Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

"History is written by survivors, and I am surely that." - Catherine de Medici, Reign

There's a saying that the world began in chaos, and it will end in chaos. Maybe, the saying's right, for chaos is more homely for us than peace. I've spent years at Yorkshire Academy with people - like me - who seem to be more at home in chaos than actual order. I have friends too - not like how it was at the beginning. That's how it is at Yorkshire; we try to fit in with a "clique", and when we can't, we try to create our own "clique". And when we fail, we escape reality. For a while, it felt nice to escape; it felt comforting. Escapism came in novels and poems and paintings and the stage. But that didn't last. That's how it is in Yorkshire; nothing lasts.

Not even escapism.

I don't remember how desperate I was, to follow and clinge and plead. But I hated it, and I still hate it. Most of all - however - I hate what came out of it. I'm grateful, yes, but I hate it. I'd rather die than see myself submit to anyone.

So, when the time came, I retracted myself, and I nailed; when the time ended, I held a bloody nail in a bloody hand. That was two years ago. Now, I'm in my ninth year at Yorkshire, and I've been here as long as I can remember.

My name is Ayse Nihan, and God will burn me for my sins.

Chapter Text

"ᴏʜ, ʏᴏᴜ ᴛʜɪɴᴋ ɪ ᴀᴍ ᴀ ɴᴀʀᴄɪꜱꜱɪꜱᴛ? ᴛʜᴇɴ ɪ ᴅᴏɴ'ᴛ ᴡᴀɴᴛ ᴀ ᴘᴀʀᴛ ɪɴ ɪᴛ
ᴀɴᴅ ɪ ᴅᴏɴ'ᴛ ᴄᴀʀᴇ ɪꜰ ɪ ᴍᴀᴅᴇ ᴛʜᴇꜱᴇ ʙᴏᴅɪᴇꜱ ᴡʜᴏ ᴛʜɪɴᴋ ᴛʜᴀᴛ ᴛʜᴇʏ ᴄᴀɴ ᴛᴀᴋᴇ ᴛʜɪꜱ ꜰʀᴏᴍ ᴍᴇ
ɴᴀʀᴄɪꜱꜱɪꜱᴛ, ɪ ᴅᴏɴ'ᴛ ᴡᴀɴᴛ ᴀ ᴘᴀʀᴛ ɪɴ ᴛʜɪꜱ
ᴀɴᴅ ɪ ᴅᴏɴ'ᴛ ᴄᴀʀᴇ"
- ᴘᴀʀɪꜱ ᴘᴀʟᴏᴍᴀ, ɴᴀʀᴄɪꜱꜱᴜꜱ

There are twenty of us in one room and two empty beds. Mirri left two days ago. An old tailor paid her price and took her away. She'd boasted, of course, to the rest of us. How the man said that she was prettiest of us all, how he had held her the entire night, promising her a nice house and a warm bed. With Mirri gone, there was one bed. Then, Ilha died. Like Mirri, a man came to buy her. As custom stated, he spent a night with her. While Mirri found it sweet, Ilha did not. She had cried and screamed, and everyone had heard. The bedsheet was found bloodied the next morning, and Ilha had set herself aflame in the kitchen.

We had a funeral for her. It was a small and simple and meaningless funeral. None but the sisters and Mother mourned. The rest of us stood there, emotionless. Some had cried for God's mercy, but most of us did not. Still, none of us dared to smile or chuckle or twist our lips. After all, we are all followers, and all of us want to go to Heaven.

Even though, I knew that I would never reach there. Not after everything.

Today is the second day, and - as mourning custom - all of us are dressed in thick black skirts with black leggings and boots along with full sleeved white shirts with a black bow pinned at the collar and plain jackets. My hands are fisted in my pockets. The gloves keep me warm enough in the wake of Moscow's winter. Lyschia sits beside me on a wooden bench. We're dressed similar. All of us are. The Sisters are chanting prayers. We follow.

"Keep your servant also from willful sins; may they not rule over me. Then I will be blameless and cleansed of great transgression.", I repeat in a formal tone. I clasp my hands together. They rest on my lap. In the front, the Pope and Mother arrange fruits and bread and wine on the Altar. It is a sacrifice to our God and Lord. The church echoes with our voices, and the ground seems to shake. My copy of the Bible is in my pack beside me.

Sister Mary lets out a cry as she claps her hands, and her voice becomes louder as she chants the prayer. So, we chant louder as well.

The clapping is louder.

The echoes are louder.

My eyes are closed, and my head is on fire.

It feels like the world is shaking.

"Glory be to the Father, and to the Son, and to the Holy Spirit, as it was in the beginning, is now, and ever shall be, world without end. Amen.", the words slide from my tongue easily as though rehearsed. It never gets old, this feeling. It's not peaceful per say; it's...liberating.

Mother claps her hands once the noise dies. She beams.

"Sister Mary, Sister Khales, take the children to lunch. I'm sure you're hungry, my sweets.", she smiles at us.

I smile back. It hurts, yet I smile. Mother is radiant as she bids us goodbye. She's nice to us - better than the sisters, at least. We follow the sisters to the dining hall. It's a small, cramped space made of stone and cement. There is a lingering scent of stale bread and sour milk in the air. The sisters tell us that this is a form of purification.

"The worst prepares you for the best.", is what they say. I do not know if I agree. Lyschia does, as do Handan and Mika. I know that many more agree as well.

Today, we're given wheat porridge with slices of bread. I poke at my food with my spoon before taking a bite. It tastes like bitter medicine.

"I think they mixed our vitamins with the food", Lyschia exclaims as she digs into her food in excitement. I purse my lips.

"Will they not give us vitamins separately?", I say, "This one's bitter. The normal vitamins are sweet".

Immediately, Lyschia stops. She's not smiling."No vitamins?", she mutters, "But vitamins are good pills."

I scoff, "They are good pills. Mother said so". I push my plate away.

"Eat your food.", Sister Khales chides, "It is an offering from our Lord. You should be grateful."

"Will we get extra vitamins?", I ask.She shakes her head. Her veil and covering are both black today. It is a mourning custom for them, as it is for us as well.

"Not even one?"She shakes her head again. I frown, but I finish the food. I hate its taste, but the vitamins are comforting. I can almost imagine them to be the sweet and lovely pills I take everyday. Lyschia also eats with me. The hall is silent, as the sisters patrol us. They are all carrying a wooden ruler in their hands, almost as if they are waiting to find a disobedient child. Mika and Yusha talk in hushed whispers. They giggle. There is only a bit more porridge left in my bowl. I eat it with my bread.

"Mother said a man came to see me", Mika says with a light blush on her cheeks, "He'll see me today, and maybe tomorrow night..."

Yusha giggles, but the envy was obvious. Her giggle was fake. It seemed more forced than teasing. I swallow the last piece of bread and leave my seat with the bowl in hand. I wonder who'd take Mika. She's pretty, yes. Perhaps, the prettiest girl in Yorkshire currently. Many of us hate her, and I'd be lying if I say that I like her...or anyone for that matter. I dump my bowl in the kitchen sink and wash my hands. The man hadn't seen Mika yet. He could simply deny her. I suppose that would be nice.

I return to the hall, my steps light and nimble. A sharp 'smack' forces me to halt. One of the newer girls - Firuze, I think - stands still with a hand on her cheek and unshed tears in her eyes. Sister Mary rips off the girl's hand from her cheek and slaps her with the ruler once more. A plate of half-eaten porridge is behind Firuze. Sister Mary drags the girl down the hall, and Firuze screams. We can hear her. Even when the door to the basement is shut, we can hear her.

"Nothing to see here.", Sister Gendrez tells us.

She ushers us to the sewing rooms for our lesson. I take a seat in the front. The floor is cold, and the lights are flickering, but I keep silent while working on the embroidery. When I'm done, the red statue of the Mother Mary is in front of me. A part of me wonders what would happen if I break it. I contemplate on it; would I be sinning?

The soft click of a lock brakes my train of thoughts. Mother pops her head through the narrow opening, dark curls spilling over her shoulder.

"Mika", she smiles, "You have a visitor."

Mika gathers her things with a smile on her face. I want to rip that smile off her face and bloody that stupid bitchy mouth. She leaves with a pinkish tint on her cheeks.

"𝙈𝙮 𝙝𝙤𝙢𝙚 𝙤𝙛 𝙨𝙩𝙤𝙣𝙚, 𝙬𝙝𝙚𝙧𝙚 𝙮𝙤𝙪𝙧 𝙞𝙫𝙤𝙧𝙮 𝙜𝙧𝙤𝙬𝙨, 𝙣𝙤𝙬 𝙄'𝙢 𝙘𝙤𝙫𝙚𝙧𝙚𝙙 𝙞𝙣 𝙞𝙩."

Chapter Text

"ɪ ʀᴀʀᴇʟʏ ɢᴏ ᴅᴏᴡɴ ᴛʜᴇʀᴇ, ᴛʜᴇ ᴠɪᴇᴡ'ꜱ ᴊᴜꜱᴛ
ꜱᴏ ʙᴇᴀᴜᴛɪꜰᴜʟ ꜰʀᴏᴍ ʜᴇʀᴇ ᴀɴᴅ ɪ ᴄᴀɴ ꜱᴇᴇ ᴇᴠᴇʀʏʙᴏᴅʏ
ᴀᴛ ᴛʜᴇɪʀ ᴡᴏʀꜱᴛ ᴘᴏɪɴᴛꜱ
ᴀᴛ ᴛʜᴇɪʀ ᴡᴏʀꜱᴛ ᴘᴏɪɴᴛꜱ"
-ᴘᴀʀɪꜱ ᴘᴀʟᴏᴍᴀ, ɴᴏᴛʀᴇ ᴅᴀᴍᴇ

The room is dimly lit, the weak light casting shadows across the rows of beds. We’re all winding down, folding up our clothes, pulling on worn nightgowns, when the door creaks open, and Mika steps inside. Her face is lit up with a strange, almost feverish glow. She scans the room, waiting for us to notice her.

“The man accepted me,” she says, a triumphant edge to her voice.

The other girls murmur their congratulations. I can hear the forced politeness, the unspoken jealousy beneath each “congratulations,” the resentment in every tight smile and downcast gaze. I manage a small nod, my lips curled into a semblance of a smile. My chest tightens as her words linger, each one grating against me, grinding like sandpaper. I can feel the bile rise up, threatening to escape, but I swallow it down.

“Good for you, Mika,” I say, my voice smooth, the words slipping out like a lullaby.

Her eyes catch mine, a flash of victory there, and I can feel her gloating, basking in the jealousy surrounding her. She doesn’t realize, doesn’t understand what she’s igniting. She preens, taking in the envy, the thinly veiled resentment that surrounds her, not realizing how tightly those emotions have already wound themselves around me.

As the night goes on, I lie awake, watching as the others’ breathing slows, each one slipping into sleep. I can still feel the weight of her boasting pressing down on me, like a weight on my chest. I don’t understand why this envy has taken root so deeply. It’s clawing at me, scraping away at any sense of control.

Quietly, I slip out of bed and move across the room. I shake Mika’s shoulder gently, my hand steady. She blinks awake, her face still carrying that triumphant look.

“What is it?” she whispers, a slight smile tugging at her lips, assuming I’m here to offer some last-minute words of encouragement or admiration.

“Come with me,” I murmur. “I need to show you something.”

She follows, wrapping a shawl around herself, glancing around to make sure no one else is awake. I lead her down the narrow corridor, our footsteps echoing faintly against the cold stone. She’s curious, but she doesn’t ask questions, not yet. It’s almost as if she believes that everyone is here to worship her, to praise her for having been chosen. Her breath puffs in the frigid air, fogging slightly in the faint moonlight that filters through the stained glass of the chapel as we enter.

The air is heavy here, thick with the smell of burnt candles and faint traces of incense. The darkness is almost complete, but I know the layout by heart. I guide her up the steps to the altar, where the mirror stands, framed in tarnished silver, cracked and dusty. The sisters tell us it reflects the “true soul” of whoever looks into it. A lie, of course, but one that had filled me with dread every time I’d been forced to kneel before it.

“Why are we here?” Mika asks, a note of unease creeping into her voice now. Her eyes flicker to the mirror, its faint, warped reflection catching her face.

“To pray,” I say, my voice a low whisper. “For the rest of us, for our forgiveness.”

She hesitates, her brows furrowing, but she kneels beside me, her gaze flicking from the mirror to me. She’s waiting, expecting me to say something more, but I don’t. I stand up, watching as her gaze shifts fully to her own reflection, her eyes tracing her features, her fingers brushing the silver frame.

I look at her. She's pretty enough, but she's too skinny. Her bones are poking out of her ribs and her cheekbones are hollow. She is too frail and fragile looking; a gust wind would've rather killed her. She might've had a pretty face, but the rest of her was all stick and bones.

The words form inside my mind like a chorus, a dark chant that thrums along with the rhythm of my pulse: She deserves this. She took what should have been yours. She flaunted it, knowing how much you’d suffer, knowing how desperately you wanted it.

As she bends closer, studying herself, I feel a strange calm settle over me. Envy has always been a silent, festering force, lurking beneath the surface, but now it’s alive, propelling me forward.

With a quick, fluid motion, I grab her by the back of her neck and push her forward. Her forehead smacks against the cold glass, shattering it, and she lets out a short, sharp scream that echoes off the chapel walls. She struggles, her hands clawing at the mirror’s edge, but I press harder, feeling the crackling of glass under her skin, the warm trickle of her blood running over my hands. Her screams are muffled against the broken mirror, dying away as her strength fades.

The reflection distorts, the fractured pieces catching flashes of her face, my face — warped, monstrous in the shards. Her body slumps, her hands slipping down the frame, and I step back, breathing heavily, my own heartbeat hammering in my ears.

The silence is deafening, the air still and thick with the metallic scent of blood. I stare at her crumpled form, my own face reflected back at me in a dozen splintered pieces. It’s done. She’s gone, her triumphant smile erased, her boasts silenced forever.

All I know, is that I am gone - far into the depths of Hell.

"ɪꜰ ɪ ᴡᴀɴᴛ ɪᴛ, ɪᴛ'ꜱ ᴀʟʀᴇᴀᴅʏ ᴍɪɴᴇ."