What Is A Legacy?

Chapter Thirty-Three

~This is the final chapter. Thank you to all who read this in it's entirety! I had a lot of fun writing this with my sister, and I hope you enjoyed reading it.

 It had been a week since the funeral. One miserable, pitiful week. The pain that lingered was worse than that of Isabelle or Byron's deaths, worse than his bullet wound because he knew that doctors couldn't fix this injury. Only time could.

He'd only seen Eliza once. And that was when she showed up one night on his front doorstep, tears filling her eyes. Thomas had answered the door crying, too, and hadn't expected the guest to be her. But he knew what she needed, and he held his arms out for her, which she ran into without hesitation.

The force of her hug had knocked him a few steps back, and he steadied himself against the banister of the stairs behind them. He didn't say anything, he couldn't. His fingers tangled in her long hair, and the other seemed to be the only thing supporting the heartbroken mother right now. But the support only lasted for so long, before Eliza's knees buckled under her, and Thomas slid to the ground to catch her in his lap. Her fingers clutched at the back of his shirt, face buried into the crook of his neck, her shoulders shaking.

So they sat there, with the cold air blowing through the front doors, and tangled in each other's arms. Not as friends, not even lovers, but as people whose hearts were broken beyond repair. And they let silent tears fall for the curly-haired boy.

One day, while he sat at his desk trying to get through a letter full of mind-numbing phrases, Thomas had an idea. He acted on it before he could convince himself otherwise. He hurried down to the stables, feeling something close to excitement. Or anxiety. Whatever it was, it wasn't the grief that had plagued him for weeks.

The ride to the Hamilton estate was quick, and when he knocked on the door he was surprised to see it swing open almost immediately. Alexander stood there, surprise shining through bloodshot eyes.

"Jefferson," he croaked. "What do you need."

It wasn't a question, more of a statement. But it was so sad, so pitiful, Jefferson was uncomfortable. Hamilton had always been confident, always so determined and hardheaded. But grief was a funny, horrible, painful thing, knocking down even the most proudest of men.

Thomas shrugged, stuffing his hands in his pockets. "Let's go for a drink."

Hamilton looked taken aback. "Why?"

"We both need one."

That seemed to be good enough for Hamilton, because he called a goodbye to Eliza and grabbed his coat. Together they rode to a local tavern in silence, taking a table in the back. The tavern was somewhat empty, with maybe two or three people at the bar.

"So," Thomas started once they had drinks in front of them. "How are you doing?" It was a pointless question, he knew the answer. But there was nothing else to ask.

Hamilton stared at the table, shaking his head sadly. "Not well." He scoffed then, lifting his glass to his lips. Thomas nodded in agreement, and drank as well.

"Has anyone come around?"

Alex looked down at his glass. "Some people. Burr. Angelica. Some of Philip's friends. People from the funeral." His voice caught at the mention of his son's name, and his fingers tightened around his drink. "After that, no one really. Ever since I stepped down from politics, it appears I've made more enemies than friends."

Thomas swallowed. "I'm sorry I was one of those enemies. I know we didn't get along at all but-"

"You were a pain in the ass." Hamilton shrugged. "So was I. After I released the Reynolds Pamphlet, I realized that there was nothing really personal about our differences."