A/N: Nothing here belongs to me. Characters are historical and this thing is being based on history as well as on the film Alexander (2004) by Oliver Stone. As you may notice, it's an AU story when it comes to certain things. I'd be ever so grateful for every piece of feedback on it as it will be a new occupation of mine for the following weeks or so. Thanks in advance for everything.
Chapter one
At first it was nothing. Alexander was notorious for having lines and lines of people fall at the slightest move of his hand. Even back in Macedon, down onto their faces, cowering in awe they went. They flattered him, got a piece of gold nothings in return and quickly went their merry ways. Some stayed for a night and others kept coming back for more until the king himself would tell them to pack their things because a dangerous campaign awaited him and his army, even when no plans had been presented yet. Never was Hephaestion the one to ask Alexander for his reasoning behind this charade, and never did Alexander himself come to Hephaestion to talk about it.
An always warmed-up bed was a secret everyone knew about, and anything Hephaestion had or wanted to say, did not matter those days anyway. Since they had come and got every piece of jewelry or metal a mortal man could dream of obtaining, nothing seemed to continue its flow like back in the old times. Maybe it was just him? Getting old, beauty flowing out with each wound and illness sweaty with fever?
That Persian whore was indeed beautiful. He looked at them with big, child-like and yet devilishly aware eyes, spying on every move or gesture Hephaestion made at Alexander's side. It was only fair, he thought, because one day the boy would be as easily replaced not only in the mind but also in the bed of the king's, as Hephaestion himself had been. The general sometimes mused to himself, whether that made them more alike, than either of them would ever care or dare to admit. An eunuch and a chiliarch were worth exactly the same in the eyes of the men, women and the great conqueror himself. They both were as pathetic and tainted as a newborn babe without a name.
Some would say there was still love. But where were its claims, Hephaestion asked himself continuously, looking at paintings being done in the corridors. Of great Achilles, Thetis, Zeus, Paris' demise. The great king insisted on keeping a piece of Troy's tale everywhere he went. A copy of at his bedside, constant remarks: it's our tale, Hephaestion, my Patroclus; I am nothing without you, just like Achilles without his beloved; my sanity, beloved, never leave me, please. For a corpse without his soul when the general was away or doing his duties, Alexander's body never ceased to function properly in bed with others, Hephaestion thought bitterly.
He showed nothing of his thoughts daily, for what use would they be anyway? He and Alexander did not meet as frequently as they once used to. Plans of great conquests and adventures laid endlessly upon the many tables, consuming the whole time they could spend together and the latter's mind. They touched lastly a month or so ago, and even that fleeting kiss was quick and bitter. Maybe it was the wine or the lasting Persian smell that repulsed him that night so much as not to lead Alexander into his chambers? Hephaestion honestly did not know the answer any more.
The new shining brightly Achilles was engrossed in his plans, sulking from time to time and head over heels for his Briseis, who was more than ready to give him the heirs his mother continued on requesting. Hephaestion was not the one to keep his heart on the platter and even though days kept on passing, his bed cold as a witch's caress, it was all fine. One night the king would come back, sober and fragrant, and kiss him till their bodies would seethe with passion.
He wondered if Bagoas had dreamt of the same thing those many months ago, when Alexander was still at Hephaestion's side more often than at his, when the world seemed to glisten with warmth instead of the yellow bile now filling Hephaestion's every thought. It was no use thinking of the whore, however. There would always be winners and losers, and Hephaestion knew he was the one at the bottom now. He ought to spare the pity for himself, not the would not take a big thing to tip him over, Hephaestion knew. It would be a detail, a too long glare casted at that pitiful shell of a man which called itself Bagoas or a drunken brawl Alexander would once again provoke with only Ptolemy or Hephaestion himself skilled enough to reason with him. Wine began to flood them a while ago and he wondered just how much exactly Alexander tried to live up to all of the standards Aristotle once told them so much about. Perhaps he did all he could to stick to them, with not talking to his once Patroclus being the greatest restraint he could ever muster his strength to uphold.
In other words, it was all fine.
Bagoas cracked a smile every once in a while at him in the halls nowadays, his pitch black hair glistening in the sun, and his once grim expression upon seeing him smoothly washed away from his face . His eyes shone with light Hephaestion once thought himself to possess but now nothing of it mattered. Each time he would keep his head high however, and march with back as straight as a line into his chambers. Only after the curtains were drawn together and the sleep just would not come, he wondered what it all could mean. Perhaps yet another whore was waiting patiently at the king's door during those colder nights? On the other hand, did it really even matter anymore?
Hephaestion was lost but he would sooner die than ever say it out loud.
