Late-joining reader and patron J corresponds with me by email, giving me his reactions as he works his way through the story. (As I write he’s around PA post 538.) About a week ago he asked me, “Did you ever think about making Che female?” No criticism intended, he added, just a fun thought.
σαυτὸν ἴσθι (“Know/be yourself.”)
-Eighth of the Delphic Maxims (per Sosiades)
I don’t know who among the horse-warriors yelled it. I looked. Against a clear blue sky, puffed here and there with pleasant clouds, a flock of long black lines flew parallel. They were dreamlike, being something I’d never seen in my twelve years and so outside my understanding.
This is where I'm posting however much of I, Alexander I write before I set up the new website, at www.i-alexander.com (nothing there yet, no point clicking).
The story of Alexander the Great, with Alexander as narrator... three books planned, but who knows how long it'll actually get. There's a lot of story there.
Book I, working title The Gift of the Gods, is the Alexander bildungsroman, birth to age 20.
“Virani-e? Are you all right? Kyash, we’ve shocked him again, curse it—shut up!”
I’d never heard Marhin say that to them before, and it did something to bring me out of it. “I’m fine,” I said. “I’m fine... you can heal that... how?”
You know, I always wonder about submissives who say yes to that question. Of course everyone knows that no one is actually going to get killed, so how much do they mean it, really? Is it just part of the game, or in the height of lust and passion do they fully intend it, or at least think they do, at the time? You know me, dominant by nature, left cold by the idea of surrendering to another. I don’t understand submissives.
I thrust my thumb deeper to make him feel himself even more pierced and helpless. We warriors know that to our bones and souls, do we not, Mama: that to be pierced anywhere along the centre-line of our body is to be instantly helpless? I threw my arm around his neck at the same time, making him jolt. “What are you going to feel now, my semanakraseye?” I hissed in his ear.
“Whatever you will I feel,” he breathed with just enough voice in it for my bond-brothers to hear too.
“Nothing but what you will I feel.”
What will this be like? I feel the black eel a bit, jealous: he’s doing this because it’s this ritual, for them. Why can’t he do it just for me? But maybe he’s not even choosing it. His God-touched eyes look like they’re seeing only me, and go totally bedroom-y again. I can’t help my hunger for him when he does that.
[Caution: To prevent possible head explosion if you are absolutely resolute that homeopathy doesn’t work, clutch both temples firmly and repeat “This is anecdotal evidence!” in a tone similar to Dorothy saying “There’s no place like home” five times before reading and thereafter as needed.]
He threw back his head a bit, and gave a little shy laugh. I felt his chest quake gently with it, under my crossed arms. “It seems you have,” he said.
I tightened my arms a little, and ever so slightly pressed him forward, making him press back against me at the same time. He had no choice. Standing right on the lip of a cliff with someone holding you from behind, you’re very much at their mercy. I nuzzled my lips into his neck, and let him feel just a touch of my teeth. “You are ours, then?”
“I cannot see how I am not,” he said softly.