This is too sentimental and nothing really happens, but it saved me having to squeeze it into the next chapter.
Hephaestion sat in the chair by Alexander's bedside watching as Alexander's eyelids drooped heavily and finally closed, sealed by Hypnos' heavy weight in slumber. Hephaestion sat forward, his forearms on his knees, his hands clasped tensely, biting his nails and listening anxiously to the painful catch in Alexander's breathing.
A lung was pierced, they said.
A sob convulsed Hephaestion's chest. He caught it before it escaped from his lips, caught it by tightening his jaw and throat, strangling and smothering it before the sound should wake him. He needed his rest.
Hephaestion's eyes were drawn irresistibly back to Alexander, the sole focus of his being. But he could not look at his face. He watched instead the hitched rise and fall of Alexander's chest, staring mindlessly at the scattering of hairs on Alexander's bronzed skin, as if they were the only thing in the entire universe. The hairs curled like fine golden wires above the white bandage, bound tightly about the sculpted muscles of his chest, the muscles firm beneath the skin, skin bronzed by the Indian sun until he looked like a gilded image of himself. A dead image of himself.
Abruptly, Hephaestion reined his thoughts away. He tried to shut them down. He had had to shut them down hard, very hard with all the strength he possessed when Alexander had disembarked at the riverside.
Alexander had been sitting on the deck as they docked, and he had been carried off the boat in a chair, across the narrow gangplank to the wooden jetty where they were waiting for him. No stretcher for Alexander, for he wanted to be seen and to see what was going on, to see his friends and his army, his beloved soldiers who thought he was dead.
Hephaestion had been shaking with the urge to go to him, to hold him, just to feel his living breath upon his cheek. But he could not. He could not show that weakness before the whole army. He could not simply be Alexander's lover. He could not lose the respect of Alexander's army, of Alexander. He could not break down and cry like a child in front of the men he commanded in Alexander's stead.
He had moved forward quickly with the others as Alexander was set before them, afraid to single himself out. Alexander had smiled at them all, brightly, too brightly as he strove to convince them he was well. They had jostled each other, all speaking his name like a prayer, tears standing in their battle-hardened eyes as they clasped Alexander's good hand. He raised it to them and they, proud conquerors and generals of mighty armies, had bent to kiss his hand fervently as Alexander murmured their names in pleasure.
Alexander's eyes had roamed their faces, searching feverishly. His eyes had latched on to Hephaestion's eyes, peace and joy flooding into their depths as they had found the one he sought. They had held each other's eyes for a moment of perfect communion in the midst of the army's uproar, until Alexander had relaxed, his physical pain forgotten in happiness as he returned to greeting his well-loved friends and commanders.
Hephaestion had avoided meeting Alexander's eyes again. He could not lose himself again, he could not forget who he was, where he was.
It was he who had ordered the horse when, hearing the growing uproar as the army clamoured to see the king and fearful of a riot, Alexander had asked for a horse to ride to his tent. It was he who had cupped his hand for Alexander's foot to help him mount the horse, Craterus beside him lending Alexander his tall shoulder and strong arm, Ptolemy on the other side to steady him, and Perdiccas holding the horse's head.
He had taken one side of the horse's bridle, Perdiccas the other, to stop it jibing at the press of cheering men and steady its pace. Craterus, Ptolemy and the rest walked alongside Alexander, watching least he should show signs of fainting and falling, their anxiety soon forgotten though in the jubilation and adulation emanating from the men.
It fed Alexander, that love and, frequently looking back, Hephaestion saw him swelling with it, basking in it like a great lion in the midday sun surrounded by all his pride of lions.
"Fool," he had whispered to Alexander as, his arm around his waist, he had helped him dismount, raging at himself for not having thought of another way to satisfy the army and spare Alexander the rigours of this ride, and for not having dared to argue Alexander out of it. He could see the pain and the exhaustion etched into Alexander's grey-tinged skin and blue breathless lips, but still Alexander had managed to grin at him like a naughty schoolboy, stopping Hephaestion's breath in his throat with co-mingled love and fury.
Hephaestion had carefully let him go, hot tears of proud anxiety burning his eyes as he stood watching Alexander's rigid back as he had tottered alone and unaided to his tent. Hephaestion stood well back and motioned to the bodyguard to hold the crowd so that all could see that Alexander was on his feet, that he would mend, and that the invincible myth that was Alexander was alive and well.
Sitting now alone beside the sleeping Alexander, Hephaestion finally let his eyes dwell on Alexander's face: the face he had thought never to see again. Unhindered by Alexander's consciousness, he dwelt on the flat planes of Alexander's cheek as though he had never seen it before, on his strong jaw brushed with a couple of days of golden stubble. His rounded lips were parted slightly as always, except when he was very angry, and only Hephaestion knew how soft and moist those lips were in kisses.
Jealous fool, Hephaestion thought, as tears flooded his eyes. You know that's not true, and you wouldn't want it to be. Alexander did not deserve to sleep alone just because you're not around, and a man should have a wife for whom his tenderest kisses were reserved. Women expected softness.
He bowed his head until he had mastered himself. Yet how much right did he have to those kisses anymore? He and Alexander had not touched each other intimately often in the past couple of years: they had too often been apart for months on end and other lovers had intervened. Did Hephaestion want to stay constantly by Alexander's side and in his heart, or did he want to be his steadfast right hand, Alexander's other self in places he could not be?
Hephaestion's heart knew how to answer that, but his head told him that if he did not match Alexander pace for pace, do all the things he did as king, strive to outdo him, then he would lose Alexander's love. Oh, he would always have the love of a close friend: Alexander never deserted those loyal to him. But if he did not go forth and command Alexander's army, conquer cities and build them again in his name, then he would slowly lose Alexander's respect, his deepest, fullest love, and be little more use to him than Bagoas.
Hephaestion's heart twisted bitterly inside him: leave him or lose him seemed the only choice he had. His heart overwhelmed him, and for a moment he lost himself in inconsolable grief.
Then his eyes returned to roam over Alexander's face, a face that might never be his again, carving every detail of the sun-bleached eyebrows, the hollowed and dark-shadowed eye sockets, the furrowed brow, into his heart and memory as though it were for the first time of studying it intimately. It was not. He had done it countless times, yet each time he wondered afresh at the marvel of Alexander, at the co-joining of flesh and blood that made his unique Alexander.
Hephaestion's head was hurting with tension and the strain of the past seven days. He was very tired, his earlier anger at Alexander's irresponsibility having left him drained and utterly exhausted. He didn't know where that anger had come from. He had tried not to feel anything since they had heard the news that Alexander was dead. He had been a numb, aching void of nothingness, ceaselessly touring the camp to reassure the men that they had no definite news yet, that he would not believe he was dead until he had seen his lifeless body, not to give up hope yet, pacifying the men like an anxious mother would a fretful child who believed, uncomprehendingly, that its father had deserted them in death.
He had settled minor disputes, made sure the men were well-fed, stepped up training drills, set them to building the jetty, all to stop tensions boiling over in directionless grief and to reassure the men that there was a strong hand in command. In his restless activity to avoid confronting the possibility of Alexander being dead he had forgotten to eat or drink, could not stop to rest, could not stop to talk to Craterus or any of the others, even though they were probably making plans behind his back how to seize supreme power for themselves, and inevitably plotting his death. No matter what Alexander said, they would not tolerate him assuming supreme command unchallenged. He would have to fight them for it, and probably have to kill some of his closest friends and ablest commanders.
He had some vague recollection of standing still in the midst of all this activity, suddenly feeling unaccountably dizzy, disorientated and weak, and of Craterus forcing some bread and wine into his hands. Surely it wasn't Craterus? Craterus hated him. Whoever it was, he hadn't been able to eat or drink more than a mouthful.
He had still not been able to think clearly of Alexander. He was still there, out there somewhere, he was not dead, he was still coming back to them, and not thinking about it meant that he could not acknowledge the reality and make it so. If he didn't think about it, then it wasn't true.
Even when the news came that Alexander was alive, he had refused to think about it. If he kept a lid on his thoughts like Pandora's box, then they could not swarm out and overwhelm him with their chaotic unreason, could not drown him in grief and madness and relief. He could not let go or he would lose control.
Even now he could not let go, feared what would happen if he loosened the tight rein on his thoughts. He feared himself, feared the nothingness he would become without Alexander. His heart would die without him and he would become a hollow man: a heartless shell who could not love, purposeless and empty.
He would die if Alexander did. Half-dead, the rest of him would quickly burn away to ashes. He would welcome death, freedom from torment, but he would not go easily.
A sob of exhaustion caught in Hephaestion's throat and he stood up abruptly. Alexander did not stir, and very, very gently, Hephaestion reached his arm under the pillow on which Alexander's head was resting. He carefully removed the bottom pillow with his other hand so that Alexander might lie flatter and rest easier. Slowly he lowered the top pillow and Alexander's head without disturbing him.
He stood and watched Alexander, making sure he still slept on. His hand moved and without meaning to, he touched Alexander's hair lightly, so very lightly, feeling its tangled roughness like Alexander's very self.
That tiniest of touches undid him, broke something within his frozen, lifeless heart and he wept.
He wept, covering his mouth with his hand to smother the noise so that he would not wake Alexander. It was not enough. He could not contain it. Grief overwhelmed him, robbed him of strength. His legs failed him and he dropped to the ground, burying his face in his hands against the bedclothes as the storm of grief and strain swept through him.
It was as if Alexander had died. He had lost him. He had lost him to death, to the army, to the kingship. He wept for the lost closeness of their boyhood which would never be recovered, he wept for the death of their dreams together, he wept because Alexander would bear this scar forever, might never be truly whole again, might never regain his full strength if this wound did not heal cleanly.
He hurt so much and he did not know why. He wished he were dead, if only to stop this hurt. He had hurt for so long without telling anyone that he could not bear it. Yet he could tell no one for he did not understand it himself.
Alexander was right: he had not grown up. He was a boy who hurt like a child, wept like a child. He had thought he had outgrown hurting so deeply, but he was still a boy. Still a boy who was afraid, confused, frightened and lost, who was ashamed because he did not think this would ever end. He was not a man: he was just the pretty boy who wept for his lover.
He wanted so badly to tell Alexander how inadequate he felt. But he could not burden him any further. He had enough to worry about: he was ill, he had the guilt of Cleitus' death on his soul, the worry that the army might mutiny, that the Indians might rise up and overwhelm them if Alexander were incapacitated, he had to worry about keeping his generals satisfied so that they would not think they could make a better king than him, he had to worry about what was going on in Persia and Greece behind them, and about what was ahead of them. Hephaestion could not add to his burden with his own stupid, petty troubles.
Hephaestion's heart ached. He longed to return to the aftermath of Guagamela. It had all seemed so simple then: capture Darius and the world would be theirs. But they had lost themselves for three whole years in the wilderness, fighting an elusive foe and fighting themselves. Parmenion, Philotas, Cleitus, the Pages, Callisthenes, all those bitter deaths, and now they were in an alien land that was the stuff of nightmares and no easy way home. Had Alexander betrayed them all in his quest for indomitable glory? Had Alexander betrayed the purity of their love by taking a lustful, foreign wife?
Hephaestion's heart stopped. He raised his tear-wet face and looked at Alexander, fearful that his disloyal thoughts would have woken him. But Alexander slept on, and Hephaestion's eyes swam with tears. Alexander was still here, but he wanted his Alexander back. Not Alexander the king, but Alexander of the unsullied dreams. He prayed that this brush with death would give Alexander pause, realise that he was not indestructible, stop this mad Dionysian rush to the ends of the earth, stop this assault on Olympian greatness.
Hephaestion prayed, prayed that Alexander would heal whole and sound again, and fell asleep in the midst of his prayers, there kneeling at Alexander's bedside, his head and his arm against the warmth of Alexander's thigh.
I recently read a story by bijoux-box (you can find it here which inspired me to go back to this story.