Hi! Sorry I took so long to uplaod this, but I have been truly swamped with homewrok from all directions! please don't take it out on the stroy, and review, favourite and follow! this is the last installment of revenge, and my first finished story! Proud?

All throughout his life, George Eacker had been a cautious person. There were always several points of view to look through for every decision, and George liked to look through them all. It was always his goal to die peacefully, after having led a long, happy life. Not even in his worst dreams did he think that he would be on his deathbed at the mere age of nineteen, fire coursing through his veins and thoughts running through his head at the speed of light. He wasn't someone to take a stand, but the one time he did, it came back to bite him; he took a life, and his own life was taken. He was lucky he couldn't psychoanalyse his actions more, because he'd be dead. George was generally prepared for every eventual possibility, including his own death. he hadn't however, accounted for the fact that he was laying on a blood-soaked mattress, his family looking at him through veils of tears, knowing he deserved every fiery shot of pain that shot through his body. He had killed someone in cold blood, he deserved everything he got.

'God Dad, never thought it'd be like this, huh?' George never really knew what to say during stressful situations; it seemed as though this qualified as one.

'Oh, my son, my son, I am so proud of you. You didn't deserve this, I promise your death will not go unavenged.' his father uttered quietly, green eyes blazing furiously. It was that thought which sent a jolt of panic up George's fractured spine.

'NO! Promise me, father, that you won't do that, that you will let this go, that you won't continue to further the stack of skeletons in my closet from beyond the grave.' George had never been more serious about anything, and it must have shown, because his father nodded almost immediately, albeit slowly.

His mother, Juliet, rushed into the room, hands aflutter and weeping furiously. His little sister, Margaret, was clutching at mother's sleeve, and George thought he his heart shattered at the sound of her confused whimpers.

'How…' asked his mother, tears running down her wet cheeks.

George felt his own tears slip, 'I'm sorry, Mama, but I deserved it. You were always trying to tell me about ethics, and - and consequences.' his throat was clenching, and George knew he didn't have much strength to keep going. 'I knew it all, but I still cheated. I - I cheated in a game where the stakes were life and death.' He could feel his blood slowing down, the muscle that never tired cramping up. 'I killed him…'

Juliet wasn't able to get another word in before her son's eye's dulled; his last breath coming out in a fast, peaceful burst.

'Mamma, why did Georgie go to sleep?' came a small, puzzled voice from behind her, the pressure on her hand tightening slightly.

'He went to sleep, and ... and, he isn't waking up…' Juliet

There was so much he was yet to do. George hadn't yet told his family about the novel he had been writing in his spare time. George hadn't yet told his father about the new leather belt George had bought him for his birthday. George hadn't yet told his mother about the invitation he had been given to speak at King's college. George hadn't yet told Margaret about her newly painted room, had yet to see the wonder on her face as she gazed at the fresh pink walls George had taken so long to decorate.

Instead, the reaper, in his long black cloak and glowing scythe, carried him from the world of mortals a few years too early. George would have to exist with the bittersweet memories of a half-lived life that he had yet to see fully. It caused phantom pains to run up his translucent spine, his head clear through death, whenever he brought himself to peer upon his grieving family, still finding things he should have been there to show them.

Margaret Eacker was only nine years old when her older brother died. Though she might not understand it all, she did understand that her brother had been needlessly killed. She did understand that he was never coming back, that her big brother had left this world for good. She did understand that it would affect her family in more ways than one, and that the butterfly effect from this would ripple through her entire life. She did understand that it was all Alexander Hamilton's fault.

Her father seemed to agree, for when she asked him how George had been shot, he shook his head, muttering, 'Alexander Hamilton, the rascal never knows when to stop. I thought it was only when he was duelling with words, opposing strong men who knew how to hold their own. I never thought he would stoop to the use of rifles against mere farmers… he had no business to continue the chain of deaths...'

That night, Margaret had crawled into her bed and cried for so long, it felt as if she would drown in a sea of her own tears. her Mama hadn't been much help either, as she had been grieving herself, and was barely in the house at all. Margaret had never felt so completely, utterly, alone.

Her troubles were troubles she should not have had to bear for many more years, and they put enormous tolls upon her young, developing mind. They never seemed to end either. Not two weeks after the family of four lost one of theirs, the voices of her parents drifted up to her room, raised and angry. Her household had been volatile for some time, before it. She didn't think it was so bad that they would continue. Some days later, Mama left and never came back. When she asked her dad, where is Mama? Why does everyone keep leaving? The only answers she got were sweet nothings, hollow reassurances saying Mama's just taking a break. She loves someone else, and maybe she is going to go live with him, I'm sorry, doll. Her father's voice was laden with sadness, and she decided that families were fragile things that broke much too easily. It might be better if she never got tangled up in the mess of family life altogether.

Alexander had made many mistakes in his life, and every time he made a new one it seemed like things simply couldn't get any worse. They always did. His life had always been rocky, full of ups and downs, but it seemed like things could never get better after this. Eliza had just begun to warm up to him again and now he was afraid she never would; he wouldn't if he was in her position. after he to George what the bastard had done to Philip, Alexander basically estranged himself from his family, so much so that Eliza Holly barely knew who he was.

Alexander had promised Eliza and Philip that, no matter what, his family would always come first in his heart and mind. He had not just broken that promise, he had broken with it the severed bonds of a fraying relationship with everyone he held dear. He didn't know how to fix it, so he did what he always did when faced with a seemingly impossible problem. He worked. He finished writing the Report on the Finance of America which had taken him the previous year to write. He wrote condolence letters to the grieving Eacker family. He worked in his office for days on end, not leaving until the general himself told him to go and get some rest.

Alexander was at his desk, a place filled to the brim with half-full ink pots, dirty bowls, even a blanket and a pillow. He was dead to the world as his quill swept back and forth on the thick parchment, putting his most complex thoughts into simple, eloquent words that won even the best of politicians over. It was then that the thick oak door cracked open, spilling a thin ray of sunlight into the room lit solely by dimming oil lamps,

'A letter for you, Alexander,' his wife stated shortly. She placed the letter onto his already overcrowded desk and walking briskly away from him like his very presence was poison. He didn't deny that it was.

The letter was dirty and tattered with no seal as though it had been delivered by hand. A pang of curiosity struck through his now usual cloud of grief. He opened it carefully.

Dear Mr Alexander Hamilton

The letter began in a scratchy, childlike scrawl.

You are not a very nice person. I know that you are a very busy person and that you might not read this, but must tell you that you have made Georgie go away, and Mama's taking a break from me. You probably don't care about my thoughts, but I think that you are mean and that you should know that my family is very unhappy with you. You are a terrible, shortsighted bully.

Sincerely, Margaret Julie Eacker,

5 years old.