Hephaistion fic
Hopefully to be cross-posted to alexanderfics and atgstories.
Title: Acquaintance
Author: Whitesakura
Rating: PG
Pairing: Hephaistion/Alexander, Alexander/Bagoas
Disclaimer: I don't own any of them.
Summary: Hephaistion learns wisdom is not only understanding what is, but understanding what is not.
Acquaintance
You do not know how it has come to this.
You didn't always love him. Not at first, when he was only a boy with burnished hair and a desire to prove to his father that he was worthy of being his son. Not at first, when he denied it with intense gazes and half-glances at his mother who sat nearby, smooth and patterned like a reclining snake, watching him with devouring affection.
You remember wondering about Alexander, why he seems both full and empty like an urn in which flowers rest and drink. Tangible and shapeless like your breaths on early mornings, in fall and on the edge of white winter; when the sun is rising by your bedside as you wake and Alexander mumbles and tosses around, unaware, in his cot across from yours.
There was always curiosity. Macedon has never been quite home to you, although the people in the market still haggle over Indian and Persian goods brought from over borders both imagined and real. When you grew older, you understood the power of greed, but when you were young, you did not understand how the Greeks could praise and condemn their enemies in the same breath.
On the day after the miracle of Boukephalos, you wonder at the secret that Alexander has uncovered. When the Queen visits Alexander and thinks you are not looking, when you turn away, busying yourself with specimens for Aristotle, she boasts of her son. The dark horse makes her a little careless, and her lips, a dangerously sultry hue of red, smirk wider than ever before. You think: "She has forgotten herself in her love for her son and in her hate for the King." Then you remember, even when she smiled less, she had always spoken when there was just you and her in the room, and there were no other ears to hear her. So you think, "Why does she spit at me in jealousy?" even as her gaze crawls over your skin and you sneak away.
Even on the coldest nights, when the snow on your doorstep reaches to mid-thigh, Alexander sleeps in his own bed. You lie awake, your teeth chattering. After Boukephalos you thought Alexander was untouchable, different - too different from you. But when his skin turns pasty white and his fingertips look almost blue with frostbite, you know he is not. You snatch back your blanket the moment before he wakes, so Alexander won't know what you've done.
After a while, Macedon changes.
There are still customs and small inflections, but when you look into Alexander's face one day, you realize you know all its features. You look over the Macedonian landscape, wide and green and growing in Spring, and think to yourself: "Alexander's face changes with more subtlety than you do, Demeter," and so, it is not so hard to know Macedon at all, when you know one of her sons so well.
You're not sure when it happened, only it seemed sudden. Walking along the paths, knowing both of you were grown and would soon go to court, into battle, and forget butterflies and birds and that first winter night, when Alexander had crept sleepily into your bed with strange eyes for nothing more than the pleasure of your warmth.
Alexander's sandal strap breaks and you bend down to fix it while Alexander's eyes are fixed on a horizon only he can see, rambling about Ekbatana, elephants, and Gods at the end of the world. You squint your eyes and brush tenderly over the blister of one dusty toe and think: "I don't need the world."
After that moment, you were filled with understanding and loathing. You were cold and hot. Weak and Strong. You drank your fill of Alexander. He smiled and praised you. Dreams fell from his lips like generous Dionysus pours wine, intoxicating you, driving you to madness. Yet, no matter how much Alexander gives, you are like a thirsty plant trying to flower or die trying. And you are always empty.
Still, you've always thought of Alexander as a blessing. There were times when you stared out into nights without stars, times when the there was no light but the flicker of fire from the hearth, times when you tried to pick out one well-known snore in the room the King has chosen for Alexander's Companions, before you realize the one you want isn't there. Alexander drifts away more than usual, but one day, he says the words you've always wanted to hear and your heart feels like its about to burst. You notice he looks sad before and that he still looks sad after, but then he leans his head against your shoulder and whispers, "You know me, Hephaistion," and you forget a little.
The part of you that's still a stranger in Macedon whispers, "He lies," but the truer part of you answers back, "But no one else will know him better."
You do not know how it has come to this.
Alexander is generous in his love and the kind touch of his eyes is still palpable even though he no longer leaves physical marks with his fingers and neither do you. Alexander is no longer a smooth-limbed boy, but a man heavy with scars. He talks about battle strategy and building new worlds in search of the edge of the one he has heard of in childhood. You think he will never reach it. That he doesn't want to.
So you wonder why you can begrudge him anything when you stand outside his door and hear his laughter and that of a male youth's - dark-eyed, mysterious, and so Persian. So different. So different from you and Macedon.
Alexander does not see you, but you see him, reaching out to touch the curve of Bagoas' cheek as if he's cradling the face of the Terra he's always been desperately hungry for.
His face glows.
So different. Alexander's always been different with you.
You walk away without a word, the silence in your step mirroring the one in your heart. You go, knowing the guard watches after you at Alexander's door with pitying eyes, and knowing Alexander enough to realize:
Alexander has never known you.
End.
Author Notes: I wrote this fic after devouring Renault's "The Persian Boy." I also read "Fire from Heaven" beforehand and remembered Renault said there was something strange about Hephaistion's name. It's not common Macedonian, so my Hephaistion is from another part of present-day Greece. Oh, and I also saw Oliver Stone's movie. It wasn't as bad as the press made it out to be. ^_~
Also, sorry about the shifting tenses, but when I go introspective, I relive/imagine things as if they were happening in the present.
Title: Acquaintance
Author: Whitesakura
Rating: PG
Pairing: Hephaistion/Alexander, Alexander/Bagoas
Disclaimer: I don't own any of them.
Summary: Hephaistion learns wisdom is not only understanding what is, but understanding what is not.
Acquaintance
You do not know how it has come to this.
You didn't always love him. Not at first, when he was only a boy with burnished hair and a desire to prove to his father that he was worthy of being his son. Not at first, when he denied it with intense gazes and half-glances at his mother who sat nearby, smooth and patterned like a reclining snake, watching him with devouring affection.
You remember wondering about Alexander, why he seems both full and empty like an urn in which flowers rest and drink. Tangible and shapeless like your breaths on early mornings, in fall and on the edge of white winter; when the sun is rising by your bedside as you wake and Alexander mumbles and tosses around, unaware, in his cot across from yours.
There was always curiosity. Macedon has never been quite home to you, although the people in the market still haggle over Indian and Persian goods brought from over borders both imagined and real. When you grew older, you understood the power of greed, but when you were young, you did not understand how the Greeks could praise and condemn their enemies in the same breath.
On the day after the miracle of Boukephalos, you wonder at the secret that Alexander has uncovered. When the Queen visits Alexander and thinks you are not looking, when you turn away, busying yourself with specimens for Aristotle, she boasts of her son. The dark horse makes her a little careless, and her lips, a dangerously sultry hue of red, smirk wider than ever before. You think: "She has forgotten herself in her love for her son and in her hate for the King." Then you remember, even when she smiled less, she had always spoken when there was just you and her in the room, and there were no other ears to hear her. So you think, "Why does she spit at me in jealousy?" even as her gaze crawls over your skin and you sneak away.
Even on the coldest nights, when the snow on your doorstep reaches to mid-thigh, Alexander sleeps in his own bed. You lie awake, your teeth chattering. After Boukephalos you thought Alexander was untouchable, different - too different from you. But when his skin turns pasty white and his fingertips look almost blue with frostbite, you know he is not. You snatch back your blanket the moment before he wakes, so Alexander won't know what you've done.
After a while, Macedon changes.
There are still customs and small inflections, but when you look into Alexander's face one day, you realize you know all its features. You look over the Macedonian landscape, wide and green and growing in Spring, and think to yourself: "Alexander's face changes with more subtlety than you do, Demeter," and so, it is not so hard to know Macedon at all, when you know one of her sons so well.
You're not sure when it happened, only it seemed sudden. Walking along the paths, knowing both of you were grown and would soon go to court, into battle, and forget butterflies and birds and that first winter night, when Alexander had crept sleepily into your bed with strange eyes for nothing more than the pleasure of your warmth.
Alexander's sandal strap breaks and you bend down to fix it while Alexander's eyes are fixed on a horizon only he can see, rambling about Ekbatana, elephants, and Gods at the end of the world. You squint your eyes and brush tenderly over the blister of one dusty toe and think: "I don't need the world."
After that moment, you were filled with understanding and loathing. You were cold and hot. Weak and Strong. You drank your fill of Alexander. He smiled and praised you. Dreams fell from his lips like generous Dionysus pours wine, intoxicating you, driving you to madness. Yet, no matter how much Alexander gives, you are like a thirsty plant trying to flower or die trying. And you are always empty.
Still, you've always thought of Alexander as a blessing. There were times when you stared out into nights without stars, times when the there was no light but the flicker of fire from the hearth, times when you tried to pick out one well-known snore in the room the King has chosen for Alexander's Companions, before you realize the one you want isn't there. Alexander drifts away more than usual, but one day, he says the words you've always wanted to hear and your heart feels like its about to burst. You notice he looks sad before and that he still looks sad after, but then he leans his head against your shoulder and whispers, "You know me, Hephaistion," and you forget a little.
The part of you that's still a stranger in Macedon whispers, "He lies," but the truer part of you answers back, "But no one else will know him better."
You do not know how it has come to this.
Alexander is generous in his love and the kind touch of his eyes is still palpable even though he no longer leaves physical marks with his fingers and neither do you. Alexander is no longer a smooth-limbed boy, but a man heavy with scars. He talks about battle strategy and building new worlds in search of the edge of the one he has heard of in childhood. You think he will never reach it. That he doesn't want to.
So you wonder why you can begrudge him anything when you stand outside his door and hear his laughter and that of a male youth's - dark-eyed, mysterious, and so Persian. So different. So different from you and Macedon.
Alexander does not see you, but you see him, reaching out to touch the curve of Bagoas' cheek as if he's cradling the face of the Terra he's always been desperately hungry for.
His face glows.
So different. Alexander's always been different with you.
You walk away without a word, the silence in your step mirroring the one in your heart. You go, knowing the guard watches after you at Alexander's door with pitying eyes, and knowing Alexander enough to realize:
Alexander has never known you.
End.
Author Notes: I wrote this fic after devouring Renault's "The Persian Boy." I also read "Fire from Heaven" beforehand and remembered Renault said there was something strange about Hephaistion's name. It's not common Macedonian, so my Hephaistion is from another part of present-day Greece. Oh, and I also saw Oliver Stone's movie. It wasn't as bad as the press made it out to be. ^_~
Also, sorry about the shifting tenses, but when I go introspective, I relive/imagine things as if they were happening in the present.