A/N: This story is my exchange gift to Jun, who came up with the wonderful first sentence.
Disclaimer: Who owns the stories of men who have been dead for more than two-thousand years? No one. But thank you Oliver Stone and the wonderful cast and crew for the direction.
How the Mighty Fall
"Alexander! No, you cannot do that!" Hephaestion protested, looking at Alexander with a hint of anger in his eyes. But when he saw Alexander's eyes hardening, saw the distance growing between them, his anger turned to desperation. "All those people, Alexander," he breathed, horrified, knowing he'd already lost this battle. In a last effort to find some spark of justice he turned to the other officers, but meeting only unkind faces he felt more and more like an animal being driven into a corner, his panic growing. Finally, unable to stay any longer, he turned around and fled the tent.
But even outside there were staring faces, who had heard the argument that had gone on inside and wondered at this lowly officer who had questioned the king so publicly. Hephaestion felt more and more trapped, like the air was slowly being wrung from his lungs. So he walked on; until the faces were no longer looking at him, until there were no more faces to look and he was practically alone.
Only then did he feel able to breathe again, in shaky wisps at first but gradually his breathing grew deeper as his control slowly returned, taking away his panic and leaving nothing but a deep sense of loss. The loss of so many lives; the loss of Alexander; the loss of his innocence. Everything had been swept away with just one mistake. He saw it now, where it had gone wrong. It hadn't been when Alexander had announced his plans for Thebes, to kill every last man, sell the women and children as slaves and raze this beautiful city to the ground. No, as horrible as that had been, his own response had been the true deathblow. Without thought, he had let his horror rule him and opposed Alexander in front of the officers the new king had been trying to convince of his worth all summer. Too late he had realized how his actions would be perceived. Only when all the warmth left Alexander's face had he begun to comprehend that Alexander saw his action as a betrayal, yet another betrayal. And if there was one thing Alexander couldn't bear it was unfaithfulness.
So he had lost. He had lost his chance to save all those people from being killed, or enslaved. And he had lost Alexander's trust. Perhaps his love even. But worst of all, he hadn't saved him from this horrible decision. There would be blood on Alexander's hands now, the blood of innocent people, not soldiers, but normal people, and he couldn't protect him from that. He'd failed to protect him from that. He'd failed.
***
Darkness fell before he returned to camp, but finally his need to see Alexander drove him back. So he turned around, away from the darkened scene he had been looking past for hours, and slowly made his way through the tents and fires, returning the greetings from the men who saw him without seeing their faces. He felt as if he was walking towards his execution and, if Alexander had not calmed down, had kept his anger and forged it into a white-hot fury as he sometimes did, then he might be. The thought almost made him turn around again and keep walking till the world ended. It was only his guilt that kept him moving forward, closer to Alexander. He was nearing the centre of camp, where Alexander's tent stood, and it felt like trotting up a mountain, each step getting heavier.
Up ahead the king's tent appeared, the royal guards standing by the entryway. Hephaestion felt himself falter. He couldn't do it; he couldn't face them, walk past them into the tent, where there were pages and perhaps even some generals or their old friends from Mieza. As much as he knew he needed to see Alexander, apologize to him – both as his king and as his friend – he couldn't. Defeated, he turned away from the royal tent and ducked into one of the canvassed side-streets, to his own tent. By the time he reached it, he was cursing his own cowardice. With a promise to himself to go and see Alexander first thing in the morning, he ducked inside, where he came to an abrupt stop.
Inside, waiting for him, his back to the entryway, was Alexander, who, at the sound of his entrance, turned around. As he saw his friend come in, Alexander's face lit up, a look of relief warming his features. "Phae!" he cried, quickly crossing the few feet of space between them. When he was close enough, Alexander threw his arms around him in a slightly theatrical fashion, whispering how glad he was to see Hephaestion return.
Hephaestion was in conflict. On the one hand he wanted nothing better than to return Alexander's embrace, to find relief in his forgiveness, but there was something in Alexander's actions that showed him this wasn't just the boy he'd known in Mieza. Even now, there was something of the king, making a grand gesture to welcome a wayward sheep back to his flock. To Hephaestion it felt patronizing. And there was still his own guilt, which he couldn't share with Alexander now, because he would simply dismiss it. He had obviously forgiven him his outburst, and so he wouldn't see any reason for Hephaestion to still fret about it.
With a sigh, Hephaestion conceded defeat and returned Alexander's embrace. There was nothing else he could do. Nothing good could come of acting otherwise, it would only make Alexander mad. Unresisting, he let his king pull him to the bed, knowing Alexander would need the physical connection to express his forgiveness and to show himself that the events of that afternoon were behind them, that everything between them was alright again. Hephaestion knew better, knew he would never forget the people whose lives he could have saved or his own mistake that had let to their deaths. Maybe, in the morning, he could convince Alexander to be just a little more lenient, right just a little bit of his wrong. But his chance to save them all had been and gone, as were the times that Alexander had been just his. He was till there, but so was the king now, King Alexander, and he too would never leave. And things would never be as they had been.
Fine
According to Hammond, 6000 Thebans were killed and 10,000 enslaved by Alexander. Only sanctuaries, friends of Macedon and the decendants of Pindarus were spared.