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This is my first Hamilton fic, so I hope you like it!
Disclaimer: I don't own Hamilton, just this story.
Aim your pistol at the sky.
I fumble nervously with the small pistol, my shaking hands attempting desperately to load the bullets into the magazine. Cursing silently as a stray gold shell slips from my fingers and rolls onto the ground with a mortifying clank, I angrily brush back a strand of hair that has loosed from its normally tight ponytail. My eyes flash with an inner fire as I'm forced to bend over to retrieve the fallen bullet, yielding the dominance to the enemy across from me.
George lifts his arrogant head which had been previously bowed over his own expensive weapon, and shoots me a grim smirk. That's what concerns me. The prick in question has a naturally sarcastic personality, taking every convenient opportunity to taunt and insult whomever he chooses to be his object of interest. The fact that he merely displays a demeanor that is calm and gloomy concerns me. A deep, rooted worry develops inside my already anxious mind and a lump forms in my clogged throat. My father doesn't know about George Eaker's visage. He couldn't have, it's not his fault.
Aim your pistol at the sky. You aren't going to die.
I cock the gun with a satisfying click and plant my feet solidly on the grassy turf, hoping I appear exceedingly more audacious than the fear I privately harbor. My eyes dart briefly from my pistol to George to the sky above me. It's sunrise. Mother's favorite time of day. That has always made sense to me, with the honorable attributes she possess, the admirable forgiveness, the compassion, the patience. I watch enraptured as the sun ascends the ladder of clouds, slowly but obviously stretching its rays further into the orange-blue of the sky.
Then a voice interrupts my musings, a sound that to my ears sounds like the arduous scraping of nails across a blackboard. I grit my teeth and raise my narrowed eyes and pistol at my foe in front of me, temporarily considering the dishonorable. However, I manage to erase it, thinking of my father's words. Yet still, George's comment relights the spark crackling deep inside, then reinstating the reason of my presence in New Jersey. I fix my gaze solely upon my opponent, hoping he receives the clear message of abhorrence and warning.
I try to focus on this one point, but our seconds stand to our right, one leaning disinterestedly on his bayonet, the other's glassy gaze flitting around the area anxiously. The doctor also stands to our right.. He's harder to ignore.
They give the signal. I turn around, attempting to breath evenly, not allowing myself the weakness of fear. We stalk forward, my steps likely less confident than George's. I grip the barrel of my pistol tightly, watching my knuckles turn pale and white, the cold metal pressing into my palms like freezing ice.
Aim your pistol at the sky.
1. I observe the leather tips of my shoes. I've had this pair for a year now, mother was so certain they would be the last pair she would buy for me. I was supposed to get a working job or apprenticeship soon. 2. Today is the tenth. My little sister's birthday. 3. The freezing metal of the weapon in my hands feels heavier as I recall the events of our recent war. Father drilled it into me that a pistol is nothing less than a dangerous implement, only to be used when necessary. 4. The smell of gunpowder floats in the air, remnants of our loading and preparation. 5. I hear the soft chirping of birds originating from the oak trees to my left, their melodious songs filling the otherwise silent atmosphere. 6. I catch an almost untraceable whiff of baking bread, most likely deriving from the cluster of shops grouped together on Mercer street. 7. Sept. I practiced French and played piano with my mother.
I begin to raise my pistol to the sky, lifting it high to the heavens. I am resolute in my confidence now. If he's a man of honor he will follow suit.
8. I step forward-
Blackness consumes my senses and all I perceive is fuzzy blankness. It's a welcome sensation, a distinct change from the anxious nerves I possessed only a moment ago. My heart pounds steadily, my adrenaline cannot be found. I'm at peace.
I'm still floating on a hazy cloud of dulled senses when it changes. Suddenly blinding light begins to filter through the blurred darkness, causing me to squint, and I hear quiet whispers and metal clinking. My heart is racing abnormally fast and blood is running swiftly through my veins.
I'm about to voice a query as to my location, but I forget immediately. A sharp, torturous pain shoots through my side and I hear a moan escape my lips. I dismiss anything else but this agony that consumes every inch of me. Through my murky senses I catch a faint glance of redness covering my chest and hands. I smell rust and sweat. It's blood. I can't move, the pain is too overwhelming and I don't even think of taking it like a man. I moan and hyperventilate, my breaths short and uneven as I slowly inch my crimson hand towards my body.
"Don't touch it," an unfamiliar voice breaks through faintly. It's stern and cold. I don't know this voice. I don't like it.
I try to speak, but my throat is chalky and my tongue sticks to the roof of my mouth. I make a diminutive movement. A scream is released unwillingly from my lips. I'm not a man of honor, father.
"Where's my son?!"
I part my dry lips. I know this voice.
"Mr. Hamilton, come in."
A door slams shut. There's the brisk sound of quick footsteps.
"They brought him in a half an hour ago. He lost a lot of blood on the way over," this is said apologetically and hushed.
My father interrupts him at the end of his statement. "Is he alive?"
I've never heard him this worried.
"Yes, but you have to understand." The sound of rustling clothing fills the air, a struggle appearing to be taking place. "The bullet entered just above his hip and lodged in his right arm."
"Can I see him please?" He says this urgently, his voice closer than before. I reach out a painful hand towards the doorway as if I could reach him from my position.
"I'm doing everything I can, but the wound was already infected when he arrived."
My attention shifts once again to my gut wrenching torture. The bullet entered my side. Bullet. The duel. I must have lost.
I hear rapid footfalls. "Philip!" My father kneels by my side, his eyes darting anxiously over my face, surveying my expression.
I counted wrong, is all I can think. I'm sorry mother. Un, deux-
My father's face turns briefly to my wound and he reaches for my hand, grasping it like a lifeline. His skin is pale. Against his, mine looks infinitely more so.
"I did exactly as you said," I manage to croak out. "I held my head up high."
"Ssh, I know. You did everything just right." His brows furrow and he appears shaken and terrified.
I take a deep breath causing an agonizing spurt of pain to shoot through me. "Even before we got to ten I was aiming for the sky," I promise, trying to redeem something from my disastrous mistake.
"I know. Save your strength," he hushes me, resting his head on the table I lay upon. "Stay alive," he breathes against the fabric.
"No!"
Mother. No, she can't be here, I have disappointed her. Done her wrong. She can't know.
"Eliza," father says, raising his head, watching her swift and hurried movements.
"Is he alive? Is he breathing, is he going to survive this?" I observe a small tear drip down her flushed cheeks as she drops to the floor, grabbing onto me like my father does.
I blink at her. She whips her head towards my father. "Who did this? Alexander did you know?!" My mother cries, her voice accusatory and laced with fear.
I know I have to apologize. She's here, so I must. I must uphold my honor like a man. I can do that much. "I'm so sorry for forgetting what you taught me," I whisper.
Her gaze snaps back to me in an instant. "My son," she comforts wistfully.
"We played piano," I remind, hoping she understands my apology.
"I taught you piano," she agrees, another teardrop slipping from her glassy eyes.
"You would put your hands on mine."
She places her soft hands over my cold ones. "You changed the melody every time."
"I would always change the line," I remorse. The pain intensifies and I cry out in pain. My parent's grips become tighter as well. I look back and forth between them. The edges of my vision becomes blurry. No, this can't be real. I can't be dying.
My mother speaks again. "I know," she smiles comfortingly, brushing back my matted hair soothingly.
Aim your pistol at the sky. You aren't going to die.
"Un, duex, trois, quatre, cinq-" she recites, staring deeply into my eyes. Her hair begins to fade.
I take a breath. "Un, deux, trois, quatre, cinq, six, sept, huit, neuf."
"Good," she whispers. I glance at my father. His eyes are dark and full of sorrow, he's crying.
"Un, deux, trois-" my mother starts again, her voice cracking as she chants lovingly.
Her features blur into a indescribable mist. My father is gone. The world spins.
"Un, deux, trois…" I breathe.
My heart is slowing. My adrenaline is gone. A man of honor.
Aim your pistol at the sky.
I did.