Scars of the Shadowed Night

The night air of the Ottoman encampment was heavy—woodsmoke, horse sweat, that faint metallic tang that meant battle was close. Fires scattered across the landscape like someone had spilled the stars, shadows dancing wild across canvas tent walls. Somewhere in the middle of it all, a figure moved through the janissaries, shoulders hunched, uniform too big, steps careful like he was trying not to break something.

Şehzade Bayezid had never known hardship like this. His hands—used to silk, to the weight of a calligraphy brush—were blistered raw from hauling supplies and digging latrines. His back screamed from sleeping on cold ground. His stomach cramped from hunger, because rations were thin and he never got to them before someone stole his share.

But he endured. He would endure. For a chance to stand in front of his father, Sultan Suleiman, and prove he wasn't just the youngest son, the one still clinging to his mother's skirts. He'd show them the blood of Osman ran hot in his veins.

That dream—fragile as spun glass—started cracking on the third night.

---

The tent stank. Unwashed bodies, stale bread, the whole rank mess of men living too close together. Bayezid huddled in his corner, trying to disappear. It never worked.

"Look at him." The voice came from across the tent, sneering. "Like a little bird. All soft and pretty."

He didn't have to look up. Tarkan. Built like a battering ram, shoulders that blocked the sun, fists that left bruises in shades of purple and black. He'd taken a special interest in Bayezid from day one—extra duties, mocking his delicate features, his slender hands, his voice that hadn't fully deepened yet.

"I said look at me when I speak to you, little bird."

A hand grabbed his chin, forced his head up. Tarkan's face close, breath sour with wine. His eyes—dark, hungry—roamed over Bayezid's face, and the prince's stomach turned.

"Such pretty eyes." Tarkan's thumb traced Bayezid's lower lip. "Like a woman's."

Bayezid jerked away. "I am no woman."

"No." Tarkan smiled, cruel. "But you'll do."

The other janissaries laughed. Hollow sound, distant. Bayezid's heart hammered as Tarkan gripped his arm, hauled him to his feet.

"Come, little bird. We have... business to discuss."

---

The camp was quiet before dawn. Fires burned low, guards drowsy at their posts. Tarkan dragged Bayezid behind a supply tent where shadows lay thick.

"Please." Bayezid hated the tremor in his voice. "I'm not what you think. I am—"

"You're nothing." Tarkan shoved him against the canvas wall. "A weak, mewling thing that should've stayed home with the women."

Bayezid's hand went for the dagger at his belt, but Tarkan was faster. He wrenched it away, tossed it into the darkness.

"None of that, little bird. You'll be still."

And Bayezid went still. Frozen. His body refused to obey the commands his mind screamed. Freeze, flight, fight—all three failed, left him a statue of flesh and terror as Tarkan's hands tore at his clothes.

Why can't I move? The question echoed somewhere far away. Why can't I scream?

But he knew. Screaming meant exposure. Exposure meant disgrace. Disgrace meant his father's disappointment, his mother's tears, his brothers' pity. He'd rather die.

So he endured.

When it was over, Tarkan patted his cheek with mocking gentleness. "You'll keep this secret, little bird. Because if you tell anyone, I'll swear you came to me willingly. I'll say you begged for it. And who will they believe? A decorated janissary, or a soft, strange boy who doesn't belong?"

Bayezid said nothing. Couldn't speak. His voice had fled somewhere far away, locked behind walls of shame.

Tarkan laughed and left him there, crumpled in the dirt.

---

It became a pattern. Night after night. Bayezid learned to float above his body, watch from a great height as Tarkan used him. He grew thinner, paler. His eyes took on a haunted look that even the harsh life of a janissary couldn't explain.

He stopped eating. Stopped speaking unless directly addressed. The other janissaries noticed, but they only saw weakness—fuel for their mockery. Only Tarkan saw the truth, and it pleased him.

"You're getting used to it," he whispered one night, hand sliding possessively down Bayezid's flank. "Soon you'll beg for it."

Bayezid said nothing. Silence was his only armor.

---

The breaking point came on the seventh night, during a skirmish with a neighboring tribe. Small engagement, really—more of a raid—but it gave the janissaries a chance to shed blood and prove themselves.

Bayezid fought well. In battle, his training took over, body moving on instinct. He killed a man—a stranger, someone's father, someone's son—and felt nothing but a distant, hollow satisfaction that he was still alive.

But when the skirmish ended and camp settled into its nightly rhythm, the old terror came back.

"You fought well today." Tarkan appeared at Bayezid's side as he washed blood from his hands. "Maybe I've been too rough with you. Maybe you need... encouragement."

His hand closed around Bayezid's wrist, squeezed until bones ground together.

"Come. I have something to show you."

Bayezid let himself be led. What choice did he have? Resistance only made it worse. Compliance meant a swift end.

But tonight, something was different. Maybe it was the blood on his hands. Maybe it was the memory of the man he'd killed, the light leaving his eyes. Maybe it was just too many nights of helplessness.

When Tarkan pushed him to his knees, Bayezid didn't go down.

He stood.

"No."

Tarkan's eyes widened, then narrowed. "What did you say?"

"I said no."

The words tasted strange, like a language he'd forgotten. Tarkan laughed—harsh, ugly sound.

"You think you have a choice, little bird? You're nothing. Less than nothing. I can do whatever I want to you, and no one will—"

"I am a şehzade."

The confession tore out of Bayezid's throat, raw and desperate. "I am the son of Sultan Suleiman. And if you touch me again, I will see you dead."

For a moment, Tarkan's face went pale. Then he laughed harder.

"A prince? Dressed in rags, sleeping in filth, spreading his legs for a common soldier? You're no prince. You're a whore."

He lunged.

Bayezid tried to fight. He really did. But Tarkan was stronger, faster, and Bayezid's body was already broken from days of abuse and starvation. He went down hard—head striking a rock—and the world went gray.

"Keep screaming," Tarkan hissed in his ear. "No one will hear."

But someone did hear.

---

"Release him."

The voice cut through the fog like a blade. Familiar. Cold and commanding. A voice Bayezid had known his whole life.

Şehzade Selim stepped out of the shadows, hand on his sword hilt. His eyes—usually lazy, half-lidded—were sharp as daggers as he took in the scene.

"I said release him."

Tarkan scrambled off Bayezid, his face cycling through shock, fear, calculation. "My lord, this isn't what it appears. This boy—"

"This boy," Selim interrupted, "is my brother."

He strode forward, hauled Bayezid to his feet. Up close, his face was a mask of barely controlled fury.

"You stupid, reckless, foolish boy." His voice low, only for Bayezid. "What have you done?"

Bayezid couldn't answer. The tears he'd held back for seven days finally broke free, streaming down his dirt-caked face. He clung to Selim's arm like a drowning man.

"I'm sorry," he whispered. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry..."

Selim's jaw tightened. He turned to Tarkan, who'd started backing away.

"You'll stay exactly where you are." Selim's voice carried the full weight of his rank. "You'll speak to no one. You'll move from this spot, and I'll remove your head myself. Understand?"

Tarkan nodded, face ashen.

Selim turned and led Bayezid away, supporting him as his legs buckled.

---

The summons came within the hour.

Sultan Suleiman sat in his command tent, face unreadable, as two princes were brought before him—one proud and defiant, one broken and trembling. The tent was empty save for the sultan and a few silent guards.

"Selim." Suleiman's voice was dangerously calm. "Explain why I've been woken from my rest to deal with a brawl between janissaries."

"It was no brawl, Father." Selim said. "Bayezid was being assaulted."

Suleiman's eyes flickered to the younger prince. Bayezid stood with his head bowed, body swaying, uniform torn and dirty.

"Bayezid?" Suleiman's voice cracked, all pretense of calm evaporating. "What madness is this? You—you're supposed to be in Manisa. You're supposed to be safe."

"I wanted to prove myself." Bayezid's voice barely a whisper. "I wanted to be worthy of you."

"Worthy?" Suleiman stood, height and presence filling the tent. "You think sneaking off to a campaign, disguising yourself as a common soldier, is how you prove yourself? You think getting into a brawl with a janissary is how you earn my respect?"

Selim opened his mouth to speak, but Suleiman silenced him with a gesture.

"You've shamed yourself. You've shamed your mother. You've shamed me. What were you thinking? Were you thinking at all?"

Bayezid's shoulders shook. Each word landed like a blow. But beneath the shame, beneath the exhaustion, something stirred. A desperate need to be seen.

"I was thinking I'm tired of being the forgotten son." His voice barely above a whisper. "I was thinking I'd rather die in battle than live another day as a shadow."

The tent fell silent. Suleiman stared at his youngest son, and for the first time, he truly looked at him. The hollow cheeks. The dark circles under his eyes. The way he held himself, like he was braced for another blow.

"Everyone out." Suleiman said. "Now."

Selim hesitated, but a single look from his father sent him retreating. The guards followed. The tent flap fell closed, leaving father and son alone.

"Tell me." Suleiman's voice softer now. "Tell me everything."

And Bayezid did.

---

It came out in fragments. Broken sentences. Long silences. The disguise. The bullying. Tarkan's hands, his threats, the nights that blurred into one endless nightmare. Bayezid spoke with his eyes fixed on the ground, like he couldn't bear to see his father's face.

Suleiman listened without interrupting. His face stayed still, but his hands—clasped behind his back—trembled.

When Bayezid finished, silence stretched between them, thick and heavy.

"You should have told me." Suleiman said at last.

"I was ashamed."

"You should have told someone. Your mother. Selim. Anyone."

Bayezid finally looked up, eyes red-rimmed and hollow. "And what would they have done? Sent me back to the palace in disgrace? Locked me away where I could cause no more trouble? I'm always causing trouble, Father. Always too soft, too weak, too sensitive. This—" He gestured at his torn uniform, his bruised body. "This is what happens to soft, weak, sensitive boys. I deserved it."

Suleiman's composure cracked. "Do not say that. Do you hear me? No one deserves what that animal did to you."

But Bayezid was already shaking his head, retreating back into himself. "It doesn't matter. It's done. I just want to go home."

"There's something else." Suleiman's voice carefully controlled. "When Selim brought you in—when I saw the state of your clothes—I noticed blood. Are you wounded?"

Bayezid's face went pale. "It's nothing. A scratch."

"You're lying." Suleiman stepped closer, eyes searching. "I've been a soldier for thirty years. I know the difference between a battle wound and—" He stopped, a terrible suspicion dawning. "When I ordered the physician to examine you, he insisted on a private audience with me. Alone."

Color drained from Bayezid's face.

"Father, please—"

"He told me things, Bayezid. Things I didn't understand. Things about your body that I, as your father, should have known."

Bayezid swayed, and Suleiman caught him, lowered him to a divan. The prince's breath came in ragged gasps.

"I didn't know." Bayezid whispered. "I didn't know until the physician examined me when I was a child. I thought I was broken. I thought I was a monster."

"You're not a monster." Suleiman knelt before him, taking his hands. "You're my son. You've always been my son."

"The physician said I am with child."

The words hung in the air, terrible and final. Suleiman's grip on Bayezid's hands tightened until his knuckles went white.

"Tarkan." He said the name like a curse.

"Yes."

Suleiman rose. His face had gone hard, eyes burning with cold fire Bayezid had never seen before.

"Stay here." he said. "Don't move. Don't speak to anyone. I'll return."

"Father, please—"

"Stay."

Suleiman strode from the tent, robes billowing. Guards snapped to attention as he passed, but he paid them no mind. His steps carried him through camp, past dying fires and sleeping soldiers, to the supply tent where Tarkan was being held.

Selim stood guard, hand on his sword. "Father—"

"Leave us."

Selim hesitated, then nodded and stepped aside.

Suleiman entered the tent alone.

---

Tarkan was on his knees, hands bound behind his back. He looked up as the sultan entered, face a mask of bravado.

"Your Majesty, I can explain. Your son came to me willingly. He whispered in my ear, promised me favors, and—"

Suleiman's fist connected with his jaw.

Tarkan's head snapped to the side, blood spraying from his mouth. He fell, and Suleiman was on him, dragging him up by his collar.

"Say another word." Suleiman hissed, face inches from Tarkan's, "and I'll remove your tongue."

Tarkan's eyes went wide with terror. This wasn't the composed, calculating sultan he'd heard of. This was a man possessed by rage so pure it was almost divine.

"I'll ask you once." Suleiman's voice low and deadly. "Did you rape my son?"

Tarkan's mouth opened and closed. The lies died on his tongue.

"Answer me."

"Yes."

The word was barely a whisper, but it was enough. Suleiman released him, stepped back like he'd been burned.

"You're a dead man." he said.

"Your Majesty, please—"

"You're a dead man walking, breathing, thinking you could touch what belongs to me. My blood. My son. And you thought you could—"

Suleiman's voice broke. He turned away, shoulders heaving.

The guards entered, and he gave the order without looking back.

"Take him. Execute him by slow impalement. Let the camp watch. Let them see what happens to those who harm the House of Osman."

Tarkan screamed, but the sound was swallowed by the night.

---

Bayezid heard the screams from his father's tent. He curled into himself, pressed his hands over his ears, but the sound seemed to come from inside his own skull. He rocked back and forth, whispering a prayer he couldn't finish.

The tent flap opened, and Suleiman entered. His robes were splattered with blood, and his eyes were red.

"It's done." he said.

Bayezid looked up, and for a moment, he saw something in his father's face he'd never seen before. Not disappointment. Not judgment. Grief.

"Father—"

Suleiman crossed the tent in three strides and pulled his son into his arms. Bayezid stiffened, then collapsed against him, sobbing into the fabric of his robes.

"I'm sorry." Suleiman whispered, over and over. "I'm sorry I didn't see. I'm sorry I didn't protect you. I'm sorry."

"I wanted you to be proud of me." Bayezid choked out.

"I've always been proud of you." Suleiman's voice cracked. "I've always loved you. And I failed you."

The night wore on. The screams stopped. The camp fell silent. And father and son held each other in the flickering candlelight, bound by grief and the slow, painful work of healing.

---

The journey back to Istanbul was made in silence. Bayezid rode in a litter, too weak to hold a horse, his face turned toward the canvas walls. Selim rode beside him, a silent guard against a world that had proven so cruel.

Mehmed met them at the palace gates, face pale with worry. He embraced Bayezid carefully, like he was made of glass.

"Welcome home." he said, and the words carried a weight Bayezid understood.

The physicians attended him. The pregnancy was ended quietly, privately, in a room filled with only his mother's tears and his father's steady hand. Bayezid slept for three days afterward, and when he woke, he found his family gathered around his bed.

Hürrem held his hand, her face a mask of controlled anguish. "My son. My precious son."

"I'm sorry, Mother."

"You have nothing to be sorry for." Her voice was fierce. "Nothing."

Suleiman sat at the foot of the bed, head bowed. "You'll heal." he said. "In time. And until that time comes, you'll want for nothing. You'll be protected. You'll be loved."

Bayezid closed his eyes. The words washed over him like a balm, but the wounds they sought to heal were deep, festering, hidden in places even love couldn't reach.

He didn't know if he'd ever be whole again.

But as his father took his hand and pressed it to his lips, as his mother smoothed his hair, as his brothers stood guard at the door, he allowed himself—for the first time in many terrible nights—to believe he might one day learn to live with the scars.

The shadows would remain. The nightmares would come. But he would face them.

He was, after all, his father's son.