That night--the messages were sent out to nearby, ottoman controlled cities. From the north to south. The men rode their horse's tirelessly. They moved like shadows in the cold streets of Soğut, unidentified, unacknowledged.
Marcellos mounted on top, his hands clutched around the lash as his frail yet hopeful eyes darted to the front. To his front--he could see the soft glow of the torches beyond the wilderness of the forest.
The musky scent of smoke coming out from the homes and the empty roads. A serene night indeed. He continued on his journey--as we cut back.
Gümüş Saray--the palace gates, at both front and back were heavily armed and guarded--especially the entrance of the harem. The soldiers were dressed in matching red, long outfits. Eyes sharp as arrows as they patrolled the nearby forests.
Arslan--one of the guards eyes fell to his very front where he saw a man. He seemed to be roman as he wore the striking red cloth around his shoulders. Though nothing else could be made out about as he wore a long, brown cloak which covered most of his face and reached till his foot.
The man then slowed down as two other guards with Arslan approached him. They took his horse as he hopped off.
He raised his head, amber gaze meeting with Arslan--"I have a message from our emperor"
The guard nods and brings him in. The door opens wide with a slight creak. The Palace was a marvel, with its marble flooring and wide opened stained glass windows--it seemed to be surreal. The walls were painted by the soft glow of the torches.
Inside the throne room walked--the Bey, (master) Mehmet. He stood of any average man. He wore a light, white clothing that was tucked in his brooch. His Hands clutched around a sword as he planted it on a map on the table.
He ran a hand through his raven hair, fingers grazing against the thick edges of his beard. The postwar had been the toughest, many were lost and so was the conquest.
Mehmet let out a sigh, his eyes darted to the elaborate murals which hung on the palace walls. They were of his past ancestors, warriors. They who conquered great lands, ripping the heads of their enemies.
His chest heaved, "They ruled with grace, one hands held the entire world-the while the other was empty"
Mehmet had gazed at his late mother, his head tilted in innocence as he bubbly asked, "Why was the other hand empty, my mother? must it be?"
The green-eyed woman arched her head slightly as she let out a soft laughter--it wasn;t mocking, just gentle. Her arms clasped around Mehmet as she sat him on her lap.
'Because my dear... to be a ruler means you will be just, you hold the world in on hand--though the other will be empty as it is merely a reminder that none of this...
He voice trails off she gazed at the imperial garden--Mehmet's eyes followed her and the enchanting, fairy-tale like palace garden they were in.
-That none of this will leave with you from this earth, these are all amusements, my child. His brown gaze widened slightly as he nods*
He remembered those times--by the garden's fountain, under the oak tree. Laying on the field, listening to the soft murmurs of his mother and her tales.
Just then--the door opened as a guard entered, he spoke, composed. "They have sent out a messenger, my lord"
The raven haired man blinked, "A messenger?" this was unusual as it was simply too late. "At this time?"
The guard dropped his head, "Yes, my lord"... Mehmet nods* The guard soon bought forth the man in.
Mehmet straitened his body as he listened in, "Our emperor Augustus had set out a peace deal and it is my job to deliver this to you" he murmured and extended a scroll.
A guard beside him took it from him and walked up to Mehmet, kneeling as he handed it to him. Mehmet's hands grazed against the crisp letter, eyes swiftly reading through it as he tilted his head.
Peace... perhaps?