Flowers of the Conqueror
Title: Flowers of the Conqueror
Author: Rathbone
Rating: R
Warnings: fairly graphic woman on woman i.e. femmeslash, and mentions of slash
Fandom: Alexander (historical)
Pairing: Roxanne/ Drypetis, mention of Alexander/ Hephaestion
Summary: Roxanne is Alexander's barbarian flower, and Drypetis is Hephaestion's prize. But together they are far more than the sum of their parts.
A/N: My very very first femmeslash that even approaches graphic. I've written a lot of Alexander/Hephaestion, but this is almost the first which approaches his life from the viewpoint of the women beside him.
Historical accuracy: I was fascinated by this pairing, but history and the course of its events, dictated that they would not actually meet in all likelihood until the final years. So I decided to go AU. This is totally AU in matters relating to their relationship and their final plan.
She was so beautiful. Such an exotic flower, and she was imprisoned within his hands. Hands of a man who watched my father die, and then gifted me like a sacred cow to his friend. Alexander the conqueror was a deadly flame indeed, but he was nothing in my eyes to the woman beside him. She shone past her beauty, past the silks that enclosed her form, and the jewels that embraced her so lovingly, and I could see who and what she was. I wondered if she could see me.
She was a princess raised above her station by marriage, I was a princess demeaned by my joining to a foreigner. She was the most delicate blossom to have flowered in beauty, and I was the most imperious, hardened daughter who ever assumed the face of demureness. My father's face softened by my mother's beauty. Many times I thanked the Gods on bended knee that I was not born Statira. To receive Alexander within my bed, without putting a knife through his gut would have been beyond me. I, who lay stiff and silent with Hephaestion above me, could not have borne the seed of the man who killed my father however indirectly.
Roxanne was her name. Not her true name of course. Her true name was some unpronounceable jumble of barbarian syllables- she was from the mountains after all, but it was what Alexander called her, and so it was the words that passed my lips. As I lay there in the dark, Hephaestion having quitted my rooms with the silence he never broke, feeling still the sense of impurity from the touch of his hands, and from knowledge of whom they had most recently caressed, I thought about her, and bit my lip until blood flooded my mouth. How could he touch her? Couldn't he see that she was beyond him? Let him stick to his Macedonian whore- my husband, let the pair of them shudder in sodomical embrace, as long as it kept him from her bed.
I was a princess and as such had been expected to master the basics of learning. I had little else to occupy me, and languages came swiftly and easily to me, so before my fifteenth year I had become known as the scholar-princess. My father doting upon me, with the peculiar vacant ness of the stupid, had been proud. I am unfair. He was not stupid, he was a man of learning, a man who appreciated beauty and art, a man of the most colossal blindness when it came to who to trust. But it was with this facility of language that I made my first assault upon her heart. I spoke to Hephaestion, and suggested subtly that Roxanne might enjoy someone to talk to. My husband too was not stupid, but as men do, he overlooked women. So I was brought to her apartment, and we sat on silken cushions and talked of Persia, and of her homeland. Her mind, starved of information, grew to crave my company. And I of course craved hers. Craved that hair, that mane of silk that covered her to her hips when not done up in the sedate braiding of a married woman, and those eyes. I have not the words to describe them for all my knowledge. Pools of darkness, into which a man or woman could sink, and never notice falling. Limpid eyes, of liquid beauty, and fire, and pure exquisite blackness. Eyes that the poets sing of, and fail to describe. She was an innocent. A child of the world, still untouched by it's evil, and yet with it's own delicious seed growing within her. Natural evil is a sweeter fruit than corruption.
I could waste pages describing her, the beauty of slender limbs, created to dance, the softness of amber skin, and yet you could not see her as I saw her. She was more than beauty as I have said. She was mine. I have heard tales of her and Alexander's wedding night, how she kicked and screamed and cried, and then was quiet. For that I would kill him, even had he done no harm to me or mine. I have said already that she was an innocent in both mind and body. Innocent of pleasure and love, like some wild beast that exists only for savage hunting, and the joy of the kill. Her life was different from mine though. Daughter of what was after all little more than a common warlord, her life had no beauty in it, was the product of hardship and want, like puppies scrambling for mother's milk. I was the product and child of Persian sybaritism, as the barbarian hordes would call it, and thus nurtured I knew of the pleasures and damnations of the world.
A man never touched me until my husband. Never. The penalty would have been death- for us both. He would have been tortured, and I shamed. But woman were a different matter. Since I was thirteen, I knew there was something I could have from them, and surrounded by courtesans and concubines, I got it. My father was Great King, he had three hundred and sixty five official concubines, and a deal more waiting for his attention. Bored woman forbidden contact with men find ways to amuse themselves, and I was the most eager pupil possible.
So when Roxanne cried upon my shoulder, I comforted her as any friend should. I tilted her beautiful head up, and kissed petal lips, let her taste the fruits of corrupted desire upon my lips. She shivered in my arms, and I could not refrain from smiling. This beautiful woman swayed by a kiss. Had she never been kissed before? I could not prevent the thought in my head. Alexander never kissed her like this, with longing and love and passion. He married her for her hips, and her fertile family, and her strong breeding. He married her, so he could keep his lover Hephaestion. I let the kiss deepen; let my tongue brush so lightly across her mouth, that it could almost be accidental, and so willingly she opened to me. Candied sweets I tasted, and ruthlessly I deepened the kiss, until she swayed against me, helpless and pliable as clay in a potter's hands, and her eyes fluttered shut. I was tall like every part of my family, and she was small though a little older, and it was but little effort to let her curl against me, then to lift her to the bed. She resisted not at all, and I was almost overwhelmed by what I was doing.
I undressed her so gently, as though she was my doll, the doll I had put to bed so gently every night until I was twelve. She helped me at last, fingers trembling over ties and folds, the red and gold silks that swathed her so stiflingly. Finally with hands that shook I removed her final robe, the white virginal pallor of it a shocking contrast against honey skin. She did not look at me, and her fists were clenched tightly as though ashamed, her lashes dark against her cheek. I undressed far quicker, until I too was as naked as she. Then we curled up together like cats in a basket. She made the first move.
Fingers idling down my back, I tensed then relaxed, and allowed my mouth to wander over her neck. I was teacher, and she was more than willing pupil. Her hands followed my movements, tracing gently over collarbones, reaching my breasts hesitantly. Hers were small and firm, mine were larger matching my heavier frame, and I was overcome with a shuddering of desire for her, for all of her, and bending I took the flesh of one her breasts and tasted it, flicking my tongue over nipples just beginning to harden, watching her for signs of pleasure. My other hand was caressing her other breast, and I noticed the smallest movements upwards in her body, and smiled. She was mine. When she attempted to touch me, I moved her hands gently away. This first night was to be hers alone, to bind her so closely to me that our lives should entwine utterly. I murmured endearments, calling her my precious, my beauty, afraid all of the time that she would flee. She did not though, not even when I brushed my lips to her thighs, and kissed the soft skin there. She pulled my head up though, and kissed me bruisingly, with all the power I had known was in her, doing what I had known she would so, attempting to control the situation. I smiled against her, and let my hand trail down her soft curves, past her breasts, and over her stomach, until I was touching her in her most intimate place. There was wetness there, and she moved with an almost heartbreaking eagerness against my hand. I allowed a finger to slip between her folds, bracing myself with the other, watching with eyes that were almost glazed the expression upon her face.
Yearning and want. I smiled; moving a little deeper, until I brushed against something that made her clench her fists, and cry out so softly. With trembling hands she touched my face, and traced my lips, as I repeated the motion, and then let my hand slip down further. She was no virgin to men of course, Alexander had seen to that, yet still her face made my heart twist. I touched her as gently as I could, more gently than I had ever touched any other human being, and watched her contort in pleasure, eyes closing again, body arching into my touch. I could feel how close she was even after such ministrations only, and then suddenly she pushed me away, wriggling backwards, and dragging me up against her. "I can't," she sobbed into my shoulder.
I embraced her carefully. "Can't what my love?" I asked gently.
She made a small gesture with her hand. "You know, finish. It's... too much for me." She buried her head against my arm. "I'm so sorry," she mouthed.
I stared at the ceiling, utterly confused. "My love have you ever?" I did not say his name, I did not need to.
"Never," she said quietly. "I've never felt anything like what you've made me feel, and I'm scared of it."
I merely nodded, then replied as softly as before. "It's not your fault sweetling. We shall remedy it between us." The feeling between my own legs was almost unbearable now, and I willed myself not to succumb to the temptation of touching myself.
"Would you like me to do something?" she asked, eyes large.
I almost laughed. It was all I could think about, yet I am also the mistress of delayed gratification. "No, " I lied. "Another time when you are more ready." We lay there for some minutes, then I stood. If Alexander should come tonight, then I did not want to be there to see it. Slowly I dressed, covering myself again, and helping Roxanne pull on her night robe. As I went to the door, she sprang up and followed me.
"I love you," she whispered, and in her eyes was passion, more than I had ever seen before, ruthless and hard, strength beyond that of a woman shining from them, and she kissed me so hard, my lip was almost bruised.
Maybe that should have been the end. Maybe we should have lived like that, stolen kisses, and nights, and not strived and wished for something more. Maybe we should have accepted the impossibility of love in such a place, surrounded by such men. Whoever heard of such a thing, the wife of a king, and the wife of his general. It was unknown, impossible, and that was what for a time saved us. Not I think that Alexander and Hephaestion would probably have cared anymore, than they would have if their dogs had got into heat and satisfied each other. But I was daughter of Darius, and noble blood was in my veins as it was in hers. To live with the threat of children from either one of them within us, destroying our love and its purity was unbearable.
So came our evil. They say there is no such evil and cunning as a woman, and mayhaps we proved their point. But love is worthy of such actions, our love together was stronger than men's weapons, and armies fighting. As she lay upon my breast, and her dark hair covered me, I whispered words of honeyed poison in her ear, and when she kissed me, the sweet venom was on her lips. To be together, even if it must be in death was our aim. I already knew I was barren. Hephaestion was not virile to be sure, but I believe he was fertile. I had my suspicions of a childhood potion to remedy certain pains, but could not be sure. Roxanne however was fertile; bloomingly so, and yet she also had no children thanks to a certain brew, something I thanked the Gods for. Yet we could not risk it. Poison was not hard to obtain, especially from the gardens or even market traders, and eventually we acquired some leaves that once brewed and strained resulted in a most effacious potion.
I added it to Hephaestion's daily food, and I and Roxanne watched him shrivel, and burn and die. Alexander watched him also, and the grief in his eyes was terrible, more than I have ever seen in any living man's, and for a moment I softened. Then I remembered father, my sister and all his other victims. I remembered how he stole Roxanne from me, and returned her weeping to my arms. Then the fool almost recovered, and ordered more food. It took only a drop more, from his loving wife and he died. I will not go into needless detail on his funeral, or Alexander's grief, for that is all recorded in history. We did not even need to use the potion on Alexander really. He withered from grief, and insanity, but we waited until we were sure there was a child from him in Roxanne's womb, before finishing him off. We stood by his funeral pyre, with my hand resting in hers. It would be hard to survive even with the heir in her, we both knew that. But at least we would be together, and our politics would be subtle. In another world with no me to protect her, Roxanne would die. But in my world. I'd make sure she lived.
A.W.
A plot bunny savaged me on this one. Apologies for the awkward sexual scene, and the general hurried nature of it.