Muhtesem Yuzyil Imagines ♡

The Throne Wars Ch. 3 (By Aurelia_Borealis)

A short little poem, meant to depict Hurrem's thoughts at the time she found out that Mustafa had been killed.

Ode to Mustafa

Oh, how many years have passed since you stepped foot onto this blessed land,

how many seasons have changed since you were forced into this deadly cage,

how many lives lost,

how little gained.

Freedom is a fickle thing,

taken for granted, when given in abundance,

yet desperately yearned for when taken away,

you may hold your head high under the façade of freedom,

but the knowledge that you are forever chained drags you down like you are drowning.

The very same sun dazzles down in its glory,

the very same moon illuminates the night with its shining face,

the only portents of your past which haven't changed.

You desperately cling to any reminders of those years whence gone,

when life was but simple and routine,

a life so suddenly seized from you,

now naught but memory.

Fate, Destiny, Survival,

you are at the mercy of a higher power's whims,

pulling you in opposite directions,

dragging you to death's door, but being left just at the end.

Haven't you survived this?

Haven't you lived this a thousand times over?

You have endured the guilt and the agony that threatens to engulf you in its vastness.

So why is this time different?

Love, Hope, Mercy,

too often underestimated,

too often overlooked,

but you know the worth of a pleading glance,

you know the power of an appeal to one's better instincts,

you acknowledge that sometimes, it is the unlikeliest of things that could be your saving grace.

Tricks, Schemes, Manipulations,

all this you have survived without the utterance of a single prayer,

all this you have endured by keeping your wits sharp and your morals loose.

Why is this time different?

Why do you care now, when before such things have never mattered?

This cursed land has been the stone to whet your sword,

on these soils you have spilt rivers of blood,

in these waters you have watched yourself morph into the monsters of old,

the severity of survival stripping you to selfishness,

but not once did it bother you.

You gasp for breath, clawing at your throat, tearing against the hands that help you up,

knowing in that moment,

how it felt when they pounced,

tying that fateful wire around his royal neck,

holding him down,

choking,

waiting,

waiting with the agonizing virtue of patience as they took a life,

and in this moment you yearn for that sweet death,

knowing that of all the lives which you have taken,

this one was the most precious and undeserving.

(CREDS TO AUTHORRRR)))