CHAPTER 1
A/N – Hello, everyone! I can't believe that I'm actually writing this, but I recently discovered Elveo's artwork on Deviantart and all those old ideas came back to me (seriously, she has absolutely AMAZING artwork – it's not Hetalia-related but rather historical, plenty of TurkRo and yes, that which she refers to is apparently a true story. I will not rant about Mehmet II and Radu the Fair right now, both because it's beside the point and because I have mixed feelings about the whole thing, but I thought it's something very well worth exploring Hetaliawise (since this is the trashcan I won't be getting out of anytime soon...:)))) Please be advised though that this fic isn't in any way historically accurate, related to real historical characters or anything of the like. Nope. So just enjoy and leave me your thoughts ;)
Warnings: language, some mild violence
Topkapi palace was a place built more to the purpose of overwhelming one rather than enchanting them and șehzade Sadiq, having been raised away from the capital, found himself uncomfortable here, surrounded by fancy courtiers and made to attend numerous feasts or listen to endless political debates. He was a man of the sword, lived by his sword and enjoyed time with the army, training or riding out in the open. The capital of course offered many distractions, but not anything which he would not tire of quickly and then there was this unsettling feeling, almost like a foreboding. As the old Sultan grew weaker day by day it seemed, he as the fourth son – with no real prospects to the throne but considered a threat by his older brothers regardless – was now supposed to watch his back.
This growing tension was something no one ever spoke about, even though Sadiq knew why he'd been summoned from the provinces. His father, sensing his distress, had recommended that he should find some entertainment while he was here and he had suggested the young prince to have a look at the new boys. In truth, Sadiq did not share the rest of the Court's interest in the young royal hostages sent to Istanbul by their respective countries as a sign of goodwill towards the empire (and a subtle means of obtaining influence and privileges), but his sense of prudence advised him to humor the unpredictable Sultan.
As he followed a servant down a spotless marble hall, the prince nearly had a flinch remembering Murat Bey – the master of Grace and Fine Arts – who would always find him whenever he ran away from his lessons and would drag him back to be delivered in the hands of his tormentors. At the ripe age of twenty-four, Sadiq was thankfully long past such tribulations, but he was now about to see his old nemesis tormenting others.
He was led into a large, luminous room decorated with thick Persian rugs and several low sofas and cushions, where Murat Bey currently held his lessons for the foreign boys who were to be educated in the Court's manners and spirit of refinery. Sadiq had not thought to dress up for this encounter – he had not given much thought to this business at all, truth be told – so he was only wearing a mid-thigh fur hemmed vest over his shirt, simple black slacks with his riding boots and almost no jewelry, in stark contrast with the lavish robes and adornments of most courtiers. Still, his tall, lean but muscular frame made an impression upon his arrival and elicited gasps and giggles from the students, who ogled him more or less openly but enough to make him somewhat uncomfortable. Murat Bey though turned with a dark scowl on his powdered face, clearly displeased by the unexpected interruption, and was just about to harshly admonish the intruder before recognizing the young prince.
"Efendim, what a surprise!" he gushed, seeming to float in Sadiq's direction while waving his hand quickly to silence the noise. "What brings you here today?"
"Well, Murat Bey, my father has suggested that the royal hostages entrusted in our care should be given the required attention and I am here to do his bidding," the prince said with a smile, gaze shifting from the courtier to his students who were lounging on the sofas. Indeed, it seemed that every province and vassal principality had sent its finest young nobles and royals, because the boys were nothing short of exquisite and Murat Bey had them clothed in beautiful silks and velvets, making their youthful grace and often androgynous looks stand out even more. Most of them had long hair, falling in soft waves down their fragile shoulders, and their ears had been adorned with tiny golden hoops.
"So you are here to choose a favorite," the master of Grace and Fine Arts deduced. "That is wonderful, efendim, although these blooming flowers have yet to complete their education," he said. "Perhaps I could make some recommendations?"
Sadiq sighed, glancing around the room and trying to feign at least some interest. His gaze glided indifferently over doe eyes and pink dusted cheeks and eventually discovered two boys sitting in the back of the room, away from the others. Their clothes were visibly less fancy than the others' and they wore no jewels, and the awed expression of the others also seemed to be lacking from their faces. One of them had raven-black hair cropped very short and dark green eyes contrasting with his milky-pale complexion, while the other had slightly wavy, light brown locks with gold and coppery tinges falling just below his chin and the most astounding red eyes the prince had ever seen.
"What about those two?" Sadiq asked.
"Ah, efendim," the courtier muttered with a hint of apology. "You see, unfortunately not all of these boys were gifted with the grace and good manners which we seek to cultivate to the utmost here… And these two, a Bulgarian and a Wallachian, are really the worst! They are cheeky and rude and make no effort to study the fine arts, they like to drink and always seem to have a knife at the ready… horribly unpleasant, I must say!"
The prince advanced into the room, ignoring the hushed whispers which had broken out again, drawing closer to the two boys. "Is that so?" he asked neutrally. "You would not learn about the fine arts Murat Bey is trying to teach you?"
"Learn about what, the fine art of love?" the raven-haired Bulgarian asked ironically.
In the next moment, a small leather-bound volume of poetry flew past Sadiq and hit Murat Bey straight in the forehead, thrown with impressive precision by the other boy by his side. Shocked gasps erupted in the room, but the Bulgarian laughed shamelessly.
"BARBARIAN, HOW DARE YOU?! I WILL HAVE YOU WHIPPED, YOU FILTHY INFIDEL!" Murat Bey shrieked, a hand pressed against his forehead in a dramatic fashion while the prince poked the inside of his cheek with his tongue, fighting back an amused smile. The divine justice had finally descended upon his old nemesis.
Sadiq held his hand up, silencing the string of threats and walked up to the two troublemakers who had stood up, looking ready to attempt an escape. As he did so, he noticed the Wallachian sizing him up, not in an appreciative manner but rather as a fighter would assess a potential opponent, before taking a step back.
"You," the prince asked. "What is your name?"
"Alin," the boy replied cautiously.
"Can you fight? How old are you?"
"...yeah. I'm almost sixteen."
Sadiq nodded slowly, looking thoughtful for a moment, then said it. "Would you like to be my favorite?"
The red-eyed boy blinked a few times, appearing in awe before his expression twisted into an open scowl. "No!" he replied firmly and craned his neck briefly to glance in Murat Bey's direction. "If you want a favorite, you should choose one of the breastless girls over there," he said, pointing with his finger. "And besides, aren't you mixing things up? Do you not know what favorites do? They only play musical instruments, recite poetry and… and other stuff. Which they'd be overjoyed to help you with!"
The prince grinned. "I know, but that would be too easy. And besides, I like girls who look like girls and boys who look like boys, so I'm afraid that anything in between will not suit my tastes. Also," he stated, turning slightly to the raven-haired boy who was eyeing him defiantly. "You are not here to learn about the fine arts, you are here to learn obedience."
Sadiq's smile grew even larger, even as the Bulgarian's expression turned sour, and he addressed the other troublemaker again. "So, I am giving you the chance to become my favorite, but it will not be that simple. I will test you first and if you pass my test, I will keep you by my side. If you fail though… eh… your body will be sent back to your father in the finest cedar box."
With that, the prince turned on his heels and sauntered out of the room, passing by a shocked Murat Bey and briefly patting his shoulder.
"You can at least play the pan flute, can't you?" he heard the Bulgarian ask his friend.
"N-Not really…"
To be continued
șehzade – prince
efendim - master
