Falling Through Time: Basking in Firelight: Book 2

Who is the King?

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Warnings: Blood, death, misery, sacrifice,

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I imagine death so much it feels more like a memory.

Because it was. It was a memory for Jefferson. Laurens raised his gun and he suddenly saw Burr's face instead, standing atop a hill, smoke curling from his pistol as he screamed "Wait!" but it was too late. The bullet had already torn its path. There was nothing to be done. He vaguely heard Hamilton cry out. So vivid, it was as if he were actually there and not just reliving it.

And every other memory came flooding back too.

I'm so sorry, Alexander, I guess this means I'll have broken the same promise twice now.

The hill morphed back into a stage and the river became the people that were watching this happen from below once more. Jefferson staggered, folding in slightly on himself. He remembered everything.

Screams were breaking out but Burr's face was still there, in fact, it was all Jefferson could see.

Burr looked at Jefferson, his hand came away bloody from his chest.

"Burr..."

"I think this makes us even," Burr rasped, smiling a benign and true smile before he collapsed to the ground.

Madison screamed.

Jefferson was in shock. He wanted to kneel to Burr but he was running out of time.

Laurens was wheeling for Hamilton, readying his aim as Hamilton also stood frozen in shock. Laurens went pale, his entire body shaking uncontrollably as he stared at his hand, the gun thudding to floor. What had he done? He-he tried to kill Jefferson, the intent to kill Hamilton. That wasn't him, it was never him. Another dull thud as Laurens collapsed to his knees, staring at the evil deed before him.

If only it had ended there.

Impatient, angry footsteps hit against the stage as yet another person joined the party. A person who turned Jefferson's and Hamilton's blood cold. Unlike the newcomer, who sneered at them all, their feet were frozen in place.

None other than Jimmy Matthews scooped up Laurens fallen pistol. "Honestly, you can't even do one thing right," he said, raising it level to Hamilton.

It was too much for Jefferson. After everything Hamilton and Jefferson had gone through, this was too much. Another pistol leveled with Hamilton. All that Hamilton could bring himself to do was to turn sideways, a muscle memory movement from dueling, he was trying to make himself a smaller target. No. Jefferson would never allow Hamilton to die when he was standing only five feet away and had the ability to stop it. Jefferson's gleaming pistols were in his hands. He was the god of those pistols. Nothing could ever stop him while he had them. His entire life with Hamilton flashing in his mind.

"Don't do this," Hamilton choked out, raising his hand as if he could stop the bullet with his hand. Defenseless. He'd allowed himself to become defenseless. After everything they went through, it was in the moment that it mattered most that Hamilton do anything except pray.

He'd never done that before.

A flash of silver as Jefferson aimed. He'd be damned if he was going to let Laurens kill Hamilton. Not even enough time to blink between his draw and his pulling the trigger. The recoil rocked through his body.

Matthews fired a second later.

The silver gun slipped from Jefferson's limp hand and thudded to the ground.

Jefferson missed.

Matthews didn't.

The bullet tore through the air, smashing Hamilton's ribs apart through his right side. He fell like a sack of bricks.

Jefferson couldn't move. He couldn't scream. He couldn't do anything except replay what just happened over and over again. His head ached and the world spun as every happy moment he just remembered spending with Hamilton went colorless and dull. Hamilton was gone.

Then Madison was there, scooping up Jefferson's fallen pistol. If Jefferson weren't so suddenly cast into the lethal water of a frozen over lake, he might have noticed the killer intent.

It was him that finally downed Matthews. It was him that smashed the gun into Laurens' head, him who didn't flinch at the limp way Laurens went down. It was him that stooped over Burr and held his face in his hands. And it was him that started shouting commands for help. Not Jefferson.

Jefferson was the one who ran to Hamilton, even if Hamilton wasn't moving. Jefferson drew his second pistol, walked over to where Matthews was crawling across the ground, blood seeping from between his fingers where Madison had shot him in the gut. Jefferson stepped on his back, pinning him to the ground, a cry of pain. Jefferson aimed, "This isn't checkers, the game has always been chess."

Matthews laughed, "Yeah, well, you lost, I just shot the king."

"You fucking idiot. The king isn't a person, the king is posterity. Hamilton and I are pawns turned queens."

"You're going to lose. King George is going rule again."

"I've already lost but that doesn't mean I can't keep you from winning. If we go down, you and King George and the rest of the Govey empire is coming with us."

"You're going to hell," Matthews spat.

"I've said this before, you bet I am and I plan on ruling, so I look forward to seeing you there."

Jefferson knew that Hamilton wouldn't want it to end this way. Jefferson knew that he should at least get an explanation. Jefferson knew that if he pulled the trigger he would never forgive himself, Hamilton would never forgive him.

But Hamilton was dead and Jefferson was never going to forgive himself for missing anyway.

His finger tightened on the trigger.

Only for another pair of feet to walk onto the bloodied stage and Jefferson's gut writhed with rage. Another person for him to shoot. King George walked across the stage, elegantly avoiding staining his shoes. He stopped in front of Jefferson, he blues eyes piercing.

"Give me one reason I shouldn't shoot you right now," Thomas snarled.

The king's gaze drifted down to Matthews. "Sire," he gasped, believing he was saved. "I have reclaimed your-" The king's foot smashed into his face.

"Because you're a gormless wazzock who's dead from the neck up. You're listening to me this time."

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