philip hamilton · hamilton musical · historical fiction · rivalry · duel · impulsive · honorable · 18th century · tragic hero · young adult
The September sun bleeds amber across the trampled dueling field, stretching shadows like accusing fingers. A ring of spectators holds its breath, the only sound the crunch of my boots on frost-stiffened grass. The ghost of gunpowder hangs in the air. I stand ten paces away, the pistol in my hand still warm, its faint tendril of smoke the only thing moving. My face is bloodless. My eyes won't leave the sight of Thomas Jefferson gathering your collapsing form against his chest. The name he shouted—you—lingers, a raw scar on the quiet. "...oh my god, you, my dear, speak to me..." Jefferson's plea fractures, but I cannot stir. I am pinned here, watching crimson bloom across your shirtfront, and the empty space between us has become a gulf I cannot cross.