Falling Through Time: Basking in Firelight: Book 2

Songs of the Past

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AN

Just so you all know, the song I keep mentioning is pretty much what I consider Jamilton's theme song. I've added it to the first story when it was first introduced, I'll add here ^ again just so you know what it is. I chose it because there is a possibility that the real Jefferson actually played it during his lifetime, he was a fan of Handel after all. Plus, I feel it fits. Anyway, enough rambling....

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Warnings: None

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Jefferson was sitting at the kitchen table, eating mac and cheese while reading the printed pages of the book he had propped up. It was a normal evening, just like any other. He had already sent his response to Publius to the newspaper and was awaiting the reply. His evenings were always free, so he spent them reading or playing his violin, sometimes he would go for a midnight walk, despite the dangers is posed, such as muggings, for example. Often, he'd stay indoors or head out to the middle of nowhere to get some target practice in. Couldn't let his aim get rusty, now could he?

The world was a mess. The country was in ruins. The people didn't know what to do. The government couldn't do anything. Jefferson sighed. It had to be fixed. What's left of the government needed to be torn down and rebuilt from scratch. Give power back to the people, make sure everyone has their rights, and that the government couldn't fall back into the hands of an oligarchy. That's where it all went wrong when that oligarchy stepped into power. Basically, George Fredericks and some of his lackeys managed to wrestle enough control and slowly converted the nation into what it was now. That's what happened when the people let small insurrections slide. It was a slippery slope. One small right oppressed, then another, and soon you've got no rights and nothing to fight with.

Jefferson snapped his book shut, picked up his bowl to rinse it out in the sink. A quiet melody floated down the hallway and echoed softly around him. Jefferson paused, listening intently. Where was it coming from? Was someone in his house? And if there was, why would they break in just to play music? Then again, the world was full of crazy people. He turned off the tap and cautiously followed the sound down the hallway and into the living room. It was like an echo from another time. Laughter sounded around him, Jefferson whirled. It seemed to be coming from the fireplace, but there was no one there, just an empty room. As soon as Jefferson stepped up to the fireplace, it faded into nothingness, leaving the house eerily quiet and empty feeling.

"Great, now you're imagining things," Jefferson mumbled to himself. He returned to the kitchen, finished washing his bowl, and sat in his office chair and tried to focus on writing an outline for a new government, but he couldn't. His hands itched for his violin, the melody was still echoing in his mind even if the house was quiet now. Empty.

That melody. He knew it. Knew it well.

Jefferson returned to the living room, whisked out his violin and began to play.

***

Hamilton's evening was a disaster. First, he lost his favorite quill-pen- sorry. Then he got a healthy dose of muddy street water when a car drove by, splashing it all over him and his favorite coat. And best of all, he was going to have sell his house to be able to afford traveling to Virginia. That was something he definitely didn't want to do, but his work called him there. It was either live the rest of his days in New York, slowly fading into obscurity, or take the chance and leave for Virginia and pray everything falls together somehow.

The choice was obvious.

His bags were already packed.

His ex-wife, Eliza, would be happy that she didn't have to share custody of Philip for a long while, at least until Hamilton could get settled somewhere and be able to afford the travel fees it would cost for Philip to visit. As much as he would miss his son, this was something he had to do.

But did it have to be Virginia? Why couldn't the capital be in New York? That would be so much better. Hamilton sighed, there was no getting around going to Virginia, he didn't even know why he disliked it so much. There was no reason for him to, he just didn't like it. Well, maybe if he goes there he can find a real reason for not liking it.

Hamilton flopped down onto his bed and posted a short rant before falling asleep.

There was fire.

A nice warm fire that flickered in the fireplace and from candle wicks. Hamilton was lying on a comfy couch watching the flames flicker.

No. He wasn't watching the flames, he was watching something else. Someone else.

Music. There was music. Floating through the air and dancing around Hamilton and the other person. He squinted, who was that person? He couldn't tell, their back was to him and Hamilton's vision was blurry. They were doing something. What were they doing?

Playing. They were playing the music. The beautiful music that called to Hamilton's soul. So beautiful.

The person was turning around, Hamilton was about to their face.

Hamilton blinked his eyes open. 

That dream. Where did it come from? Why was it always there? Hamilton's had that specific dream for as long as he could remember, it was almost more like a memory. When he was young, he asked his mother about it, she said that it was just a dream, it never happened. But it felt like more than a dream. It had to be. Hasn't she ever read a story before? Reoccuring dreams always meant something more.

And then there was this feeling about it, just like the feeling Hamilton got the first time he walked into a music store and saw the stringed instruments. He was drawn immediately to the violin and cello. He had run his hands down the smooth polished wood of that cello and he just had to have it. There was something about it that just demanded that Hamilton learn to play it.

So he did.

Hamilton sat up and rubbed his face, getting up to fetch his cello, feeling the familiar way it fit against his body, the way the neck felt in his hand and the strings on his fingertips. The bow slid against the strings and the cello hummed in response. Hamilton's fingers danced expertly along the strings as he played the song that resided in his soul and his dreams. It was his song. He'd always known how to play it. The first time he picked up the cello, the song just poured out of him, like he'd always known how to play.

Any other song he tried back then he was terrible at, but now he could play almost anything, he'd spent years mastering the instrument.

He was known well at all the music stores in New York. He came in often for polish or to get his bow rehaired or for some new strings. And every time his eyes would catch on the violin sitting in the display case. Just sitting there, waiting for someone to come along and claim it. And every time, Hamilton would leave the store without it and a weird feeling in his chest.

Hamilton placed the cello back into its case and lugged it down to the front door along with the rest of his luggage. He didn't have much. He couldn't. He didn't have a place to stay yet in Virginia, so it wasn't like he could pack up his entire house, just the necessities. His cello was indeed a necessity. It was his most prized possession. Where he went, it went.

Only, he had yet to realize just how far he'd be going in the years to come.

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