Two Worlds
Pairing: Alexander/Elijah Wood
Prologue
The boy shivered. It was cold, standing upon unyielding marble in the early hours, when the sun was not close to rising and the rest of the household still lay sleeping.
He pulled a warm cloak from the cedar chest and wrapped himself up in it, breathing in the subtle lavender, and thinking of his mother, whom he had not thought of for many months.
He stood at the window and looked out into the inky night, miles of darkness leavened only a little by the lamps in the watch towers, and wondered about the nature of love.
Perhaps this thing, love, was for complete beings and not for the likes of him; a eunuch, neglected paramour of an unmanned King.
Yet the stars always burned brightest just on the cusp between night and day and, as the first shimmer of orange appeared over the hills, Bagoas felt a shiver that owed nothing to the cold air and everything to an inexplicable surge of hope.
by Trianne
Rating: NC17 in parts
Disclaimer: Alexander the Great has been dead for a few millennia. Elijah Wood, however, is (thankfully!) very much alive and adored. No offence is intended, nor profit made.
AN: For Baranduin. Crossover. AU. Ludicrous concept. Mary Renault is fabulous. It's fun! BUT - my Alexander is NOT Colin Farrell. Thanks to Ainigma for her input :)
"He keeps asking for a clove, lord."
"Has he a toothache?" Alexander, irritated, looked up from his sheaf of papers and frowned. He needed peace to get through this, there was so much of it and he rarely delegated. The letter from his mother, he had pushed to the bottom of the pile.
Ismenios shrugged. "He says not. He says he wants to -smoke the clove." He sounded sheepish, as if by passing on the words of a madman he might become infected himself.
Alexander paused, allowed the paper he had been reading to fall, and rose to his feet. Behind him, the harried squire tried to keep up; he was almost a foot taller than his King but could not match him stride for stride, especially when Alexander was in a determined frame of mind. Which was most of the time.
They approached the tent wherein the madman was making his ridiculous demands. A small crowd had gathered outside, trying to see in through the leather flap. When they saw their general, they moved aside but did not disperse. Alexander was amused but not entirely surprised by their curiosity; they were chafing at inactivity, desirous to be on the move. Well, so was he – but he would decide when and where they went.
He entered the tent and with a curt nod of his head dismissed the squires who were attending to his guest. For guest he was. At least until Alexander decided what to do with him.
He had appeared the night before, wandering in a daze into their camp; he was lucky to be alive, seeing as a hundred spears had immediately bristled in his direction. Yet he seemed not to see them, this apparition from the desert. He had stood by the nearest campfire, ignoring the women stirring their cooking pots, and looked about him. Then fainted clean away.
Alexander had been informed immediately, of course. At supper, in his cups though still alert, he had ordered the interloper detained but not harmed.
At breakfast, he had not forgotten about the matter but the pile of reports, messages, missives and pleas from all across the empire would not read themselves; so he had set to, determined to work an hour or two and then interview the latest addition to his already overflowing camp.
He was certainly intriguing, this young stranger. Apparently, he was dressed very bizarrely indeed. The Macedonians considered him to be a Bactrian; the Greeks thought he must surely be a Carthaginian. The Persians in camp had already decided he was a devil and should be put to death forthwith. Well, Alexander would judge for himself.
And now, face to face with the newcomer, he found himself as curious and puzzled as any of his men.
Upon a pile of furs, the boy was sitting, cross-legged like a child, his arms extended behind him for support. He had something dangling from his lips, a slender brown tube, bent in the middle… Upon seeing Alexander, he jumped awkwardly to his feet and wiped his hands before extending one… Alexander looked at the hand, which was empty, and noted it was clean and small. Used to craning to look at Hephaestion, Alexander found himself looking down a little at this stranger with his hand stuck out as if in greeting. He hesitated a second and then clasped hands.
"Morning! Are you in charge? Do you have a light? A cigarette machine?" The stream of words came thick and fast and Alexander gazed into eyes almost the exact same shade as his own. The hand in his was warm and solid and apparently there to stay.
"Cig-arette? Ma-chine?" he repeated, slowly. The words were strange indeed, but then again, so were the clothes which adorned the slender frame before him. He tore his eyes from those eyes and made a quick assessment – boots, well-made, rather clumpy but nevertheless serviceable… Trousers in the Mede fashion, almost, which, however, were thick and of a material he did not recognise, of a blue he had not seen before – ah! They were ripped – the boy had been set upon! That might explain his demeanour and choice of words. Moving up, Alexander noted that he wore no chiton, but instead sported some kind of a shirt, or a coat, or a tunic… It was a mess of colours and patterns, like to a mural he had once seen in a brothel in Termessus. Still, it somehow suited him… And that brought him back to those eyes. Moving somewhat reluctantly up - Yes, he had been in a skirmish, the signs were all there – the hair was chopped about and stuck up all on end, thick and brown, contrasting with flawless milky skin.
"Yeah, cigarette machine? Sokay, I’m joking. I know you don’t have one of those. But this is a campsite, right? You must have a phone somewhere. Fax? Internet? A shower would be good."
The brown tube – rolled up papyrus? – still lolled from the rich, red mouth and moved in harmony with the boy’s speech. Alexander found he couldn’t stop looking at it. Alexander realised they were still clasping hands and he pulled his free, taking a step away. "You speak in riddles," he said.
The boy – man? – pulled the thing from his mouth and examined it with a sad expression, noting the bend in the middle with exasperation, then he tucked it in the pocket of his shirt-coat-tunic-cropped chiton and exhaled a sigh.
"This isn’t Kansas, is it?" he said. "Where am I?"
Alexander indicated a chair and with a shrug the stranger collapsed into it, running a hand through his already dishevelled hair. The Macedonian sat opposite and studied his guest, thoughtfully. He had seen eunuchs before, though the boy’s tight apparel seemed to give a lie to that notion… yet there was such beauty here, softness of the skin, the faintest trace of a beard on the jaw line and chin, so perhaps the wielder of the knife hadn't taken quite enough away. His voice was a little high… Age? Anything between sixteen and twenty five, how could one tell? Hands soft, no labourer or servant or soldier, he. A harlot? Possibly. Sent by his enemies? To seduce him? Those lashes, so long and thick… Yet there was something sturdy about him, too, a maleness which Alexander could almost smell. Or perhaps that was the lingering aroma of that thing which the boy had pocketed, some form of kif, obviously.
"You are in the camp of Alexander," he said, sitting back in his chair. "What is your name, stranger?"
"Elijah Wood. Are you making a movie? You look like you are. Has Baz finally got his act together? Where’s Leonardo? I know him, man!"
Alexander must have looked baffled, because the manboy began to shake his head. "I fell asleep. One minute I was in this poppy field in Ottawa County, the next I was waking up here, wherever here is."
Since the words Ottawa County meant nothing at all to him, Alexander discounted them; though perhaps he could have a rummage round later in his scrolls and see if Aristotle had anything to say on the matter of poppy…
"I think you have been beset by robbers, Eli-jah," he said, gently. Outside, he could hear the low-pitched mutterings of his squires and the gruff voices of the men. He wondered what they thought – that he was in here, bedding this pretty manboy? Let them think what they liked, it mattered not.
"No, I don’t think so. I mean, yeah the guy at the 7-11charged me nearly three bucks for a diet coke, but hey, I live in LA, I’m used to it!" The stranger proceeded to make a noise that defied description – something akin to a drunken camel herder’s belch and a woman giving birth – and Alexander realised it was laughter. He shrank back momentarily but there was something oddly infectious about such a sound emitting from a very lovely mouth. And now he could see that the manboy had a little space between his front teeth, which were nevertheless very white.
"Your clothes are torn-" he pointed out, indicating the manboy’s legs.
"What? No, no, this is how they come," the stranger replied, smiling a little incredulously. "I tell you, Viggo went to get beers and I fell asleep. He must be around here, somewhere. He loves deserts and stuff. Yep."
"There are those in my camp who would take you for a spy, friend. And others in my camp who would merely – take you." Alexander laced his fingers together and regarded the manboy, who had blinked in comprehension, at least of one salient detail.
"Spy? Me? Do I look like James Bond? Austin Powers maybe… Look, I just want to go home. Viggo will be rustling up some faithful mustang even as we speak." He felt in his pocket for the brown tube and placed it back in his mouth, though as it had now completely broken in two, it only protruded an inch.
"I cannot let you just leave. Not without knowing who you are and who you serve. Where do your loyalties lie?"
The boy, realising perhaps that the thing in his mouth looked ridiculous, removed it and sighed. "This isn’t happening. I’m going to wake up and smell coffee and Astroglide and know this was all some bad dream," he said, quietly, staring forlornly at the ground. He seemed smaller, somehow, smaller and vulnerable and very young.
When he was a boy in Pella, Alexander had often felt his mother’s arms about him but never his father’s; if he saw other fathers embrace their sons, well, they were not kings and their sons were not princes, and Olympia’s love was, after all, voracious, burning out any remnant that may have fallen to Phillip. Yet still, even now when he was a man and a king, Alexander oft times saw the easy bond between fathers and sons and felt a hollowness that even Hephaestion could not always fill. He found himself now looking to this young man, a stranger in a strange land, and the desire to comfort him became an overwhelming urge until, without knowing he was going to do it, he was on his feet and leaning down, his arms about those slender shoulders…
"I cannot let you leave," he said, softly. "But I give you my word that you will not be harmed while you are under my protection."
The shoulders beneath his hands shook a little and then were still. Alexander looked down onto the top of the bowed head, at the rich brown hair, so sadly mistreated by some imbecile barber, though it smelled pleasant and looked so very soft. He pulled back a little, raised the boy's chin with his hand and smiled in what he hoped was a fatherly and encouraging manner. But the look upon Elij-jah's face killed it. What he felt at that very moment was nothing that a father should feel for his child. It was more akin to that which he felt for Hephaestion but magnified.
Eli-jah was pulling himself up from the chair; his mouth was open as if he might speak but he did not. Instead he put his arms about Alexander's neck and brought their faces together.
The King groaned. This was not the place-
Eli-jah's mouth on his was sweet and soft and knowing. If he were a spy or an assassin with a very well concealed weapon, Alexander was most likely breathing his last. Well, so be it. He closed his eyes and surrendered to the most thorough and pleasurable kiss he had ever experienced. Surely no boy should know how to kiss like this…
Abruptly, he broke free, pulling away and leaving Elij-jah glassy-eyed, a questioning look upon those fine features.
Alexander straightened up, pulled down his chiton which had somehow conspired to ride up on his thighs, and cleared his throat. He held out his hand to Eli-jah. "We are going to my tent," he said, decisively.