It was a dark stormy night, the rain hitting against the windows of a room. Everyone in the house was asleep, all but one man.
Philip sat on his desk, a single candle lit to brighten the room, but even that was slowly fading.
Everything was slowly fading in his world. He couldn't think straight, his brain was slowly being consumed by the horror he had just witnessed.
He picked up a quill and did what he did best; poetry.
He brought out a piece of parchment and carefully placed it down on his desk. He popped open the cork of the ink well and dipped his quill in it, swirling it around for a few seconds.
He pulled it out and hovered it on the parchment, waiting for the poetic words to form in his head.
But this all seemed strange and unfamiliar.
Writing seemed like a stranger, a stranger waiting for his arrival, a stranger who knew him so well yet he knew nothing of.
Minutes passed and still mothing came. No deep symbolism, no careful strokes on the parchment. Nothing.
Philip, frustrated, threw his quill down to the wooden floor. The ink that was once attached to the feathered pen, scattered all over the hard oak floor.
He groaned and slammed his head onto the desk, shaking the ink well and spilling it throughout the desk.
Philip quickly saved the papers and lifted his head from his desk as well. He placed the papers back into the drawer and went to get a rag to wipe away the ink.
●♡●
The rain was pouring hard in Monte Cello, the sound of rain drops crashing through the walls rang throughout the entire house.
Y/n sat on her bed, desperately trying to connect the dots. Nothing made sense yet everythung seemed to fit.
Her head throbbed in pain as she worked, rereading letter, after letter, after letter.
There was no way. No way in the world that something this crazy would happen. No. Not at a time like this. Not at a time like now.
She picked up her quill and wrote like she was running out of time. And she was, in a way.
Her quill danced across the parchment, each stroke building up her worried letter to the Reynolds'.
Her breathing was heavy and her hands moved fast, writing word, after word, after word.
She chose her words carefully, careful not to break someone this fragile. Each group of words formed sentences, and each group of sentences formed paragraphs, and each paragraph held worry and confusion.
I didn't fix things. I made them worse.
●♡●
Philip sat on his bed and looked out at the rain pouring outside. He sighed and started at the raindrops as the slid down his bedroom window.
His brain was calmer now but still fazed by the events that had just happened. His brain was slowly recovering but he still wasn't feeling so good.
His stomach filled with anxiety, his arms were trembling, his knees went numb, his head still throbbing slightly.
He wants to sleep but he fears of what comes at night; what terrors may haunt his dreams as he slept.
YOU ARE READING
OLD RIVALRY || Philip Hamilton x Reader
أدب الهواة"Hamilton." "Jefferson." ::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::: Y/n and Philip were born to hate each other. She was a Jefferson and he was a Hamilton. They never liked each other. They never wanted anything to do with the other. They never wanted to see...
