knowing smile, he said only one thing.

“Good night, Pargalı.”

And then he was gone, leaving Ibrahim alone with the stars, the chessboard, and the aching weight of everything they would never say.

[fezilietrain]

Title: The Scars Upon My Heart

The shores of the Golden Horn shimmered under the setting sun as Sultan Süleyman’s ship docked, yet the brilliance of the imperial city did nothing to quell the storm raging within him.

His heart should have been light—he was victorious once more. Another campaign ended in triumph, another enemy crushed beneath his will. But the moment his feet touched the docks, an unsettling stillness settled over him.

His family stood in formation to greet him, as they always did. His mother, Hafsa Sultan, with that ever-composed expression, his sister Hatice with her delicate smile, and others. They welcomed him home with words of praise, yet their voices rang hollow in his ears.

Because she was not there.

Hürrem.

His Hürrem. The woman who would sooner defy the heavens themselves than miss the moment of his return. The woman whose arms were always the first to close around him, whose voice was the first to whisper his name.

And yet—nothing.

A cold fist wrapped around his heart.

She had been left behind in the palace.

His family gave no explanation, only empty pleasantries and veiled glances. And he knew.

He knew something had happened.

They had done something.

Süleyman’s strides were long and quick as he moved through the halls of the Topkapi Palace, ignoring the murmurs of servants and the stolen glances of his own kin. The weight of his armor felt suffocating now, as though it were chains dragging him deeper into an abyss of fury and dread.

His body remembered the way to her chambers before his mind did. His hands shoved open the doors before the guards could announce him.

And there she was.

Hürrem sat curled upon her divan, shrouded in layers of silk. The fabric swallowed her whole, wrapping around her like a cocoon, hiding her from him.

But she could never hide from him.

He felt the air shift as she stiffened, as though even his presence pained her. His heart cracked at the edges.

"Sultanım," she whispered, voice hoarse, yet steady. She did not rise. She did not turn to him.

His breath shallowed.

That was when he saw the glimpse of her hand—peeking from beneath her sleeve as she adjusted the fabric over herself. Bruises. Dark, cruel marks against skin that had once glowed like the dawn.

The world narrowed into a single, unbearable truth.

She had been hurt.

While he was gone.

By them.

Rage licked at the edges of his vision, a fire so wild it threatened to consume him. Yet beneath it, beneath the fury, was a wound deeper than any battlefield could carve into him.

She had been waiting for him. And yet, she hid.

Slowly, carefully, he moved toward her, shedding his heavy cloak as if it could rid him of the weight on his soul. He knelt before her, reaching for her, but stopping just short.

"Look at me, Hürrem."

She hesitated.

And in that hesitation, his heart shattered.

"Are you afraid of me?" his voice was barely a whisper, yet it carried the weight of a man who had conquered lands but could not bear the thought of being a monster in her eyes.

She shook her head. "Never you."

But still, she did not move.

"Then why do you hide from me?" His voice cracked, and he cursed himself for it.

Hürrem turned slightly, just enough that the light caught the edges of her cheek where bruises bloomed like cruel, wilting flowers.

His breath left him in a shudder.

How dare they.

How dare they mark her, his love, his Hürrem. How dare they strip her of the fire that burned so brightly within her, until she thought she had to shield herself from him.

Trembling fingers reached for her veil, but she flinched before he could touch it. He froze, then forced himself to exhale. Slowly, deliberately, he rested his hands on either side of her, grounding himself before speaking again.

"You think I will find you ugly?" He spoke the word as if it were poison.

Hürrem swallowed, her lashes wet.

"You think a few scars could make you unworthy of my gaze?" His voice was low, raw with something close to pain.

"I did not want you to see me like this," she admitted, her voice so soft it nearly broke him.

"Hürrem," he murmured, finally brushing his knuckles against her jaw, against the bruises marring her skin.

She inhaled sharply, but did not pull away.

"Let me see you," he begged, his forehead resting lightly against hers. "Please, my love."

There was silence.

And then, with a hesitance that made his heart ache, she let the silk slip from her shoulders, revealing the cruel evidence of what had been done to her.

Süleyman did not gasp. He did not recoil.

Instead, he cupped her face with a reverence that made her breath hitch.

"You could never be anything less than the most beautiful thing I have ever laid my eyes upon," he swore, voice trembling with the weight of his devotion.

A tear slipped down her cheek, and he caught it with his thumb.

"They will pay for this," he vowed. And it was not just a promise. It was a sentence.

His family had dared to hurt his love.

And for that, there would be no forgiveness.

[fezilietrain]

Title: Dignity and Devotion

The last rays of sunlight bathed the room in amber hues, casting soft shadows over Elenika’s bare shoulders. Her vibrant ginger hair spilled across the silk pillows like flames, a sharp contrast to Bali Bey’s dark features. He lay on his back, one arm propped under his head, watching her as she sat cross-legged beside him, draped in nothing but a linen sheet.

“You’re staring again,” she teased, her lips curving into a mischievous smile.

“I can’t help it,” he replied, his voice low and warm.

She tilted her head, pretending to study him. “You look troubled. Let me guess…you’re thinking about how to get rid of me again?”

Bali Bey smirked, but the weight in his eyes didn’t lift. “Don’t be ridiculous.”

“Oh, I’m being ridiculous?” She raised an eyebrow, leaning toward him. “You’re the one who sneaks in here like a thief, demands my loyalty, and then leaves me to wonder if I’ll ever see you again.” Her tone was playful, as always, but there was a softness beneath it—a quiet vulnerability that only he could hear.

“Elenika…” he started, but she held up a hand, cutting him off.

“No need to explain, my pasha,” she said, pressing a finger to his lips. “You’re a man of honor, after all. A man of pride. You’d never marry a woman like me, not with your position to uphold. I know how it is.” Her words were light, but the way her green eyes searched his face betrayed the depth of her feelings.

Bali Bey sat up, his expression unreadable. “You think this is easy for me?”

She laughed, a soft, musical sound. “Oh, no. I’m sure it’s very hard for you, sneaking off to your secret lover while the rest of the world admires your perfect honor.” She leaned in, her voice dropping to a whisper. “I don’t hold it against you, Bali. You’re too good for the likes of me. You’ve made that much clear.”

He reached for her hand, his grip firm but gentle. “Don’t say that.”

“I’m not angry,” she said, her smile bittersweet. “I never have been. I love you, Bali. I always will. But we both know this story ends the same way. You’ll leave, and I’ll stay. That’s how it’s always been.”

He looked at her for a long moment, as if memorizing every detail of her face. Then, without a word, he kissed her—a deep, lingering kiss that tasted of regret and longing.

Years passed.

Bali Bey’s name remained etched into the annals of the Ottoman Empire, his exploits legendary. But even in his greatest moments—finding the missing Hürrem Sultan and returning her to Süleyman, earning the Sultan’s endless gratitude—his thoughts would drift to her.

Hürrem was a reminder of what love could be. A concubine who had become a queen, whose loyalty and devotion had transcended her station. Süleyman’s love for her was bold, unyielding, and public. Watching them together, Bali Bey couldn’t help but think of Elenika. How she had always been loyal to him, even when he gave her nothing in return. How she had never asked for more than what he was willing to give, and how foolish he had been to take her love for granted.

The decision to leave the empire had not come easily. There were many reasons—political shifts, personal restlessness—but she was always in the back of his mind. A soft, constant ache.

When he finally arrived in the quiet coastal town where Elenika had settled, the sight of her took his breath away. Her fiery hair was pulled into a loose braid, and her green eyes sparkled with the same mischief he remembered. She was standing outside a small shop, arranging herbs and bottles on a wooden stall.

When she looked up and saw him, her hands froze. “Bali Bey,” she said softly, as if his name were a prayer she hadn’t dared to speak in years.

“Elenika,” he replied, his voice steady despite the storm of emotions inside him.

She walked toward him, her expression unreadable. “I didn’t expect to see you again,” she said, her tone light but her eyes searching his face.

“I didn’t expect it either,” he admitted. “But here I am.”

Her lips quirked into a small smile. “Did the empire finally tire of you?”

“No,” he said, shaking his head. “I left on my own terms. And while there were many reasons...you were one of them.”

She raised an eyebrow, crossing her arms. “Is that so? After all this time, what could you possibly want from me now?”

“I want you,” he said simply.

She blinked, startled by his directness. “You always did, Bali. But you never stayed.”

“I know,” he said, stepping closer. “And I’ll never forgive myself for that. You were always there for me, Elenika. You gave me your love, your loyalty, and I was too blind to see what that meant. But I see it now. I see you.”

Her throat tightened, but she forced herself to stay composed. “What makes you think I’m still waiting for you?”

He smiled faintly. “Because I know you. And because I’m still waiting for you, too.”

For a moment, she said nothing. Then she shook her head, laughing softly. “You’re a fool, Bali Bey. But you’re my fool, I suppose.”

He took her hands in his, his voice thick with emotion. “Let me stay this time, Elenika. Let me give you the life you deserve. I don’t care about pride or reputation anymore. I care about you.”

She looked at him, her eyes glistening with unshed tears. “You’d better not leave me again,” she said, her voice trembling.

“Never,” he promised.

And for the first time, Elenika believed him.

They built a quiet life together, far from the empire’s reach. In the simplicity of their days, they found a happiness that neither of them had ever known—a love that was loyal, enduring, and finally, enough.

[fezilietrain]

Okay doing a list of my favorite ships... (not exactly in any specific order)

1. Sürrem (magnificent century yeah yeah we know)

2. Swarkles (himym, this one is a classic🙏)

3. Noorhelm (skam, peak. I love them very much, so good and my beloved Noora is in it so I need everyone to tune in.)

4. Gallavich (shameless, it's a love hate relationship but regardless gave me the worst brainrot so❤️)

5. Bella and Edward (twilight saga, the ship i carry w me since elementary school days...)

6. Ren x Nana (nana, I don't like this anime, the ship gave almost nothing, barely any scenes😭😭 but idk something about them is just rlly my taste...)

7. Howl and Sophie (how's moving castle, man idek, I randomly obsess over them at times)

8. Anna and Vronsky (anna karenina, a great ship when u dont have losers telling you 'you missed the point of the book if u like their relationship' womp womp)

9. Patashi (challengers, my recent ship, love them 🙏 not much else to say except fun af)

10. Hercules x Megara (Hercules, disney - such a good ship oh myyy godddddd genuinely one of the best ships I've ever seen.. disney u ate this one thing..)

11. Nihan x Kemal (kara sevda, a good ship from a really fun dizi, they're pretty well written and always fun to watch. Angsty af. You will get almost every trope from this ship lol. There is something missing tho, but still a good ship.)

12. Chuck and Blair (gossip girl, a fun toxic ship that I was obsessing over a few years ago. They made that show what it is)

13. Shang x Mulan ( I used to love them much more but then I watched Hercules and now they're not that loved by me anymore ejjedjsj but still a great disney ship)

14. Beth x Benny (queen's gambit, okay this ship is sooo good but sadly they had like 3 scenes😔 but still carried. They kinda give Patashi now that I think about it..)

15. Padme and Anakin (star wars, they gave almost nothing except pretty faces but still a cute, angsty ship)

God I have soo many more it's not even funny😭😭 i would be here all day but idk if I really need to name every single one... I'll add to the list maybe in the future

[fezilietrain]

Challengers 17

Who says I love you first

Hmm if we're talking Patashi neither probably. They're both too stubborn.. jk my guess would be Patrick tho cus I can imagine him saying it to Tashi at some point when they started dating he was very much head over heels for her

Artashi easy answer; Art would say it first to Tashi, he practically says it every scene they have 😭😭

For Patrick and Art I'm honestly not sure but I can imagine Patrick saying it to Art actually. He wasn't very embarrassed to talk about their personal moments so I can see him just saying what's on his mind to Art

For ot3 I'd go with Patrick. I can easily see him saying it first to both of them

[fezilietrain]

Hürrem sat at the window, her fingers tracing the edges of the delicate silk scarf Süleyman had gifted her during his last campaign. It had been weeks since she last saw her beloved husband, and as the days dragged on, she found herself counting the hours, anticipating their anniversary with longing. Even though Süleyman was away on a distant campaign, Hürrem's heart clung to the hope that he would somehow return in time to celebrate with her. She knew it was unlikely, but that small ember of hope kept her spirits alive in the stillness of the palace.

Meanwhile, Süleyman and his closest confidant, Ibrahim Pasha, sat in a lavishly decorated tent deep within the Ottoman encampment. The night air outside was crisp, but inside, the warmth of the fire and the presence of friendship eased the weight of the campaign’s burdens. Süleyman reclined on a cushion, a rare smile playing on his lips as he spoke of Hürrem.

"Ibrahim, do you know what day is approaching?" Süleyman asked, his eyes twinkling with the anticipation of a secret.

Ibrahim smiled, already knowing the answer. "It is nearly your anniversary with Hürrem Sultan."

Süleyman nodded, leaning forward with a mischievous glint in his eye. "And I have something special planned. She believes I will not return for weeks, but I will surprise her by arriving early."

Ibrahim raised an eyebrow, intrigued. "That will certainly be a delight for her. You have always known how to surprise her, Sultan."

Süleyman reached into a nearby chest and carefully pulled out an exquisite box. "But that is not all," he said, opening it to reveal a crown crafted from the finest emeralds and gold, glistening in the firelight. "I had this made for her while we were in Persia. She loves rare gems, and I thought this would suit her perfectly."

Ibrahim's expression softened as he looked at the gift, admiring its craftsmanship. "It is beautiful, my Sultan. She will be overjoyed."

Yet, as he complimented the crown, a flicker of something darker crossed Ibrahim's face—something that Süleyman, sharp as ever, noticed. Ibrahim’s smile was strained, the shadow of jealousy behind his eyes as he tried to conceal his true emotions. Süleyman understood the look well, but he said nothing, merely enjoying the quiet satisfaction it gave him. Ibrahim’s jealousy, like Hürrem’s, reminded Süleyman of how important he was to them both. It was an odd comfort, one that made him feel secure in their loyalty and affections.

"Ibrahim," Süleyman began, his voice soft but firm, "we will return to Constantinople soon, and I will see my family again. For now, we must focus on the matters at hand, but I confess I find myself distracted. I long for home."

Ibrahim offered a solemn nod. "As do we all, Sultan. Soon, this campaign will be over."

---

Days passed, and back in the palace, Hürrem could no longer deny her growing sadness. The nights were the hardest, the vast emptiness of the bed reminding her of the warmth she missed so much. She sat at her desk, parchment and ink before her, and began to write a letter to Süleyman.

"My dearest heart,

Another year has passed, and though you are far from me, my love for you burns brighter with each day. I miss you terribly. I miss your laughter, your embrace, the way you fill every corner of my world with light. I pray to Allah for your safety, and that you return to me soon. The palace is not the same without you, and our children long for their father. Mehmed has grown stronger in your absence, ever eager to make you proud, while Mihrimah grows more beautiful by the day. Our youngest son, Selim, already shows signs of your wisdom.

There has been much tension in the harem, as always, but I manage to keep the peace. It is nothing you need to worry about. I simply hope you return before the winds of politics shift again.

Please come back to me, my love. Our anniversary approaches, and while I know you may not be able to return in time, my heart clings to the hope that you will.

Your Hürrem."

She sealed the letter with a kiss and sent it off with a messenger, praying it would reach Süleyman in time.

---

However, as the campaign continued, disaster struck. A critical miscalculation on the battlefield delayed Süleyman’s plans. For days, he worked tirelessly, trying to regain the upper hand, but every effort seemed to slip through his fingers. One evening, after a particularly grueling battle, Süleyman slumped in his tent, frustration etched on his face. Ibrahim sat across from him, concern in his eyes.

"Ibrahim," Süleyman began, his voice trembling with uncharacteristic vulnerability, "we were so close. I was supposed to return home by now. I wanted to surprise Hürrem... and now, I cannot even fulfill that simple wish."

Ibrahim could see the pain in his Sultan’s eyes, the deep disappointment. "My Sultan, you have done everything in your power. The campaign has taken unexpected turns, but we must remain focused. Your family will understand."

Süleyman's fists clenched as he turned away from Ibrahim. "I was so excited, Ibrahim. I thought... I thought I could have everything. Victory here, and then to surprise Hürrem, to see her face light up." He paused, his voice breaking. "And now... even this is slipping away."

Ibrahim stood silently, unsure how to comfort him. He watched as Süleyman’s shoulders tensed with emotion, and for the first time in their long friendship, he saw his Sultan truly falter. After a long moment, Ibrahim moved closer, slowly reaching out to place a hand on Süleyman’s shoulder. The gesture was small, but in that moment, it carried all the unspoken words between them. Ibrahim didn’t know what to say, but he didn’t need to. His presence was enough.

Süleyman’s breathing slowed as he felt Ibrahim’s hand on his shoulder, grounding him. He didn’t speak, but he didn’t pull away either. The silence between them was thick with understanding.

---

Back in Constantinople, chaos erupted. Word had reached the palace that Sultan Süleyman had died in battle. The news hit Hürrem like a bolt of lightning, and she collapsed upon hearing it, her body giving out from the shock. Valide Sultan, Süleyman's mother, grieved in private but kept her composure, refusing to let the rumors spread until they were certain. For days, the harem was consumed by grief, but a glimmer of hope arrived with news that the initial report was false. Süleyman was alive.

---

Weeks later, under the cover of night, Süleyman and Ibrahim returned to Constantinople. For the first time, there was no grand announcement, no fanfare. Süleyman had a different plan. He wanted to surprise Hürrem like he had originally intended. While the palace slept, Süleyman slipped quietly into the chambers he shared with Hürrem.

In the soft moonlight, he saw her sleeping, her face peaceful despite the turmoil of the past weeks. Gently, he slid into the bed beside her, pulling her into his arms. Hürrem stirred, her eyes fluttering open, groggy with sleep. For a moment, she thought she was dreaming, the familiar warmth of Süleyman’s embrace too surreal to be true.

"Süleyman?" she whispered, her voice thick with disbelief.

"It’s me, Hürrem," he murmured, his lips brushing against her temple. "I’m home."

Hürrem’s eyes filled with tears as she realized it was real. She wrapped her arms around him tightly, pressing her face into his chest as sobs racked her body. "I thought I lost you," she cried.

He held her close, his hand stroking her hair. "I’m here now, and I won’t leave you again. Get ready, my love. I have something planned for us."

Still overwhelmed, Hürrem followed his lead, her heart racing with excitement and relief. They slipped out of the palace undetected, making their way to a secluded beach just outside the city. The sun was rising as they arrived, casting a golden glow over the horizon. It was peaceful, just the two of them, away from the pressures of the world.

They spent the entire day together, laughing like they hadn’t in years. Hürrem showed Süleyman how to cook over an open fire, giggling as he fumbled with the ingredients. They played in the water, splashing each other like carefree children, their laughter echoing across the shore. For a brief moment, they were not the Sultan and his most beloved wife, but simply two souls in love, finding joy in the simple things.

As the sun set, they lay on the sand, their fingers intertwined.

"I received your letter," Süleyman said softly, breaking the comfortable silence between them.

Hürrem looked up at him, surprised. "You did?"

"Yes, just before we returned. It was beautiful, Hürrem. Your words kept me going when I thought I would not make it back."

Tears welled in her eyes once again, and she smiled. "I’m just happy you’re here with me now."

Süleyman turned to face her, his eyes intense with love and desire. "Ibrahim helped me through some difficult moments during the campaign," he confessed. "I owe him much for getting me home."

Süleyman continued, "I owe Ibrahim for keeping my mind focused when everything was falling apart." He sighed, his thumb brushing the back of Hürrem's hand.

Hürrem smiled softly, though the mention of Ibrahim lingered in her thoughts like a shadow. She had never quite been able to banish the jealousy that surfaced whenever Süleyman spoke too fondly of his closest friend. She loved Süleyman fiercely and, like him, could not help but feel possessive over those she adored most. But she kept her feelings hidden now, masking the brief flicker of irritation with a warm, loving gaze. The day had been too perfect, and she wouldn’t allow her jealousy to tarnish it.

As the evening deepened, they shared a simple meal by the beach, with Hürrem teasing Süleyman about his lack of cooking skills.

"You know," she laughed, as he tried to turn over a fish on the grill and nearly dropped it into the fire, "I think it's better that I rule the kitchen. You, my Sultan, were made for the battlefield, not the hearth."

Süleyman chuckled, setting the fish down triumphantly after his battle with it. "Perhaps you're right. But, as your husband, I should learn to do something to ease your burdens."

Hürrem smiled, her heart swelling. "You do enough, Süleyman. Your love is all I ever need."

They ate in comfortable silence, watching the stars emerge in the sky, their quiet company a balm to the months of separation. As the meal ended, Hürrem nestled closer to him, the warmth of his body shielding her from the cool night air. They talked for hours, about everything and nothing—their children, the small dramas of the harem, the pressures of ruling an empire. And slowly, the conversation shifted back to them, to the love that had carried them through every storm.

"I thought I had lost you," Hürrem whispered, resting her head on his chest as they lay back on the soft sand, listening to the gentle waves.

Süleyman tightened his arm around her, his voice thick with emotion. "I know. There were moments I thought I would never see you again. But you were always with me, Hürrem, in my thoughts. You give me strength, even when you're not by my side."

Her breath caught at his words, and for a moment, they stayed like that—two souls entwined under the stars, feeling the depth of their bond in the stillness of the night.

As the waves gently lapped the shore, the moment shifted, and an intense desire flickered in their eyes. Süleyman shifted, turning to face her fully, his fingers trailing down her cheek with reverence. "I want to show you how much I’ve missed you."

Hürrem's breath hitched, her body responding to his closeness, the heat between them rising. Her hand reached up to tangle in his hair, pulling him closer until their lips met in a slow, searing kiss. It was a kiss that spoke of all the love, the passion, the pain of separation they had endured. Each touch of his lips, each stroke of his hands, was filled with a hunger that had been building for months.

Süleyman’s hand slid down her back, pulling her tightly against him as the kiss deepened, their bodies pressed together as if they were afraid to be apart again. Hürrem’s fingers roamed his chest, her touch light but electric, igniting a fire in both of them. He groaned against her lips, the sound sending shivers through her.

His hands, strong yet gentle, moved to her waist, lifting her as he laid her down on the soft sand, hovering over her, his eyes dark with desire. "I love you, Hürrem," he murmured, his lips brushing her ear before trailing down her neck, leaving a path of fire in their wake.

Hürrem arched beneath him, her breath coming in soft gasps. "And I love you, my Sultan. Always."

Their clothes were discarded in a blur of movement, the cool night air contrasting with the heat of their skin. Every touch, every kiss, was slow, deliberate, as if they were savoring the moment after so much time apart. Süleyman’s lips traced the curves of her body, worshipping every inch of her as his hands roamed, learning her all over again. Hürrem’s fingers threaded through his hair, her back arching as she pulled him closer, wanting more, needing him.

They moved together like the rhythm of the sea, waves of pleasure building between them as they lost themselves in each other. Time seemed to stand still as they gave in to the passion they had been holding back for so long. In that moment, nothing else existed—no empire, no wars, no responsibilities—only the two of them, wrapped in each other’s love.

When the intensity finally subsided, they lay together on the sand, their bodies entwined, breathless but content. Hürrem’s head rested on Süleyman’s chest, the steady beat of his heart soothing her.

"I was so afraid, Süleyman," she whispered, her fingers tracing patterns on his skin. "When the news came that you had died, I didn’t know how to go on."

Süleyman kissed the top of her head, his hand stroking her hair. "I’m here now, Hürrem. And I promise, I will always come back to you."

Hürrem sighed, closing her eyes as she listened to his heartbeat, letting his words soothe her remaining fears. She felt safe in his arms, more than she had in weeks. She had thought she lost him, but now, lying in his arms, she knew that everything would be alright.

"I don’t care if our anniversary has passed," she said softly. "This is the greatest gift you could have given me—your return."

Süleyman smiled, pressing a kiss to her forehead. "And I will give it to you again and again, as many times as it takes."

The night drifted on, and as the moon rose higher in the sky, they made love once more, slowly and tenderly, savoring every moment as if they were trying to make up for all the lost time.

---

The next morning, as the sun began to rise over the horizon, casting golden light across the sea, they sat together on the beach, watching the waves roll in.

"We’ll have to return soon," Süleyman said, though there was reluctance in his voice.

"I know," Hürrem replied, resting her head on his shoulder. "But for now, let’s stay here, just a little longer."

And so they did, wrapped in each other’s warmth, content to let the world wait just a little while longer.

@ohhmichelettoohh and now a little bonus for you.;))))))))

As the sun climbed higher in the sky, casting a golden glow over the secluded beach, Süleyman and Hürrem remained in each other's arms, the intimacy of the night before still lingering between them. They had spent the night lost in each other, the world far away, but as the light broke over the horizon, their stolen moments felt fragile, as if the weight of their responsibilities would soon return.

Then, a shadow emerged from the line of trees. Hürrem lifted her head from Süleyman’s shoulder, her brow furrowing at first in confusion, but then she recognized the familiar figure approaching. It was Ibrahim, his expression calm but thoughtful, his steps unhurried.

"Ibrahim," Süleyman called out, sitting up slightly, his tone neither surprised nor annoyed. There was only a softness there, a kind of unspoken understanding between the two men.

Hürrem watched Ibrahim as he approached, her pulse quickening, unsure of what this moment would hold. She felt the shift in the air, the tension that hovered between the three of them, something unspoken but present. Ibrahim had always been close to Süleyman, and while Hürrem had felt her fair share of jealousy over their bond, she had never been able to fully deny the complicated emotions it stirred within her.

"Forgive me," Ibrahim said quietly as he neared them, his eyes flickering briefly between the Sultan and his wife. "I didn’t mean to intrude."

Süleyman smiled, an invitation clear in his expression. "You’re not intruding. Join us, Ibrahim."

Hürrem’s breath caught slightly at the invitation, but she did not protest. The connection between Süleyman and Ibrahim had always been unique, and though she had always thought it belonged to them alone, now, here in this private moment, she wondered if that bond extended to her as well.

Ibrahim hesitated for only a second, then slowly moved to sit beside them. The three of them sat in silence for a moment, the sound of the waves gently lapping at the shore the only noise. The sun bathed the beach in warmth, but there was something deeper heating between them—a shared closeness, a trust that transcended words.

Hürrem looked at Süleyman, and he met her gaze, his eyes filled with an unspoken question. She nodded, her heart racing in her chest, unsure but not unwilling. There was something about this moment, about Ibrahim's presence, that felt natural, almost inevitable, as if this was the culmination of all the years of intertwined lives, passions, and loyalties.

Süleyman reached out, his hand brushing lightly over Ibrahim’s, and the simple touch carried with it a weight of history, of loyalty, and something deeper that had long remained unspoken. Ibrahim’s eyes flickered with something unreadable, but he didn’t pull away. Instead, his gaze shifted to Hürrem, who watched him with a mixture of curiosity and desire.

There was no awkwardness in the moment. It was as if they had all silently agreed that this—whatever this was—had been waiting in the shadows of their lives, and now, in this secluded place, they would allow it to unfold.

Süleyman was the first to move, leaning in to kiss Ibrahim softly, a kiss that was gentle but filled with meaning. Hürrem’s breath quickened as she watched, her pulse thudding in her ears. She felt the intensity between them, and it only seemed to deepen the bond they all shared. There was no jealousy in this moment—only understanding.

Ibrahim’s hand slid across the space between them, touching Hürrem’s skin lightly, as if asking for permission. She responded with a soft smile, a silent yes, and his touch grew firmer, more confident. His fingers traced the line of her arm, sending shivers through her, as he leaned in to kiss her gently, just as Süleyman had.

The three of them moved together naturally, their touches slow and careful, testing the boundaries of this new intimacy. Hürrem found herself lost in the sensations, the feel of Süleyman’s hands on her, Ibrahim’s lips against her skin, the connection between them all deepening with every moment. It was as if they had always belonged like this—three bodies moving in perfect harmony, bound by love, trust, and desire.

They undressed each other with unhurried hands, the warmth of the sun and the soft sand beneath them grounding them in the moment. There was no rush, no need to explain or justify what was happening. It simply was.

Hürrem lay between them, her body tingling with anticipation as their hands roamed over her skin, each touch a reminder of the shared history they had, of the love and devotion that had bound their lives together for so long. Süleyman kissed her deeply, his hands sliding down her body, while Ibrahim leaned in to kiss the curve of her neck, his breath warm against her skin.

Their movements were synchronized, as if they had always known how to move together. Hürrem moaned softly as Süleyman’s hands found her most sensitive places, while Ibrahim’s lips continued to explore her body, igniting flames in her that she hadn’t expected. She reached for them both, her hands gripping their bodies as they moved against her, lost in the pleasure they were creating together.

Süleyman’s lips left hers to kiss Ibrahim once more, their connection only deepening as they shared in this moment of passion. Hürrem watched them, her heart racing with desire as the two men she loved most shared a kiss that was both tender and filled with heat.

The night continued in this rhythm—soft kisses, shared touches, and the unspoken connection that bound them all together. The world outside their little beach no longer existed; there was only this moment, this love, this shared desire.

And as the three of them finally came together, their bodies moving in unison, it felt like the culmination of something long overdue, as natural as the tide rolling in and out. They were bound not only by their shared histories but by a love that was deeper and more complicated than they had ever imagined.

When it was over, they lay together in the sand, breathless but content, their bodies tangled in a way that felt right, as if this had always been their destiny. Hürrem nestled between the two men, her heart full and her body sated. There was nothing left to say—everything they needed to express had been spoken through their touch.

Süleyman, Ibrahim, and Hürrem remained there as the sun sank low once again, knowing that whatever came next, they would face it together, just as they had always done.

[fezilietrain]

For @ohhmichelettoohh

The night was quiet, the soft hum of the Bosphorus filling the still air on Sultan Süleyman's balcony. The sprawling expanse of Istanbul lay below, twinkling under the stars like a sea of dreams and memories. Ibrahim stood beside him, the years between them as wide as the distance across the water. They hadn’t spoken like this in years. Not since the rift that had changed their relationship forever.

There had been times when Süleyman thought this conversation might never happen. That the closeness they once shared was lost, buried under the weight of power, politics, and betrayal. Yet here they were, in the same space where they had once spent countless evenings—laughing, sharing their hopes, dreaming of a future that had seemed so simple back then.

For a long while, they stood in silence, just as they used to when words weren't necessary.

“Süleyman,” Ibrahim finally broke the quiet, his voice soft, hesitant. “Do you ever think of Manisa?”

Süleyman's gaze didn't shift from the horizon, but his heart stirred at the mention of the place. Manisa. Where it had all begun. Where he had been not a Sultan, but a prince. Where they had been not ruler and subject, but brothers, bound by friendship.

“I do,” he said quietly, the weight of memories tugging at his chest. “Often.”

Ibrahim’s next words were careful, as though he wasn’t sure if he should say them. But the vulnerability was there, between them, in the space where their friendship had once thrived.

“Do you remember… when we used to sneak away to the hills? When the palace was too stifling, and all we had was each other and the open air?”

A small smile tugged at Süleyman's lips, the memory vivid. They would ride out to the hills, leaving behind the pressures of royal life. It was where Süleyman had felt free, where he could breathe, even if only for a few hours. Ibrahim had been his companion, his confidant—the one person who understood him without explanation.

“I remember,” he murmured, his voice thick with nostalgia.

“Come with me,” Ibrahim said, turning toward him, his eyes searching. “Come back to Manisa. Like we used to. Just the two of us. No titles, no responsibilities. Just… us.”

Süleyman finally met his gaze, and for a moment, the years dissolved. He saw the same young man he had grown up with, the one who had shared his laughter, his secrets, his dreams. The one who had once been like a brother. The one he had lost.

His throat tightened, emotions swelling in his chest. He nodded, his voice barely above a whisper. “Yes. Let’s go.”

---

A week later, they were in Manisa. The air was different here, fresher, lighter, as if the weight of the palace in Istanbul had never existed. The rolling hills stretched before them, the landscape a beautiful mixture of greenery and ancient stone pathways, familiar yet distant, as if it had been waiting for them to return.

For three days, they forgot who they were supposed to be. The Sultan and his once-trusted Grand Vizier disappeared, and in their place stood two men who had known each other long before the world had laid its burdens upon them.

On the first day, they wandered the streets of the old city, the same streets they had roamed as teenagers. They visited the markets, tasted the food that had once been their favorite, and reminisced about the pranks they had pulled on unsuspecting servants.

“Do you remember that old baker?” Ibrahim laughed, his eyes crinkling at the edges. “The one who always caught us stealing simit?”

Süleyman chuckled, a sound that had become rare for him in recent years. “I remember. I also remember how he used to chase us with that broom of his.”

They walked the streets like they used to, just two young men without a care in the world, laughing and talking like the old days. The walls that had grown between them over the years seemed to crumble, little by little, as they wandered through the past.

---

On the second day, they rode out to the hills again, just like they had done so many years ago. The horses galloped freely, the wind rushing past them, the sun warm on their faces. For a few precious hours, it felt like they had stepped back in time, as if nothing had changed.

They found the old spot they used to escape to—the quiet hillside that overlooked the valley below. It was still as beautiful as it had been back then, untouched by time.

Sitting side by side, Ibrahim spoke softly. “I missed this. I missed you.”

Süleyman looked at him, and for the first time in years, the tension between them melted away completely. He could feel the weight of his position, of his decisions, but here, in this place, he could allow himself to feel something else: the grief for what they had lost, and the hope that perhaps, they could find it again.

---

On the third evening, as the sun set over Manisa, casting golden light across the hills, they stood together in silence once more. Ibrahim, ever daring in his vulnerability, broke the quiet again.

“Do you think… we can ever truly go back?”

Süleyman’s heart ached with the question, with the impossible longing to return to a time when life had been simpler. He turned to Ibrahim, searching for the words that had eluded him for so long.

“Perhaps not,” he admitted quietly, “but we can carry it with us. What we were. Who we were.”

Ibrahim’s eyes softened, a bittersweet smile on his lips. Slowly, tentatively, his hand reached out, fingers brushing against Süleyman’s. There was no hesitation, no awkwardness—just the quiet understanding of two men who had walked a long, painful road together, but who were finally finding their way back.

Süleyman felt the warmth of Ibrahim’s hand, the familiar strength in his grip, and he closed his fingers around it. They stood there, hand in hand, two souls bound not by duty or obligation, but by the friendship they had forged so long ago.

In that moment, it didn’t matter who they were or what had come between them. For the first time in years, they were simply Süleyman and Ibrahim. Two friends. Two brothers.

And as the sun dipped below the horizon, they both knew that whatever the future held, they would face it together—just as they had promised all those years ago in Manisa.

[fezilietrain]