Gone Chapter 1: Gone, an alexander fanfic

Title: Gone

Author: Baliansword

Rating: PG-13

Warnings: Angst. Likely sexual content, violence, language to come later.

Chapter: 1 of unknown, "Gone"

Summary: Excerpt –there was no love between them, not now, not so far away from where they had first set eyes upon one another. The love was gone, and all around them knew it, but neither was willing to mention it. The vacancy instead remained between them.

A/N: Back to my roots, let me know what you think.

The grains of sand do not deceive, and nor did the light of the hall as the gallant general entered, cup in a hand, the other placed on his side as he stepped further through the crowds. His movements were fluid, but all around him could see that he favored his right, due to the long scar that ran over his thigh, a war wound that had perchance never properly healed. There had been no time for the injury to recover, and he would not have given it the time even if an eternity had awaited him. No, it was take the injury, wash it clean, have the physician stitch is quickly, and then he was on his way, helping those in need, fretting over the needs of his king. But it was not only his right that he favored. His entire body seemed to wither, or perhaps, it was the soul inside. The air about him was gone, as if it had been beaten from him in each battle, knocked about and kicked by each passing solider. As he placed his hand upon Ptolemy's shoulder, the thick calluses on his palm were visible, the dried skin, his sore and tired fingers. Still, the rest of him seemed weathered by age. His muscles still made his body envious, but he no longer had a boyish charm. He was a man now, old to the youths that looked up to him. His hair was fraying at the ends, jagged from uneven cutting, and the beard he wore showed that he no longer cared –or not as much as he had in previous years. No, his eyes gave it away; still a cerulean blue like the Mediterranean, but his soul was almost extinguished from them. They at times seemed sunken in, his forehead wrinkling from his concentration. Old, yes; the beauty of his youth gone, perhaps. But still, the king could not look away from him. Continuing on his way, his head down, no longer gazing at the horizon, he made his way to a column, where he took his place, back to the world, back to the others, and most importantly, back to his king. It was a subtle sign, something that the men surrounding him, who now laughed and toasted with him, would not have understood. Yet for Alexander, it was cutting into him deeper than any knife bore by enemy hand could have. It was a searing, blinding, unthinkable pain, to know that Hephaestion, to him, was gone.

The love between them was gone, in simplest terms. It was not to be blamed on either party, but instead, the mutuality of the arrangements now made had been surprising. Where once Hephaestion would have accompanied him to his rooms, secretly, long after the rest of the men were slurring their words, he now remained with the slurring men until he retired to his own rooms, alone. Where Alexander once longed for his touch at every waking moment, he would not turn to others, insuring that he was never alone, but instead, surrounded by too many visitors, too many lovers, and now, too many wives. While he noted Hephaestion's changes, he was unable to deny that he too had changed, so many years from home. His hair frayed at the ends, long and draping his shoulders. Circles under his eyes plagued him, as did the worry lines at the corners of his eyes and mouth. They had now crawled across his forehead. He too was older, so much older, than he had been before, and with this he feared he had gained no true knowledge of the world around him. Yes, he knew countries, knew war, but not his closest friends, his allies, former lovers, or even, he fretted, himself. Raising his cup, noting the scar on the back of his thumb, he took a drink and continued to watch Hephaestion as he merrily drank with Ptolemy, Cassander, and others of the Companions. The realization that they were really Hephaestion's Companions had struck him upside the head long ago; were there a choice in the matter they would choose Hephaestion long before Alexander. Personality played a key factor, since he knew and understood now that he was so close to becoming a tyrant, but also, Hephaestion had always been the better man. He had defeated Alexander in every way, including love, honor, valor, and friendship. He had surpassed him a thousand times, but still he remained, a general, protecting a king and former lover that would have long since sent him home, if only to get through to him.

"He seems pleased with himself," his current companion said, drawing the king's eyes away from Hephaestion, away from the past, and back to her, the present, and he was beginning to fear, the future. Roxanne hated Hephaestion, though she would often try to deny it to him. She had hated him from their first night together, upon finding Hephaestion there before her, tears in his eyes, handing a ring to Alexander, who had appeared equally distressed. When she looked at him, or said his name, her lip curled up, over her teeth, as if she were a mountain jaguar ready to tear his flesh away from him. Alexander rubbed a hand over his eyes, and then set his cup down, already feeling the affects of its previous elixirs.

"Should he be anything else? It would not kill you to appreciate what he does," Alexander hissed back, swooping down and taking his drink back. Roxanne rolled her eyes, exhaling, and then sunk back in her hardened chair. There was nothing else for her to say, for she had long ago given up trying to please Alexander, had she ever started. Alexander rose, taking his cup with him, and stumbled into the hallway. Unlike months ago, there was no one to help him now, no one to care whether or not he made it to his rooms, or wherever else his feet called him to. Coughing, he flailed onto the balcony, reaching out and gripping the railing, glad that it was tall enough to keep him from tumbling over. He tossed the cup over the balcony though, and dully watched as it struck the ground far below.

Silence soon enveloped him. The stars above glittered against the dark sky, perhaps ancestors of the fallen, as Hephaestion had long ago suggested in Meiza. Alexander stared up at them for some time, sobering while doing so, though he still felt sick, still felt terrible. Living without Hephaestion was like living without air, in a dark room, where he could scream, cry, and plead endlessly, but no one would ever hear, or care. The stars had shifted in the sky before he returned his gaze to the dark horizon, and as he turned he froze, hoping that the tears that had stung his eyes no longer showed in the fire of the torches placed on the heavy columns. Arms crossed over his chest, holding a thick blanket made of bear-skin, Hephaestion leaned against a pillar, mouth upturned in a half-smile. Oh, how truly amazing he appeared tonight, this apparition that he could not touch, could no longer have. Kohl lined his light eyes, brining them out further from his high cheek bones. The beard would have changed the face of any other man, but it did not change Hephaestion, not in the slightest. It only expressed his disconcertion for the affections of others. Hephaestion did not come closer, but instead held the blanket out, and Alexander stepped forward to take it. He prayed that he could have come in contact with Hephaestion, perhaps their fingers would touch, but instead, nothing. Hephaestion stepped back too soon, uncaring, unknowing, and then made an attempt to leave.

"I have not properly thanked you," Alexander fumbled, desperate to get Hephaestion to stay, even for the briefest of times, "for your work on the barracks to the Eastern front ahead. They will be much needed as we march on, and, as always, you have overlooked nothing, I am told."

"Congratulate your architects," Hephaestion negated, again crossing his arms over his chest. It was his only way of protecting himself against Alexander, and both men knew this. His arms, which had once held Alexander lovingly, were now forcible barriers, bars that caged Hephaestion away from him, bars that for months had been impenetrable. He aimlessly began to gnaw at his inner lip, and in truth, it drove Alexander mad in more ways than one.

"Architects did not save ten men when a beam collapsed upon them, nearly killing them," Alexander countered.

"No. You can thank your doctors for that. Had they not been there, the men would have surely passed through the river Styx. I merely helped remove the beam. The true talent was from the salves your Eastern doctors created from dirt and sap, not the strength of your generals."

"I remember a time when everything was not so difficult with you."

"Forgive me," Hephaestion then said, bowing slightly as he turned. Alexander turned, eager to reach out, to latch on to his wrist and pull him back, as he had done a thousand times, but he was unable to do so. Instead, Hephaestion briskly strode away, off into the dimly lit hallway, where he would likely retire to his room. Alexander cursed under his breath, hating how foolish he was. Had he said nothing Hephaestion would still remain, and while it would be unpleasant silence that would pass between them, that silence was a gift compared to the isolation he now felt. However, before he was too alone, he heard someone approaching. His heart sunk, knowing that Hephaestion would have been silent, but as he glanced up he felt some comfort in seeing curly-haired Ptolemy, who was wise beyond his years. The other stood beside him, leaning forward on the balcony as well, and glanced to his king.

"Does Hephaestion still trouble you," Ptolemy asked, already knowing the answer, but knowing it was not his place to butt in if Alexander did not wish him the information. His king then sighed and ran a hand through his hair, clearly distraught tonight more than the last. It seemed to get worse and worse each day, the animosity between the once star-crossed lovers, and Ptolemy knew that soon enough Alexander would collapse inward upon himself.

"Where have I gone so wrong," Alexander asked. "One day we are together, fine, as if nothing could ever come between us, and the next he treats me like I am…"

"His king," Ptolemy finished. "Alexander, you have your days confused. It is not as if yesterday you were speaking, and today he is merely your general and you his king. No, Hephaestion has been distancing himself from you for weeks, but you were too busy to notice."

"Why? Why does he feel he needs to leave me?"

"Do not be so dramatic," Ptolemy warned. "Hephaestion has not, and will not, leave you. To leave would be to return to Macedonia, which we both know he will never do, for no matter how much he wants to distance himself, he will not put any real distance between you."

"But why? What have I done that is so wrong, for surely it is something everyone but I can see. I have treated him as my equal, as my successor should I fall, as a friend, a lover Ptolemy, I love him. And he suddenly finds that I am not to his liking, as if I were a platter of food that is too salty and in such he'll never touch again?"

"Roxanne is not helping matters between the two of you."

"He understands Roxanne."

"Oh, does he? I could have been mistaken," Ptolemy retorted before taking a sip from his cup. "Let us say that he does understand Roxanne, and that the five second conversation you had with him in her regards was a meeting of the minds. Perchance he will forgive Roxanne for filling your bed and time, like he forgave Stateira and Barsine. Yet Bagoas, Alexander? Tell me that he should turn and look the other way when you flaunt your love of Bagoas."

"I flaunt…"

"Arguing is pointless. You have him dance for you in open ceremony and meet him with kisses. Did it occur to you that you've never once made such a gesture before a crowd for Hephaestion. Say not that he would not let you, because I know Hephaestion and the respect he harbors and protects for you, but instead, think upon it. For years you were so careful with Hephaestion, hiding your love for one another, barely touching or even glancing at one another in Pella. And now, trust me, many know, but still you keep it to yourselves. I know the motives; Hephaestion protects your honor, you deep down know that to love Hephaestion openly is dangerous. Yes, you protect one another, but what of Bagoas? He is a Persian whore, that is his title Alexander, and you would rather embrace him than Hephaestion. Is there no shame in such? Perhaps not for you, a king, but do you think that Hephaestion feels no shame when you flaunt that boy around?"

"Again," Alexander anxiously sighed, "he is another matter."

"For you, he would be. But for Hephaestion, he is the simplest matter in the world. And let us not forget, while Hephaestion builds your bridges and barracks, he goes to bed alone while you have warm bodies to fill you beds. He knows these bodies, and he envies them, despite what you would think. Do you know what the true problem between you is?"

"What?"

"It is that Hephaestion understands you."

"Oh, explain," Alexander grouched, tossing himself down onto a chair. It was not his wrongs that disturbed him, but the fact that he had known all along that he was wrong. Somewhere his heart had tried to guide him, but like the brutish bull-headed man he was he'd ignored his sense of love, and instead vowed to appease other needs.

"He understands your needs, far beyond even you can. He looks at you sometimes, and already knows what you're going to say, to do, and while it scares me, it condemns him. When we entered Bactra, he saw Roxanne, and he knew before you did that she would be your new wife. He knew that this time, it would be different, that you might actually harbor feelings for her, so he did what only a great man would do. He stepped back, and let you have her. Has it occurred to you how hard that would have been? Had he come to you and asked to wed her, you would have said yes, and he would have locked her away, and there would be no rift between you. But instead, he let you have her, and let himself be pushed away, subtly perhaps, but away. He's given for you a thousand times, and you know not about it. Oh, what a fool you are Alexander, to sit here and act as if he has left you. Did you not stop to think that perhaps, miles ago, you left him?"

Meanwhile, Hephaestion was no more pleased with himself than Alexander. Cross legged on his bed, he gazed down at the map before him, turning it ever so slightly and then leaning forward on himself, touching a river and trailing it with his finger. He pulled it further down, finding the delta, and then raised an eyebrow. Looking over the map again, he retraced the path before folding the map in half and tossing it over the edge of the bed. There were piles of maps now, some merely folded, others gently rolled again, but they all had the same dilemma. None were entirely correct. Sighing, he picked up his cup of water and took a sip, but not before there was a knock at the door. He set the cup down and called out for the rapper to enter, and when the door opened he was almost surprised to see long-haired Cassander, who seemed perfectly content with his cups for the night.

"We are going boar hunting," Cassander announced, throwing a hand to the wind, as if he were about to be knighted. Hephaestion smirked, and removed himself from his bed, setting the pen at his side back on its ink-stand. Silently, he reached out and placed a hand on Cassander's shoulder and pressed firmly against him, and then pushed him down and onto a chair in the room.

"I think it would be unwise."

"Unwise," Cassander snorted. "What do you mean? We are all going, I was just sent to find you. Come, Nearchus and Perdiccas are going as well. Hurry, before Alexander hears and spoils things again, like last time."

"Cassander," Hephaestion whispered, "there are no boars out tonight. We are not in Macedonia. I think it would be wise, with the amount of deadly snakes brought out by the rain that you stay in the palace for a night. We'll hunt another time, I promise."

Cassander sat for a moment, and suddenly it seemed to dawn upon him that Hephaestion was right. He laughed for a moment, and then shook his head. He stood, still swaying heavily to the side, but took Hephaestion's outstretched hand. It was always Hephaestion to be the reasonable one, to remind him where they were, and what was a bad idea, given certain circumstances. Drawing in a breath he nodded, and then placed a hand on Hephaestion's shoulder.

"Are you really promising?"

"Soon."

"And you think that you will see the day when we turn and head back for Macedonia," Cassander asked, raising an eyebrow. Hephaestion nodded after a brief moment and then helped Cassander to the door.

"You know," Cassander said, "without you he is nothing. He is a king, perhaps, but still an incomplete man. You really should try to mend things with him, especially if you are so worried about your health."

"There is nothing to mend," Hephaestion assured him for the thousandth time. "Alexander is my king, and I serve as his general. Apart from this, there can no longer be anything between us. You and I both know that to love a great man is to become his shadow in the grains of time. And should I not live to see the day we turn back, then, it was not meant to be. You can accompany Alexander back to Pella, and Cassander, try to get him to remain there for at least a year before he conquers to the west."

"I hate you. No, don't smirk at me, I really do hate you. You have the world and you would give it to him. Ah, Hephaestion, what I would have given to be your friend."

"You are my friend."

"No," Cassander sighed as he stepped into the hall, "I am not."

Hephaestion shook his head and shut the door. As he turned he felt dizziness slip into his mind, and as he reached up to rub his forehead he felt the warmth of blood upon his lip. Reaching up, he wiped the drops of blood away from his upper lip and found a strip of cloth on his nightstand. Quickly he pressed it against his nose, holding it for a moment, and waited for the blood to stop. Removing the cloth, he tossed it into a bin, onto a pile of balled up parchment –a letter he had been trying to write a thousand times. Still, his words were gone. There was nothing he could say to Alexander now.