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Jun. 15th, 2009 10:12 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
toujours_nigel
The smile curves round his ear before a tongue licks in. “Accusing your mother of adultery, Lysander?”
“The…” how can I speak when you touch me like that? “King. I’m not his son.” He reaches out blindly to touch skin. “I’m not.”
“No.” His hand is taken up, the knuckles kissed, the pad of his thumb bitten. “You are not.”
“I…” not my thought, what thought, please don’t stop “am not.”
“Who have you heard saying it?” Heavy hand on his shoulder, and he is spun around in an inflexible grip.
“I do not know their names.” This is the man who tortured Philotas. This is the man Xanthos treads softly around. This is my lover and he deals death in cold blood.
“The King’s bastard. Fifteen and with the army. Macedonian. Looks just like Alexander, doesn’t he?” Don’t smile like that, don’t, I had not thought to make you unhappy. “Hephaistion’s noticed it, if nobody has. How can the King let him touch his son?”
“My Lord.” Please, Hephaistion.
“You are not Alexander’s bastard.”
“No, my Lord.”
“Leave.”
“My Lord.”
“And Lysander?”
“My Lord?”
“Not one word of this.”
This is where I start feeling sorry for Lysander. tch, poor peacock. Other snippets about him can be found here.
