Got bored. Turned to angst to solve the problem. Have now been sat up all night even though I have college tomorrow. Please, do read.
His fingers twitch. Stay with me.
Alexander pays the gesture no mind. Maybe he misses it, or maybe he just doesn't understand it. Whatever the case, Hephaistion spends his last moments trying to muster the strength to call his lover back. Please.
"—then we will move on Carthage, and that great island, Sicily… they'll pay large tribute."
Even if he'd had the strength to tell Alexander there would be no we, he wouldn't have had the heart.
He doesn't fight the tears that rise, stinging, to his eyes. The effort would destroy him, and he wants, more than anything, to hear Alexander dream aloud.
"Then the Roman tribe. Good fighters!"
Oh, Alexander… Had he the capacity to smile, he would've.
"We'll beat them."
The desire to smile fades. There it is again, that godforsaken 'we' that could never be, taunting him and making him want to scream at the bitter unfairness of the world.
At first he takes it for anger rising in his chest.
"Then explore the northern forests, and add the Pillars of Heracles to the western ocean."
He realizes now that it isn't anger at all; anger was never substantial. He tenses as a cold shiver runs down his spine, parallel to the hot bile rising in his throat.
No…
Damn it, just a few minutes more! Was that so much to ask?
Alexander, look at me!
He wants to call out to him, but the pain that grips his stomach and lances out in shockwaves through his chest and into his thighs is too desperately unbearable to ignore any longer. His rational thoughts of Alexander and their impossible future together subside, and give way to nonsensical snatches of statements made and questions asked and suggestions offered and why won't it just end?!
Subconsciously, he arches his back as if hoping a new position might ease the agony. When he collapses back into the pillows assembled behind him, he finds that the pain has indeed subsided, taking with it everything. The noises around him fade, and with them, the colours. There is silence, darkness, blessed nothing, until four words shatter everything and all he feels now is unendurable grief.
"We'll grow old, Hephaistion."
So. I don't write death scenes, as a general rule, because, as you can see, I'm not very good at them. Still, practice makes perfect... or at least better. So tell me what you think, hm? Little bit of constructive criticism goes a long way.