Fic: Worthy of Your Soul 5/WIP
Title: Worthy of Your Soul 5/WIP
Author:trust_n0_1
Rating: PG13 for this chapter
Summary: Hephaistion is asked by Philip to spy on Alexander and finds himself between a rock and a hard place.
Copyright: © Trust No One March 2006
Heartfelt thanks to my Beta Fiona, whose superb skills have helped shape this story.
Five
Alexander was late for the morning lesson. The first sleety rain of the late winter had chased everyone indoors again and upon entering the main room, Alexander was smothered by the weight of more than a dozen pairs of eyes. The others’ surprise was overt, used as they were to constantly seeing Hephaistion by the prince’s side. Alexander stood alone and he straightened his back defiantly before making his way to the closest chair and sitting down. For an instant, he met Aristotle’s resigned eye and the teacher’s silence told Alexander that the philosopher knew more than he let on.
It seemed to Alexander that Aristotle rushed through the lesson, but he could not be sure. He made an effort to pay attention but soon he was listening with half an ear, the voices of Aristotle and his fellow students reaching him as if they were cutting through a blizzard, garbled and insignificant. He stayed behind after Aristotle dismissed the other boys and turned to face the philosopher’s questioning, worried eyes.
‘Why is Hephaistion not here?’
Alexander gave the teacher a long, silent look before he managed dryly, ‘Hephaistion left.’
‘He left.’ It was more a statement than a question and there was little surprise in Aristotle’s slow nod. ‘Do you know where he went?’
‘No,’ Alexander replied evenly. He breathed deeply, the question burning on his tongue. ‘This isn’t surprising to you, is it?’
‘No, it isn’t. Hephaistion talked to me two days ago.’
‘He asked your advice?’ Alexander was aware of the edge of irony in his voice.
‘Yes, he did. But I am sure that you know now that there was nothing I could have told him to help with his predicament.’
‘He brought it on himself,’ Alexander erupted, bitterness spilling like venom through his veins. ‘He’s kept this from me. We’re best friends, we share everything, we have no secrets.’ Alexander paused, anger darkening his features. ‘Or at least we had no secrets until now. How can I trust him again?’
Aristotle studied Alexander closely, ignoring the outburst.
‘You are aware that it is not safe for Hephaistion out there, wherever he is. What made him leave? Did you argue?’
Suddenly, Alexander was overcome by immense fatigue and his voice sounded fractured and gruff when he spoke again. ‘I’d been told that Hephaistion was ordered to spy on me. I didn’t want to believe it but… in the end he could not deny it. He admitted that it was true.’
‘He admitted to spying on you?’ for the first time, Aristotle's voice rose shrill in the silence.
‘No, he admitted that my father had ordered him to do it.’
‘You haven’t answered my question: have you proof or his admission that he did it?’
‘No, of course not. He told me that he refused to do my father’s bidding. And I believed him.’
‘So why did he leave then?’
‘Don’t you see? He left because he knows he’s broken the trust between us, our pact that we share everything.’
‘You must realize, Alexander, that no matter how good friends, two people cannot share absolutely everything, no matter how much they try. Sometimes a friendship is better off because one or two things are kept secret. It is not lying by omission, but rather protecting the other-‘
‘That’s what he wanted to do,’ Alexander interrupted, his voice accusatory. ‘Protect me. But I didn’t need it.’ He gritted his jaws.
‘Indeed, no, you don't need to be protected from anyone,' Aristotle retorted fiercely. ‘except yourself. Look at how you reacted. Besides, what else would you have had Hephaistion do? No matter what he would have done, both of you would have ended up hurt. I’m sure he knew that just as surely as he knew that he couldn’t run to you for help, against your own father?’
For a moment, Alexander just stared at Aristotle, color gathering in the pale cheeks like storm clouds.
‘In my head, I understand that he was trying to protect me. But in my heart…,’ Alexander stopped and drew a sharp breath, glancing at Aristotle with uncertainty.
‘Do you still have doubts?’The philosopher’s eyes softened. ‘Is that it?’
Alexander nodded quickly as if admitting it in a hurry would make a world of difference.
‘What kind of doubts?’ Aristotle prodded on, gently enough, like goading a frightened child out of its hiding place.
Alexander’s gaze was vacant, unfocused and he seemed to be arguing with a ghost when he replied, ‘He never trusted me enough to tell me something this important. I could have helped him. We could have helped each other. But no…. he had to just take everything in his hands and try to fix it by hiding the truth from me. As if that would make it better.’
‘But you couldn’t have made it better for him, Alexander,’ Aristotle argued quietly.
‘I could have tried,’ Alexander retaliated, his attention fully returned, ‘At the very least, I would have re-assured him that nothing had changed between us just because my father had tried to bait him into betraying me.’
Alexander’s eyes glistened like two dead stones and his voice wavered.
‘And so I began to consider the very real possibility that… he was going to obey my father. I tried to make myself think like a king, like my father always tells me to do, and to understand what I would have done had I been the king. It then seemed logical that in order to know one’s enemy, one must strive to become their friend, to learn everything that there is to learn about that person, what they cherish, what their weak spots are. But my father is not my enemy, although my mother sometimes would have me believe otherwise. And who better than my best friend to report on me? Do you think I shall ever learn the truth?’
‘There’s only one way to find out,’ Aristotle offered finally, having found the resolve to look at Alexander’s tight-jawed countenance.
‘I can’t go after him,’ Alexander said softly, as if he were talking to himself. ‘For one thing, it was Hephaistion who left, of his own choice.’ Alexander’s voice dropped to a despairing whisper. ‘And for another, I don’t know where he went.’
‘Then do the only thing you can: go and speak to your father,’ Aristotle urged, ‘if only to put an end to your doubts once and for all, no matter how it turns out.’
Alexander smirked. ‘Do you think my father will admit to ordering Hephaistion to spy on me? He will laugh in my face.’
‘No, I do not think that he will,’ Aristotle said thoughtfully. ‘In fact, I think that he will quite readily tell you if Hephaistion has been obeying him or not.’
‘Why would he? He will lose his spy.’
‘He already has, if that was ever the case. But he will surely tell his son if his best friend had betrayed him.’
Alexander considered for a moment. With the outsider’s eye, Aristotle saw things clearer: Philip might have been sly and manipulative, but Aristotle doubted that he wanted any harm to come his son’s way. Besides, Aristotle knew Hephaistion’s side of the story much better than Alexander had been even willing to learn.
Alexander glanced outside. He took in the expanse of the gray fields, mottled with black patches of earth that was seeing the light for the first time that winter. Hephaistion was out there somewhere, no doubt just as miserable as he was, but a great deal lonelier. At the mercy of the wolves. Aristotle was right. If anything, he owed it to himself and to Hephaistion to put this matter to rest.
~~
Hephaistion left Mieza just before the first light of dawn and before the slaves had stirred for their morning duties. In his haste to leave everything behind the previous night, he had raced out to the stables, ready to leave immediately. He cared nothing about wolves or villains that could have waylaid him. In fact, he’d thought, either danger would be preferable and favored over the fate he saw ahead of him. But eventually, just as he was about to ride out, reason had kicked in and he had spent the remainder of the night huddling in the stables. There was no point in wasting a perfectly good horse to the wolves that often ventured out of the woods in search of prey. As for himself, he cared very little about what could befall him. He knew that Alexander was not going to come running after him and he did not expect it either. Hephaistion also knew that he had acted childishly and rashly by running away, but he had also recognized that it would have been impossible to linger a moment longer before either Alexander or he would have said or done something they would both have regretted later. As things stood now, Hephaistion doubted that Alexander would regret anything, except perhaps ever having trusted him.
He rode north towards his father’s estate. Home, at least for a while. Out on the open road, Hephaistion realized that he truly had nowhere to go where he could stay permanently, without the world intruding on him sooner or later. He was not sure that he needed to bring more misfortune upon his family by arriving at the estate but for now there was no other choice.
I failed you, father, he kept repeating in his head as he rode, angry tears finally coursing free down his cheeks. You would be ashamed of me now.
He hung onto the thought, thinking it better that his father was dead and had not lived to see his son in the disgrace and pit of trouble that he had dug for himself. He had tried to protect everyone and it had all blown up in his face. He rode and cried for many hours, until his horse became tired and he dismounted and started to walk. If he kept to the road, he would make it home before night fell. He had packed neither food nor water, having thought of none of his own needs. For the sake of his horse, he knew he ought to stop and make camp, but it felt impossible, rash and unwise as it was. He soon began to feel lightheaded and queasy from the lack of food and his throat was burning dangerously after he had drunk hastily and greedily from a nearly frozen stream. If this was a sign of looming sickness, he did not need to be on the road longer than he had to. He laughed bitterly at the thought. His mind was working through the practicalities of traveling when in fact, he would have rather lain on the ground and let whatever predator took pity on him bleach his bones.
In spite of his body warning him of his precarious situation, the misery proved stronger as Hephaistion found strange sustenance in tossing around in his head the conversation he’d had with Alexander. Indeed, there was nothing he could have done, except to be honest with Alexander from the start. He thought about reversing roles and how he would have reacted had he been in Alexander’s place. Protection sounded like a poor excuse indeed, even if the intention behind it was good.
Consumed with bitterness, Hephaistion wished fervently that he had someone to talk to. Someone like his father.
I need you, Father, he spoke out loud to the clear sky scattered with uncaring, cold stars.
The late winter snow was frayed and dirty from the earlier sleety rain, even on the road unspoiled by tracks, and the air was windy, now blistering with cold, and now with warmer breaths promising spring.
It was getting dark when Hephaistion rode into the grounds. He had never before felt so uneasy when coming home. His arrival must have raised the alarm because several armed farm hands and a handful of determined slaves awaited him at the main gates, as if it was a whole legion and not one man who trespassed on the property of the late Amyntor. They were relieved and openly happy to see their young master but quickly grew worried at the sight of the disheveled and gray-faced youth, who greeted them warmly enough, but soon retreated into the house, requesting some hot broth and an even hotter bath.
After greeting his mother and convincing her that no, he had not deserted the army, nor was he obliged to go to war just yet, Hephaistion retreated into Amyntor’s study and locked the door behind him. The stale, dusty air was choking as was the tightness in Hephaistion’s chest. He had not been in his home, in this room, since his father’s funeral day. Loneliness and despair crept deeper into his bones.
Putting his misery aside, Hephaistion lit a single oil lamp and set it on the floor beside the bust of Odysseus, the hero whom his father had always greatly revered. He pushed the half-pillar supporting the bust to the side revealing a gap in the tiled floor. Kneeling beside it, Hephaistion bent and reached down with both arms into the tight darkness, feeling around until he came across what he was looking for: a square box packed with scrolls which he removed and set on the floor beside him. Carefully, he retrieved several scrolls and unfurled them. When he found was he was looking for, he replaced the remaining scrolls in the box and returned them to their hiding place.
He perused the compact writing, reading twice over the passages that made less sense than the others, then stood up and padded over to his father’s writing table. When he sat down, it felt almost like he had no right to be there. It seemed only yesterday that his father had sat in that very same seat, instructing his son. At the time, Hephaistion had never thought that the day would come when the information that his father imparted could save his life. Clutching the stylus, Hephaistion raised a plea to his father’s shade and to whichever god found it fit to listen that his feeble plan would work. Then he began to write.
Dismissing the slaves that announced that his bath was ready and ignoring his burning throat and aching body, Hephaistion spent the better part of the night drafting and re-drafting the letter, until he was satisfied that he had managed to get across the necessary message. He had a chance that the recipient of the letter might decide that he was trustworthy enough. Dawn was breaking when Hephaistion summoned his father’s most trusted messenger and deposited the scroll into his capable hands.
His future depended on the answer he got. Only Hephaistion did not have the luxury of being able to wait around until the reply reached him. After a few short hours’ rest, Hephaistion leapt on his horse and rode off towards Pella.
TBC
Author:trust_n0_1
Rating: PG13 for this chapter
Summary: Hephaistion is asked by Philip to spy on Alexander and finds himself between a rock and a hard place.
Copyright: © Trust No One March 2006
Heartfelt thanks to my Beta Fiona, whose superb skills have helped shape this story.
Five
Alexander was late for the morning lesson. The first sleety rain of the late winter had chased everyone indoors again and upon entering the main room, Alexander was smothered by the weight of more than a dozen pairs of eyes. The others’ surprise was overt, used as they were to constantly seeing Hephaistion by the prince’s side. Alexander stood alone and he straightened his back defiantly before making his way to the closest chair and sitting down. For an instant, he met Aristotle’s resigned eye and the teacher’s silence told Alexander that the philosopher knew more than he let on.
It seemed to Alexander that Aristotle rushed through the lesson, but he could not be sure. He made an effort to pay attention but soon he was listening with half an ear, the voices of Aristotle and his fellow students reaching him as if they were cutting through a blizzard, garbled and insignificant. He stayed behind after Aristotle dismissed the other boys and turned to face the philosopher’s questioning, worried eyes.
‘Why is Hephaistion not here?’
Alexander gave the teacher a long, silent look before he managed dryly, ‘Hephaistion left.’
‘He left.’ It was more a statement than a question and there was little surprise in Aristotle’s slow nod. ‘Do you know where he went?’
‘No,’ Alexander replied evenly. He breathed deeply, the question burning on his tongue. ‘This isn’t surprising to you, is it?’
‘No, it isn’t. Hephaistion talked to me two days ago.’
‘He asked your advice?’ Alexander was aware of the edge of irony in his voice.
‘Yes, he did. But I am sure that you know now that there was nothing I could have told him to help with his predicament.’
‘He brought it on himself,’ Alexander erupted, bitterness spilling like venom through his veins. ‘He’s kept this from me. We’re best friends, we share everything, we have no secrets.’ Alexander paused, anger darkening his features. ‘Or at least we had no secrets until now. How can I trust him again?’
Aristotle studied Alexander closely, ignoring the outburst.
‘You are aware that it is not safe for Hephaistion out there, wherever he is. What made him leave? Did you argue?’
Suddenly, Alexander was overcome by immense fatigue and his voice sounded fractured and gruff when he spoke again. ‘I’d been told that Hephaistion was ordered to spy on me. I didn’t want to believe it but… in the end he could not deny it. He admitted that it was true.’
‘He admitted to spying on you?’ for the first time, Aristotle's voice rose shrill in the silence.
‘No, he admitted that my father had ordered him to do it.’
‘You haven’t answered my question: have you proof or his admission that he did it?’
‘No, of course not. He told me that he refused to do my father’s bidding. And I believed him.’
‘So why did he leave then?’
‘Don’t you see? He left because he knows he’s broken the trust between us, our pact that we share everything.’
‘You must realize, Alexander, that no matter how good friends, two people cannot share absolutely everything, no matter how much they try. Sometimes a friendship is better off because one or two things are kept secret. It is not lying by omission, but rather protecting the other-‘
‘That’s what he wanted to do,’ Alexander interrupted, his voice accusatory. ‘Protect me. But I didn’t need it.’ He gritted his jaws.
‘Indeed, no, you don't need to be protected from anyone,' Aristotle retorted fiercely. ‘except yourself. Look at how you reacted. Besides, what else would you have had Hephaistion do? No matter what he would have done, both of you would have ended up hurt. I’m sure he knew that just as surely as he knew that he couldn’t run to you for help, against your own father?’
For a moment, Alexander just stared at Aristotle, color gathering in the pale cheeks like storm clouds.
‘In my head, I understand that he was trying to protect me. But in my heart…,’ Alexander stopped and drew a sharp breath, glancing at Aristotle with uncertainty.
‘Do you still have doubts?’The philosopher’s eyes softened. ‘Is that it?’
Alexander nodded quickly as if admitting it in a hurry would make a world of difference.
‘What kind of doubts?’ Aristotle prodded on, gently enough, like goading a frightened child out of its hiding place.
Alexander’s gaze was vacant, unfocused and he seemed to be arguing with a ghost when he replied, ‘He never trusted me enough to tell me something this important. I could have helped him. We could have helped each other. But no…. he had to just take everything in his hands and try to fix it by hiding the truth from me. As if that would make it better.’
‘But you couldn’t have made it better for him, Alexander,’ Aristotle argued quietly.
‘I could have tried,’ Alexander retaliated, his attention fully returned, ‘At the very least, I would have re-assured him that nothing had changed between us just because my father had tried to bait him into betraying me.’
Alexander’s eyes glistened like two dead stones and his voice wavered.
‘And so I began to consider the very real possibility that… he was going to obey my father. I tried to make myself think like a king, like my father always tells me to do, and to understand what I would have done had I been the king. It then seemed logical that in order to know one’s enemy, one must strive to become their friend, to learn everything that there is to learn about that person, what they cherish, what their weak spots are. But my father is not my enemy, although my mother sometimes would have me believe otherwise. And who better than my best friend to report on me? Do you think I shall ever learn the truth?’
‘There’s only one way to find out,’ Aristotle offered finally, having found the resolve to look at Alexander’s tight-jawed countenance.
‘I can’t go after him,’ Alexander said softly, as if he were talking to himself. ‘For one thing, it was Hephaistion who left, of his own choice.’ Alexander’s voice dropped to a despairing whisper. ‘And for another, I don’t know where he went.’
‘Then do the only thing you can: go and speak to your father,’ Aristotle urged, ‘if only to put an end to your doubts once and for all, no matter how it turns out.’
Alexander smirked. ‘Do you think my father will admit to ordering Hephaistion to spy on me? He will laugh in my face.’
‘No, I do not think that he will,’ Aristotle said thoughtfully. ‘In fact, I think that he will quite readily tell you if Hephaistion has been obeying him or not.’
‘Why would he? He will lose his spy.’
‘He already has, if that was ever the case. But he will surely tell his son if his best friend had betrayed him.’
Alexander considered for a moment. With the outsider’s eye, Aristotle saw things clearer: Philip might have been sly and manipulative, but Aristotle doubted that he wanted any harm to come his son’s way. Besides, Aristotle knew Hephaistion’s side of the story much better than Alexander had been even willing to learn.
Alexander glanced outside. He took in the expanse of the gray fields, mottled with black patches of earth that was seeing the light for the first time that winter. Hephaistion was out there somewhere, no doubt just as miserable as he was, but a great deal lonelier. At the mercy of the wolves. Aristotle was right. If anything, he owed it to himself and to Hephaistion to put this matter to rest.
~~
Hephaistion left Mieza just before the first light of dawn and before the slaves had stirred for their morning duties. In his haste to leave everything behind the previous night, he had raced out to the stables, ready to leave immediately. He cared nothing about wolves or villains that could have waylaid him. In fact, he’d thought, either danger would be preferable and favored over the fate he saw ahead of him. But eventually, just as he was about to ride out, reason had kicked in and he had spent the remainder of the night huddling in the stables. There was no point in wasting a perfectly good horse to the wolves that often ventured out of the woods in search of prey. As for himself, he cared very little about what could befall him. He knew that Alexander was not going to come running after him and he did not expect it either. Hephaistion also knew that he had acted childishly and rashly by running away, but he had also recognized that it would have been impossible to linger a moment longer before either Alexander or he would have said or done something they would both have regretted later. As things stood now, Hephaistion doubted that Alexander would regret anything, except perhaps ever having trusted him.
He rode north towards his father’s estate. Home, at least for a while. Out on the open road, Hephaistion realized that he truly had nowhere to go where he could stay permanently, without the world intruding on him sooner or later. He was not sure that he needed to bring more misfortune upon his family by arriving at the estate but for now there was no other choice.
I failed you, father, he kept repeating in his head as he rode, angry tears finally coursing free down his cheeks. You would be ashamed of me now.
He hung onto the thought, thinking it better that his father was dead and had not lived to see his son in the disgrace and pit of trouble that he had dug for himself. He had tried to protect everyone and it had all blown up in his face. He rode and cried for many hours, until his horse became tired and he dismounted and started to walk. If he kept to the road, he would make it home before night fell. He had packed neither food nor water, having thought of none of his own needs. For the sake of his horse, he knew he ought to stop and make camp, but it felt impossible, rash and unwise as it was. He soon began to feel lightheaded and queasy from the lack of food and his throat was burning dangerously after he had drunk hastily and greedily from a nearly frozen stream. If this was a sign of looming sickness, he did not need to be on the road longer than he had to. He laughed bitterly at the thought. His mind was working through the practicalities of traveling when in fact, he would have rather lain on the ground and let whatever predator took pity on him bleach his bones.
In spite of his body warning him of his precarious situation, the misery proved stronger as Hephaistion found strange sustenance in tossing around in his head the conversation he’d had with Alexander. Indeed, there was nothing he could have done, except to be honest with Alexander from the start. He thought about reversing roles and how he would have reacted had he been in Alexander’s place. Protection sounded like a poor excuse indeed, even if the intention behind it was good.
Consumed with bitterness, Hephaistion wished fervently that he had someone to talk to. Someone like his father.
I need you, Father, he spoke out loud to the clear sky scattered with uncaring, cold stars.
The late winter snow was frayed and dirty from the earlier sleety rain, even on the road unspoiled by tracks, and the air was windy, now blistering with cold, and now with warmer breaths promising spring.
It was getting dark when Hephaistion rode into the grounds. He had never before felt so uneasy when coming home. His arrival must have raised the alarm because several armed farm hands and a handful of determined slaves awaited him at the main gates, as if it was a whole legion and not one man who trespassed on the property of the late Amyntor. They were relieved and openly happy to see their young master but quickly grew worried at the sight of the disheveled and gray-faced youth, who greeted them warmly enough, but soon retreated into the house, requesting some hot broth and an even hotter bath.
After greeting his mother and convincing her that no, he had not deserted the army, nor was he obliged to go to war just yet, Hephaistion retreated into Amyntor’s study and locked the door behind him. The stale, dusty air was choking as was the tightness in Hephaistion’s chest. He had not been in his home, in this room, since his father’s funeral day. Loneliness and despair crept deeper into his bones.
Putting his misery aside, Hephaistion lit a single oil lamp and set it on the floor beside the bust of Odysseus, the hero whom his father had always greatly revered. He pushed the half-pillar supporting the bust to the side revealing a gap in the tiled floor. Kneeling beside it, Hephaistion bent and reached down with both arms into the tight darkness, feeling around until he came across what he was looking for: a square box packed with scrolls which he removed and set on the floor beside him. Carefully, he retrieved several scrolls and unfurled them. When he found was he was looking for, he replaced the remaining scrolls in the box and returned them to their hiding place.
He perused the compact writing, reading twice over the passages that made less sense than the others, then stood up and padded over to his father’s writing table. When he sat down, it felt almost like he had no right to be there. It seemed only yesterday that his father had sat in that very same seat, instructing his son. At the time, Hephaistion had never thought that the day would come when the information that his father imparted could save his life. Clutching the stylus, Hephaistion raised a plea to his father’s shade and to whichever god found it fit to listen that his feeble plan would work. Then he began to write.
Dismissing the slaves that announced that his bath was ready and ignoring his burning throat and aching body, Hephaistion spent the better part of the night drafting and re-drafting the letter, until he was satisfied that he had managed to get across the necessary message. He had a chance that the recipient of the letter might decide that he was trustworthy enough. Dawn was breaking when Hephaistion summoned his father’s most trusted messenger and deposited the scroll into his capable hands.
His future depended on the answer he got. Only Hephaistion did not have the luxury of being able to wait around until the reply reached him. After a few short hours’ rest, Hephaistion leapt on his horse and rode off towards Pella.
TBC