(no subject)
Right. So, Nicky said it was to be a drabble, and I responded, "Drabble? Yeah, right." Because, apparently, that's not how I write. Huge surprise to everyone there, I'm sure, seeing as how I always seem to have to take a hundred words to say what another person would say in ten. So this is my decidedly undrabbly (is that a word?) response to Nicky's latest challenge. Have fun.
Title: Fit to Wed
Rating: Gah. Whatever. General.
Summary: Hephaistion's getting married. He just doesn't know it yet.
Feedback: Hit me.
“You look magnificent.” Alexandros even managed to sound almost as if he meant that. Hephaistion gave him a flat look.
“I,” he said heavily, “look ridiculous. And you know it.”
“Not … ridiculous,” Alexandros hedged. “Exotic.”
“Exotic.” Hephaistion blinked. He looked down at what he was wearing, plucked at the odd sash about his waist, then let out his breath in a huff of frustration. “Exotic is for Egyptian flute girls and painted eunuchs. I’m neither of those things. I don’t want to look like I am.”
“No one is going to mistake you for a flute girl, Egyptian or otherwise,” Alexandros told him, with an air of certainty. And then, with a sharp grin, he added, “Or a eunuch.”
“No,” Hephaistion agreed sweetly. “They won’t. Because I’m not wearing this.”
“It’s only trousers.” Sharp, that - on the surface at least. Underneath it, Hephaistion was sure that his friend was laughing. He narrowed his eyes at his king.
“Would you wear them?”
That won him a stare and a snort. “No! Gods, I’d look an idiot! But you, you’re tall enough to manage it and not look like you’re going to trip over your own legs.”
Hephaistion considered what he was dressed up in, and decided that it would take more than only height to prevent a man from looking outright foolish, decked out like this. Persian fashions were one thing, and fine and good in their place. On those Persian lords about the court, they were decorative enough. A little gaudy for Hephaistion’s tastes for the most, but still decorative. On him though … ah, that was something else. There was nothing remotely decorative about making a spectacle of oneself. After all, he was a good solid Macedonian soldier. He had no intention of dressing up like someone’s dancing boy.
It was also quite emphatically not only trousers. That would have been bad enough, but this outfit was rather more than only that. There was a low, loose robe of green with blue sunbursts traced about in gold, with sleeves that fluttered appallingly when he moved, and fine matching slippers that would not have lasted half a day in the horse yards. At least, he thought darkly, the slippers did not have tassels. Everything else did. Persians, he knew, were fond of their fripperies and fineries - even the peculiar sash about his middle was decorated with bright little tassels that swung and shivered in the light. He scowled and pulled at the sash again; it felt strange without the weight of his swordbelt at his hip. How was a man meant to carry a sword on that thing anyway? It felt as if it were made out of ribbons. He said as much to Alexandros.
“I am not going to be seen dead out there in ribbons and bows, I’d never live it down. Krateros will kill himself laughing, you know he will. So will the men. Besides, these things are … uncomfortable.” He had already tried to stride out across the room, and caught himself back at the unfamiliar pull and cling about his crotch. Even now, just standing still, it felt odd. He shifted, expression pained. “I mean, where’s a man supposed to, ah, stow his kit?”
Alexandros tossed back his head and burst out laughing. “Persians seem to manage it.”
“Ah,” Hephaistion said, with a suddenly wicked sparkle. “Well. Maybe they just have less kit to stow.”
“Whereas you,” Alexandros pointed out, “are very well equipped.” He could be wicked too.
“You should know.”
“True enough.” Still with that glitter of laughter, and a warmth about the edges that made Hephaistion think of spiced wine and lamp light. He chuckled to himself, made a sound in his chest that might have been a growl.
“You. Are you trying to distract me?”
Alexandros seemed to think about that, cocking his head in that way he had. “Is it working?”
“Not well enough to make me forget what you’ve got me decked out in.” He spread his arms in a gesture caught between defiance and resignation. The long sleeves flared alarmingly. He laughed ruefully and set about pulling the robe free. It came off easily enough, once he worked out the trick of it. He balled it in his fist, flung it idly onto the nearest couch, and went to work on the complexity of folds and knots that held the sash in place. “This is just silly. What in Hades is this all in aid of anyway? I’ve humoured you so far, but I’d like to know what’s going on now. Or do you just want to make me look a fool?”
“You don’t look a fool.” Alexandros meant that too. Persian robes and trousers might not have been to Hephaistion’s tastes, but he looked well enough in them. Then again, Alexandros thought that Hephaistion would probably look well enough in an old rag and a half cured goat-hide. The way he had of moving, or even just standing still, was enough to catch the eye. Everything else could go hang. “You don’t look a fool. You look like a lord fit for his own wedding day.”
Hephaistion flicked his eyes at him at that and snorted before returning his attention to the sash. Stupid thing. He said, “Is there a difference?”
“I hope so. Or we will both look like idiots.”
That brought Hephaistion’s head up for him. He looked hard at his friend. Alexandros had turned away, was walking across the room to his work table as if he’d just said nothing at all of importance. Hephaistion was not fooled. There was a certain tension to the line of Alexandros’ shoulders, a studied deliberation in the way he did not look around … oh, he knew what he was doing, and he was not so relaxed about it as he wanted to let on. Hephaistion was not going to let him get away with it.
“Why,” he wanted to know, “will we both look like idiots? What have you done?” His tone was very level, and very wary. He was standing quite still now, bare-chested with the sash half undone. His eyes were blades ready to be drawn. Alexandros could see that in the reflection in the silver water jug on the table - a gift from some governor or other seeking the king’s favour, that had been. He drew in a quiet breath, and spoke over his shoulder. He tried to make it sound as if it were nothing much.
“We’re getting married.”
For a blindingly obtuse moment, Hephaistion could not make head nor tail of that. Alexandros might as well have been babbling in Egyptian. Married? He heard himself say, in a voice half strangled between laughter and outright disbelief, “But … but Alexandros, we can’t …”
“Not to each other, you idiot. To girls.”
Hephaistion blinked at that, shook himself. Was Alexandros actually laughing at him? He scowled, scrambling for balance. “Well, of course to girls, what kind of fool do you take me for? But … what are you talking about? What girls? And … sweet Zeus Alexandros, where did you ever get …” He paused, cast about for a way to say it, then threw his hands up and said it anyway. “Herakles’ balls, I don’t want to marry!”
Alexandros had turned back to him now. He was leaning back against his table, half sitting on the edge of it with his hands gripping the wood. He was laughing too, halfway; the rest was something more complex - frustration, pain, hope, love, all twisted about so there was no telling one from the next. His words though were nothing equivocal at all. He even sounded angry.
“What does that have to do with anything? I never wanted it, and everyone kept telling me it was my duty, to marry, to sire sons, to make alliances strong. You even said it to me yourself, more than once. That’s what it is to be a king, you told me. What does wanting have to do with it?”
“It’s not the same thing for me, I’m not a bloody king! I don’t have an empire to provide heirs for, and I’m not worth a damn in any marriage alliance. It’s different!”
Which was only true, but Alexandros had never been one for giving way to something so simple as that. Besides, he knew his friend. It was not the politics of this that Hephaistion would shy from. He’d never been comfortable even with a woman in the same room; he was hardly going to dance at the prospect of a woman in his bed. Alexandros sighed and scrubbed a hand through his hair. He had anticipated this. He had his arguments. Hephaistion only needed time to work through them. He gave his friend a sharp, irritated look.
“I could order you to do it, you know. I didn’t have to ask you.”
That earned him a snarl and a curse. One of the gold stitched slippers hit the wall with a soft thud. Alexandros nodded thoughtfully and turned back into his friend’s tirade.
“You could bloody try. And you didn’t ask, you just bloody told me! I’m not your dog Alexandros, you can’t just click your fingers and call me to heel! You can’t dress me up and trot me out like a caparisoned horse and expect me to do whatever you damn well ask!”
“I know that. That’s why I’m asking. If you were anyone else, I wouldn’t ask at all. This is important, Hephaistion. I want this to happen. I thought I could depend on you not to let me down.” Quite deliberately manipulative, that. Alexandros knew what he was doing. Hephaistion glared at him.
“Don’t bloody try that on me, I hate it when you do that. I know that game as well as you do. Don’t talk to me like I’m an idiot.”
“Stop acting like one then, and listen to me!” It came out sharp as a whipcrack, flaying the air raw. Hephaistion faltered and stared, stunned into stillness. For a moment, he looked almost blank. Then he spat something cutting and vicious and let his voice come low and hard. His hands, usually sure and neat, fumbled again with the sash at his hip, pulling it into a ragged tangle.
“Is that what you think of me? You think you can just do this, just tell me this is what you want and so I should want it too, and never mind what I want or what I think when it’s my life you’re dealing with here … and why in Hades won’t this bloody thing come off!”
“Because you’re tying it in knots. Here, come here, let me.” Alexandros crossed the room to him, caught his arm to hold him still. For a moment it seemed that Hephaistion was going to push him away, but then he subsided and let Alexandros set to untangling him.
“Look, this folds back here, and then … you’ve made a bloody mess of this, Phai. Why do you panic over these things?” Alexandros did not look up from what his hands were doing. He might have been talking about the sash. He could hear his friend breathing, feel the quick rise and fall of his chest, see how tense he was in the way his muscles bunched and released, over and over. It made him think of Bukephalos, shying at his own shadow, strong and stubborn and fretting over nothing much. Bukephalos had learned not to shy, never noticed his own shadow once his head was into the sun. Hephaistion would be the same. “There, and then you only have to unwind it …”
“Why do you want this? Why is it important?”
Ah. There. Alexandros smiled to himself, the slightest quirking of his lips. That was what he had been waiting for. Hephaistion could be very like one of his horses, sometimes. First, the flare of temper, the laying back of ears and the baring of teeth at the sudden shadow in his path; then the reasoning part of him took over. He would listen, now he had lashed out. He was a little wild-eyed still, but he would listen. Alexandros did not look up, only let his hands unwind the sash until it fell free. They were standing very close.
“Do you want it political, or personal?”
“Both.” Hephaistion did not move. His voice sounded as if it were coming through his teeth. It probably was. “Politics first.”
Of course, politics first. That was the easy part, the rational part. Hephaistion, once he was thinking, could be very rational. Alexandros picked up the sash - blue silk that rippled in the light - and smoothed it through his fingers. “It won’t be only us. A grand marriage, 80 of my officers and nobles, 80 well born Persian women. To do what any marriage will do, form alliances, give us ties here. My kingdom now, it’s two lands, two people. I need them, if not to be one, then at least to have a vested interest in each other. Otherwise, five years from now, ten … they’ll still be glaring at each other like strange dogs barking through a fence. I can’t go all the rest of my life, balancing one side of my kingdom against the other. It makes room for weakness. This way …” Alexandros paused, drew in a deep breath and let it out in a sigh that was part hope and part frustration. He shrugged, glanced up at Hephaistion. “This way, it gives us a start. A new generation to come, part of Macedon, part of the East. It will be somewhere to begin, do you see?”
Hephaistion nodded slowly. Of course he saw. Alexandros’ dream, that was - it always had been. This was only the smallest part of it, to make something entirely new out of what had gone before, but it was practical too. How popular it would be - ah, that was another matter. Plenty of the men had taken Persian women, but those were campaign wives, mistresses, to be put away and set aside when the marching stopped. What Alexandros was suggesting was a thing more lasting - and more binding - than only that.
“It makes sense. Better if they come to it of their own accord, maybe, but you’re their king. As you say, it would be a place to start.” He nodded again, then frowned, breathing out sharply. “Now tell me this; why start with me?”
“Personal?”
“Yes.” Abruptly, Hephaistion turned away, snatching up his own discarded chiton and climbing into it, kicking off the Persian trousers. He fumbled with his belt, and left the trousers lying on the floor where they had fallen. Alexandros regarded them briefly, and his friend now properly Greek again. That was his empire, right there. Greek and Persian, and reluctant to mix. He shook himself, told himself not to be a fool. That was only a pair of Persian trousers that Hephaistion did not want to wear, it had nothing to do with his empire. Hephaistion was looking at him now, arms folded over his chest and a guarded look on his face. “Alexandros?”
“I know why you don’t want this.” He had not meant to say that so bluntly; he surprised himself. They had never really spoken of this though, only accepted it as the shape of things. As part of who Hephaistion was. “I know you don’t like women.”
“I like them well enough. I just don’t desire them.”
“Same thing. But you need a wife.”
“Why?”
That made Alexandros smile. He’d had this discussion more times than he could remember, and been on the other end of it too. It was odd, a little, to be saying now the things he’d so resented hearing said to him not so long ago, and knowing them to be true. No wonder he’d driven Parmenion mad, with this. “You have no sons.”
“I have no lands. Nothing for them to inherit. It doesn’t matter.”
“What about your father’s lands then? His herds, the horses? They come to you, when your father dies.”
“Not,” Hephaistion said roughly, “if he has any sense. That’s Macedon. I can’t do what needs to be done from here, and I’m not about to go anywhere where you’re not. And you … ah, by the Twelve Alexandros, you’re not going back to Macedon. You never were.”
That was true. It was not a conscious thing, not a thing that Alexandros had ever decided - but it was true all the same. Macedon had been his father’s. He’d built himself something new. Hephaistion went on. “He’ll leave it in the hands of my uncles, or their sons. The land will be cared for, the herds tended. They’ll not miss me, or my get. Tell me your real reason.”
“It’s simple,” Alexandros said mildly. “I love you.”
That made Hephaistion pause and blink. Not for what was said - it was nothing he did not know after all, nothing he hadn’t heard before - but to try and make sense of it. He could not, quite. He tried saying it out loud, to see if it sounded better.
“You want me to marry some girl I don’t know or want, because you love me?”
Now it was Alexandros’ turn to blink. “Gods. It sounds stupid when you say it like that.” He laughed softly, turning away towards the wine jar with a small shake of his head. He didn’t pour though, only picked it up and turned it in his hands, for something to do.
“Yes.” Hephaistion quirked an eyebrow at him. “It does sound stupid. Convince me otherwise?”
Oh, yes, he’d stopped shying at his shadow now. Now, he was all ready to talk about in circles, demanding proofs and reasons and logic. Aristoteles would be proud. That was not all that there was to Hephaistion though, Alexandros knew. He thought with his heart as much as his head, when he was allowed. In another man, it might have been a failing. In this man … ah, in this man it was no failing at all. They’d never have managed, otherwise.
“You remember Darius’ daughters? You saw them that day, after the Issus. Do you remember?”
Hephaistion thought about that, nodded. It was their grandmother he remembered in fact, who had bowed down to him in Alexandros’ place, but the girls had been there too. “You’ll take one of them to wife? Parmenion always said you should.”
“Maybe his shade will find joy in this, then. Yes, I will. Statiera.”
“I wish you joy then, and strong sons. What’s it to do with me?”
“There’s a younger daughter. Drypetis.” Alexandros frowned at the wine jar he was holding, put it down before he could spill anything. It clattered against its stand, making the cups rattle. He looked direct in his friend’s eyes. “I want you to marry her.”
A Royal Persian wife. That was so far above anything he was, it almost made him want to laugh. “Alexandros, that’s not for the likes of me.”
“Why not? You do this Phai, but you’re as noble born as any of the others, and what rank you have you’ve earned. I know some say otherwise, but it’s true. The likes of you? By Zeus man, I only wish there were more like you. The girl will take you, and be honoured.”
There was something to that, something to the look in Alexandros’ eyes now that Hephaistion thought might mean something. He wished he could tell what it was. He was good, sometimes, at anticipating his friend - part instinct, part experience - but he could not quite find his balance with this. This, he could not anticipate at all. He said so, spreading his hands in a small gesture of appeal. “Alexandros? I don’t see it. Tell me why?”
“Because,” the king said, and he did not look away from his friend’s face at all, looking at him now as if he were drinking him in, carving him in stone. “If you take her to wife, you’ll be my brother by marriage, and royal kin. More than that though, your children will be my own blood. And mine, yours. And I want that, Hephaistion. It’s important to me. I want it to happen.”
It took a moment to understand that. Hephaistion stared, then shut his eyes and let his head drop, drawing in a long, deep breath as if to steady himself against some sudden pain. Or, perhaps, some sudden joy. Alexandros watched him for a handful of heartbeats - and his own heart was beating oddly now, too fast and too strong, but he didn’t care - and then he crossed the room in four quick strides and took the other man in a hard embrace. Hephaistion’s arms came up at once, crushing him close, holding him in a grip that said everything that needed saying. Words were no use for this, even if Hephaistion had trusted them to say the right thing. This was better. This was more true.
Alexandros liked words though. Or, he liked to talk, just as he liked to move, all fidgets and flashes, never quiet or still. He spoke, muffled against Hephaistion’s shoulder, his voice half a smile. “So, you’ll do it then?”
“Yes. Yes, I’ll do it. Idiot. Why didn’t you just tell me this to start with?”
“And miss arguing with you? When have I ever passed up a chance for that?”
“Not often,” Hephaistion conceded. He stepped back, holding his friend at arm’s length and smiling into his face, wry and rueful and clean and bright all at once. Alexandros laughed.
“Besides, it was worth it just to see you in that Persian outfit. You really did look splendid, you know.”
“No. Shut up. You can stop right now.” Hephaistion fixed him with a stern eye, shook him gently by the shoulders. “I’ll fight for you, I’ll marry for you, I’ll even sire children for you. But I will not - I will not - wear those bloody trousers!”
There was, after all, such a thing as a small victory. Even with this bright, maddening man Hephaistion called king and lover and friend - most of all friend - there was that. It would do, though. In the face of such a sweet defeat as that had been, it would most definitely do.
Title: Fit to Wed
Rating: Gah. Whatever. General.
Summary: Hephaistion's getting married. He just doesn't know it yet.
Feedback: Hit me.
“You look magnificent.” Alexandros even managed to sound almost as if he meant that. Hephaistion gave him a flat look.
“I,” he said heavily, “look ridiculous. And you know it.”
“Not … ridiculous,” Alexandros hedged. “Exotic.”
“Exotic.” Hephaistion blinked. He looked down at what he was wearing, plucked at the odd sash about his waist, then let out his breath in a huff of frustration. “Exotic is for Egyptian flute girls and painted eunuchs. I’m neither of those things. I don’t want to look like I am.”
“No one is going to mistake you for a flute girl, Egyptian or otherwise,” Alexandros told him, with an air of certainty. And then, with a sharp grin, he added, “Or a eunuch.”
“No,” Hephaistion agreed sweetly. “They won’t. Because I’m not wearing this.”
“It’s only trousers.” Sharp, that - on the surface at least. Underneath it, Hephaistion was sure that his friend was laughing. He narrowed his eyes at his king.
“Would you wear them?”
That won him a stare and a snort. “No! Gods, I’d look an idiot! But you, you’re tall enough to manage it and not look like you’re going to trip over your own legs.”
Hephaistion considered what he was dressed up in, and decided that it would take more than only height to prevent a man from looking outright foolish, decked out like this. Persian fashions were one thing, and fine and good in their place. On those Persian lords about the court, they were decorative enough. A little gaudy for Hephaistion’s tastes for the most, but still decorative. On him though … ah, that was something else. There was nothing remotely decorative about making a spectacle of oneself. After all, he was a good solid Macedonian soldier. He had no intention of dressing up like someone’s dancing boy.
It was also quite emphatically not only trousers. That would have been bad enough, but this outfit was rather more than only that. There was a low, loose robe of green with blue sunbursts traced about in gold, with sleeves that fluttered appallingly when he moved, and fine matching slippers that would not have lasted half a day in the horse yards. At least, he thought darkly, the slippers did not have tassels. Everything else did. Persians, he knew, were fond of their fripperies and fineries - even the peculiar sash about his middle was decorated with bright little tassels that swung and shivered in the light. He scowled and pulled at the sash again; it felt strange without the weight of his swordbelt at his hip. How was a man meant to carry a sword on that thing anyway? It felt as if it were made out of ribbons. He said as much to Alexandros.
“I am not going to be seen dead out there in ribbons and bows, I’d never live it down. Krateros will kill himself laughing, you know he will. So will the men. Besides, these things are … uncomfortable.” He had already tried to stride out across the room, and caught himself back at the unfamiliar pull and cling about his crotch. Even now, just standing still, it felt odd. He shifted, expression pained. “I mean, where’s a man supposed to, ah, stow his kit?”
Alexandros tossed back his head and burst out laughing. “Persians seem to manage it.”
“Ah,” Hephaistion said, with a suddenly wicked sparkle. “Well. Maybe they just have less kit to stow.”
“Whereas you,” Alexandros pointed out, “are very well equipped.” He could be wicked too.
“You should know.”
“True enough.” Still with that glitter of laughter, and a warmth about the edges that made Hephaistion think of spiced wine and lamp light. He chuckled to himself, made a sound in his chest that might have been a growl.
“You. Are you trying to distract me?”
Alexandros seemed to think about that, cocking his head in that way he had. “Is it working?”
“Not well enough to make me forget what you’ve got me decked out in.” He spread his arms in a gesture caught between defiance and resignation. The long sleeves flared alarmingly. He laughed ruefully and set about pulling the robe free. It came off easily enough, once he worked out the trick of it. He balled it in his fist, flung it idly onto the nearest couch, and went to work on the complexity of folds and knots that held the sash in place. “This is just silly. What in Hades is this all in aid of anyway? I’ve humoured you so far, but I’d like to know what’s going on now. Or do you just want to make me look a fool?”
“You don’t look a fool.” Alexandros meant that too. Persian robes and trousers might not have been to Hephaistion’s tastes, but he looked well enough in them. Then again, Alexandros thought that Hephaistion would probably look well enough in an old rag and a half cured goat-hide. The way he had of moving, or even just standing still, was enough to catch the eye. Everything else could go hang. “You don’t look a fool. You look like a lord fit for his own wedding day.”
Hephaistion flicked his eyes at him at that and snorted before returning his attention to the sash. Stupid thing. He said, “Is there a difference?”
“I hope so. Or we will both look like idiots.”
That brought Hephaistion’s head up for him. He looked hard at his friend. Alexandros had turned away, was walking across the room to his work table as if he’d just said nothing at all of importance. Hephaistion was not fooled. There was a certain tension to the line of Alexandros’ shoulders, a studied deliberation in the way he did not look around … oh, he knew what he was doing, and he was not so relaxed about it as he wanted to let on. Hephaistion was not going to let him get away with it.
“Why,” he wanted to know, “will we both look like idiots? What have you done?” His tone was very level, and very wary. He was standing quite still now, bare-chested with the sash half undone. His eyes were blades ready to be drawn. Alexandros could see that in the reflection in the silver water jug on the table - a gift from some governor or other seeking the king’s favour, that had been. He drew in a quiet breath, and spoke over his shoulder. He tried to make it sound as if it were nothing much.
“We’re getting married.”
For a blindingly obtuse moment, Hephaistion could not make head nor tail of that. Alexandros might as well have been babbling in Egyptian. Married? He heard himself say, in a voice half strangled between laughter and outright disbelief, “But … but Alexandros, we can’t …”
“Not to each other, you idiot. To girls.”
Hephaistion blinked at that, shook himself. Was Alexandros actually laughing at him? He scowled, scrambling for balance. “Well, of course to girls, what kind of fool do you take me for? But … what are you talking about? What girls? And … sweet Zeus Alexandros, where did you ever get …” He paused, cast about for a way to say it, then threw his hands up and said it anyway. “Herakles’ balls, I don’t want to marry!”
Alexandros had turned back to him now. He was leaning back against his table, half sitting on the edge of it with his hands gripping the wood. He was laughing too, halfway; the rest was something more complex - frustration, pain, hope, love, all twisted about so there was no telling one from the next. His words though were nothing equivocal at all. He even sounded angry.
“What does that have to do with anything? I never wanted it, and everyone kept telling me it was my duty, to marry, to sire sons, to make alliances strong. You even said it to me yourself, more than once. That’s what it is to be a king, you told me. What does wanting have to do with it?”
“It’s not the same thing for me, I’m not a bloody king! I don’t have an empire to provide heirs for, and I’m not worth a damn in any marriage alliance. It’s different!”
Which was only true, but Alexandros had never been one for giving way to something so simple as that. Besides, he knew his friend. It was not the politics of this that Hephaistion would shy from. He’d never been comfortable even with a woman in the same room; he was hardly going to dance at the prospect of a woman in his bed. Alexandros sighed and scrubbed a hand through his hair. He had anticipated this. He had his arguments. Hephaistion only needed time to work through them. He gave his friend a sharp, irritated look.
“I could order you to do it, you know. I didn’t have to ask you.”
That earned him a snarl and a curse. One of the gold stitched slippers hit the wall with a soft thud. Alexandros nodded thoughtfully and turned back into his friend’s tirade.
“You could bloody try. And you didn’t ask, you just bloody told me! I’m not your dog Alexandros, you can’t just click your fingers and call me to heel! You can’t dress me up and trot me out like a caparisoned horse and expect me to do whatever you damn well ask!”
“I know that. That’s why I’m asking. If you were anyone else, I wouldn’t ask at all. This is important, Hephaistion. I want this to happen. I thought I could depend on you not to let me down.” Quite deliberately manipulative, that. Alexandros knew what he was doing. Hephaistion glared at him.
“Don’t bloody try that on me, I hate it when you do that. I know that game as well as you do. Don’t talk to me like I’m an idiot.”
“Stop acting like one then, and listen to me!” It came out sharp as a whipcrack, flaying the air raw. Hephaistion faltered and stared, stunned into stillness. For a moment, he looked almost blank. Then he spat something cutting and vicious and let his voice come low and hard. His hands, usually sure and neat, fumbled again with the sash at his hip, pulling it into a ragged tangle.
“Is that what you think of me? You think you can just do this, just tell me this is what you want and so I should want it too, and never mind what I want or what I think when it’s my life you’re dealing with here … and why in Hades won’t this bloody thing come off!”
“Because you’re tying it in knots. Here, come here, let me.” Alexandros crossed the room to him, caught his arm to hold him still. For a moment it seemed that Hephaistion was going to push him away, but then he subsided and let Alexandros set to untangling him.
“Look, this folds back here, and then … you’ve made a bloody mess of this, Phai. Why do you panic over these things?” Alexandros did not look up from what his hands were doing. He might have been talking about the sash. He could hear his friend breathing, feel the quick rise and fall of his chest, see how tense he was in the way his muscles bunched and released, over and over. It made him think of Bukephalos, shying at his own shadow, strong and stubborn and fretting over nothing much. Bukephalos had learned not to shy, never noticed his own shadow once his head was into the sun. Hephaistion would be the same. “There, and then you only have to unwind it …”
“Why do you want this? Why is it important?”
Ah. There. Alexandros smiled to himself, the slightest quirking of his lips. That was what he had been waiting for. Hephaistion could be very like one of his horses, sometimes. First, the flare of temper, the laying back of ears and the baring of teeth at the sudden shadow in his path; then the reasoning part of him took over. He would listen, now he had lashed out. He was a little wild-eyed still, but he would listen. Alexandros did not look up, only let his hands unwind the sash until it fell free. They were standing very close.
“Do you want it political, or personal?”
“Both.” Hephaistion did not move. His voice sounded as if it were coming through his teeth. It probably was. “Politics first.”
Of course, politics first. That was the easy part, the rational part. Hephaistion, once he was thinking, could be very rational. Alexandros picked up the sash - blue silk that rippled in the light - and smoothed it through his fingers. “It won’t be only us. A grand marriage, 80 of my officers and nobles, 80 well born Persian women. To do what any marriage will do, form alliances, give us ties here. My kingdom now, it’s two lands, two people. I need them, if not to be one, then at least to have a vested interest in each other. Otherwise, five years from now, ten … they’ll still be glaring at each other like strange dogs barking through a fence. I can’t go all the rest of my life, balancing one side of my kingdom against the other. It makes room for weakness. This way …” Alexandros paused, drew in a deep breath and let it out in a sigh that was part hope and part frustration. He shrugged, glanced up at Hephaistion. “This way, it gives us a start. A new generation to come, part of Macedon, part of the East. It will be somewhere to begin, do you see?”
Hephaistion nodded slowly. Of course he saw. Alexandros’ dream, that was - it always had been. This was only the smallest part of it, to make something entirely new out of what had gone before, but it was practical too. How popular it would be - ah, that was another matter. Plenty of the men had taken Persian women, but those were campaign wives, mistresses, to be put away and set aside when the marching stopped. What Alexandros was suggesting was a thing more lasting - and more binding - than only that.
“It makes sense. Better if they come to it of their own accord, maybe, but you’re their king. As you say, it would be a place to start.” He nodded again, then frowned, breathing out sharply. “Now tell me this; why start with me?”
“Personal?”
“Yes.” Abruptly, Hephaistion turned away, snatching up his own discarded chiton and climbing into it, kicking off the Persian trousers. He fumbled with his belt, and left the trousers lying on the floor where they had fallen. Alexandros regarded them briefly, and his friend now properly Greek again. That was his empire, right there. Greek and Persian, and reluctant to mix. He shook himself, told himself not to be a fool. That was only a pair of Persian trousers that Hephaistion did not want to wear, it had nothing to do with his empire. Hephaistion was looking at him now, arms folded over his chest and a guarded look on his face. “Alexandros?”
“I know why you don’t want this.” He had not meant to say that so bluntly; he surprised himself. They had never really spoken of this though, only accepted it as the shape of things. As part of who Hephaistion was. “I know you don’t like women.”
“I like them well enough. I just don’t desire them.”
“Same thing. But you need a wife.”
“Why?”
That made Alexandros smile. He’d had this discussion more times than he could remember, and been on the other end of it too. It was odd, a little, to be saying now the things he’d so resented hearing said to him not so long ago, and knowing them to be true. No wonder he’d driven Parmenion mad, with this. “You have no sons.”
“I have no lands. Nothing for them to inherit. It doesn’t matter.”
“What about your father’s lands then? His herds, the horses? They come to you, when your father dies.”
“Not,” Hephaistion said roughly, “if he has any sense. That’s Macedon. I can’t do what needs to be done from here, and I’m not about to go anywhere where you’re not. And you … ah, by the Twelve Alexandros, you’re not going back to Macedon. You never were.”
That was true. It was not a conscious thing, not a thing that Alexandros had ever decided - but it was true all the same. Macedon had been his father’s. He’d built himself something new. Hephaistion went on. “He’ll leave it in the hands of my uncles, or their sons. The land will be cared for, the herds tended. They’ll not miss me, or my get. Tell me your real reason.”
“It’s simple,” Alexandros said mildly. “I love you.”
That made Hephaistion pause and blink. Not for what was said - it was nothing he did not know after all, nothing he hadn’t heard before - but to try and make sense of it. He could not, quite. He tried saying it out loud, to see if it sounded better.
“You want me to marry some girl I don’t know or want, because you love me?”
Now it was Alexandros’ turn to blink. “Gods. It sounds stupid when you say it like that.” He laughed softly, turning away towards the wine jar with a small shake of his head. He didn’t pour though, only picked it up and turned it in his hands, for something to do.
“Yes.” Hephaistion quirked an eyebrow at him. “It does sound stupid. Convince me otherwise?”
Oh, yes, he’d stopped shying at his shadow now. Now, he was all ready to talk about in circles, demanding proofs and reasons and logic. Aristoteles would be proud. That was not all that there was to Hephaistion though, Alexandros knew. He thought with his heart as much as his head, when he was allowed. In another man, it might have been a failing. In this man … ah, in this man it was no failing at all. They’d never have managed, otherwise.
“You remember Darius’ daughters? You saw them that day, after the Issus. Do you remember?”
Hephaistion thought about that, nodded. It was their grandmother he remembered in fact, who had bowed down to him in Alexandros’ place, but the girls had been there too. “You’ll take one of them to wife? Parmenion always said you should.”
“Maybe his shade will find joy in this, then. Yes, I will. Statiera.”
“I wish you joy then, and strong sons. What’s it to do with me?”
“There’s a younger daughter. Drypetis.” Alexandros frowned at the wine jar he was holding, put it down before he could spill anything. It clattered against its stand, making the cups rattle. He looked direct in his friend’s eyes. “I want you to marry her.”
A Royal Persian wife. That was so far above anything he was, it almost made him want to laugh. “Alexandros, that’s not for the likes of me.”
“Why not? You do this Phai, but you’re as noble born as any of the others, and what rank you have you’ve earned. I know some say otherwise, but it’s true. The likes of you? By Zeus man, I only wish there were more like you. The girl will take you, and be honoured.”
There was something to that, something to the look in Alexandros’ eyes now that Hephaistion thought might mean something. He wished he could tell what it was. He was good, sometimes, at anticipating his friend - part instinct, part experience - but he could not quite find his balance with this. This, he could not anticipate at all. He said so, spreading his hands in a small gesture of appeal. “Alexandros? I don’t see it. Tell me why?”
“Because,” the king said, and he did not look away from his friend’s face at all, looking at him now as if he were drinking him in, carving him in stone. “If you take her to wife, you’ll be my brother by marriage, and royal kin. More than that though, your children will be my own blood. And mine, yours. And I want that, Hephaistion. It’s important to me. I want it to happen.”
It took a moment to understand that. Hephaistion stared, then shut his eyes and let his head drop, drawing in a long, deep breath as if to steady himself against some sudden pain. Or, perhaps, some sudden joy. Alexandros watched him for a handful of heartbeats - and his own heart was beating oddly now, too fast and too strong, but he didn’t care - and then he crossed the room in four quick strides and took the other man in a hard embrace. Hephaistion’s arms came up at once, crushing him close, holding him in a grip that said everything that needed saying. Words were no use for this, even if Hephaistion had trusted them to say the right thing. This was better. This was more true.
Alexandros liked words though. Or, he liked to talk, just as he liked to move, all fidgets and flashes, never quiet or still. He spoke, muffled against Hephaistion’s shoulder, his voice half a smile. “So, you’ll do it then?”
“Yes. Yes, I’ll do it. Idiot. Why didn’t you just tell me this to start with?”
“And miss arguing with you? When have I ever passed up a chance for that?”
“Not often,” Hephaistion conceded. He stepped back, holding his friend at arm’s length and smiling into his face, wry and rueful and clean and bright all at once. Alexandros laughed.
“Besides, it was worth it just to see you in that Persian outfit. You really did look splendid, you know.”
“No. Shut up. You can stop right now.” Hephaistion fixed him with a stern eye, shook him gently by the shoulders. “I’ll fight for you, I’ll marry for you, I’ll even sire children for you. But I will not - I will not - wear those bloody trousers!”
There was, after all, such a thing as a small victory. Even with this bright, maddening man Hephaistion called king and lover and friend - most of all friend - there was that. It would do, though. In the face of such a sweet defeat as that had been, it would most definitely do.