REDISCOVERY by Moon 71

CHAPTER 11: Iason explains the route to true happiness, the love-route closes in on Daena – and the demons close in on Alexander…

NOTES: (Guidance) Alexander is having a rough time in this and his dreams are unpleasant, so I hope nobody finds them too upsetting. He is in the dark now but I promise there is light – and love – waiting for him at the end of the tunnel. (Anyone who knows my stories well knows angst isn't my usual "genre" and this isn't a sign of the future, only a temporary diversion!)

I also want to say another huge, massive thank you to everyone who has stuck with this story. It was worth all the effort of writing it, multiplied by one hundred thousand. I'm sorry I haven't been able to keep up with replying to reviews, but I will at least try to acknowledge everyone in the next update!


The Judgement of Paris. What a lot of nonsense! Iason had listened attentively to Hylas singing about it last night because Hylas had a lovely voice – a harmonious voice – but the story was ridiculous. Three noble goddesses fighting over who was the more beautiful? A war starting because of their squabble? Absurd. Iason did believe in the gods; he just didn't believe in a lot of the stories told about them. For him the gods were logical – each was assigned a duty, a matter to take care of, be it the rising of the sun, the shaking of the earth or the management of the dead. It all worked in harmony. For the gods to do anything stupid was simply unacceptable. Only mortals did stupid things. Illogical things. Inconsistent, contrary things. So he had said last night, proposing the theory that Paris had made up that silly story about the goddesses in order to seduce Helen, and Helen had only pretended to believe him because it made her feel less guilty for running away with him. Satisfyingly logical!

He didn't usually discuss this viewpoint with anyone except occasionally Admetus, but he and his friends had been in such high spirits since they had watched Helenus give Nireus' uncle a good whack that he had drunk more unmixed wine than usual and had forgotten himself. It wasn't that Thanatos was really that much of a lecher; he just loved to persecute boys, either making them blush with his pinches and his innuendos, or making them sick with his stories of being buried alive for days under a pile of rotting corpses or seeing a fellow cavalryman carrying on fighting after his head had been cut off - stories he usually told after they had been invited to take supper with him and his family. As soon as their officers were too drunk to care what they did, the entire complement of pages had gathered outside the main pavilion to crown Helenus as their king – even Narcissus, who had spent the evening flirting with Eudaemon and massaging his wounded thigh, joined them to make a very vulgar speech in praise of his brother before Hylas and Hyacinthus had taken turns singing songs in his honour. Well, the others weren't as good at holding their wine as Iason was, so hopefully they wouldn't remember what he had said.

Logic and harmony – that was what mattered to him; so he had explained to his friends at length last night. He hated hysterics and unnecessary emotion. Hephaestion was logical and practical and he brought harmony to the running of the army and to the life of the king. That was enough reason for Iason to love him. Iason's relationship with Admetus was harmonious too – they suited each other; neither of them was possessive or hysterical or given to passionate avowals, but they knew what they meant to one another. And the same could be said of his relationship with Leonatus. It made perfect sense – Leonatus did what an erastes was supposed to do - he encouraged him in his wrestling, helped him with his combat training, introduced him to useful people and made love in a pleasant and undemanding way, never asking him to leave Hephaestion's service or to spy on Hephaestion for him, never expecting him to swoon stupidly over him or tell him how wonderful he was. That was what Iris was for.

Love could be logical – even unrequited love, he explained, nodding to Hylas, who blushed feverishly until Iason had explained: Hylas was in love with Hephaestion, and his love was not returned, at least not the way a lover returned love to a beloved. But being in love with Hephaestion didn't make Hylas unhappydid it? Hylas had thought for a moment, then shrugged and shook his head. And it didn't make Hephaestion unhappy either. Hylas served Hephaestion with absolute loyalty and worked extra hard for him because he loved him, and that made Hephaestion happy. And because Hephaestion was happy with Hylas, Hylas was happy too. So there was logic and there was harmony. And that was the true key to happiness. As Iason had finally finished his discourse and sunk back exhausted, the other boys had applauded and Hylas had given him a kiss.

Iason waited patiently. He was good at waiting; he was also good at banishing all emotion from his face and voice. That was why Hephaestion had chosen him. This way made sense – she had to come this way in order to attend the princess. Why go searching for her when to wait made so much more sense?

Sure enough, in a moment she emerged, setting off across the pavilion unescorted, with the assurance of a woman used to life in an army camp.

"Joy to you, daughter of Laertes," Iason called in his low, even tones.

Daena turned in surprise. She looked startled; panic flickered in her dark eyes. Obviously she knew who he was, or at least who he served. She looked like she wanted to turn and run back to where her husband was sleeping. "Yes?"

"I am Iason, under the command of Hephaestion son of Amyntor," Iason continued evenly, "my commander would like to speak to you." He could tell she was searching for an excuse, the most obvious one being that Roxana, wife of King Alexander, would need her. So he added, "it is a matter of some urgency, daughter of Laertes – and it will not take long."

Daena's shoulders slumped. "No," she said softly, "I don't suppose it will."


"Hephaestion…?" Alexander stumbled down the road, away from the blinding light. It was a horrible light, cold and bitter and greenish in colour; it seemed to follow him, spreading and thickening about him faster than he could run. "Hephaestion!"

He could hear the clatter of hooves somewhere behind him and he knew he did not want to wait for the rider to catch up. Distantly he could hear his own name being shouted, over and over again with depressing familiarity, "Alexander, Alexander, Alexander!" He knew what was coming; it seemed he had been here so many times before. But this time he would not wait for it. He would fight against it. He had to fight against it…

"Hephaestion!" he screamed, as a figure appeared on the road ahead, "Hephaestion, wait for me! Please!" Hephaestion turned, eyes wild, then took to his heels and ran. "Hephaestion, no! Wait for me! Please!"

It was getting harder and harder to breathe and he was so tired. Hephaestion was so quick, kicking up clouds of dust with his bare feet, leaving bloody footprints behind him. Alexander could not let him get away. Glancing over his shoulder he saw the green light growing closer. Straining to find the last of his energy, he sprang for Hephaestion and grabbed him around the knees. They tumbled into the dust together, the sharp grit scratching at their limbs. Hephaestion struggled against him but he was only a youth and Alexander was a man. "Hephaestion," he panted, seizing his wrists and forcing them back over his head, "here, stop it, stop it, I won't hurt you, stop it!"

"No! No more, no more!" Hephaestion wailed, thrashing beneath him.

"Hephaestion, stop fighting me! You're mine," Alexander panted, "you're mine… Hephaestion, please be still, let me love you…"

"No!" Hephaestion moaned as Alexander tried to soothe him with kisses, to hold him close in his arms; he couldn't let him go, not now – if he would just stop fighting him long enough, if he would just accept his caresses one more time… the more Hephaestion fought him, the more the need to possess him gathered strength until he was hurting him, bruising his limbs, pulling his hair as he forced his kisses upon him. He couldn't – he wouldn't force Hephaestion; he had never forced himself on anyone, but if Hephaestion wouldn't stop fighting him…

"Alexander!"

Alexander glanced frantically around him. "Cleitos!" Joy filled him. So he was still alive, the rest had been a dream! "Cleitos, help me!"

"Here I am, Alexander!" Cleitos stood before him, arms held wide.

Alexander staggered towards him to embrace him. But just then the sound of a horse's hooves resounded on the road behind them and the green light engulfed them.

"Alexander! Alexander! Alexander!"

"No!" Alexander screamed, knowing what was coming. "No! Not again! Cleitos, look out! CLEITOS!"

The spear shot past Alexander, striking Cleitos and running him through. "Alexander!" the voices called in triumph, "Alexander! Alexander! Behold, the head of a traitor!"

Alexander moaned weakly, closing his eyes as he turned and held out his arms to receive the gift that was thrown out from the light. Only by sheer effort of will did he finally manage to look down at the severed head Erigyius had brought him.

It was Hephaestion's.

He was still screaming hysterically moments after he woke, though this time there was no-one there to hear. He had finally given in to the doubtful lure of sleep when they had returned from Eudaemon's town, though he had insisted all servants, pages and guards retreated from his rooms and that no-one, not even Hephaestion, was to be permitted entry. He had expected the nightmares as one expected a headache after a night of drinking – a necessary evil. But this had been far worse than anything he had feared.

Shivering violently, Alexander pulled a fur about his shoulders and went over to the window, throwing open the shutters and gasping as he breathed in the cool air. The sky was dusky; the sun was the faintest glow above the hills. He must have slept all afternoon. Silently he seated himself on the sill, waiting for the nausea to pass.

Images of the dream lingered to haunt him. He had never, not even in his most abandoned, drink-fuelled fantasies ever imagined wanting to treat Hephaestion or anyone else he loved so savagely. The fact that the boy struggling beneath him had been the sweet, fun-loving Hephaestion who had made Mieza into Alexander's private Elysium made it so much worse. But the image of Hephaestion's severed head, the mouth open, the eyes rolled back, made Alexander's gut constrict.

I have to stop this, he thought with a sudden cold clarity. It has to end. Or I am finally going to go mad.

Perfectly calm, he padded across the floor, stepped into the large adjoining antechamber and threw open the door to the corridor in which Narcissus and Hyancinthus were standing on duty. "Draw me a bath and prepare some fresh clothes," he ordered tonelessly. "And send for…" He hesitated, then reconsidered. "And bring me a cup of wine."

As his servants bathed and dressed him, Alexander focused only on the evening ahead. It would be the kind of evening he knew Hephaestion adored – they might share a bath for the pure sensual pleasure of it; perhaps Hephaestion might like to rub Alexander down with oil, technically a task for a menial but one he seemed to savour. Or they might just share a cup of wine before Hephaestion made slow love to Alexander the way only he knew how. Their lovemaking would warm and comfort them and melt any barriers between them. And then Alexander would talk. He would tell him everything. The idea of it filled him with a dull panic but he dismissed it. Hephaestion would understand. Hephaestion always understood. And when he did he would give Alexander shelter from his demons. If Alexander did not take this step at last, the demons would eat him alive.

Half an hour later he was clean and dressed in a simple white chiton. Putting the same cloak of purple wool about his shoulders that he had worn the day before, he set out alone for Hephaestion's rooms.

The surprise – and embarrassment – on the faces of Hephaestion's guards told him everything he needed to know as soon as he arrived. Hephaestion was not there.

Alexander did not go back the way he had come. He entered Hephaestion's bedroom, stared for a long time at the wide bed with its red and gold brocaded draperies of elaborately twining fruit-laden vines, then quietly sat down upon it. He caressed the pillows with trembling fingers; finally put his head against them, searching out Hephaestion's scent.

Thais. He's gone to Thais.

It's too late.

It's over.

At last, Alexander. At last we are alone.

Panting, hissing and growling, Alexander's demons moved in for the kill.


She did not want to get involved, but when she had been called upon it suddenly all seemed to inevitable, as if everything that had happened since she had been assigned to Princess Roshanak had been leading up to this confrontation.

She had never liked the woman from the moment she had seen her. She was always lingering when the others had departed, fiddling with draperies and cushions that did not need to be straightened or reorganising bottles and jars which were already tidy. Daena had finally lost patience with her and begun ordering her out of the room when she and Roshanak wanted to talk privately. The princess couldn't understand her behaviour; she never even suspected the truth. Daena had not suspected all of it until this morning – she had guessed the woman was spying on them and very possibly eavesdropping on their conversations in Persian, but she had originally thought it was only Daena herself or possibly Roshanak she was reporting on – making sure that Daena was not giving Oxyartes' daughter bad advice, even trying to ruin her marriage to Alexander for reasons of her own, or that Roshanak was not complaining unduly about her new husband or rejecting his advances or even considering looking elsewhere for passion. Perhaps, after all, that was true. But it was apparently not the main objective.

Daena did not much care about the political manoeuvring of Oxyartes or his rivals. She did not care if his alliance with Alexander collapsed and Alexander went skulking back to Greece, unable to move forward without allies in Bactria. But she did care about Roshanak. She loved her as she loved one of her own daughters – and the idea of Alexander suddenly hearing one slanderous report too many and beginning to suspect that Oxyartes, and by association by his daughter, were deliberately trying to come between him and his beloved Hephaestion, put Daena on edge. Of course he would believe his wife jealous of his lover – and Daena doubted the marriage would survive beyond the formalities if he suspected she posed any threat to him.

Hephaestion, she knew, could take care of himself. If necessary he could probably arrange the woman to be compromised – if what Daena had learned about her past doings was really true it would not be difficult. He could even have her permanently silenced – judging from the way he had supervised the torture of one of his fellow officers, it would not be beyond his conscience to dispose of a maid. But Daena quite liked the subtlety of his planning – and she liked the idea of delivering the blow herself.