Patroclus by Ilium (chainedphoenix@mymelody.com )

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Disclaimer: All the people mentioned in this story existed somewhere either in legend or in/around the fourth century BC, so obviously none of them belong to me.

A/N: I used an alternate spelling for Hephaestion because that’s the way I learned it and I can’t abide the spelling that the movie uses. Don’t squish me. At least I know the difference between a Persian princess and an Indian king. Grumbles about silly changes of history. Anyhoo... on with it.

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“Honestly, Alexander! Three years have passed since he was sent forth and yet you still speak of Lysimachus as if he were here. Aristotle may not automatically agree with you on everything purely on account of your blood, but that does not make him any less than the best. Are you truly so dependant on compliments as this?”

“If I were I would not be your friend,” Alexander replied dryly, humour in his voice even as he glared at the one boy who dared not to shrink from victory over the king’s son. “I am no Achilles. Lysimachus only flattered my father when he called me thus.”

Hephaestion returned his friend’s glower with a gloating grin, blue eyes dancing with laughter. “It is well. For I find the stories dreadfully dull, and if you persisted in such mindless speech I would be forcibly excluded by right of having no legendary epithet of my own, and just as forcibly included by the duties of a friendship dear to me. Promise me you will not force me to listen to such dreary nonsense.”

“Nonsense? How nonsense? Achilles was a hero, Hephaestion. We do not have heroes any longer. No one has matched the feats of Heracles or Odysseus in hundreds of years. Do you not wonder what the borders of our lands would be if one such as Achilles lived now?”

“The borders are as they are, Achilles,” Hephaestion drawled mockingly, using the nickname as the most earnest insult. Hubris could do no man proud.

The slight struck well, sprung from one for whom Alexander held a respect as deep as any sea. He was the son of kings, and a man like any other all the same. Hephaestion should not know this better than he. Alexander was groomed to greatness, but no greatness of modern men could match the feats of Perseus or Prometheus. Gods, how he wished that he could – that they could.

Cautious suggestion clouded Alexander’s voice as he replied, a golden wisp of hair slipping before his eyes. “It is as you say Patroclus, but we will stretch them.”

Cerulean eyes sparkled in the suppertime firelight. Both boys would be men in only a few years, but Hephaestion had not yet thought of any such unions for himself, let alone with one his own age. It was an odd thought, but as soon as the name of ‘Patroclus’ penetrated the smoke of the dining hall to within reach of his hearing it left his lips of its own accord. “Patroclus, hmm? That I could settle for.”

“As could I,” Alexander replied, pale hand reaching up to caress Hephaestion’s blushing cheek. Hephaestion was struck by his almost god-like beauty – perfectly sculpted body and flawlessly fair complexion, chin-length hair of finest golden cornsilk that radiated royalty, cornflower blue eyes that spoke of deeper insight than any fifteen-year-old had a right to. But above all that, above the face, was the compassionate and perceptive soul that would dare to stand and argue with Aristotle, of all people, about the rights of barbarians.

Of course, it was not only Aristotle that Alexander would argue with. Hephaestion had spent hours debating with his friend over almost every topic conceivable in the known world, be it political or philosophical, not that Alexander ever saw a difference between the two. It was one of the most endearing and the most enthralling things about him. No matter what the debate, Alexander knew his side of it and fought until he saw fit, regardless of the bounds of normal reason. By some twist of fate, Alexander had been born with his own sense of reason, and somehow he could always make it seem reasonable.

Clasping a hand to his friend’s shoulder, Hephaestion turned his head away from Alexander’s callused palm to look into the crowded hall. Somewhere closer to the fire than they, a flute and a lyre were playing, one and then the other, back and forth and back again like a dancing snake. Women, young and old alike, were dressed in vibrant colours, shades of emerald, sapphire and amethyst swirling hypnotically, enticing wine-deepened laughter from the men at the tables or against the walls.

Slowly, Alexander reached his hand to his own shoulder, covering Hephaestion’s and drawing both of their hands to his heart. “How do women hold men in such thrall?” Hephaestion asked, meeting his friend’s scrutinizing gaze.

Alexander smiled, recognizing the change in subject as no change at all. “Women are beautiful,” he said, his eyes turning to his mother, swathed as she was in scarlet silk and gilded jewels, “And they are weak, not always of mind but always of body. Men dominate women. They capture their treasure, claim it, hoard it, and use it to satisfy the instinctual greed that all men possess. Women cannot rival men. They can be wise and powerful, but never as strong, and that is all that counts. Men are strong, Hephaestion. Men turn to men for submission that cannot be given to women, their inferiors, or for a greater dominance than can be exerted over any foolish girl. A man’s beauty is not petty like a woman’s.”

Catching his friend’s amused glance, Alexander grinned, toning down the rising volume of his voice before he spoke again. “Besides, I think that I shall never find a woman stronger than my mother, and I fear I am spoiled for all those of the fickle sex. I know only strength. I value only strength.”

“Not wisdom?”

“Not wisdom such as Aristotle’s, if that is what you mean,” Alexander replied, spitting his tutor’s name into the earthen floor.

Hephaestion’s lips curled up at the ends as he tried and failed to keep a serious countenance. “You will never win against him, Alexander. He is set in his ways and will not be shaken by a fifteen-year-old boy.”

“Sixteen,” Alexander interjected curtly.

“In a week. Let me revel in my old age,” said Hephaestion, though not so very much older than his friend as the phrase ‘old age’ would imply.

“Old? Aristotle’s beliefs are old. The gods are old. You, my friend, are a bud on an olive tree.”

“And just as pretty, I presume?”

“You degrade yourself, friend.”

There was a sudden flutter in Hephaestion’s stomach, though he could not put a name to it for all the stars in the heavens. Joy, perhaps, or anticipation, anxiety, desire – he knew not. Glaring into the ever more crowded room, he touched the tips of his fingers to Alexander’s, then changed his mind and clasped the fair-haired boy by the arm. “Come,” he said, “Let us go out to the courtyard while it is yet warm.”

Alexander did not question, allowing himself to be dragged out underneath the open sky. The sun had barely set an hour before but the silver moon shone bright, casting a pale glow on the surrounding laurel leaves as they whispered in the evening breeze. The stars glimmered like fireflies, seemingly flitting in and out of existence. The world was welcomingly calm and quiet, save for Hephaestion’s incessant fidgeting.

“You are flighty tonight, Hephaestion. Is something the matter?”

“I would that something were. Does nothing of interest ever happen in this world? Day in and day out they celebrate - what? What do we have to show for all the king’s pompous prattle and unachievable dreams?”

Hephaestion fell silent, fearing he had said too much, though Alexander took the comment in stride. “An army,” he replied, “An army that can conquer any land or defeat a foe that has us thrice outnumbered. Besides, we are not subjected to their talk, what does it matter? I thought you did not care for talk of borders.”

“And I thought you did.”

“Since when do you yield to me?”

“Since when does Achilles yield to Patroclus?”

“Perhaps since he fell in love.”

“Love is insignificant,” replied Hephaestion, though he supposed his words could be proven true or false in varying contexts. Significance was such a changeable and often unpredictable thing. The bow string only matters when one has to shoot the bow.

“Perhaps,” was Alexander’s nonchalant reply.

Hephaestion glared at his friend, but Alexander put forth no more concrete answer, utterly ruining his argumentative reputation. The picture of the fair-haired prince standing over a map of coloured pebbles half buried in the earth, quarrelling with older, wiser men over the political effects of the relative location of one city-state to another was replaced with a picture of an even younger Alexander in the courtyard, silently fingering a melody on his flute and singing the lyrics to himself in a small, wistful voice. Perhaps. Perhaps Alexander dreamed of more than war and bloody glory. Perhaps he still sang to himself in lonely darkness. Perhaps he wanted to kiss Hephaestion as much as Hephaestion wanted to kiss him. Perhaps foolish desire would get them both killed.

“Achilles died for love of Patroclus.”

“Achilles died of an arrow to the heel.”

“He would not have been shot if he had not reentered the battle.”

“He would not have reentered battle if he had not loved Patroclus.”

Hephaestion was lost in Alexander’s stichomythic responses and bemused by his seemingly changed heart. “What point do you argue?”

“That love defies reason, and reason is the only matter of significance.”

With only a subtle softening of expression as warning, Alexander was taken by surprise as Hephaestion stepped forward and slightly chapped lips brushed against his own with the passion held by a lover, but in a gesture that could easily be mistaken for a most sincere show of friendship. Not willing to let another’s hesitancy stand before his own desire, Alexander deepened the kiss, gentle fingers reaching up to entangle themselves in Hephaestion’s soft, dark hair when he was sure his friend had not recoiled from his actions.

He poured his soul into the passion shared between the two of them, letting it turn into a brilliant fire that coursed along his veins and made him strong, stronger, strongest. When they broke apart, there was no doubt left about their relationship. It was odd for two young men to be lovers, but not necessarily frowned upon, and neither boy was worried about their chances with other, older men at any rate. Alexander wanted dominance, Hephaestion wanted devotion. Together they were whole.