Meant to put this up on Valentine's, but, you know.
Oops.
Note: I took some artistic licence on what the words actually mean. In reality, they all each have multiple meanings, (because of mistranslations and the like) but I'm sure that I found the correct meanings and translations. Also, I have also no clue what the Hell this is.
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Eros
(n.) Love of the body
It was impossible to say no to her.
She was so young, so beautiful... He just couldn't resist. Just one look into those big brown eyes and everything melted away. All his worries, his fears... Nothing mattered when she was with him.
Nothing mattered, except for each other.
Philia
(n.) Familial or sisterly love
Anger.
That was the only way to describe how she felt. Didn't she warn Eliza? Didn't she tell her, beg her to say no to him? Didn't she warn her? She did, but Eliza didn't care. All she had cared about was her husband.
And he said that he cared about her. But he didn't. Not really. If he did, if he had really cared...
The Reynolds Pamphlet.
Anger didn't even begin to describe how she felt.
Storge
(n.) Love of the child
Eliza rushed over to her dying child, clutching onto his hand as if that could heal him. Like if she squeezed hard enough, that he would be okay. That she'd wake up in her bed, the delicate sounds of a piano reverberating throughout the house.
"Ma..."
Philip. She couldn't say the word, muster the strength to say anything through her tears.
"...I'm so sorry for forgetting what you taught me Ma. I'm so sorry."
She squeezed his hand tighter, ignoring his little gasp of pain. "It's not your fault Philip. It isn't-"
"It is. It is. I did everything right. But I forgot what you taught me." Philip coughed, his free hand coming up to him slowly.
"Forgot... What I taught you?"
"I forgot..." Another cough. "To count right. I missed it."
"You didn't! Don't say that Philip. You didn't." She was sobbing now, breaking down into whatever the hell she was feeling. He couldn't die. Her son couldn't just die in her arms, thinking that it was his fault.
He just couldn't.
She had just lost Peggy.
"Remember? You taught me how to count. With the piano." Philip coughed again, this time splaying blood onto his mother.
"Yes. I do. I do! You used to change the line every time."
Philip let out a pitiful sound that could almost pass for a laugh. "I changed the line every time."
"Do you remember the scale?" Philip nodded to his mother, his fingers wrapping around her hand softly. "Good. Good. Un, deux, trois"
Another cough. "Un, deux, trois."
"Good. You're doing brilliantly Philip. Keep on repeating it. Quatre, cinq, six, sept."
"Quatre, cinq, six, sept..."
Eliza smiled through her tears and tightened her grip on his hand. "Huit, neuf." No response. She squeezed his hand tighter, almost willing him to reply. "Huit, neuf." Nothing.
"Eliza..." She slapped away her husband and latched onto her son, silently cursing the God that took away the wrong man.
Why did it have to be Philip?
Ludus
(n.) Playful love
I wish, my dear Laurens, that it was in my power, by actions rather than words, to show how much I truly do love you.
The letter felt cold in his hands. It held the promise of a long dead dream, his love for his oldest friend forever immortalized in ink. As he held the letter, he couldn't help but think. What would John think now?
The office felt empty without him.
Pragman
(n.) Long withstanding love
Fifty years.
She had lived another fifty years, another painstaking fifty years without her husband. Without his smile, the smell of ink overpowering the house. Without his work spread about the house, each paper more complex and confusing than the next.
Without his love.
Somehow, she had found it within herself to forgive him. To release her hatred of the man, of his foolish mistakes. She never forgot them though. As her father used to say, forgive mistakes, but not their consequences.
And consequences there were. She was left near poverty, with ten children and the pity of the nation. She had fought to memorialize her only husband, to ensure that the country remembered him for his acts of creations and not his acts of destruction.
She had fought for Washington too. She had fought for her husband's figurative father, the father of the country. She had fought for the children of the nation, the orphans that were forgotten.
She had fought, and now she was about to be rewarded.
She just wished that she hadn't done it alone.
"Eliza..." She turned in the infinite space of black around her, where everything was nothing and nothing was everything. Somehow, the reality of where she was hit her before she had even heard her name.
She was dead.
And young again.
"Alexander..." She ran towards her husband, silently thanking God for everything. For her time, her life... Her death.
Alexander ran to meet her, his mind once again running at full speed. His wife. His beautiful wife was here, with him. Finally. His eyes were watering, the tears rolling down his cheeks slowly. Eliza was here.
And she had made so much of a difference in the world.
And, in the blackness, he had finally found the light.
He had finally found Elizabeth Schuyler.