Alexander could barely keep his eyes open. To him, it felt as though he had been made to drink a cup of sand and rub salt into his own eyes. He could scarcely remember a time when he had felt this ill. It was not helped by the scorching midday sun that attempted to stream through the balcony. His mother, in a moment of kindness, had ordered cloth to be draped around the bed to block out as much of the light as possible and various servants took turns in fanning the young boy. Comments were made every now and then that his temperature had not lowered and many speculations were shared about what it could be, if it was contagious and where it had come from.
Olympia paced the room, periodically applying a compress to her son and making loud and over the top offerings to the gods to heal him. Alexander wondered whether he might die or whether she was being dramatic. He suspected the latter but didn't want to rule out the first. His father was not allowed to visit him on the request of his advisors. They obviously didn't want to place two male members of the bloodline at risk and so Alexander contemplated whether he might ever see his father again. He realised he didn't particularly mind but it did remind him of Hephaestion's absence. He gave a loud, frustrated groan and there was a flurry of movement around him, adjusting his bed sheets and applying a cloth to his heated skin. He wanted to yell; to tell them that he wanted his friend with him but he couldn't find the strength to articulate the words.
"Alexander," he heard his name in almost a whisper.
"No, no, no," his mother hissed sharply. "You are not to be here. Alexander is very sick. You must stay with Mania, go."
There was a clattering of what seemed like bracelets and he heard whimpering from far away before closing his eyes and giving into exhaustion.