Historian’s Log: Babylon, June 10th, 323 BC.
I move as a ghost. Passing through throngs of merchants and beggars and whores and I see this ancient world in all its unfiltered glory.
This was the day that Alexander the Great is to die.
The cause of Alexander’s death—poison, betrayal, or battle wounds—remains a mystery.
Until now.
The Wyrd Interlude:
Time travel was discovered, and historians became its first witnesses. Their task is simple: observe, record, and reveal history’s hidden truths. No interference. No footprints. Yet some lies are so deeply woven that unraveling them risks tearing everything apart. This—is wyrd fiction.
The smell is always something that surprises me. There is an abundance of filth everywhere, and it reminds me of the simple pleasures we have grown spoiled of in modern times.
I walk the streets of Babylon.
I’m the first Historian to go back this far. The jump is long, and while the physical cost is unknown, the risk is worth it. My hero lives here. His tales of glory inspired me as a youth, even though he died 2133 years before I was born.
The council permitted one jump to solve a centuries-old mystery. But I wasn’t here just for history. I was here for him—for the legend who shaped my life and the dreams of a thousand others.
History is an imperfect mirror.
The jumps have shown us how far the reflection strays from reality.
I have a low probability this is the right date. But the odds were not in his favor at Gaugamela, I remind myself.
As I move through the peoples of Babylon, I see children play, folks haggling with merchants, and topless whores luring men in a never-ending dance of sirens and sailors.
I smile at them all, but go unseen.
The Time Trinkets on my wrists, subtle bands of crystalline gold, are my lifeline here. Any spike in my heart rate, a single word, or erratic brainwaves, and they will pull me back. The suit of light I wear keeps me invisible, a vessel for observing history as a ghost—silent, unseen, untouched.
Babylon surpasses every expectation. Its sheer size dwarfs even the boldest descriptions in history books, and the Hanging Gardens, shrouded in mist, are so impossibly beautiful that words feel insufficient.
I wish I had more time allocated.
For years, Alexander had been my idol—the untouchable force that shaped the world. But walking through these ancient streets, I feel the weight of his humanity.
Tediously, I search for hours until I find the King’s Courtyard and private living quarters.
It’s mid-day, and I have seen no sign of him. Then I find it. A solemn room. The drapes are drawn, and a body lies in the bed.
It’s a woman.
Her skin is pale blue, her dark hair brushed over her shoulders, hands crossed over her chest. A shadowy figure is hunched over the bedside with their hands gripping the woman’s leg.
“Who dares?” the figure slowly looks up.
I freeze.
From the shadows she emerges. The woman has blonde hair and a boyish face. Her eyes dart around wildly, her lips stained red from wine. She stumbles with each step as she slashes at the air.
“You cannot have her,” the woman says menacingly. “If you want her, take me first!”
Her gaze passes right over me, but she knows I am there—I don’t know how.
With a wild, desperate cry, she attacks the air, her movements erratic and uncontrolled; then, she stops abruptly and scans the room, her eyes wide with anger.
“Go back to Hades, and tell them,” she cries. “Tell them I want her back! I will come for her myself and you will face my wrath.”
I step back, but the floor creaks. She lunges, slashing wildly—missing by a hair.
My wrists vibrate, the signal clear: I’m being pulled back. No, I think. Not yet. But it’s too late—the process has started.
Two guards appear in the door, arms at the ready, clearly alerted by the noise. “Death has taken Hestia!” Tears streaming down her face. “And he lingers still.”
The trinkets on my wrists are spinning silently, faster and faster.
“Queen Alexandria,” one guard says, and she flails the dagger at them.
Her grief is like a fire, consuming everything in its path. It’s a feeling no history book can capture, no record can do justice. This isn’t the Alexander I studied. This is something far more tragic and far more real.
The Queen’s eyes, wild with grief, dart between the guards and the lifeless body on the bed.
“She is my heart,” Alexandria whispers. “Without her, I cannot live.” A single, decisive thrust follows, and the guards’ cries echo as her body crumples.
The trinkets pull me back, the past dissolving into black. But Alexandria’s screams linger, a haunting refrain of love and loss. As the world rights itself around me, I stare at the trinkets on my wrists—knowing what the recordings will reveal.
The truth claws at me. If I report this, the myth unravels. Alexander the Great—man or woman—would never succumb to grief. They would wield it, forge it into action, and honor the loss by driving forward.
Footsteps approach. Soon, the eternal conqueror will be overshadowed by human weakness, their legend reduced to tragedy.
I press the trinket’s seal, erasing the recording. The world remembers what it needs—legends, not truths. This story belongs to the ghosts.
The Wyrd Curtain:
The past is a tapestry of truths and lies, woven so tightly that pulling one thread risks unraveling the whole. For those who witness history as ghosts, the burden of truth lingers, a weight that follows them long after the jump ends. Sometimes, preserving a legend is the only way to honor the truths it inspires.
Author’s Note:
This story has gotten some feedback I think necessary to address. Folks call it out for giving Alexander the “Disney” treatment, and gender swapping him. The truth of the idea for this story is actually far more casual than that.
I was having a conversation with a friend about history. Long story short — talking about Alexander the great — he said, why the fuck would he name cities after a chick? Why wouldn’t he name them after himself?
I was confused — yes; we were drinking — and tried to provide context. He wasn’t having it. He said — if you conquered cities, would you name them after yourself, or the girl version of your name? I didn’t have an answer. But the thought stuck with me. What if the many cities of Alexandria were named properly — meaning that Alexander the Great was Alexandria the Great, and history tweaked it the same way it tweaks other things. Anyway, that’s the origin of the idea. No intention to gender swap to pander. Unless Disney wants to buy this story, in which case, yes— hail the Maus mouse, buy my stuff. Kathleen Kennedy was a great choice to run Lucasfilm. I want to go to Disneyland.