Dynasties: Mahidevran's Revenge

Milena & Alexandra

Content Warning: This chapter contains episodes of psychological abuse (implied gaslighting, manipulation, parental alienation, among others) and sexual assault (implied), so it is recommended to read at your own discretion and judgment. The scenes are only part of the plot and in no way the authoress is seeking to romanticize such situations.

***

"Who am I?" Hürrem asked herself when she looked in the elaborate gold-framed mirror that dominated a corner of her private chambers.

The golden light of sunset filtered through the carved lattices of her windows, creating geometric patterns that danced over the Persian rugs and silk cushions that adorned her room. After the shameful incident in the gardens with Mahidevran and the children, Hürrem had locked herself in her ornate room, desperately seeking the solitude that would allow her to process the whirlwind of emotions threatening to drown her.

But the mirror had been merciless with her, reflecting a truth she could no longer ignore: the woman who had once proudly boasted of being Suleiman's great love had completely disappeared, along with what little dignity she had left and the supposed love he had once professed for her. Her appearance betrayed her deteriorated state of mind without lies: the black kohl that lined her eyes was smeared down her cheeks due to the tears she had shed uncontrollably, creating dark furrows over her pale skin. Her red hair, normally styled with care in elaborate headdresses adorned with pearls and precious stones, now hung in disheveled strands that escaped from golden hairpins. Her emerald green silk dress, one of her favorites that she used to wear to impress Suleiman, was still stained with the remains of the black ink she had impulsively thrown at Mahidevran hours before, stains that had spread like small reminders of her humiliation.

The shadows of nightfall began to invade her room, filling the spaces between the ebony furniture with a darkness that seemed to reflect the state of her soul. The bronze braziers that normally kept the environment warm and welcoming remained unlit, letting the night's cold slowly seep through the palace stones.

"There are days when I wish I could go back in time..." Hürrem murmured as she thought of her childhood and her life in Rohatyn with an overwhelming mixture of fatigue, melancholy and deep nostalgia. She curled up in her bed covered with silks embroidered with gold threads, but the luxurious fabrics felt cold against her skin. "Go back in time to being simply Alexandra and never having met you in that cursed palace in Manisa, Suleiman..."

As sleep gradually claimed Hürrem, her exhausted mind began to wander toward territories she had carefully kept sealed for years. Unconsciously she began to dream of her homeland, of that previous life that had been buried under layers of survival and forced adaptation. In her dream state, she could see herself walking with light and carefree steps through the thick spruce forests of Rohatyn, where the centuries-old trees created a natural cathedral of intertwined branches that filtered sunlight into golden beams. The familiar aroma of damp earth, moss and pine leaves transported her completely to that time of lost innocence, while melancholy overwhelmed her again like a relentless wave she couldn't contain.

In her dream world, everything was infinitely simpler and purer. She saw herself with painful clarity, desperately wanting to return to that simpler life when she was simply Alexandra —the beloved and protected daughter of a respected Orthodox priest and his devout wife— before tragedy brutally claimed the lives of her parents and her little sister when the Tartars razed their village on that cursed day which eventually would split her existence and identity into two irreconcilable halves.

She continued walking through the forest of her dream, and her home remained intact, suspended in time like a perfect painting, preserved just as it was weeks before the devastating Tartar attack that destroyed everything Alexandra knew and loved until then. Her father was in his usual place, sitting at his small oak wood desk in the study that smelled of parchment and candle wax, meticulously studying ancient manuscripts and dedicatedly preparing Sunday's sermon. His fingers were stained with black ink as he carefully traced words in Church Slavonic on paper. Her mother worked singing softly in the small farm they had behind the house, milking the goats while humming traditional songs before collecting the warm eggs from the chickens that ran freely through the yard.