FIC: "No Easy Conquest" (2/WIP)
Author: CharlieMC camelotslash-1 at qwest.net
Fandom: Alexander the Great
Status: Chapter Two of WIP
Date: October 18, 2004
Archive: Sure, contact me first, please [template must stay with fic]
Archived at: CamelotSlash.com -- http://www.camelotslash.com
Category: Slash / AR (alternate reality)
Disclaimer: Don't own them and mean no infringement or disrespect. No money made, it's merely for fun. Alexander the Great and Hephaestion belong to the ages -- and certainly not to me! (Darn.)
Challenge: Based on a challenge by Mereneith at the Alexander-the-Great-Fanfic list at Yahoo! groups.
In this challenge Hephaestion is to be a Prince of another land that is conquered by Alexander -- and Hephaestion is to be taken as Alexander's concubine!
Warnings: Violence. Character death (prior to beginning of story). Angst. Slash (as in m/m).
Summary: Hephaestion, Prince of Thrace, is jailed in his mother's chambers...
Beta: Thanks as always to Mistress Marilyn for her wonderful help.
Author Notes: Alexander the Great was born in 356 B.C. (assumed as probably in June or July). In 336 B.C. King Philip II was murdered (some say by his wife Queen Olympias -- some say by Olympias and Alexander -- some say by Alexander alone). Alexander then became the new King of Macedon. In the early spring of 335 B.C. while still 20, Alexander went north to deal with Thrace...
Dedication: To Mereneith, who put up a challenge I couldn't refuse!

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My mute servant continues to come daily to tend me, and though I am often low enough in spirits to refuse his ministrations, I find this impossible in light of his ever-smiling countenance. How dare I act as if life has no meaning when I stare into these gentle eyes? I sense there is a bright mind trapped forever inside his silence...

I wish that I could speak his name -- for it seems to me that every man should be known to those he serves! But though I've offered him a chance to write, it's clear he never learned the way of it.

The king has yet to come to me. Those who guard my room are lenient enough now, as long as I stay at arms-length from their posts and continue to clean the food from my plates as well as any good child set down to table.

It is a constant discomfort to continue dressing in clothing once worn by my mother, even though I have none other. Her smell remains on each garment and I am forced to bite my lips to ribbons on the nights when I am overcome with weeping, mourning her loss. (Though tears may wet my pillows in the dark of night I would surely die before I let these barbarian guards hear my sobs!)

I am unaccustomed to soft garments or scented bath water and to hours filled by indolence; daily I worry that my body will grow lazy and slack from lack of activity. Each morning I spend time in a pretense of wrestling alone on the stone floor, hopeful this might keep me in fighting trim. Some guards ignore me, while others laugh at my wild gyrations. One dared to suggest I should take up dance, but the laughter quickly left his eyes at the sight of my black glare.

I can hear a multitude of activity through the open upper half of my windows, but find it impossible to guess what transpires outside my rooms! Though I'm able to engage some guards in conversation, I've found they will not speak to me of the news of the city.

My frustration and anger grow daily -- I find myself awaking from dark dreams where I stand in wordless joy over the sleeping body of this vile king, ready to thrust him through with my father's sword...

In dreams he is the image of his father King Philip as I saw him that one time from afar, with full rusty beard and the scarred face of a monster!

One-eyed and mad, this young king knocks my weapon away as if it were a blade of straw, then he sits up in bed and laughs at me.

Each time I awaken sweating and shaking, trying to hide my fear from the soldier standing outside my door. (At least they withdraw into the hallway at night these days, so I might rest unwatched -- though the door is cracked so that each sound I make might be easily discerned.) I can only surmise that through some good fortune I do not cry out in my sleep, for surely such noise would quickly draw my gaoler inside the room.

'Why wait,' I wonder, face on fire, 'Why wait, oh murdering king? Why do you not come and take what is yours?'

I think of my dear siblings who surely lie somewhere in their black blood and can barely suppress my groans. Did they suffer? Were these pretty youth raped -- and perhaps tortured -- before being put to death? Did any bother to give my brothers and sisters the burial honors they deserved? Or were they shoveled into some mass grave, unlamented?

As eldest it is I who should have rescued them! It is I who should have saved my mother from her fate. I dare not think that perhaps my father lives still -- that perhaps he might come riding home in lead of an army to save me from these horrors. And will he blame me for my frailty? Will he curse me for living while all that I loved were cut down around me?

I could not hope for more, for daily I rage at my own weakness, wishing I might have the hours back again to fight the harder against these foes!

Today another servant came in place of the sweet man I have known from when I first awakened. This man was even more beautiful than my mute friend, almost like an image of a living god. His skin seemed golden to me, as did his hair. His perfect features held intelligence and warmth as he entered through the door and surveyed the room.

My favorite of the soldiers had earlier informed me that from hence forth the guard would be posted in the hall. I'd found myself dismayed more than pleased, for these men were the only chance I had to share in conversation with another.

I'd pressed myself into mad convulsions in search of exercise, dearly wishing I could race across the grass and packed dirt of the grounds outside this house, until I might fall flat to the earth from exhaustion.

After my frenzy I was lying in a near swoon on my mother's divan, only half awake as this servant slipped quietly through the door. He carried no platter of food or jug of water; he carried no combs and brushes for tending my hair.

He was dressed in a single rough garment that barely covered his nakedness -- and this tunic was plainly wet with sweat from his body. There were beads of perspiration standing on his face and I could see that his hair, too, was damp. He must have come directly from some hard labors to see to my needs...

I gazed at him from under my lashes, eyes nearly closed. Even so, I find his image is burned into my brain.

'But where,' I could not help but wonder, 'is my friend the mute? What has happened that this other man comes in his place?'

The servant continued to look round at the room, starting first with the bed and moving until his eyes fell on my supine form. For some reason I shammed sleep, embarrassed to have him know that I'd been staring at his beauty.

I could feel the air move as he approached me; I could sense that he leaned close to my face. Yet he did not speak, nor did he shake my arm to awaken me.

Instead I heard his quiet barefoot tread as he departed and the click of the door as it shut behind him.

After he left, I rose and moved quickly to the door, standing with my hands pressed to the ornately carved wood. I longed to call out and bid him back, yet felt confusion at my own desire. I could feel a burning in my loins and a flush of heat rising up my body. There was no way to deny that this beautiful man had stirred me, though I blushed at the thought of it.

I ran lightly across the floor and lifted up the pitcher of water, dashing the contents over my head. I stood in a puddle, hair dripping, trying not to moan. Was I to be driven mad, hidden away like a concubine in my mother's chambers?

I sat on the floor and cried into my palms, pulling one hand free to bite the ball so hard I threatened to tear open the skin. Even in my moment of insanity I would stifle the sounds of my weeping.

Finally I fell back, exhausted. The emotion had drained from me and I curled up and slept for a time...

Later I awoke to find my mute servant kneeling over me, concern written on his tender face.

Did I, perhaps, only dream of this other servant?

Yet even were it only a dream, the beautiful man-image had stirred me as none had before him! Was I, then, only longing to be as debauched as these Macedonians who held me captive? I would rather die!

I will be long finding sleep tonight, I fear...

-the end part two-