Author's Note:
This fragment is a one-off, written to answer the question that popped into my mind after seeing Alexander (which I liked very much, by the way, and which I will defend dauntlessly against those who heap scorn upon it): that question being "How could I arrange things so that Alexander and Hephaistion become vampires?" (The sort of very useful thought that comes to one all of the time.)
Readers can think of A and H in this as either the guys from the film, or not, as you please (though as you will see, the scene does not match that in the film).
Alexander/Hephaistion Vampire Story:A Fragment
He was dying. He knew that beyond any doubt.
He knew it in the crushing weight that wracked his chest; in the rattling, deafening wheeze that sounded in his ears each time he fought to seize a breath. He knew it in the burning haze before his eyes, that had stolen his sight from him hours or days before.
At least I'm awake again, the thought burst through his mind. I am awake, I'm almost sure.
How long had it been, since the last time he knew he was awake?
He did not know the answer to that. He knew he'd been wandering on twisting pathways of delirium, back and forth between rain-choked jungle, blazing desert, snow-shrouded mountains and death-black city streets. He knew that through everything the voices had followed him, taunting and without mercy, whispering through all the corridors of his mind.
He knew that the voices were more than a dream, more and worse. Though they spoke to him in delirium, the threats they spoke were real.
All that he was, was at stake in their promises, in their laughing whispers of death and deathless torment.
You will never be free, came her voice, so soft and so reasonable in its tones. You will never see the afterlife of which you dream. You will never see again your glorious, golden king.
You will know, and you will hear, and you will feel – oh, yes, you will feel – as they slice open your body and lift out your organs, one by one. You will feel it as they fill every cavity within you with linens and ointments and herbs, you will feel it and you will know that it will never end …
He thought he had answered her then, though he did not know if he had done so in life, or only in the dream. He thought he had answered her, No. I am no Egyptian. They will not make a mummy of me; they will burn me, as all honorable men would do. They will burn me and then at least there will be an end.
She had laughed then in answer, Will they? Will not your king seek to keep his lover's body always, close by him in all his travels? Will he not wish to weep by your side, to kiss your withered flesh, to sob to you all his promises of love that will not die?
And when he, too, dies, and the centuries pass, what then? Will they keep you in a temple, build a shrine to the hero Hephaistion and house you in the dark, alone? What will you think, how will you pass your days, when your god-king is gone from you, and you lie there smelling the slow rotting of your flesh through the unguents and incense and smoke?
She had smiled sweetly and leaned over him, to whisper in his face, When you are lying there, think of me.
Panic speared into him, tearing away the shrouding dreams. His thoughts screamed out, No! I will not, I cannot, I can not let her win!
She had told him – smiling, of course – that he would have no chance to tell what he knew. He would try, and fail, to reveal the things she had told him.
He would fail, and he would die, knowing that every horror she had promised him would come true.
She had promised that he would fail in his attempts to speak. Until now, it seemed she had been right.
But she is not right, he thought in a desperate prayer. She is not right, I will not let her be right, gods, gods, I will not …
I'm awake. I know that I'm awake. If I'm awake, then I can speak.
I'm awake, I'm almost sure …
He was awake, for the weight in his chest was no longer the only thing he felt. He could feel someone's hand on his face, gently stroking his forehead, over and over again.
Alexander's hand. It has to be. It has to be Alexander.
He could hear him now, the ruler of half the known world murmuring words of comfort and endearment like a mother soothing her frightened child.
"Hush. I'm here. You're safe. I'm here with you, you're safe, everything will be well."
All his thoughts, any scrap of strength that he had left, he hurled into the effort to speak.
Something changed, for suddenly more sensation of his body came back to him. He thought he felt his entire body spasm as he fought to force words from his throat. Then he could feel himself shuddering.
And he felt Alexander's arms about him.
The croaking, gasping sound he had made seemed to hang in the air, mocking him with his failure.
"Don't," he heard Alexander murmur. "Don't try, please, just rest … Hephaistion, please …"
How could he feel such cold, he wondered, such cold and such piercing fire at the same time? How could he feel at one time that he was falling both into flames and unending snow?
Out of the dreams came her soft, taunting laugh.
You will not tell him, no matter how you try. You will not tell him. And in his ignorance he will give you up to your doom, to pain and despair that ends not while the world endures …
He reached out wildly, not even sure that he had moved until he felt his fingers grasp first at Alexander's hair, then at his face. The king seized Hephaistion's hand in his own, and Hephaistion held fast.
He gasped in a breath that burned his throat, and somehow he forced the breath into words.
"Alexander – Help me –"
The cry sounded choked and scarcely human; he could not tell if it had been clear or loud enough to be heard. But Alexander answered, "I'm here. Tell me what to do."
For a terrible moment he feared that she would win after all. He fought again for breath and words. The weight of his chest seemed to press harder on him, as though it would crush him down to the bowels of the earth.
Terror stabbed at him. His death was too close for him to care, to feel the shame that would normally come to him on admitting to such helpless, crawling fear.
Words burst from him in the race to be uttered before his breathing ceased.
"When I die – don't let them take me. My body – don't let them take it – don't let them mummify me – or burn me – Don't – "
"Stop," Alexander ordered. "Don't think about that."
"Don't let them take me! I'll die, but I'll come back to life, I swear to you – I swear it – Only don't let them take me from you! If they burn me, I'll feel it, all of it – If they mummify me, I'll be trapped – she said I'd never see the afterlife – I'll never be there with you …"
The king's voice cut sharply through his frantic cries. "Who, Hephaistion? Who said this to you?"
"I can't – "
No longer could he feel Alexander supporting him, or feel the desperate clasp of their hands. The torch-lit haze was fading from his sight, surrendering to unremitting dark.
"I'll come back to you! Don't let them take me! Alexander – please – please …"
"I'll come back to you! Don't let them take me! Alexander – please – please …"
Hephaistion coughed chokingly, his entire body jerking with the effort. Alexander tried to clutch him tighter, to support him through the horrible, wrenching cough. But he could not clutch him tightly enough.
There was one last rattling gasp, then a convulsive jolt, and then stillness. His lips stopped moving, and he made no more sound.
Even in the dim lamplight, Alexander could see his eyes change. They lost their wild desperation and went dull and empty, empty of everything.
For that first moment Alexander felt he could not move, or think, or do anything at all. Then he clasped the body fiercely to him, pressing his face against that of Hephaistion. He rocked the body back and forth, as though the dead man were a living child.
He heard a weird, keening sort of wail, but he could not tell – did not want to focus enough to be able to tell – if he was making that sound himself.
Already, he imagined, he could feel the body going cold. He told himself it was too soon for that. But still he felt it, the dead flesh seeming to go clammy and heavy against his skin.
The thought surged through him, I cannot do this! How do you expect me to live now, what do you expect me to do?
He wasn't wearing his sword, nor were there any weapons in his immediate reach. But the Pages were armed as usual. With only one lunge he could reach them, seize one of their swords and drive it through his own heart.
He almost thought that he would do it. But to do that he would have to let go of the body in his arms.
It hurts too much, he thought. O Zeus Ammon, O gods, it hurts too much, everything, everything hurts.
He heard quiet sobbing. It was coming from one of the Pages, he thought; no, from more than one. He slowly turned his head, even that simple movement seeming to hurt almost more than he could bear.
None of them were looking at him or at the body he held. The doctor, his slaves and the Pages all had their heads bowed, and three of the four Pages indeed were shaking with sobs.
They were not looking at him, but their presence alone was too much. It was too great an insult that they should be alive and Hephaistion was not.
"Out!" he screamed. "Get out of here!"
The doctor's head jerked up and he stared wide-eyed at Alexander, beginning helplessly, "Sire -"
"You will die for this, do you hear me?" Alexander raged at him. "You will die for this!" The Pages had started for the door, but they turned now as the king ordered, "Place this man and his attendants under arrest."
He did not need to watch them to know they had carried out his command. He slumped on the bed, his gaze going inexorably to the corpse in his arms.
Hephaistion would chide me for that order, he thought. Hephaistion would tell me that it is not the doctor's fault, and that not even gods can expect their servants to work miracles.
But, his thoughts answered, Hephaistion is not here to tell me that. Hephaistion is not here.
From the corridors and the rest of the house he could hear faintly the wails of mourning women. But here in Hephaistion's room, all was silence. A sudden sob of his own broke through that quiet. He clutched the body close to him again, kissed the motionless face and stroked his fingers through the dead man's chill, sweat-soaked hair.
After a time he forced himself to recall what decorum demanded. Gently he set the body down on the bed, straightening Hephaistion's limbs into a proper position of repose. Then the king lay down by the body's side, taking hold again of Hephaistion's hand.
He did not notice that he was crying steadily now, until he felt the cold damp of his tears in the blanket against his face.
The lamps burned low, guttered, and one by one, went out.
I don't know how I will do this, he thought. I don't know how.
As he lay there in the dark, thoughts came to him of twelve years ago, of those first vile days that followed the murder of his father.
He remembered the grief and rage that had burned in him almost to madness. But more than that, he remembered Hephaistion's quiet, steadying presence. He remembered Hephaistion's arms about him, holding him when he finally gave in to his grief and sobbed through the night.
You brought me through that, my friend. You saw me through in safety to the dawn. How will I get through it this time? How will I find the path through this dark, when you are not here?
When dawn crept through the room, he did not know if he had slept or not. His throat was raw and his eyes burned. The pale light that touched Hephaistion's face reminded him guiltily that he should have closed his friend's eyes. Limbs chilled and sore, he awkwardly sat up, and reached out to see if he could make the eyelids close.
At the last moment he stopped, a strange, fearful hesitation halting him before he could make the attempt.
Foolish though he knew it was, the thought hit him that perhaps Hephaistion was still there after all. If he was there, he would want to be able to see. Closing his eyes would trap him in the dark.
I'll die, but I'll come back to life – I swear to you …
"Why did you say that, Hephaistion?" he whispered. "Why did you say that?"
Carefully he freed his fingers from Hephaistion's. Then he gazed in confusion at the unmoving hand.
The fingers were still supple. No rigor had yet set in. With teeth-gritting care, he lifted the dead man's arm, and found it the same: loose as though in sleep, not yet frozen by death.
He told himself, Perhaps the rigor came and went already, in the night.
But it is too soon for that. There has not been enough time. It should be far too soon.
Was it possible in fact that two nights had passed, and a day that he had never seen?
Slowly, bewildered, he shook his head.
The windows were tightly closed. The heat of the last gasps of summer hung heavily in the room. Two nights and a day could not have passed, or he would know it; there would be signs that could not be ignored. There would be more marks upon Hephaistion's flesh than just the strain of his illness. The smell would have begun; it would be there, no matter how hard he fought not to notice it.
The room still held the smells of the sick-room, but there was no trace yet of the smell of encroaching death.
A sob shook him, in a surge of grief and love and anger all combined.
"Why did you say that?" he asked again. "Why?"
Why would you torment me with the thought that there might be the faintest hope?
It was delirium, he told himself, only the deluded phantoms of illness. It can be nothing else.
There could be no other explanation for why Hephaistion had said that.
I'll come back to life, I swear to you … I swear it …
He thought in sudden surprise that perhaps there was another explanation after all.
Could Hephaistion have said that on purpose, in the hope of causing exactly what was happening now? Had he hoped, by creating this puzzle for Alexander to ponder, to distract the king from his despair – to capture his mind in this mystery long enough for the first cruel anguish to pass?
Alexander shook his head again, tears stinging his eyes as he stared at the blank, sightless eyes of his friend.
It was too twisted a chain of thought. It was not at all like Hephaistion.
And yet – Hephaistion would have been capable of that, he thought, of that and of anything else, if he had believed that it might bring help to Alexander.
Especially if the plan had come to him with his mind shaken by his illness, it might have seemed to make sense, as a way to catch Alexander's mind and turn him back from the abyss.
It could be the explanation. But he thought of the desperate fear he had seen in Hephaistion's eyes, and he thought, He believed it. Hephaistion believed that he was telling the truth.
It was delirium, then, he told himself again. It had been only a fevered nightmare, and it was bitter grief to him that he had not been able to fight that nightmare away from Hephaistion's mind.
Yet that did not explain why there was no rigor in the corpse's limbs … why there was no sign of death upon his skin, no scent of it upon the air …
What if it is true?
It is not true, he thought angrily. It is not true.
But what if it is?
What do I do, then? he asked of himself. Just wait? Just wait until – until sight and smell make it plain that there can be no more doubt?
Sound from beyond that room gradually reached to his mind. Again he heard distant wailing through the house – or perhaps the wailing had never stopped. Closer by, in the corridor, there were voices of men, a tense undertone just barely too low for him to grasp the words.
Then one voice did reach him. It sounded hesitatingly from the direction of the door, "Alexander? Sire, forgive me, may I come in?"
He turned his head and saw Ptolemy standing with one hand on the open door. His face was grim and his stance made it plain that he pondered immediate retreat.
Alexander thought, So it's Ptolemy who's drawn the unlucky lot.
He felt a bitter smile touch his face, and he saw Ptolemy wince at the sight. It must look nearly as dreadful, he knew, as if the corpse at his side had smiled.
"Yes," he said, his voice rusty with weariness and tears. "Yes, Ptolemy, come in."
Ptolemy stepped within, gingerly closing the door behind him. Beyond the door, the undertone of speech that marked the presence of the king's Companions sounded more loudly for a moment, then dropped again to a barely-heard murmur.
Always before, Alexander thought, Hephaistion would be standing here now.
For nineteen years it had been Hephaistion who was the advance guard, whenever Alexander was in his moods and none of the other Companions dared face him.
He thought, Now Ptolemy has inherited that burden? This is one legacy he must wish had never come to him.
"Alexander," Ptolemy said, his own voice rough with grief. "I am so very sorry."
Alexander nodded, his gaze for a moment flickering back to Hephaistion. Then he stood, feeling as though decades of age had been heaped onto him in the night.
Ptolemy paused as if struggling with the question of whether he should say more. While he hesitated, the king demanded of him, "The physician is under arrest, as I commanded?"
"Yes, sire," Ptolemy answered, frowning. "Glaucus and his household are in confinement, awaiting your pleasure."
"Execute him," Alexander said flatly. "His household I will spare, but Glaucus must pay. I want him crucified. See to it yourself. I am holding you responsible."
Dismay crossed Ptolemy's face. It was followed by the temptation to rebel – a temptation that the Companion quickly thrust aside. "Alexander," he said, anger trembling in his voice, "are you certain about this?"
"It is my command," the king snapped. "See it done. You will see to it that Glaucus is crucified today, or I will have all of his household crucified with him."
A muscle twitched in Ptolemy's jaw as he held back his protest by desperate force of will. He grated out, "As my king commands."
Alexander thought, Hephaistion would have argued it longer. Hephaistion would have argued it, and flatly refused to obey, and I would have spared Glaucus, if he asked it of me. But Ptolemy is not Hephaistion.
Ptolemy closed his eyes for an instant, and when he opened them again the anger was replaced by sorrow and sympathy. He glanced over at the body of the man in whose room they stood, then he asked, looking back to Alexander, "Have you made any decision yet, sire, on what arrangements you will wish for him?"
"No," Alexander said, uncertainty and fear jolting into him at the thought.
I will come back to you! Don't let them take me …
"Alexander," Ptolemy persisted quietly. "You know that we cannot wait too long. If you wish his funeral held here, that is one thing, but if you wish it elsewhere, then … then the body must be prepared, before the journey. We … we should not wait too long, before they begin …"
"No one is to touch him!" snarled the king. The deadly anger in his voice startled Alexander himself almost as much as it startled Ptolemy. "Do you hear? The body is not to be moved from this room; no one is to touch it, until I give the command. Is that understood?"
Don't let them take me from you …
"Sire," came Ptolemy's dogged reply, "if you can at least give us some idea of your plans, and of when you will be ready for the work to begin – "
"You will know my plans when I choose to tell them, Ptolemy, not when you demand them of me. No one is to touch him!" Alexander hissed again. "Do you understand that? I will kill with my own hands any man, woman or child who dares to lay a hand upon him. Now get out. You have an execution to oversee. I await your report."
For a moment rebellious fury sparked again in Ptolemy's eyes. Then, grimly, he bowed, his fists trembling as he clenched them at his sides. He answered, "You will be obeyed, sire."
Ptolemy turned and strode to the door. As he opened the door, he paused and spoke again. Pleading displaced the anger in his tone. "Alexander," he whispered, "please. For his sake, do not wait too long."
He closed the door quietly behind him, and Alexander was again alone.
The king stared down at the body on the bed, unmoving and unchanged.
I'll die, but I'll come back to life, I swear to you … I swear it …
Alexander shuddered. He wanted to go to his friend, to hold him. He wanted to clasp Hephaistion's body in his arms until this mystery was revealed, in one way or the other.
He wanted to hold him, but he was also afraid to touch him.
He feared that he might feel some spark of life in that lifeless form. He feared even more that he would not.
"Hephaistion," he whispered, "why did you say that? Why are you doing this to me?"
He wavered, torn. Then Alexander retreated. He strode to the window and stood there leaning against the sill, staring at Hephaistion's body and striving to still the trembling of his hands.
I will come back to you …
It is not true, Alexander told himself. It cannot be true.
But what if it is?
What if it is not?
But O, gods, gods, he thought, what if it is true?
Another Note from the Author:
So, thank you for reading! I'm afraid I don't in fact know who "she" is, though of course I've got a few ideas of who she might be (and I'd love to hear any of your thoughts on the question). And I don't think I'm going to be writing any more of this, because the absolutely last thing I need is to get caught up in writing ANOTHER fan novel. But, thanks again for checking out this tale, and here's to Hephaistion and Alexander!