Author Note: This short story is inspired by Mary Renault's wonderful book, The Persian Boy, and is set a short time after Alexander's death. I'm working on a much larger Alternate Universe story based on the same book, but that's just in its incipient stages and I wanted to get some "feels" out first .

I know that most people in this fandom have a great affinity for Hephaestion. And while I love both Alexander and Hephaestion, this story is about Bagoas.

I adored Renault's book and with it, her wonderful narrator. There are characters I admire and characters that I empathize with. With Bagoas it was a mix of both. I admired his quiet dignity, his determination to make a life for himself with the little choice he had left and his complete dedication to Alexander. At the same time, as a woman, I empathized with his lack of power. He's close to Alexander but can rarely influence him or speak his mind due to his position and "conditioning". He's rarely prone to self-pity though, which is amazing considering his circumstances.

The story explores a moment of introspection where he allows himself to fall down the wistful what if path. I hope you enjoy it.

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Make me once more

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More than ten days have passed since I had a full night sleep. Despite this, I find it hard to lay my mind to rest. The King is dead, my beloved Alexander no more. Our Persian beliefs tell us to rejoice in the death of the worthy, for great things lay in wait for them. And indeed, there has not been and may never be another one more worthy than Alexander. Even Mithra, Soroush and Rashnu will be in awe of him, this I know. With my mind's eye I see him passing the Chinvat Bridge and meeting his Hephaestion, for him too is worthy. You must be, to earn Alexander's devotion.

And still, I despair.

His trusted companions now fight like hyenas over a lion's body. Stateira is dead, and with her, the child that might have stepped in his father's glory. There are rumors that Roxana's ill will is what killed the Queen. If so, I wouldn't be surprised, and may Soroush have mercy on her soul. I would have offered my service to the mother of the next Alexander but I know better than to expect something other than death from her. It pains me though that I might never see Alexander's son… or daughter.

If I forget my own sorrow, there is still the aching feeling that we're standing on the verge of a precipice. This brave new world that he created is shaking at its roots, too many pulling at it in different directions. I want to scream at them and slash at their bodies for destroying his dream like mindless evil spirits, but not for the first time in my life, I feel the weight of my own insignificance. I can scream, but who will hear?

It's not that I don't feel worthy. My only regret in this life I was allowed is wishing Hephaestion ill, not understanding that without him Alexander would fall like a temple without pillars. With that aside, I gave my lord everything I had and learned to ask for nothing in return, though I thirsted for love like men do for water in the desert.

I promised myself long time ago to never look back at what they took from me, lest I allow it to shrivel my soul in bitter regret. But right now I ache so bad for the power of men that I can taste the iron on my tongue. Not the power that eunuchs and women have though, feeding on deceit and lies and whispered secrets, but the freedom of real men to meet others on even ground and demand to be heard.

It must be the blood of Cyrus in my veins, crying to be acknowledged after a lifetime of silencing it so I could survive.

I prop myself against the wall.

In my dream I'm back to the shed where they'd cut me and break free of their restraints.

My ten year old body has the strength of immortals as I rip their hearts out with my bare hands.

I learn the skill of warriors and make my father proud.

I meet Alexander and recognize My King.

I shield his body in battle and slay his enemies.

I'm his true Companion, I can speak freely and he will listen.

I see three falcons where before there were two. In their flight, they challenge themselves higher and higher, one after the other taking the lead and reaching for the sun. I know now they couldn't do it alone, that if one should falter, another would push through. Single falcons don't reach for the sun.

I must have always known that love can only be true between equals, my soul aching to give and empower and challenge and receive the same in return. But alas, it was never meant to be, for how can I be the equal of Kings?

My body slides down to the cold floor, wrecked with silent misery and anger. I wish the other me be true. If there's some form of Divine will in this world, surely somewhere, that other me lives.

We live willed by our own choices, or so I have been told, but I never chose to be less than a man. So with my will made destiny, please let my choice make me once more… please.