Disclaimer: All these characters really lived at some point in time, and therefore nobody owns them but themselves. I only write about them for amusement.
This story is a PoV of Alexander Aegus –Alexander's son with Roxane. He was killed when he was 13. My apologies for any discrepancies in the story.
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– Father Figure –
They call you Alexander the Great, Alexander the Conqueror, Alexander, King of Persia and of Greece combined.
But to me, the name is foreign, and so is the man I call my father.
I have heard tales of you from the soldiers in your army. They have grown old now, slowly wasting away on the gold that you have bestowed on them. Their hearty laughter rings in my ears like an intruding noise, yet I listen attentively when they tell me stories about you, of your valor, and of your dream.
Their eyes grow misty as they remember the times when they were with you, sifting through the fond memories of those battles that happened almost a lifetime ago to them. They tell me how even the most cowardly of them will be spurred to die for the King just by looking at you, and how your eyes –one blue, and one black –spoke of the wonders of the world, of dreams so impossible men were mad to try them.
But somehow, you made them simple to accomplish.
They cry when they tell me of your death, so untimely, and unfitting such a great man. Their voices slowly grow hoarse and their eyes fill with unshed tears as they recount the events that led up to your passing. They swallow their sorrow when they tell me how sickly you looked on that bed in Babylon, your soul half gone to Thanatos; red-rimmed eyes staring back at them, trying to smile and thank them for their loyalty despite your pain.
There were times like this when I could see you as though you were right in front of me: the famed lion helmet sitting proudly on your head, plumes flowing in the gentle breeze; the armour of Achilles on your frame, your eyes half shut as you look in the distance, and your blonde hair, shining in the light of the Sun.
Then, I blink, and you are gone, before I could even reach out my hand to touch you.
To them, you are a God, the true son of Zeus himself. You taught them things they were never knew about, they saw places that many can only dream of, and they got to know you.
There were many times I wish that I had been conceived earlier, and thus seen you before you became naught but a name in the history books. Mother cries whenever I ask her about you, the tears running down her fair face. For her, the grief is still too near, though only my tenth birthday is nigh. She tells me sometimes, that she sees you in me, when I have argued with her, or refused to obey her. She would stop her tirade, or whatever she was doing, and look at me, her eyes softening as she remembers you. Then she would go into her room and stay there for hours, crying. Your mother hardly speaks of you at all, but immerses herself with her snakes and dances to honor Dionysus. She withdraws from reality as we know it, yet somehow knows the happenings. But from time to time, as she looks at the mosaics of your battles on the palace walls, her shield disappears, and she appears but a frail aging woman who grieves for her lost son, and not the manipulative regent many say her to be.
Those children my age stay away from me, and refuse to befriend me, much as I try to be like them. Their parents whisper into their ears when I come, and they in turn whisper into their companions. Cautionary words of Alexander's only son; warnings of my heritage, of being half-Persian, the various rumors that have been spread about my mother, and my grandmother, of your sexual inclinations, and of your love for Hephaestion. To them, that is a taint on the society, and utter disgrace that only the King could have be spared.
"Beware of Aegus," they whisper when they think I am unaware. "Beware of Alexander's son. He will corrupt you; he will use you to suit his needs. You will be unable to run free again, for being the grandson of Zeus, he has the power to retain you with him."
As a result, I am shunned, and given suspicious looks wherever I go in the country I rule.
It is blasphemy to rule at such a young age, for nobody listens to your words, nor take heed of them. They regardme as a King, but that will only be in name, nothing more. The officials and various ministers take things into their own hands, and I am never asked for my opinion. Things were better when Arridaeus, was alive. He fought for my voice to be heard amidst the unceasing squabbling of the officials, and taught me how to rule. His death was a bad surprise, and though the killers were caught, they never uttered the name of the person who paid them to do his dirty work.
When my bleary eyes are open every morning, the first thing I see is a bust of you in my room. The craftsmen have put it there –under orders of either my mother or Olympias, I know not. Perhaps it served to remind me whose legacy I was under, or perhaps to familiarise me with the father I never had nor knew. But the bust was of no significance to me, nor even if I tried, make it relate it to you.
To me, it is naught back a pillar of stone carved in your likeness; your youth and greatness forever captured in its stony depths. Its blank eyes stare back at me, devoid of both emotion and realness. Try as I might, I cannot feel the inspiration that men say you radiate as they behold you when I look at your bust. It is nothing but something to remember someone by, yet they hold it in great respect. If I had to choose, I would rather have met the real you instead, Father, before you left the world, and left me fatherless with that.
Some days I dream of you, tucking me into bed, a small smile on your lips as you kiss me goodnight on the cheek, your wistful voice telling me stories of your exploits, filled with all sorts of color and imagery I would wish I was there with you. We would be one family, and you would be ruling Macedonia and Greece and Persia.
But the moment I open my eyes, the dream is gone.
Your empire is split into a dozen different sections, all ruled by your Companions. Cassander is regent here in Macedonia, and his voice is heeded above mine. I know he believes that my family is a nuisance to his plans of having Macedonia as his own. Olympias is often at odds with him; their voices raised in anger as they argue over even the most trifle of matters.
But whatever happens in the future, I know that you are above me, watching me, protecting me. Although I cannot see you, I know you are there.
And for that, I feel safe.
END
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Notes:
Thanatos: Greek God of Death
Dionysus: Greek God of Wine and Ecstasy.
Arridaeus: Alexander's retarded half brother, Aegus's uncle, later killed by Olympias.
The Companions were what Alexander called himself and his closest friends eg: Hephaestion, Ptolemy, Cassander etc.
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