Note: Thank you to everyone who has read (reviewed!) thus far. It is very encouraging. I hope you continue to enjoy this story. I realize it is a little different from what most people are used to seeing, but I hope you do value this for what it is. Also, I apologize for any formatting mess-ups, I have been trying to work on that, but sometimes things happen. In any case, everything is still readable.

Hephaestion Appeals to Alexander

"We secure our friends not by accepting favors, but by doing them." --Thucydides, History of the Peloponnesian War

Indus Valley, 333 BC

He did not start when he heard the heavy footsteps beyond the entrance to his tent, and he did not start when the flap was suddenly flung open, and he remained absolutely calm – almost stoic – when Hephaestion entered, his face flushed and eyes shining. No, he was much too tired for starting, even had he a reason to be startled. He was simply much too busy at the moment, but he wouldn't dare telling Hephaestion that, not at the moment, not when he was looking at him like that. So he asked simply, "What's the matter?" And let the question hang there as he piled his papers and pushed them away, not even bothering to glance at the ones that fluttered to the floor and scattered in the draft. He looked at Hephaestion, intent upon his animated form.

"Have you read Thucydides, Alexander?" Hephaestion asked, beginning to pace.

"No," Alexander returned, shaking his head. "What did he write?"

Hephaestion stopped with his back to Alexander, then looked over his shoulder to answer. "He wrote an excellent account of the war between Sparta and Athens.(1) You would like it."

"Would I?" Alexander questioned, feeling a rising uneasiness in his chest, because he could not read Hephaestion's thoughts, and that was, as it had always been, a most fearful realization.

Hephaestion resumed his pacing. "He reproduces the speeches of great men; I would think you would be interested." He shrugged, momentarily halting his movement. "There are also some revealing passages about the various tactics of both sides. I'm sure that would be of interest as well."

Alexander narrowed his eyes. These words were calculated, precise, and pregnant with motive. "It would interest me," he admitted carefully, then, half-heartedly hoping to invite a change of subject, asked, "Do you have a copy?"

Hephaestion nodded slowly, but spoke as if he had not heard Alexander's words at all. "He also wrote on the causes of the war, and with a minimum of poetry. They were interesting reasons, I think, and justifiable." He stood before Alexander in precarious balance, arms crossed and one foot curled daintily around the opposing ankle.

"Justifiable?" Alexander asked, his eyes taking in every curve and turn of Hephaestion's posture, looking for a revelation of thought or motive. "I was under the impression it was an aggravated territorial spat." He shifted uncomfortably; Hephaestion was tense, and the obscurity of the reason unsettled him.

He suppressed the urge to raise an eyebrow as Hephaestion said simply, a bit too loud to be a murmur, "Fear," he paused, and looked away, as if towards Greece, "Fear and honor and concern for the self."

Alexander did not answer, but shifted uncomfortably. Hephaestion returned his eyes to him and stared openly. He watched as an unreadable thought, or perhaps the ghost of an emotion, briefly shadowed Hephaestion's face, and then, as if dissatisfied by what it found, passed on. He used his foot to push a chair towards Hephaestion. "Sit down," he commanded, and then added, softening his words with a gentle laugh, "You're making me nervous." Hephaestion sank into the chair like a stone in a river, and sat stiffly, an acute awareness shining from his eyes and glistening on him like sweat. Absently, Alexander nodded, as if pleased, and offered discussion. "This Thucydides makes an excellent point, I think. Did he elaborate?"

Hephaestion looked at him, the same awareness that defined his body seeming to define his mind as well. "I was not concerned with what started the war," he said, and the left corner of his mouth crept up, a smirk to imply that he meant something more. Under the table, away from Hephaestion's sight, Alexander made a fist. "Though," Hephaestion conceded, in a voice that made it sound like a taunt, "The reasoning was interesting."

"If you were not concerned by the start of the war," Alexander inquired, keeping his voice level, diplomatic, "What were you concerned with?" He met Hephaestion's eyes with a dark stare, a challenge. He was reminded of Hephaestion before a fight, when he was deadly calm and lost in a wide lake of dark temper, something like melancholia, but more violent, and calm. He blinked once, the action suddenly conscious, and watched Hephaestion mirror the movement, just as knowing. In the back of his mind, he reassured himself that it was just Hephaestion…just Hephaestion, and that, even if the whole world was against him, Hephaestion would be his. He could handle that. He took a deep breath, and waited.

"I read the History for other reasons," Hephaestion explained, as if to a slow child, "Because it no longer matters to me why wars begin." He placed his open palm on the table and traced the grain of the wood with a finger. There was a light, old scar on the back of his hand, one that cut across from his longest finger to his thumb. He said, "Now I am only interested in what ends wars."

Suddenly, Alexander wanted to touch him. He wanted to stretch out his arm and place his hand over Hephaestion's. His fingertips tingled at the thought, and he imagined that the tiny thin hairs on the back of Hephaestion's hand stood up in anticipation. They did not. "What did Thucydides say on that matter?" he asked, and truly wondered what a man who said war occurred because of fear and honor would have to say on such a matter. Surely, he thought, such things did not easily abate.

Hephaestion sighed audibly and drew his hand back. He bent his wrist to an extreme angle and seemed to relax at the satisfaction of the crack it made. "He said nothing explicitly," he answered, leaving his lips parted, as if he were breathing in his sleep.

A strange trepidation rose in the pit of his belly and Alexander shifted again. "What could you infer?" He asked, tilting his head to the side in thought.

"I could infer nothing but my own thoughts," Hephaestion responded quickly, as if he had been expecting the question and was offended.

Involuntarily, Alexander recoiled, and, by the light smirk that appeared on Hephaestion's face, knew that the slight movement had been. He moved quickly, shifting around restlessly in his seat until he found a comfortable position. "What are your thoughts on the matter?" he asked, with a weak wish that this conversation were occurring under different circumstances. Hephaestion shrugged, and Alexander found himself annoyed more than the motion warranted. "Answer me," he spat suddenly, "Or tell me why you came here in the first place."

Hephaestion looked past him, over his shoulder, at something at an impossible distance. Alexander hissed his breath out between his teeth and slowly, as if responding to the sound, Hephaestion's attention wandered back. "I am tired," he stated, sounding muffled, or as if he was speaking under water.

"Then sleep," Alexander answered, waving his hand in a sweeping gesture. "I do not keep you." He looked hard at Hephaestion, willing him to leave, to want to leave.

"That is not what I mean," Hephaestion said, and Alexander thought that he sounded perplexed by the sound of his own voice. The notion frightened him a little, but he could not deny the slight intrigue. He pursed his lips and waited. After a moment, Hephaestion explained, "I am well-rested, Alexander, but I am tired." Alexander nodded, but Hephaestion simply looked at him, blinking his eyes slowly, as if they were heavy with sleep.

"You are tired…" Alexander prompted, finding his temper to be shortening as time progressed.

Hephaestion looked at him, tracing his features with his eyes. "It was my answer," he said, as if confused by Alexander's lack of comprehension.

"Your answer to what?" Alexander asked, opening his hand to the sky as if seeking a divine answer.

Hephaestion waited for a moment, almost as if he expected the divine answer to arrive. When none came, he said, quietly, "To why wars end." He paused for a moment longer and searched Alexander's face. Alexander remained impassive, expecting and waiting for the elaboration. "Men get tired," Hephaestion explained, "And that is why wars end."

Alexander did not respond, but he felt a flush creep into his cheeks, and knew that Hephaestion could see it. The intense temptation to goad Hephaestion came to him; he wanted to push him suddenly, to tip the balance that held him seated calmly and would make him angry and hateful. He wanted to say the things to make blood color Hephaestion's face as well, the way it did in battle. "What," he asked, his voice edging along with the coldness of death, "Are you implying?"

He had been expecting the veiled accusation to fly straight and hit its mark, but Hephaestion had always been an excellent soldier, and he knew the exact moment to put up his shield between the first hiss of the arrow and the final thud. He laughed aloud, startling Alexander, and shook his head. "The army is tired, Alexander, and one day they will tell you as much," he said, still laughing lightly, "But not yet. They still follow you, and have some energy left for the task. I mean only myself."

Alexander stayed silent, intuitively understanding that no further explanation would come without his reply, yet hoping that Hephaestion would speak again. When the silence itself began to feel wearying, he asked softly, "Are you tired of this?" Hephaestion shook his head, but did not speak, so Alexander asked again, "Are you tired of this campaign?"

"I am not tired of what we are seeking," Hephaestion responded, seeming over-cautious and unsure. He shrugged as he said, "I merely long for home."

Alexander straightened his posture and leaned forward. "And you would cease warfare to return home?" he asked, choosing Hephaestion's previous words and molding them. Suppressing the growth of horror that seemed to be increasing and thickening in his belly, he watched as Hephaestion nodded. He swallowed, hard enough and loud enough that Hephaestion heard him, and the barest smile played around the edges of his lips. He had succeeded in making Alexander nervous, but there was no pride in it. "If you want to go back to Macedon," Alexander said, his voice halting as the voice of the seat of emotion screamed at him, "I will not stop you." He paused, then added, intending to return the hurt, the horror, "There are others who can take your place."

Yet again, for reasons Alexander could neither place nor name, his words did not take their effect, and Hephaestion simply laughed, though his laugh was subdued now, and shadows crept in at the sides, like drafts under a door. "I am not going back to Macedon," he said, imbuing his words with the gentle tones of reassurance. He stretched one hand towards Alexander in a gesture that, had it come from any other man, would have been supplication, but was transformed into a muted desire for something, anything. Alexander met the yearning hand with his own, and squeezed the fingers tight enough that the blood was trapped, but not enough that bones ground together. Hephaestion glanced at their interlocked hands for a moment before he spoke again. He said, "I do not think my father would recognize me if I returned now."

Alexander closed his eyes for a moment, and tried to remember what color the dawn showed on the wall opposite his bed in Pella. In the place where the memory should have been, he found only a blank space, and he squeezed Hephaestion's hand tight enough to feel the bones grinding together, and ignored the pained squirm. "You will go home," he stated as he opened his eyes, "And your father will know you." He met Hephaestion's eyes. "He will be honored by you."

Hephaestion smiled and brushed his free hand across his face, wiping at the thin layer of sweat that rested there, refracting the dimming light. Alexander sighed and released his hand. For a long time he watched Hephaestion and tried to remember the color of Pella, and the smell of the garden of Hephaestion's home. But each memory failed to recall, and he felt blank and ill. Hephaestion looked pale, and he knew that Hephaestion was concerned with the same thoughts.

"In springtime," Alexander asked, "When the first flowers bloomed, what did your father's garden smell like?"

Hephaestion licked his lips and met Alexander's eyes. Alexander flinched at the blankness he found in Hephaestion's gaze, but suppressed the action as Hephaestion breathed, barely louder than a whisper, "I cannot remember."

Alexander took a deep breath, and looked over Hephaestion's shoulder, past him, past the camp. "We'll go home soon," he said, then returned his eyes to Hephaestion, and smiled. "Soon," he repeated; it was all he could say.

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(1) The History of the Peloponnesian War was written by the Greek historian Thucydides, who was an Athenian general during the war and exiled indefinitely for his failure to prevent the surrender of Amphipolis to the Spartans. The History is an important work in the history of how history, especially military history, is written. Thucydides does actually give fear, honor, and self-interest as the motives behind war and does not, to my interpretation give any such abstract reasons for the end (he does give some military reasons and, as the work remains unfinished, we will never know what else he had planned). Here's some general information from reference(dot)com:

"It covered the period from 431 to 411 and was a departure from the histories of the past, both in method and presentation. He wrote a text to be read, not recited, and he was scrupulous in his presentation of facts. Preeminently a military history, chronicling events by the seasons, it completely avoids any reference to social conditions or state policy, unless they have to deal with the progress of the war, and interprets the succession of events in view of the general nature and behavior of man rather than as the result of a fate outside man's influence. The work is enlivened by the well-crafted speeches he puts into the mouths of participants in the events he chronicles, a common technique in his day. The most splendid of these is Pericles' funeral oration. Thucydides' account of the plague, through which he lived, displays his clinical and descriptive attitude and is a standard of its type. He is generally acclaimed as the creator of scholarly history as we know it today."

I've read the History and found it to be very readable and engaging. It contains a surprising amount of parallels between the Peloponnesian War and current global political situation. Consider this my official recommendation. :) If you're not a huge fan of long Greek histories, try the excellent distilled version (translated and edited by Paul Woodruff) On Justice, Power, and Human Nature: The Essence of Thucydides' History of the Peloponnesian War.