one soul abiding in two bodies || self para
The Palace of Nebuchadnezzar II, Babylon – June, 323 B.C.
The evening was red.
The sun had hit the palace of Babylon like fire to a hill, erupting the walls in a flame color as it bounced along the different shades of paint that hued each marble. Vitalis could hear them. Deep within the walls of a palace that used to belong to King Nebuchadnezzar II, they begged Alexander not to give in to Hades. They fought – asking him to place his ring in one of their hands; asking him to decide who his heir would be. Alexander had no heirs – they were being assassinated before they could turn even ten years old. His many wives were seen as unnecessary, and there was no more life spread across the kingdom that was supposed to hold the greatest empire of all time. No, it was dying with the boy, only the age of thirty two, within the walls of the palace.
Eight months before, Vitalis had said goodbye to his King, his best friend, the love of his life. The faerie had been wounded – a small iron knife shoved through his side like he had been made of nothing but paper. Death was easiest to fake. Healing would’ve been nothing short of a miracle from the gods, and he’d been “buried” in a tomb that Alexander had created himself. A tomb fit for a king – a king named Hephaestion. Vitalis had never been worthy of that – not even when Alexander had proclaimed him a divine hero. However, he’d seen Alexander’s grief. The king wouldn’t have had it any other way. He’d proclaimed once, to a queen who’d mistakenly bowed to Vitalis, thinking he was the Alexander the Great, “You were not mistaken…this man too is Alexander.” And those words became a promise.
The memory felt more like a burden than anything else to Vitalis. He felt like a ghost, staring ahead as he made his way through the palace, invisible to those around him. It’d taken him a while to actually master this form of glamour, and still, and at age one hundred and twenty six, it was only just manageable. The sight that greeted him would haunt him for the centuries to come. His Alexander, poisoned and bed ridden, surrounded by nobles who were pleading him to tell them what he wished to do with the greatest empire ever created. Vitalis had waited, whispering words to the servants who had finally cleared the room. All that remained was the fae and the golden haired king.
Appearing before Alexander, Vitalis felt his heartbeat quicken. He’d watched eyes land on him, one blue and one brown, and recognition slowly appear on the other’s face.
“Vitalis.”
The name felt like a victory, and Vitalis had no control as he’d hit his knees beside the bed, his fingers intertwining with Alexander’s as he tried to stop his shaking.
“Are you to lead me to the gates of Olympus, Hephaestion?”
Vitalis found words far too difficult, tears stinging his hazel eyes as he fought for some kind of affirmation. “The world never deserved you, love. Elysium would never be enough. The land of the gods will be yours,” he promised softly, the faerie’s voice easily cracking as he found most of his strength gone.
For eight months he’d been searching for something. Every faerie he’d found that was old and wise had told him he was a fool. A young fool who believed that he could have a mortal cheat death. There was nothing to save him. Xanthos would be destined to live eternity without the man he loved, nothing but a thought and a story archaeologists and historians would remember. Nothing they would ever fully appreciate because they did not live it. He’d heard whispers of witchcraft, a magic that was similar to those of the faeries, even a dark promise of immortality from their own blood, but nothing that had the power to bring back life. Not even his own healing magic could stop the poison that ran through Alexander’s body. The men that did this would pay.
“My world was with you.” Those were the last words Vitalis heard from the other, the grip going slack in his and those mismatching eyes closing.
Vitalis had felt his heart shatter that day. He was young enough to carry on, but old enough to be no stranger to the effects of grief. He’d held the ring Alexander had given him in his other hand, sliding it on his finger despite the fact that his body was trembling. He was young, and grief seemed too unfamiliar for him to handle. The faerie would never forgive or forget. The ring hadn’t left his fingers since, protected by magic that was as ancient as the gold ring itself. He would be vengeance, he would be Alexander now. Those who had done this would be struck down by the air fae who carried his grief like a sword.
His pain was raw, and two thousand three hundred and forty years later, he’d yet to forget. Yet Xander, finding another faerie to pour his devotion into, felt that same ounce of devotion that he’d felt all those years ago. There would be no one to take the man he loved from him again, and if he had to burn the city to the ground and flee to the faerielands, then so be it.
