Hephaistion's Lion Chapter 1, an alexander fanfic

HEPHAISTION'S LION

A short story about Alexandros' reaction to Hephaistion's death.

Part II: Alexandros

Note: This was written several years back, but recently, Rain Day requested it be reloaded for reading. So here it is. As a note, I have removed most of my online work due to the recent publication of the first of my novels on Alexander and Hephaistion. They are now available for sale on Amazon Kindle under the title of TheBooksofAlexander,BookI,OftheBlood, by Chrystana Lysais. If someone would like to have me upload a copy of a fic already written just let me know. I'll be happy to do it for you. Thank you. Elizabeth Owens

Part I

The small figurine stood alone in the dark, but no breath of sadness lay over its proud form. It stood fearless upon its plain of beaten gold, as the mighty Hera-Ra he had read about as a boy, the fabled fighting lion of the great Egyptian Pharaoh Rameses the Second. Yet he knew it was in despair until he had come. Its small cry had echoed with it and its front paws shook the air with its dismay. The despair had gone from it when he took it from the room. It sat now high and mighty upon his hand as he caressed the small, delicately carved paws and brought the yellow in its unruly mane fully back to life as it was made bright, again, by his tears. It was an old thing, as old as their love, as their life together and had been through it all with them. Its crisp, bright lines and paint had become softened, muted until it was a gentle lion, tamed by time, and seasoned by the caresses of their rough and calloused fingers.

It held more tales in its small wooden body and had traveled further and seen more sights than a caravan a year out on the Silk Road. It had lived with them both wrapped against the drying cold of snowy peaks lovingly in the folds of their cloaks and sitting up proud on tables of gold and glittering with gems in warmer climes. They had shared it, as do two parents a much loved child, not wanting much to let it out of their sight, but unable to spare the other the joy in it's company.

Hephaistion had it last. He had given it to him to keep him company, a sop against missing the boy's race, a favorite of Hephaistion's as were the flute and kithara contests. He frowned, thinking trying to recall the orders he had issued. Had he ordered the cessation of all flute playing? He was sure he had when he had cut his hair. His hand traveled over the still unexpected feeling of his shorn locks. He taken his dagger and sawed them off, every strand. Leaving a pile of gleaming silver-gold on the floor where he stood. What else had he ordered? His thoughts seemed foggy if they ventured beyond the quiet of the room around him. It was as though the incense the priests had lit in Hephaistion's room had crept into his mind and it swam in dimmed frankincense and ambergris scented sea.

He only seemed to remember how they had laughed over a private joke – Hephaistion, still a bit wan and too thin, but more again himself when pouting a little in frustration and bouncing the wooden lion on his knee, he promised to tend to the doctor's orders and his orders. 'Yes, Great King of Kings.' Hephaistion had teased while listening to his pronouncements to rest and drink only of the nourishing soup he had brought with his own hands. He had kissed him then, quickly, never knowing it was to be their last and took his leave.

He kissed the lion and rubbed the silky wood against his cheek. "I did not see the sign until too late. Forgive me, my friend that I left you there, alone in the darkness. Yet you were steadfast, did not waiver or flee from that inconstant place of fear, but stood your ground, as he did, as he has always done, with pride, with the valor that is my Patroclus. May the gods welcome him in, for now he has found glory."

He recalled upon his arrival, breathless and already full of dread as though some god had whispered in his ear a dream he was only now half remembering taking the dear face into his hands, kissing it, washing it with his tears. His skin had been warm still, soft still, still holding some trace there in the eyes, in the breathe that he tried to breath back into the silent form of Hephaistion. "Hetairi, hetairi, Hephaistion, come back. Do not go without me." In the first few moments, the agony was such that he knew he could not survive, and could feel the hot pressure in his chest pushing toward his own end. He knew nothing but darkness within himself, all sound rushed outward escaping him, his eyes failed and he saw nothing before him, his senses spiraled around him bringing in the voices of the Furies to claim the virtue of his mind.

He knew as each breath ripped at him, cut him to the quick, vanquishing any hope that his despair was sharper than Darius' scythed chariots at Gaugamela. It took him to a place that was blacker, bleaker, and full of the utter desolation awaiting him. He knew there was no sound, no material, no object, no place or person- not even the call of Ares at that moment which could have succored him so deep was the anguish. It gnawed at his senses; all he could do was answer it with sobs. Then he had turned, as though the lion had called out to him and he had seen the sign. It had been there standing, waiting for him, warning him, but he had come to late. He remembered now the words spoken so long ago, given in trust, pledged in faith, a trust he had never broken until now.

To be Continued…