⸻ The Lost Queen - XXIX ⸻
— summary: You woke up near a military camp without remembering how and why you got there, you didn’t understand why they were dressed like ancient Greeks, all you knew was that you weren’t safe and you needed to get out of that place as soon as possible. Too bad for you that you found yourself attracting unwanted attention from the Macedonian King and he won’t let you go so easily.
— genre: yandere, dark!au.
— warnings: time travel, obsessive and possessive behavior, murder, mention of torture, kidnapping, angst, fluffy (very rarely), dub-con, eventual smut, pregnancy.
— word count: 7,257.
— tag list: @devils-blackrose, @faerykingdom, @hadesnewpersephone, @mariaelizabeth21-blog1 , @kadu-5607, @zoleea-exultant, @borntoexplore11-blog, @elvinapandra, @jennifer0305 , @his0kaswife, @animetye-23, @leathesimp, @dostoevsskij, @meheheasasa, @jsprien213, @lammys-thinking, @cheriecelestial, @garfi3ldrulz, @uhkaey, @prettyjay103, @pedropascalbabygirl, @bbmgirll, @sadsaidthesadthing, @pearlstiare, @lilacnavi, @mimideeznutsinyomouth, @momoko-world.
—the lost queen series masterlist.
"I don't know if a baby shower is a good idea, May," You murmured, throwing your head slightly back on the sofa, watching your best friend gesture with exaggerated enthusiasm.
The idea had come about completely casually, in the middle of what should have been a quiet, comfortable, and unpretentious evening. A movie night, blankets scattered around the room, too many pillows for the number of people present, Mays fault alone, and a bowl of popcorn that seemed to empty itself.
Since Perdiccas had never seen a movie before, for obvious reasons, May had taken it upon herself to "culturally educate" him. According to her, it was simply unacceptable for anyone to exist without knowing the greatest classics of humanity, defined entirely by her biased, exaggerated, and anything but modest tastes.
And that’s how you ended up watching "The Mummy" (1999). You were in the middle of the movie, when the Mummy, Imhotep, was still killing the hunters to regain his form.
Perdiccas sat in a nearby armchair, his body too stiff for someone who was theoretically supposed to be relaxing. His eyes, however, were completely glued to the screen. He clearly didn't understand half of what was happening. The modern Greek subtitles didn't help much; there were glaring differences from the ancient Greek he knew, but still, he grasped enough to be fascinated.
Explosions, mystery, ancient gods, curses, the undead... It spoke directly to something inside him. At several points, he leaned forward, as if he were watching a sacred ritual instead of a movie.
May, noticing his almost reverential state, playfully rolled her eyes and then turned to you, nudging your arm with her elbow.
"Of course it's a good idea!" She insisted, with that decisive tone that usually meant the discussion was already lost. "Look, we barely had time to... Plan things for my nephews, you know? And soon they'll be born and—"
You interrupted her with a low, tired, but genuine laugh, automatically placing your hand on your already quite visible belly.
"May... I'm only seven months along."
She made a dismissive sound, as if you'd just said something completely irrelevant.
"But I read that twins can be born prematurely!" She replied quickly, pointing her finger in the air as if citing an irrefutable academic source. "We have to take advantage before you have two parasites clinging to you twenty-four hours a day!"
The silence lasted only a second.
"Parasites?" You repeated, arching an eyebrow with feigned indignation, while a subtle smile formed on your lips.
Your hand slid across your belly almost protectively, and you felt a slight movement under your skin, a silent reminder that, despite everything, they were already there. Alive. Present. Real.
May smiled broadly, completely guilt-free.
"Adorable parasites," She corrected quickly. "And my parasitic nephews, technically."
Perdiccas, who until then had remained too engrossed in the film to pay attention to the conversation, cast a confused glance at the two of you, clearly trying to understand why that word had provoked such soft laughter and why, suddenly, that simple evening seemed charged with something strangely precious.
"(Y/N)… Is that possible?" Perdiccas asked, his voice heavy with genuine bewilderment, without taking his eyes off the screen. "Do the gods allow these mummies to be brought back? How did you manage to do that?"
He seemed genuinely disturbed by the scene. His body had leaned forward, his elbows resting on his knees, his brow deeply furrowed as he tried to reconcile it all with the world he knew. For him, this wasn't just entertainment; it was a jumble of theological heresies, suspicious magic, and completely absurd concepts presented with alarming naturalness.
It was extremely difficult to suppress the urge to laugh.
You lightly bit the inside of your cheek, looking away for a second, while your shoulders threatened to tremble. May noticed immediately and put her hand to her mouth, trying to stifle her own laughter before it escaped too loudly.
She didn't understand anything, but she quickly realized that Perdiccas was probably asking questions that, to any modern person, would sound ridiculous. And she enjoyed it every time.
Take a deep breath, you thought to yourself.
With all the patience you normally reserved for explaining group projects or poorly done presentations, you turned to Perdiccas, adopting a careful, almost didactic tone, the same you would use to analyze an ancient piece in an elementary school art class.
"No… It's not quite like that," you began, choosing your words carefully. "This isn't something that actually happened. It's just a story."
"A… Story?" He repeated, clearly trying to understand.
"Yes." You nodded, making a small gesture with your hand, as if organizing ideas in the air. "A movie. People create these narratives using ancient myths, mix them with things that never really existed and… Turn it all into entertainment."
Perdiccas tilted his head to the side, still suspicious.
"So there are no real rituals? No divine punishments?" He insisted. "Shouldn't these dead remain in the underworld?"
"They should," You replied quickly, suppressing a smile. "And they do. This is all just imagination. Special effects. Tricks."
He was silent for a few seconds, observing the screen again with renewed attention, as if now trying to identify exactly where reality ended and invention began.
"You are… Very daring." He concluded finally. "To play with the gods like this."
You just smiled, shaking your head, while you thought that explaining modern cinema to an ancient general was definitely not in your plans, but, strangely, that confusion made the night even more special.
Suddenly, the intercom began to ring.
The sound cut through the room abruptly, too loud in the middle of that quiet night, and made your whole body stiffen. You frowned immediately, your heart racing before any rational thought could even form.
You weren't expecting anyone.
For a moment, you tried to convince yourself it could be something harmless, a mistake, a delivery to the wrong address, anything ordinary. But the last few months had been too cruel to allow for naiveté. You had learned, the hard way, that you shouldn't trust even your own shadow.
The movie continued playing on the television, but no one else was paying attention.
May was the first to look at you, her smile slowly fading. Perdiccas also turned, alert, his senses clearly on high alert, as if the mere sound of the intercom was reason enough for suspicion. The two exchanged silent glances and then looked back at you.
You forced a soft smile, more to reassure them than because you actually felt calm.
"Excuse me." You said softly, already carefully standing up because of your heavy belly.
Each step to the intercom felt too heavy. You took a deep breath before answering, as if you needed to prepare yourself for whatever was on the other end.
"Yes?" You asked, trying to keep your voice steady.
The doorman's voice came through the intercom, neutral, oblivious to the turmoil that was beginning to form inside you.
“Good evening... There's a young man downstairs asking if he can come up. His name is Aslan."
Your world stopped for a second.
Your eyes widened involuntarily, and you felt your mouth go dry, as if all the air had been ripped from your lungs. The name echoed in your mind with an almost physical weight.
You closed your eyes for a brief moment, breathing deeply, trying to organize your thoughts that were rushing by. A thousand possibilities passed through your head, none of them truly certain.
You weighed your options even though you knew, deep down, that they were illusory.
Saying "no" wasn't an option. It had never worked for him.
If you refused, he would come in anyway. With words, with magic, with power, or with something worse, something you didn't even fully understand. Resisting would only make everything more dangerous. For you. For May. For… Perdiccas. For the babies.
It was better to let him come up quickly.
At least that way, you would maintain some control of the situation. Or his illusion.
"Let him come up," You finally replied, your voice firmer than you felt. "I authorize it."
There was a brief confirmation from the other side, and then the intercom went silent.
You stood there for a few seconds, the device still in your hand, feeling the weight of the decision settle on your shoulders. When you turned to go back into the room, your face was calm, but inside, everything screamed.
Knocks were heard and you took a deep breath, going to the door to open it.
As soon as your fingers touched the doorknob, a sudden unease spread through your body. It was as if the air around you had become heavier, difficult to breathe. Your stomach churned, a shiver slowly running up your spine. Still, you turned the doorknob.
He watched you with a smile that didn't reach his eyes. There was something different about them, darker, deeper, as if they reflected something ancient and dangerous, reminiscent of Hades himself staring at the living. His black hair seemed longer than the last time you saw him, the curls falling unruly, almost covering one eye. Despite the calculated smile on his lips, his jaw was rigid, clenched, betraying a contained irritation.
"It's always a pleasure to see you, my dear," Aslan said, his voice too soft to be honest.
His gaze slowly drifted down to your belly, lingering there a second longer than it should have.
You didn't answer immediately. Your body reacted without you thinking, you took a step to the side, automatically, making space. Aslan entered without haste, as if the apartment already belonged to him. He observed the surroundings with a clearly feigned curiosity, his eyes wandering over the furniture, the walls, like a predator assessing territory.
You closed the door behind you.
The sound of the wood meeting the frame was soft, and yet, it sounded too loud. Too definitive. A silent warning, an unsettling premonition, as if something irreversible had just happened at that instant.
"Why are you here?" You finally asked, your voice firmer than you felt.
Aslan turned slowly, his smile widening even more. Now his white, perfectly aligned teeth were visible, contrasting disturbingly with the darkness of his gaze.
"I missed you," He replied, shrugging, as if he were talking about something trivial. Then he winked at you. You rolled your eyes, crossing your arms over your chest, trying to create some kind of barrier even though you knew it meant nothing to him.
"Can you get to the point?" You retorted. "It's movie night, you know?"
Aslan's smile didn’t fade.
He took a step toward you.
Until Aslan was so close you could feel the warmth of his body, the personal space completely ignored, erased, as if it had never existed. Your heart raced involuntarily, and you had to restrain yourself from recoiling. Something was wrong there. There always was.
A heavy feeling of unease settled in your chest. It wasn’t just physical proximity, it was as if the air around him was charged, dense, vibrating with something invisible. Magic, perhaps. You didn't doubt it for a second.
Aslan tilted his head slightly, breathing deeply, as if savoring the moment.
"The weather's nice today, isn't it?" He commented, in an almost too casual tone. "It's not cold, but it's not exactly hot either." He sighed heavily, theatrically, as if he were on stage in an old play. "Perfect for staying home, under the covers, watching a movie."
You couldn't tell if you were more annoyed by the fact that he kept stalling or by the blatant invasion of your space. Probably both.
"Do you want me to invite you to see the movie?" You asked, raising an eyebrow, sarcasm dripping from every word. "We're watching The Mummy, but maybe Perdiccas won't like your company… And May, well, she doesn't like you."
You and Perdiccas had already talked about Aslan. It didn't take long to realize that the almost false courtesy he extended to you didn't apply to Perdiccas. Not even close. The simple fact that Perdiccas didn't speak your language seemed enough to make him irrelevant in Aslan's eyes.
The idea sent an uncomfortable shiver down your spine.
Maybe you were too. The difference was that Aslan treated you like a child treats their favorite toy; there was care, zeal, even a certain possessiveness… But toys get boring. Sooner or later, they are left behind.
It was only a matter of time. At least, that's what you believed.
Aslan let out a low, hoarse laugh. His smile widened even further, if that was possible. On anyone else, that expression would be frightening. On him, it seemed simply… Fitting. As if that smile had been made for the face that wore it.
"I've seen this movie before," He said. "It's interesting." There was a brief, calculated pause. "It makes me think…"
He leaned in a little closer, his voice lowering, dangerous.
"Should I have sent you to some pharaoh?" He continued, with a strange glint in his eye. "Or do you still prefer Alexander?"
Your breath hitched for a moment, becoming heavier, more irregular, and you knew, in that moment, that this conversation was far from just teasing.
"(Y/N)?" May's voice sounded behind you, hesitant, cautious. You heard her footsteps approaching. "Who is this?’"
Aslan turned his face slowly toward her. The smile remained, too polite, too rehearsed, but there was something different in his gaze. It wasn’t fear; Aslan feared no one. It was avaliation. Cold, calculated. As if he were measuring May not as a person, but as a possibility. As an obstacle. As something that might or might not be useful.
That made something inside you snap.
"You came here just for this?" You asked, your voice low, compressed with contained anger. Each word seemed to scrape against your throat.
Aslan looked away from May and back at her, as if her presence had ceased to matter the instant you spoke.
"No," He replied calmly. "I came to take you back."
Your heart leaped violently in your chest, so hard it hurt. The air seemed to suddenly thin. Your mouth went dry, and for a moment you were sure you hadn’t heard right, that those words couldn’t mean what they seemed to mean.
"Wh… What?" Your voice came out weak, almost a whisper.
Aslan shoved his hands into his coat pockets, too casual for someone who had just turned your world upside down.
"Don't you miss the luxury, my dear?" He asked, as if talking about the weather or the movie on TV. "The jewels adorning you. The clothes worth more than any of those modern brands." His gaze dropped briefly, assessing. "Don't you miss being called, and treated, like a Queen?"
The words hit you like blades.
Not because they were false. But because they were true.
The thought came automatically, cruel, impossible to deny. You still preferred the 21st century; it was safer, more predictable, you had access to things you would never give up. But the past… The past had shaped you. You had grown accustomed to it.
Your room in Babylon had been majestic, spacious, bathed in golden light. Every detail reflected you. Compared to it, your apartment seemed small, simple, almost too empty. Bland.
You loved your sweatshirts, your baggy clothes, the comfort of not being watched all the time. But you also missed the elaborate dresses, the fine fabrics gliding over your skin, the familiar weight of a well-fitted Greek chiton. You missed being someone the world recognized even before you spoke.
And that was what hurt the most.
He always knew exactly where to touch. He always knew.
"Don't you miss Alexander?" Aslan asked suddenly.
The name fell between you like something heavy, almost solid. There was a barely disguised resentment in his voice, a slight twitch in his lips, a dark glint in his eyes. It wasn't ordinary jealousy; it was something older, deeper, like a rivalry that never needed to be spoken aloud. "He misses you terribly."
"I barely spent any time with him," You replied firmly, despite the growing tightness in your chest. Your voice came out too controlled, as if any crack could betray you. "We didn't have time. Not really. Because you ordered Perdiccas to kidnap me."
For a brief moment, something crossed Aslan's face, not regret, never that, but a kind of indulgent boredom. He let out a low, almost amused laugh and shrugged, as if he were talking about a minor inconvenience.
"Everything has its purpose, my dear," He said with unsettling tranquility. "You'll understand. You always understand… In the end."
"I don't want to go back." The words escaped before you could soften them. Your hands clenched tightly, your fingers intertwined almost to the point of pain. "I'm not going back."
Before Aslan could answer, you felt a firm, careful touch on your arm. May approached and, without saying anything, gently pulled you back, positioning herself in front of you like an improvised shield. The gesture was instinctive, protective, too human in the face of someone like him.
"That's—" May began, her voice heavy with disbelief.
"Aslan," He interrupted her coldly. "May."
The shiver that ran down her spine was immediate. It wasn't just the fact that he knew her name, it was the naturalness with which he pronounced it, as if May had already been cataloged, foreseen, known for a long time.
May's clear eyes widened for a full second. Her mouth opened, forming a small, silent "O" before she took a deep breath.
"So you're Aslan." She murmured, almost to herself.
His smile widened, satisfied. "You've heard of me?"
"Quite a bit." May crossed her arms, standing firmly in front of him, even with the evident tension in her shoulders. "And it wasn't good."
"What a shame." Aslan sighed, as if genuinely bored by the criticism, and finally took his hands out of his pockets. The simple gesture made the air seem heavier. "You're interrupting our conversation, you know?"
He tilted his head slightly, observing the two of you with an almost cruel calm.
"But it's alright," Aslan continued. "It'ss good that you have this moment." His eyes returned to you, intense, possessive. "Enjoy the farewell."
A slow smile appeared on her lips.
"Perhaps this is the last time you'll see each other."
May stood still for a second after those words.
The idea of farewell hung in the air like something too heavy to ignore. You felt the immediate grip on her hand, her fingers firm, determined, a small gesture, but laden with a clear message: I won't let her go.
"You speak as if it's already decided," May replied, her voice firm despite her clearly racing heart. "She said she doesn't want to come back. That should be enough. No means no."
Aslan tilted his head slightly, like someone watching a child insist on something impossible. His smile didn't waver, but his eyes darkened even more.
"'Will' is a curious concept," He said calmly. "Especially when confronted with destiny."
You felt anger bubbling beneath your skin.
"Don't use that word with me." You snapped. "Destiny doesn't give you the right to play with people's lives. With my life."
For a moment, just one, something crossed Aslan’s face. Not regret. Not guilt. Something closer to… Irritation.
"Play?" He stepped forward, and May immediately positioned herself more firmly between you. "You were created, molded, prepared for that world. For it. Alexander is falling apart without you."
"And that’s my problem?" You replied, your voice faltering at the end despite the effort. "I didn't ask to be ripped from here and thrown there. I didn't ask to be queen, or a symbol, or a piece in a game I didn't choose to play."
Aslan was silent for a few seconds. The apartment seemed too small to contain that presence. Even the distant sound of the TV, forgotten in the living room, sounded out of place.
"Even so," He said finally, more quietly, "you miss him."
Because that was the cruelest part; he didn't need to guess. He knew.
You closed your eyes for a brief moment, feeling May's hand tighten around yours, like an anchor keeping you there, in the present.
"Missing someone doesn't mean belonging," You replied. "And it doesn't mean I'll sacrifice everything, including my children, to fulfill what you call purpose."
Aslan's smile finally faded.
That… Caught his attention.
"Careful, my dear," He said, now serious. "You're talking about forces that don't care about human choices."
You opened your eyes and looked at him, your heart racing, but your voice firm.
"Then perhaps it's time for them to learn."
The silence that followed was dense, heavy, almost palpable, as if the air in the apartment had become too thick to breathe. The distant sound of the film still echoed from the room, a soundtrack completely detached from the reality that was unfolding there.
Aslan tilted his head slightly, his smile fading for a brief moment as he noticed a new presence. His dark gaze slid to Perdiccas, who had appeared behind you without you realizing it. The general seemed tense, his body rigid, like a soldier ready for an attack he knew, deep down, he couldn't win.
"Hm." Aslan frowned, not irritated, but slightly disappointed, like someone whose perfect plan had suffered a slight delay. "I really wanted this to be… Pleasant," He said, his voice low, almost intimate. "Truly."
He sighed, long and theatrical, as if tired of it all. "But fate waits for no one."
What happened next was too fast to be processed rationally.
A dry sound escaped her throat as she clutched her neck, her eyes wide with pure panic. Perdiccas fell to his knees almost simultaneously, a muffled groan escaping as he clutched his own throat, as if something invisible were squeezing with relentless force. There were no hands. No ropes. Only the cruel and inescapable pressure.
"May!" Your cry came out torn, desperate, as you took a step forward, but Aslan’s gaze paralyzed you in place.
They were writhing on the ground now, gasping for air where there was none. May's face was beginning to flush, tears welling in the corners of her eyes. Perdiccas gnashed his teeth, his battle-trained body reduced to the most human of frailties.
Aslan watched everything with a disturbing calm.
"If you want me to stop," He said, in an almost gentle tone, as if offering a trivial choice, "if you want them to live… You come with me."
He took a few slow steps toward you, each movement calculated.
"Well,"He corrected himself, with a half-smile, "you'll come anyway. But I prefer it when you come willingly."
His eyes softened as they landed on you, a cruel contradiction given the scene behind him.
"I hate conflict between us, (Y/N)." His voice lowered, laden with something that could almost sound like affection. "Truly."
The world seemed to spin.
Your ears rang, your heart pounded so hard it ached. Each passing second felt like an eternity, and the choice before you wasn't a choice at all.
And there was no choice for you. There never had been.
From the moment Aslan crossed that door, from long before that, perhaps from the instant your name began to exist in the invisible threads of destiny, everything was already decided.
You would never let May die. Never. Not even if it cost you everything you had, everything you were. And Perdiccas… Despite the pain, the resentment, the kidnapping, the fear, you wouldn't allow him to die either. Not like that. Not suffocated, on the ground, reduced to nothing by a force he couldn't fight. It wasn't a death worthy of the loyal general he once was.
Your chest burned, your eyes stinged, but you didn't cry. Not yet.
It wasn't a wide or exaggerated smile, it was small, satisfied, almost tender. As if he had, in fact, read her every thought, every line of despair written on her face.
"Good choice," He murmured, extending his hand.
Your heart felt like it was going to burst out of your throat as you stared at it. That hand had already shaped empires, destroyed lives, bent lesser gods to its will. Accepting it was crossing a line from which there might be no return.
Still, you held it. For them.
His fingers were too warm. Firm. Definitive.
For a brief moment, nothing happened.
Then, behind you, the sound changed.
The desperate gasp ceased. Air finally filled May's lungs again, and she fell sideways to the ground, coughing, gasping for oxygen as if it were the most precious thing in the world. Perdiccas took a deep breath, his chest rising and falling unevenly, his eyes closed as he struggled to compose himself.
The relief was so intense it almost made you fall to your knees.
"Aslan—" You tried to say, but the word died before it could form.
The pressure came without warning.
It wasn't exactly pain, it was as if the world had been ripped from under her feet. The apartment, the smell of popcorn, the distant sound of the movie, May's terrified face… Everything began to dissolve, to drain away like ink in water.
Your last thought was the cruelest of all.
Maybe this was the last time you would see them.
Then, everything went black.
The noise of generals shouting orders, soldiers marching in irregular cadence, and horses neighing formed a familiar, almost comforting cacophony, something Alexander had learned to ignore from a very young age. From the time he was just a restless boy, watching the training in the courtyard and dreaming of the day he would be king, when he would set foot on lands no Macedonian had dared to conquer.
Now, that day had long since arrived.
Greater than his father had ever been.
And yet, as he rode Bucephalus, he felt only a deep emptiness, a silent hole in his chest that not even the clamor of an entire army could fill.
The hot wind lashed his face, carrying with it the smell of dust, sweat, and metal. Persepolis loomed only as a distant promise on the horizon, the last great stop before India, before the end of the known world. The scouts had been clear: only a few days separated them from the city. Just a few days until the next historical milestone. Just a few days until the next abyss.
Alexander felt it in the averted glances of the generals, in the muffled conversations around the campfires, in the heavy silence that fell whenever India was mentioned. Experienced soldiers, men who had faced countless armies, war monsters, and powerful kings, now showed fear in the face of stories, giant elephants, endless armies, strange lands ruled by gods they didn't know.
Or perhaps he did, but in a different way.
He knew that no one was happy with his decision. He knew that Parmenion considered it madness, that Hephaestion was cautious, that Cleitus saw it as blind pride, that many believed he was taking the army too far, to a place from which they might not return. He knew all of this.
Because, for him, that march wasn't just a military campaign. It wasn't just another name to be crossed off the map, another land to kneel before him.
A tenuous thread that still kept him standing.
Alexander lightly tightened the reins of Bucephalus, the horse responding with immediate obedience, as it always had. The animal was strong, loyal, always would be. Even so, Alexander felt strangely alone up there, surrounded by thousands and, at the same time, isolated from everyone.
Of how each step eastward was, at the same time, an escape and a desperate search. If fate was cruel enough to take him to the ends of the earth without returning her… Then so be it. Let it all end there, in the lands where maps dissolved into myths.
But if there were any chance, however small, that this path would bring him closer to her...
Alexander straightened his posture, his gaze firm, almost hard.
And the whole world could crumble beneath his feet, he would still move forward.
The attack came without warning.
They weren't organized Persians, nor enemy armies marching with raised banners. They were like shadows, emerging from the mountains like ghosts, swift and brutal, attacking the army's flanks with enough precision to inflict damage and then disappearing, swallowed up again by the rocks and ravines.
Bandits. Or something behaving like them.
Alexander realized this in the very first confrontation, and the realization only worsened his already terrible mood. This wasn't part of his plan. He wasn't marching towards Persepolis to waste men, time, and energy on a tribe that attacked like highway robbers. The objective was clear: reach the city, gather supplies, reorganize the troops, and then continue on to India.
None of that included constant ambushes from the mountains.
With each new attack, his patience, which had always been short, dwindled even further.
In one of them, Alexander had been hit. Not seriously, but enough to bleed, enough to leave a painful scar on his chest, a burning reminder that he had been wounded by enemies who didn't even have the courage to face him head-on. Every time the fabric of the armor brushed against his sensitive skin, the anger bubbled up again.
It wasn't just physical pain. It was humiliation.
The meeting with the generals was brief, tense, and anything but productive.
The air inside the tent felt too heavy, laden with frustration and overlapping voices. Each one had a different solution, and none seemed to satisfy Alexander. He remained silent, arms crossed, his hard gaze sweeping over each face as if assessing which one would be the next to lose their patience.
"We should just kill them all at once!" Cassander was the first to explode, his voice too loud for a war council. His face was red with irritation, his fists clenched. "These attacks are an affront!"
Hephaestion stood beside Alexander, as always. Even he, normally the most level-headed, the most capable of keeping his cool, seemed tense. His eyes occasionally drifted to his friend's wound, and this only increased his own irritation. He didn't like seeing Alexander hurt, much less by cowardly enemies.
"I agree we need to put an end to this," Ptolemy interjected, trying to bring some sense to the discussion. His tone was more controlled, but firm. "But we need to be smarter. They know the terrain better than we do. A blind attack would only make us lose more men."
"Or we can simply cut off their heads!" Cassander retorted, even more agitated; violence was the only language he knew.
The tent erupted in voices. Crossed arguments, contradictory orders, pure frustration.
Alexander grabbed the nearest jar and hurled it forcefully at the group. The object passed dangerously close to Ptolemy's forehead before shattering against the ground, scattering liquid and shards everywhere.
Silence fell immediately.
All the generals froze, their gazes fixed on Alexander. The anger on his face was palpable, almost physical, his clear eyes burning like fire held back at great cost.
No one dared say anything more. Alexander breathed heavily, his chest rising and falling beneath his armor, the pain of his scar throbbing like a warning. It wasn't just that tribe that irritated him, it was everything. The delay. The resistance. The feeling that the whole world was conspiring to hold him back when he was already at his limit.
The silence that followed was immediate and absolute.
And in that forced silence, it became clear to everyone there;
Alexander's patience was running out. And everyone could pay for it.
The jug shattered against the floor with a dry sound, the wine spilling like diluted blood between the stones. Ptolemy barely had time to react, only taking a step back, his eyes wide. No one said a word. Not even Cassander.
Alexander was standing now.
His chest rose and fell unevenly, his breathing too heavy for someone who had just fought for days on end. The bandage under his tunic pressed against the recent wound, and the pain pulsed in sync with the rage that burned through his veins. The scar stung like an insult, not only to his body, but to what he represented.
"Enough." His voice came out low but sharp, laden with a contained fury that was even more terrifying than screams. "Enough of screaming like children seeking revenge because they were humiliated."
He walked slowly through the tent, his gaze passing over each general, one by one. None dared to hold his gaze for long.
"They are not an army," He continued. "They are not Persians, they are not kings, they are not worthy of glorious battles." His jaw clenched. "They are shadows. And shadows are not confronted with brute force."
Cassander opened his mouth, but closed it instantly upon feeling Alexander's penetrating gaze.
"If we kill them all blindly," Alexander continued, "they'll scatter. If they scatter, they'Ll come back. They'll attack our supply lines, wound our men, wear us down.” He slammed his hand on the table. "That's what they want."
Hephaestion stepped forward cautiously. "So what do you suggest?"
For a brief moment, Alexander didn't answer.
Her image came, as it always did when anger threatened to overflow. The emptiness in his chest mingled with the physical pain, and for a second he wondered if this, this endless war, this road to India, wasn’t just another form of punishment.
When he opened his eyes, there was something different there. Not less anger. But focus.
"Let's hunt them down," He said finally. "Not like an army. Like they do."
The generals exchanged glances.
"We will divide the troops into small detachments," Alexander continued. "Swift. Silent. We will cut off their escape routes, seize the mountains, suffocate every hiding place." He inclined his head slightly. "They think they are invisible. We will show them what happens when someone dares to harm a king."
Hephaestion nodded slowly. Ptolemy seemed thoughtful. Even Cassander, still red with rage, remained silent.
Alexander turned, resting his hands on the table, feeling the wound protest beneath the movement. The pain kept him grounded, present.
"I didn't ask for this fight," He said, now in a lower, almost weary tone. "But since it was imposed upon us… It ends here."
Outside the tent, the mountain wind howled, carrying dust and promises of more blood and more difficult decisions. Alexander took a deep breath, straightened his shoulders, and donned the conqueror’s mask again.
Inside, however, the anger still boiled, not only for the attacks, but for everything he had lost, for everything he had not yet found.
The attack began before dawn.
The mist still clung to the mountain slopes when the Macedonian detachments moved, silent as shadows learning to mimic other shadows. There were no trumpets, no war cries. Only calculated steps, held breaths, and the occasional creaking of leather and metal muffled by cloth.
Alexander led one of the groups.
The pain in his chest insisted on reminding him of his wound with every sudden movement, but he ignored it with the same stubbornness with which he ignored the fatigue, hunger, and fear of the men. Bucephalus had stayed behind. Here, in the mountains, a king needed to walk like any other soldier.
The bandits hadn't expected that.
Accustomed to attacking slow columns and disappearing into narrow trails, they trusted too much in the terrain they had known since childhood. They didn't notice when the escape routes began to be taken. They didn't hear when small groups of Macedonians positioned themselves above them, between rocks and ravines, closing the encirclement little by little.
The first sign that something was wrong was the silence.
No patrol returned. No scout appeared to warn them. Just a strange weight in the air, as if the mountains were holding their breath.
It wasn't a frontal advance. It was quick, precise, almost surgical. The Macedonians emerged from unlikely places, cutting paths, blocking passages, pushing the bandits back into their own hiding places. The advantage of the terrain became a trap.
Alexander advanced with his closest men, sword firm in hand, his gaze cold. Each movement was economical, with no room for hesitation. He didn't shout orders; he gestured, pointed, commanded with his whole body. His soldiers responded immediately.
It was exactly as he had said.
The bandits tried to react, confused, disorganized. Some dropped their weapons and ran. Others fought desperately, realizing too late that they were no longer dealing with a weary army, but with a wounded predator and, therefore, even more dangerous.
At a higher point, Alexander paused for a moment, observing the unfolding attack below. The cold mountain wind cut his face, bringing with it the smell of dust and tension. He felt the bandage press against the wound as he took a deep breath, and the pain came strong enough to make him clench his teeth.
The pain kept him focused.
Hephaestion appeared beside him shortly after, his gaze attentive, his sword still lowered, but ready. "It’s working." He said in a low, almost incredulous tone.
Alexander nodded once. His eyes remained fixed on the terrain ahead.
"It will continue to work," He replied. "Until they learn."
Or until there is no one left to learn.
As the sun began to rise in the sky, casting light on the previously hidden slopes, there was nowhere left to run. The mountains, which had once protected the attackers, now betrayed them.
Alexander descended among the men, his presence imposing immediate order. The noise of battle diminished, replaced by a tense stillness, broken only by heavy breaths and the distant sound of the wind.
He stopped, feeling the weight of what he had just done, not glory, not triumph. Only necessity.
His gaze lingered for a second on the horizon, beyond the mountains, beyond Persepolis, beyond India.
The anger was still there. The melancholy too. But, for now, there was something stronger: the certainty that he would move forward, forcing his way through if necessary.
Because nothing, not bandits, not mountains, not even fate itself, would stop him from advancing.
The outcome came without ceremony.
The men who had wielded weapons were executed. There were no speeches, no lengthy trials, just the cold application of an ancient law, as old as the wars Alexander waged. For those who attacked, who wounded and killed, there was no room for mercy.
The women were separated afterward.
It was nothing new. None of the generals looked away, no soldier seemed surprised. They would be taken away, sold into slavery. That's how the world worked. That's how it had always worked. A cruel, impersonal machine that kept turning regardless of who was in power.
Alexander watched everything from a distance.
There was no satisfaction on his face. No pleasure. Only a deep weariness that seemed to seep into his bones. Victory brought him no relief, no peace, only the bitter confirmation that, to advance, he needed to continue becoming what the world demanded.
A man who made decisions he couldn't afford to run from.
He turned his face away as the screams began to mingle with the mountain wind. Not out of enough pity to change the course of things, but because each sound was another weight added to the burden he already carried.
For a brief, dangerous moment, he thought of her.
Of how she would react to this.
Of how her eyes would harden or break.
Alexander clenched his jaw and stepped back.
He couldn't afford to hesitate now. Not when Persepolis lay ahead. Not when India awaited him as a final challenge. Not when all that remained was to keep moving forward, even if the path was paved with choices he could never undo.
And that's how it would always be, he told himself.
When Alexander pushed aside the tent canvas and stepped inside, the familiar scent of leather, faint incense, and metal immediately enveloped him. There were sounds inside, a slight rustling, almost imperceptible, like fabric shifting or someone changing position.
"Not now," He murmured, his voice rough with weariness and irritation. "Get out."
He didn't wait for a reply. He walked to the table, dropped his sword with a dull thud, and began to unfasten the straps of his armor, each movement slow and heavy. All he wanted was water, wine and silence. Nothing more.
It was only when he turned, searching for the basin to wash himself, that he saw her.
Not as a memory. Not as a ghost summoned by exhaustion or guilt. Not as a cruel vision from his weary mind that had so often deceived him during sleepless nights.
For a second that was far too long, Alexander didn't breathe. Her whole body remained still, as if any movement could make her disappear. His eyes scanned every detail with an almost painful attention, the face he knew better than any map, the way the light touched her skin, the specific way she stood, too real to be a dream.
His heart pounded so hard it hurt.
"No…" The word escaped his lips in a hoarse, incredulous whisper. "It's not possible."
His hand trembled as he tried to rest her on the table. The pain in his chest, from the wound, the scar, the absence, merged into one. He had seen this before. He had believed it before. In dreams, in delusions, in moments when longing broke him from the inside.
Never with the heavy air shifting around them.
Never with the silence becoming so absolute.
Never with that devastating feeling that, if he blinked, he would lose everything again.
"If this is another trick of the gods…" He swallowed hard, his voice faltering despite all the strength he usually possessed. "I swear that—"
He took a step forward, then another, as if approaching something sacred and dangerous at the same time. His eyes were wide, red with exhaustion and suppressed emotion, the expression of a man who had conquered the entire world and yet was on the verge of falling apart.
"You…" The word died before becoming a sentence. Her name was stuck in his throat, too heavy to come out.
Alexander stopped a few steps from her.
His knees threatened to buckle.
Everything he had built, the anger, the armor, the decision to march to the ends of the earth, cracked in that instant.
And nothing, absolutely nothing, had prepared him for this.
— lady l: This chapter is longer than I planned, but I didn't want to split it into two parts, so… Well, I hope you enjoyed it and don't mind it being long! ☺️
I'm no military genius, so I don't know if my military skills were good, but I wanted to try :)) By the way… Do these "bandits" look familiar to you?
And we have a reunion... 👀
See you soon! As always, feedback is always welcome and thank you for reading!
