Pairing: Alexander/Elijah Wood
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.

The knot of men idling around the tent, necks craning for a better look, had grown the longer Alexander stayed within. The Companions had finally taken matters into hand and had begun to push them back, barking for officers to come restore order. When the flap opened and their King emerged, accompanied by the stranger, there was a sudden push forward and Elijah was knocked off his feet. Instantly, Alexander pulled him back up, turning to glare angrily at the crowd.

"Have you nothing better to do? Is this how we treat our guests?" He placed his arm about Elijah’s shoulders and steered him through the parting throng, towards his own tent.

Cassander and Cleitus watched them go, noting the possessive nature of Alexander’s arm about the boy, and smiling. "It is as well, perhaps, that Hephaestion is not here," Cassander said, quietly.

Cleitus harrumphed and spat on the ground. "I love the King, as well you know – by the gods, I saved his life, didn't I? – but if he's going to fuck that, that -barbarian - over one of his own? Well, it's wrong, I tell you!"

Cassander, too, thought it wrong. He forbore from saying that he also thought the sight would be divine.

Elijah looked about him. He'd left one big tent and now found himself in another. This one was marginally more comfortable, however. It smelled better, too.

No, this wasn't Kansas. It wasn't a movie set, either.

He found, to his mild surprise, that he didn't much care where it was; he should, but he didn't. Something, some indefinable thing, told him that wherever he was, he was safe. Perhaps it was the scent of lavender in the tent, or the clean leather smell that pervaded everything; and perhaps it was the man who stood before him.

Viggo was taller and broader, and Elijah had always enjoyed the feeling of being held by him, pinned by him, covered by him. This man, this golden-haired man, was much shorter than Viggo, on a par with Elijah himself, but he was nevertheless as much a man as Viggo. Elijah experienced a fleeting pang of guilt; yesterday, he'd made love to Viggo on a blanket beneath the stars. Today, he was contemplating making love to this stranger. Yet he'd never told Viggo he loved him, and had never heard those words from him, either. They were good friends who helped each other out.

With this man, Elijah sensed, it would be different.

"I am sorry," Alexander said, turning from Elijah and bowing his head. Elijah frowned and moved toward him, reaching out his hand to Alexander's shoulder.

"Why sorry? I don't understand. Back there, you – there was definitely a connection."

Alexander did not turn but he let the hand lie.

"When I joined you in that kiss, I was – not in my right mind. It was not an honourable thing to do. You are a guest," he replied, sadly.

"And you are lonely and, I think, not so well-versed in the ways of love as you are in those of warfare," Elijah said, closing the space between them. He stood very close, spooned against Alexander's body, allowing him to feel the proof of his feelings.

This was the Alexander. Elijah knew it now. He knew it and it should have been terrifying – he had somehow come back in time and he should be either crapping himself trying to get back, or running around collecting artefacts to take back home. Sean, especially would be very interested in any genuine amphora, ancient texts… Yet he was experiencing neither of these emotions. He didn't care how he'd got here. He didn't care that he might never get back.

"Maybe I'm in a coma," he whispered against Alexander's neck. "In hospital, attached to tubes, some machine keeping me alive. Maybe Dom and Sean and Mom are all sitting by my bed, talking to me, telling me to come home, come back to them. Or maybe," and here he kissed the exposed skin on the King's collarbone, "I'm right where I should be. With you. And maybe it doesn't matter how or why. And I'm older than I look."

He felt Alexander's smile at that, felt his body relax slightly against him. "You smell so good," he murmured, moving from Alexander's collarbone to his neck and to his ear. Still Alexander said nothing, his back to Elijah. "I want this."

At that, the King did turn. He looked Elijah in the eyes as if searching for some irrefutable truth. Then he closed his own and wrapped his arms about Elijah, pulling him in close.

"Who am I to deny you?" he said, just before he covered Elijah's mouth with his own.