Hello all of you, I'm a girl from Italy fond of Alexander the Great and his fantastic world. I follow this website from long ago, but finally I found the time to translate a fanfiction of mine and the courage to post it here I don't know how it works, to be true it has been quite difficult to translate it, because sometimes constructions were complex and I don't know if I chase right equivalent constructions in English. I'd very much like to know your opinion about it… and please, if you don't understand some sentences, or if you see I used a wrong construction, notice it to me!
Title: Love he wanted
Rating: K+
Plot: Alexander and the death of Hephaestion
Notice: the scene isn't taken from the Stone's film – I didn't like it.
It seemed like he could still see him, with his ruffled hair and his lost gaze, he was rolling over on the meadow that would have fed him, and was gazing at the palace and at the king's eye, and was thinking of the glory that would have run over him, and he told him about it, opened his heart to him, then they yearned, and then fell asleep, and dreamed, and were gods, on the white horse, was it winged, yes, it seemed so; and eyes flared up, the skin shone on those young bodies that were embracing each other yet not aware, still convinced, that they would have kept to be like that, for the whole life, until the death. And this way he would have liked to immortalize him forever.
It seemed like he could still see him, standing on his feet facing him, wound in incense and spiced myrrh, bistred and almost restive eyes, and his scowl was talking, talking of love, and love he wanted; and then he bared himself, and looked at his own side, and lowered his gaze, and parted his lips, and then called him, and the skin was thick, almost sharpened; and then he curled up, repulsed him, but then purred, and then fretted, and, yes, he spoke to him, whispered to him, and then moaned; and on the bed his great warrior's recalcitrance did wear out. And this way he would have liked to immortalize him forever.
It seemed like he could still see him, towering, rising on a rock among souls by then spoilt and wretchedly anonymous, like the last bulwark rises to the invader's sight and exposes itself to the waves that deranged dash against the thick walls; and he wore the smell of blood, and was clutching the spear in the right hand, and the shield in the left one, and the helmet was raised up, and discovering his eyes, irritated by the violent sands of the Persian plains, but no god could have lowered it, and led him on his insane reason. And this way he would have liked to immortalize him forever.
He could see him, yes, and was holding his hand, he could hear him: talking to him of dreams, and love, and war, but didn't soothe his hard expression, the half-closed lips, and the wide-open eyes; he couldn't believe it, but wasn't he the little boy rolling over on the meadow, wasn't he wound in spiced myrrh, wasn't he rising on the rock among the spoilt souls, they were just fleeting images, and dropping fast from his eyes while he was clinging to that lifeless garments and screaming, and shouting, and talking of love, and love he wanted, but ignoring that he would have never torn it away from him to take it with himself.