Chapter 1: 10 Years Ago
Chapter Text
Benedict Arnold stood near a window in his house, gazing out into the busy streets of London. As he watched the people pass by, he noticed how none of them had even spared a glance. He hadn’t expected anyone to look. To Americans he was a traitor; to the British he was a fool who’d sold his country. Arnold put his life at risk for the British to win the war by being a spy, and then outright fought on the side of the redcoats as a brigadier general. Although, he knew there was more to the story than gossip allowed. Arnold had never told anyone of his reason to switch sides, excluding his wife, Peggy Arnold, so it was up for speculation as to why he betrayed the country he had fought for. Greed and hatred were of the most prominent.
Arnold tore his eyes from the glass and strode to the garden door. Surrounded by the flowers, he extended his hand towards a sunflower. Shadows swirled from his palm and encompassed the yellow flower, choking it of its beauty. Soon, it withered and faded, leaving only a dried husk.
Arnold retracted his hand back. He glanced up to see if his wife had seen what he had just done, but the curtains were drawn. He looked down at his closed fist and opened it again, more slowly this time. A dark mass gathered in his palm, churning with the ache to destroy. Before it could grow larger and cause damage, he squashed it. The power was new to him, and he had kept it hidden well. No one needed to know. No one would know. If anyone caught on, he knew the consequences. He would be prosecuted, shunned. His wife and children would be separated from him. Arnold couldn’t bear the thought. Still—revenge tasted sharp in his mouth.
Arnold shook his head. This power was wrong. Dangerous. He couldn’t use it—not for revenge, not for anything. But then the thought crept in, bitter and familiar: They’ll never accept you. Power or not. His guilt twisted into anger. So why pretend? He exhaled sharply and pointed at the ground. The earth split open. Any other rational person wouldn’t even dare think about looking in the hole, but Arnold, knowing where the hole will lead, jumped.
He fell with a thump on the soft ground. As he pushed himself up, Arnold suddenly felt a slight change in air. Looking around, he was surprised to see that the Vortex was still alive and intact. Overhead, a flock of Dravae—eyeballs with wings—glided through the air. One of them, young and reckless, flapped down to rest in his hat. Arnold smiled faintly, feeling the young Dravae settle, and walked on. The Vortex was a land of mainly forest; somewhere up ahead was a plain. After walking for a good deal, Arnold felt rustling. He removed his hat to see the Dravae gaze up at him. It had a striking iris color, light grey with specks of blue. It reminded him of someone he used to know…
He nearly missed the turn—so deep in his thoughts, he didn’t even notice the change in the wind. He soon reached it and from a distance, he could see a dingy little house made of wood. The Dravae nestled in his cap flapped away. Arnold watched it with a fond look, almost like nostalgia. Minding the various creatures slithering through the grass, he raced up to the house, and opened the door.
The house was small, but it carried many memories. As Arnold stepped inside the little home, he was hit with an overwhelming number of memories. Him in the army, him and General Washington, him meeting John André. It was like he was living his life all over again, only he could do nothing, could not change his mistakes. Not that he wanted to.
Once he regained himself from the depths of his mind, he searched for his pouch. It was on the table, next to a candle with the flame still burning bright. Arnold snatched his pack, snuffed out the candle, and set off.
Arnold returned to the forest, searching for his newest creation—the Nichevo. From his pouch, he drew a long wooden instrument and began to play. A haunting melody drifted through the trees, steeped in melancholy and misunderstanding. He had never been a great musician, but he’d taught himself enough to speak through sound.
As the music floated through the forest, Arnold heard a beastly groan. Not pausing, he played the song as he approached the source of the song. The moaning grew louder and more horrid, but Arnold continued playing the instrument. He followed the noise to a Nichevo, sprawled on the ground. Arnold stopped playing and approached the beast. It was a tall and spindly creature, with its skin as black as the midnight sky, and it was curled up on the ground. Its nails were scratching at the ground, leaving claw-shaped markings on the tender ground. Its head was an unnervingly blank canvas, but the immense, horizontal slit that split it was a kaleidoscope of gnarled, uneven teeth, glinting in the dim light like a nest of broken glass. The creature’s forked tongue lolled out, and it was panting. As he got closer, he could see that the Nichevo was foaming at the mouth.
Arnold crouched beside the creature, rifling through his pouch until his fingers closed around a small glass vial—the one meant to heal the Nichevo, to cure whatever sickness had taken hold. He unscrewed the cap and, moving carefully, crawled forward. The creature’s breath was ragged, its foam-flecked mouth ajar. With a steady hand, Arnold poured the liquid in.
As the last drop slipped past its teeth, the Nichevo began to shiver. Then it convulsed.
Arnold stumbled back, heart hammering. This wasn’t supposed to happen.
Still, he couldn’t move. Couldn’t tear his eyes away.
The creature twitched, twisted, then slowly raised its head. With a hiss, it crawled toward him. Arnold backed against a tree trunk as the Nichevo drew near—its blank face inches from his, its body trembling, jaws twitching.
And then it struck.
Arnold yelled in pain as the monster bit him. Pain shot through his entire body, almost making him pass out. He collapsed, the forest spinning around him, dimly aware of the Nichevo skittering into the shadows. When Arnold felt strong enough, he pushed himself up. He nearly toppled to the floor again, and he grasped a nearby tree trunk for support. One of his legs was numb, and pain radiated from the area where the Nichevo had bit him. His mind went fuzzy; images flashed — battlefields, Washington’s face, André’s smile — a confusing collage of victory and shame. He closed his eyes and shook his head, but the visions still persisted. Arnold couldn’t name it, but something inside him had shifted—like two minds now shared one body. His vision was still blurry, so he looked around in hopes to clear it. He spotted his pack, a few feet away. Arnold limped over to the pouch and picked it up. He searched through the bag, emptying it, but there was no healing vial. Just a compass, a map of the Vortex he made himself, some bandages, and a loaded pistol.
Arnold picked up the bandages and shrugged. This’ll have to do...
As Arnold removed his clothing, he could see that the bite was in serious condition. It was purple, with red bite marks. He poked it, and pain throbbed throughout his body. Wincing, he bandaged the wound, and picked up his pack.
As he headed to the little house, Arnold heard a rustle. He grew a bit uneasy, thinking about the rabid Nichevo. Arnold took out his pistol, just as a safety precaution. As he carefully trudged on his way home, Arnold heard the rustling noises come closer, as well as a low growl or a snapping of a twig. Arnold walked straight ahead, but his body was brimming with adrenaline. Although, one of the things you learn while serving in the army is to not show any fear, even when you feel the terror.
When Arnold reached the plains, he could hear no notion of the Nichevo following him. He breathed a sigh of relief and started to make his way to the wooden house.
Instantly, a deafening roar sounded from behind him. Arnold turned back on reflex, and saw the Nichevo. It had grown more horrid than before, now with a light green fluid dripping from its mouth. Arnold took a step back and nearly shrunk in horror, but the fear in his eyes was soon replaced by another, more appraising emotion. He straightened his back and squared his shoulders as his gaze narrowed into slits. Moving in a single, cold, calculated move, he lifted his pistol, aimed it at the Nichevo’s mouth, and fired. The bullet pierced through the creature, bloodying the trees, and sending the Dravae soaring in flocks to the sky. Arnold lowered his pistol and walked over to the dead body. He nudged it with his foot, then crouched down and rested his hand on the corpse. At the touch, the body started to simmer into the ground.
Catching the last wisp of shadow from which the monster was created, Arnold held it in his hand. As he watched it swirl around in his palm, Arnold smiled sinisterly. Releasing the tendril of smoke, he got up and started toward his house. As he walked, the wind shifted. A whisper curled through the trees—not in his ears, but in his mind. They’ll never forgive you. Arnold paused. The voice was his. But not quite. He glanced at the window of the house as he passed. For a moment, the reflection staring back wasn’t his own. The eyes were darker. The smile—twisted. Then it was gone. Arnold didn’t stop walking.
Only one thought remained in his head.
Make them pay.
Chapter 2: January 13, 1791
Notes:
Sorry for not posting! It's just because of school and everything, I didn't have time to write this chapter as soon as I can. I'll try to write more often!
Chapter Text
Alexander Hamilton was returning from a particularly rough Cabinet meeting. The issue that day was the foundation of a national bank, and it seemed that no matter what Hamilton said, Thomas Jefferson was ready to shut him down. Halfway through the meeting, Hamilton got so annoyed that he punched Jefferson in the face, which prompted President Washington to intervene and "take a walk". In other words, the president was not pleased.
As he strolled through the streets of New York, Hamilton breathed it all in: the sights, the sounds, the people. As everyone around him walked and chatted, talking about the marriage with a dear cousin or the state of foreign affairs, and horses tied to carriages nickered as they trotted through the busy roads, Hamilton’s heart swelled with pride as he was reminded of the new nation he was helping to build. THIS was what he fought for. THIS was what he was working towards. A nation with a better government, for the people, by the people.
While walking, he greeted everyone that waved to him, occasionally asking a friend how they had been faring. When waiting to cross a street, he noticed a young woman whose eyes appeared to be staring into the void. However, she held a violin, and when she drew the bow over its strings, it created a melody so harmonizing that every other noise was muffled. Hamilton, intrigued by the woman and her skills but also trying to be inconspicuous about it, shuffled a little closer to the musician. He could hear the joyful melody, which evoked a feeling of nostalgia, accompanied by memories of his old days in the army. He glanced again and studied her face. She had flaming red hair that bounced off of her scalp, and her skin was pockmarked with small scabs. Her eyes were a lively blue, with a hint of evergreen in the irises, however, they portrayed a lack of movement. As the piece came to an end, the violinist retracted the bow and set the violin down. Hamilton watched her with a newfound respect. He had barely noticed that he was standing close to the woman. Slightly embarrassed, he turned to walk back, but the woman asked, “Did you like the song, Mr. Hamilton?”
Hamilton froze. “How- how did you know who I am?”
The woman cracked a smile, “Mr. Hamilton, just because I’m blind doesn’t mean that I don’t know my surroundings.”
“You’re right,” Hamilton sat beside the woman, “What’s your name? It’s just that your music is amazing, and I wonder how no one has noticed you.”
“It’s Angelina.” She said, “And I appreciate your compliment, but New York’s got its own rhythm. People don’t stop for long.”
“Well, why don’t you move down to one of the Southern states? I’m sure the people there will appreciate your music.” Hamilton asked.
“My family’s been living in New York, and if I had any relatives down South, I’m pretty sure they wouldn’t want to take me.” For the last part, Angelina motioned to her eyes to provide the reason.
Suddenly, Hamilton had one question that hung on his mind. “Were you blind when you were born, or...?”
“I lost my sight when I was 9. Smallpox.”
“Oh,” Hamilton was reminded of the smallpox outbreaks and the inoculations during his time in the Continental Army. He checked his pocket watch, and realized that the time was 6:09. Eliza’s going to worry if I don’t make it back, he thought. With that in mind, Hamilton handed a few dollars to Angelina, who thanked him, and said, “It’s getting late for me, but it was nice talking to you. Farewell, Angelina.”
“Adieu, Mr. Hamilton.” Angelina’s voice weaved through the air as Hamilton moved through the streets again. He passed through the roads, more determined now that he had a goal on his mind. He was so intent on getting to his house that he nearly knocked over a young boy.
“Sir? Could you help me get back to my house?” The boy asked. “I don’t know where I am.”
Looking down, Hamilton saw a flicker of the orphan from the Caribbean, and smiled. “Do you know where your house is?”
“Yes, sir,” the boy responded, “It’s around Pearl Street.”
Hamilton looked at the watch again. I’ll have enough time to get back home… “Alright, let’s go.”
Hamilton and the young boy joined hands, and as they moved through the streets, Hamilton had an impending sense that something wasn’t right, but pushed the thought away. As they got closer to Pearl Street and the wharf, the feeling lingered, growing stronger with every second. Suddenly, the boy said, “There! That’s my house, sir!”
Hamilton chuckled. “Alright, run along now, and don’t wander around New York any longer!”
He watched as the boy raced up to the house, and was instantly reminded of Phillip, with his boundless energy. He took out his watch again and checked it. 07:38.
Hamilton twisted through the cobble-stoned roads, trying to ignore the way his gut squirmed and his uneasiness intensified. He glanced up and saw the stars, glittering like jewels, and remembered the times where he, Lafayette, and Laurens would sit under them, talking about the messy politics of the new nation.
But Laurens is dead and Lafayette’s in France, he thought as he strolled through the dark streets, a feeling of sadness all too known tinging his thoughts.
As Hamilton passed through the houses on Wall Street, he got a random feeling that he was being watched. He tried to take his mind off of his eerie surroundings by thinking of the ways he will destroy Jefferson in the next cabinet battle, but to no avail. As Hamilton walks past the alleyways, he glances at them, and jumps when he sees one of the shadows moving before a raccoon scurries out of the alley. Hearing his heart race, Hamilton took a few deep breaths before continuing.
In the distance, he could see his house, just a few blocks away. He smiled in relief, knowing that in a few minutes, he’ll be in his home, safe and sound, surrounded by his wife and children…
A branch snaps behind him, and Hamilton jumps. He whips around, pulling out his gun and shouting, “Who’s there?” The adrenaline was coursing through his body now, and Hamilton’s eyes darted anxiously around him before slowly retracting the pistol and putting it in his pocket. Keeping his eyes in the directing from which the noise came from, Hamilton stepped backwards, and when he felt safe enough, he turned around.
He had barely gotten 10 steps before he heard a clicking sound behind him. He froze, unable to move. The sound came again, louder this time, and Hamilton urged himself to move, but his brain and the rest of his body were not connecting. He waited a few seconds for the clicking noise again, but it didn’t come. Suddenly realizing that he had held his breath, Hamilton exhaled.
A screech soon followed.
Hamilton ran for his life, racing through the now empty roads. He could hear something following him, its feet pounding on the earth. Hamilton could barely focus on his burning lungs and aching feet above his raw terror.
He made the mistake of looking back, and saw flashes of a tall creature with a large mouth filled with glistening white teeth, sharp as the British’s bayonets. It was running on all fours, and it was gaining momentum. Hamilton, frightened beyond belief, turned his head forward and ran.
As his house grew closer, Hamilton began to run faster, harder. His panting turned into shallow gasps of air as he urged himself to make it to the doorstep. Closer. Closer. He could see the dim light emitted from the house. Almost there…
Hamilton reached out, as if drawn by some invisible force, but before his fingers could close around the image of his home, something slammed into him. He crashed to the ground, pain blooming in his skull as he fought to rise. A sharp clicking echoed through the air, followed by a sinister hiss. Dread gripped him. He turned slowly—and froze.
Towering before him was a creature, its mouth bristling with fangs as white as the moon, saliva dripping in thick strands. It shrieked and seized him by the coat, hurling him like a ragdoll into a lamppost. Pain exploded through his body. He staggered upright, only to be struck again, the impact sending agony lancing through his shoulder and spine. He cried out.
The beast retreated for a moment. Hamilton fumbled for his pistol, raised it with trembling hands, and fired. A howl pierced the night, but his vision swam—he couldn’t tell if he’d hit it.
Then came the growl.
A burning pain tore through his chest. He collapsed, overwhelmed by the sheer force of it, as claws ripped into him again and again. After a few minutes of frenzied slashing, the assault finally ceased. Gasping, Hamilton pressed a hand to his abdomen and winced at the sting. When he pulled it away, dark liquid streamed down his arm.
His thoughts blurred, pain clouding everything. Through fading vision, he saw the creature—shadowy, almost part of the night itself—approach and grab him by the collar. With terrifying ease, it flung him skyward.
As the wind rushed past him, Hamilton had one final, surreal thought: I’m flying.
Then the earth rose to meet him, and darkness claimed him.
The first sound Hamilton registered was the groan of wood beneath weight. As his senses slowly returned, fragmented memories flickered behind his eyes—the creature, darkness, Eliza. Eliza. His ears rang like distant bells, and as pain radiated throughout his body, he thought, Why am I not dead yet? Gradually the hum faded, and another noise started to emerge: footsteps.
He tried to cry out, to speak, to let the rescuer know where he was, but something pressed tightly against his mouth. Instinctively, he reached for it—only to discover his arms were suspended, restrained by what felt like living shadows. They pulsed faintly, as if alive.
The footsteps drew nearer, deliberate and slow.
Hamilton twisted, strained, fought against the bindings, but they held firm. Then the door creaked open, and as a figure stepped into view. Hamilton's eyes widened in recognition and dread. I know him...
“Mr. Hamilton,” the voice purred smoothly. “What a surprise.”
Chapter 3: February 7, 1791
Chapter Text
Thomas Jefferson slumped in his seat at the Cabinet table, the air thick with unease. The seat across from him – Hamilton’s seat – was empty. His desk was clean, cleaner than when he came for work. No retorts were flying off the walls. No papers were scattered. Just silence. Normally, Jefferson would have appreciated it. But something about it didn’t fit right.
On the first day Hamilton didn’t show up to work, Jefferson was ecstatic. The thought of not having to hear the loudmouth for one day made him dance around the office in pure happiness. However, as the days passed by and Hamilton still hadn’t returned, Jefferson started to grow a bit uneasy. Even though they were political rivals, he knew Hamilton well enough to know that he wouldn’t take a break from Cabinet meetings for no good reason. And the worst part was – no traces of where he might’ve gone were left behind. Congress and the Cabinet have sent search parties high and low, but it was as if he didn’t want anyone to know where he had gone.
All the members were gathered around the table. The usual hum of conversation was replaced by deadly silence. Henry Knox, the secretary of War, sat beside Jefferson, reviewing maps of places the search parties have checked, and the places that still need to be searched. Edmund Randolph was absent – he was currently leading a search mission along the Hudson. James Madison paced around the room, muttering and flipping through letters, mainly from government officials and allies demanding answers.
Jefferson had led a few search missions himself, and sure, he was tired, but he suspected that no one was more exhausted than the President. George Washington was sitting at the head of the table, slouched in a manner that was contrary to the Virginian veteran. His eyes had bags under them that told tales of sleepless nights and mounting pressure. He hadn’t spoken at all during the meeting, but the silence was palpable.
After a minute, Washington banged his hands on the table, standing up. “What is the current situation on Hamilton’s disappearance?”
Knox looked up from the maps, startled. “We’ve checked in almost all the Northern states and the acquired territories, but there have been no signs so far. We currently have search parties along the Hudson and in some of the Southern states.”
Madison stopped pacing. “We asked everyone he knew – friends, family, enemies. No one’s seen him. No letters. No travel records. Nothing. It’s almost as if he vanished into thin air.”
“And what about Eliza?” Washington’s tone was a bit softer, barely noticeable.
“She’s in distraught. Hamilton hadn’t returned to the house since he left. She searched through his letters. There were no potential signs of him needing to leave, personal or political.”
Jefferson leaned against the table, elbow resting on the surface. “Hamilton was meticulous. If he had a reason to leave, he would’ve told someone—Eliza at the very least. Disappearing without a word? That’s not like him.”
“I’ve also known Hamilton long enough to know he wouldn’t leave, no matter the explanation, at this time. He’s too invested in securing the plan for a national bank.” Knox interjected.
Washington nodded slowly, staring at the empty seat, almost like if he stared at it long enough, Hamilton would appear. A few moments of silence passed, before Washington spoke. “Continue with the search parties. Jefferson, you have to lead the night search today. Madison, you too.”
Jefferson nodded, feeling the sagging weight of responsibility on his shoulders. He made eye contact with Madison, and could tell that he was already preparing for the long night ahead.
As the meeting concluded, and Jefferson started to gather his stuff, Knox walked over to Jefferson, folding the maps. “Do you think we’ll really be able to find Hamilton? I mean, we haven’t gotten a lead so far, which makes finding him nearly impossible.”
“We have to. We must.” Jefferson flicked his eyes to Washington before turning his attention to Knox’s face, “I hate to admit it, but if the nation is bound to move forward, it needs a mind like Hamilton’s.”
The wind whipped through the trees, rustling leaves like a silent shadow. Standing in the clearing, Jefferson’s grip on the lantern tightened as he surveyed the group he was meant to lead. Ordinary citizens – farmers, clerks, merchants – stood in front of him, holding lanterns, torches, pitchforks, and an occasional pistol in their pocket. There was an unspoken kind of unease hovering around the crowd, filling the air with tension.
The storm hadn’t broken yet, but the sky was churning with dark clouds, covering even the moon. An occasional growl of thunder sounded through the plains. Jefferson stepped forward, feeling his feet sink a little into the mossy grass.
“We’ll break up into small groups and search around the riverbank and forest. There should be no more than 4 in a group.” He paused, letting the weight of his words settle in, “If you hear anything, call out. We’re here to look for clues related to the disappearance of a missing man. Anything you find will be of help for us.”
As the group split, Madison murmured, “We should check the eastern trail. It has the river.”
Jefferson nodded. “Let’s move.”
As they walked alongside the eastern trail, Jefferson had an odd feeling. Like there was something, just beyond that forest. He glanced to the depths of the forest multiple times, but either the creature can blend in really well, or Jefferson has officially lost his mind.
Madison noticed Jefferson’s frequent glancing and asked, “Thomas? You alright?”
Jefferson turned to face Madison, “Yeah…Yeah, I am.”
Madison walked ahead, leaving Jefferson to his thoughts. Monsters weren’t real. They couldn’t be real. If they were, there would have been some sort of evidence.
He glanced at the forest, just to make sure, and stopped in his tracks. There, right there, was a creature with a long spindly body, and was barely noticeable, rippling with the dark forest as if it were made of the night. Its head had no other features besides a huge mouth containing rows of spikey glistening teeth. Jefferson’s breath caught in his throat, his heart pounding so violently he thought it might burst. The creature didn’t move—just stared, its mouth stretching into a grotesque grin that shimmered in the faint lantern light.
Jefferson wanted to move, to run, but his limbs were frozen in place as the monster approached him with the predatory grace of a tiger. His mind was racing – searching through memories, books, anything that could help him escape out of this somehow. He tried to summon logic, reason—anything that might explain what he was seeing. But the creature defied explanation. It wasn’t in any book he’d read, any myth he’d dismissed. It was real, and it was coming closer.
The forest around him seemed to lean in, the trees bending slightly as if drawn toward the thing. The lantern in Jefferson’s hand flickered violently, casting warped shadows across the mossy ground. The creature’s grin widened, its teeth catching the light like polished blades, as it came face-to-face with him. Jefferson’s knees buckled, but he didn’t fall. If he was going to die, he decided, he’ll not die a coward. The monster lifted one spindly hand with four sharp nails, and-
“Thomas!”
Thomas flicked his eyes to the voice, and saw Madison running over to him. He looked back to the creature standing just inches before him, only to find it had disappeared like the wind. He stumbled back, breath ragged, as the shadows returned to their natural form, and the trees straightened again. He looked at the ground in front of him, but there was no sign that the monster had been there.
“Thomas, what happened?” Madison asked, giving Jefferson a handkerchief, “You look like you saw-”
“Death itself.” Jefferson finished, fingers trembling as he wiped his forehead. “I saw something, James, a- a monster. It was tall, black, and it had huge claws. It was standing right here.”
Madison’s eyes narrowed, peering into the forest from which the creature had come from. “There’s nothing there.”
“I know.” Jefferson’s voice was low, and he was trying to not let it tremble. “But I saw it. It looked at me. It smiled.”
Madison looked back skeptically. “Are you sure it wasn’t just-”
“I’m not losing my mind!” Jefferson shouted, causing Madison to flinch. Then he said in a softer tone, “At least, I don’t think I am.”
“Still, we should probably head back. You’re shaken.”
Jefferson didn’t respond right away. He stared into the forest, eyes fixed on the spot where the creature had stood. Everything seemed normal, but the air still felt wrong—charged, like the moment before a storm breaks.
“There was something here. And I intend to find out what it was.”
Madison stepped closer, lowering his voice. “Thomas, listen to yourself. You’re talking like you’re-”
“I’m aware of how I’m talking.” Jefferson snapped.
The thunder cracked, followed by a shrill scream cutting through the air. Madison and Jefferson both looked toward the direction of the sound, then at each other.
“Thomas-”
“Go. Find out what’s wrong. I’ll come.”
Madison nodded before running off to the place where the scream had come from. Jefferson watched him leave before turning his attention to the forest. He stepped cautiously, walking to the edge of the forest. He held the lantern in front of him, trying to see if there was anything in the distance. Part of him wanted to run—follow Madison, leave the forest, pretend none of it had happened. But he felt that old tug of curiosity. This creature might be the clue to where Hamilton had gone, and he was not about to lose it.
Jefferson, ignoring the screaming in his muscles, trudged into the forest. Once stepping into the mysterious unknown, it was as if the world shifted, trying to suffocate him. Wherever he went, he saw only darkness. He turned around, trying to find his way out, but everything seemed to change. It was as if the forest was laughing at him, mocking him for thinking he could find the monster. Is this what Hamilton felt all the time? Is this why he never stopped?
Jefferson started to run blindly in one direction, and didn’t stop. Branches clawed at his coat as he ran, tearing fabric and skin alike, but Jefferson didn’t slow. The forest twisted around him, the path warping with each step. He even thought he heard faint laughter somewhere, though that must be his imagination, right? His feet slammed against the dirt, making a faint mark that followed him.
A low growl sounded through the forest, snatching Jefferson away from the borderline of insanity. Skidding to a stop, he whipped his head around, trying to find where the noise had come from.
The growl sounded again. Jefferson crept toward the noise, hand going to his pistol inside his coat. He held the lantern in front of him as he inched towards the source of sound, each step heavier than the last. He pushed past a curtain of vines- and the world changed. Jefferson blinked multiple times, momentarily disoriented. The only details he noticed were the lack of trees and someone calling his name repeatedly.
“Thomas?”
He turned toward the sound and noticed Madison a little way off, with three other people. He waved once, still dazed, and jogged over to the group.
“What happened?” Jefferson as he approached the group.
“One person thought they saw something like a panther.” Madison muttered, “Which is weird because panthers aren’t usually found in this region.”
He studied Jefferson’s face. “Are you ok? You look…hollow.”
Jefferson hesitated. “Um, yeah, I’m fine.”
What else can he say except, ‘Oh yeah, I got lost in the forest and thought I heard that strange monster again’? That would go over well.
The sky crackled again with thunder, louder this time—closer.
“Should we head back? It’s almost dawn.” One of the men say, glancing nervously at the churning clouds.
Jefferson nodded. “Let’s go.”
Suddenly, the wind, which had been whispering through the trees all night, stopped—leaving behind a silence so complete it felt unnatural. Overhead, the clouds churned like ink in water, and flashes of light sparked within them, not like ordinary lightning, but like something trying to break through.
Madison looked up, furrowing his brows. “That’s not normal.”
Jefferson opened his mouth to speak, but the words never came.
A blinding bolt of light slammed into him, and everything went white.
He didn’t feel pain. Not at first. Just heat. A searing brightness that swallowed thought, swallowed sound. His body lifted—he could feel it, vaguely—then slammed into the ground with a force that knocked the breath from his lungs.
Then nothing.
Chapter Text
Jefferson stirred at the sound of floorboards creaking somewhere beyond his room. He opened his eyes slowly, adjusting to the sunlight streaming from a window somewhere. The ceiling was pale, with a crack in the corner. The sheets below him were as crisp as the wind that also blew in through the window. The room had a scent of polished wood and relentless ambition.
Where am I?
He sat up, feeling the ache all throughout his chest and back, and winced, hissing. The room looked blurry, so he blinked several times, watching his vision sharpen. The furniture came into focus—mahogany desk, high-backed chair, shelves lined with books. The kind of room that belonged to someone wealthy. Someone important.
It felt familiar, but also not.
Jefferson began to move, and slowly but surely, he was sitting at the edge of the bed, the ache in his chest pulsing with each breath. He tested one of his legs, and then the other, setting them on the cool wood. As he slowly started to get up, he gripped the bed for support. His legs held, though they trembled beneath him. The room seemed to tilt as he unsteadily shuffled to the doorway, turned the knob, and opened the door.
The hallway felt eerily quiet, and Jefferson didn’t like it. Holding onto the wall for support, he slowly walked to the edge of the hallway, and peered at the turn of the corner. He saw a long, blond-haired man wearing a white coat, probably a doctor, talk to a much shorter man. The shorter man turned his head to gaze his way, and Jefferson ducked behind the wall. The man felt oddly familiar. His name was Charles, right? No. Robert? He shook his head. Neither of them felt right. That man didn’t look like a Charles or a Robert. The name was on the tip of his tongue. John..?
Jefferson turned to peek at the shorter man again, who was still talking to the doctor. The doctor gestured to some papers that the shorter man was holding, and Jefferson could hear snatches of what was being said, including a funeral?
Jefferson strained to listen, but the words came in fragments, muffled by distance and the ringing in his ears.
“The burial’s tomorrow…”
“Do we tell the public?”
“…he’s dead, James.”
James.
The name was ringing a distant bell, and suddenly, he knew.
James Madison.
Jefferson was in Monticello. His home.
The memories overflooded, causing his breath to hitch. Hamilton’s disappearance, the searches, the monster, the lightning…
His knees buckled as he desperately gripped on the wall for support. The doctor turned his head, and paled at the sight of him. Madison followed his gaze and gasped, dropping the papers he was holding. The papers fluttered around him as Jefferson stood frozen, the hallway spinning around him. The ache in his chest pulsed like a second heartbeat, louder now, sharper. He could feel their eyes on him—wide, disbelieving, afraid.
“How...?” The doctor muttered, taking a step back. Madison, however, didn’t move. His gaze was locked on Jefferson’s.
“Thomas?” He finally said, voice cracking under the weight of disbelief.
Jefferson opened and closed his mouth, hoping that even a noise will come out, but nothing came. He removed his hand from the wall and tried to take a step toward Madison, but collapsed. Madison rushed to hold him.
“What are you staring at?” He shouted to the doctor, “Come help me hold him!”
The doctor blinked for a few seconds before finally coming to help, his steps tentative. Together, they eased Jefferson against the wall. As he slid down to the ground, Jefferson let out a shaky breath, his body folding like paper beneath the weight of memory. The wall was cool against his back, grounding him in the present, even as his mind reeled through the past.
His chest throbbed painfully, and Jefferson clutched it, groaning softly at the sharp pressure blooming in his ribs. The doctor shakily reached into his case and took out some pills, giving them to Jefferson, along with a bottle of water. Jefferson immediately took the pills, and the ache faded.
The relief was swift—unnaturally so. His breath steadied, but the tension in the air did not. Madison knelt beside him, eyes scanning Jefferson’s face like he was still trying to convince himself this wasn’t a hallucination.
“What do you remember?” He asked softly.
Jefferson leaned his head back against the wall, “Everything.”
The doctor also crouched beside him, eyes full of disbelief. “This wasn’t supposed to be possible…How?” The man took Jefferson's wrist into his hand, checking for a pulse. “I’ve seen drownings… plague victims… but this…” He shook his head. “This is something else.”
“Why…were you talking about a funeral? Who died?” Jefferson asked.
Madison hesitated. Jefferson could see him opening and closing his mouth, as if the truth were a heavy mask.
“You did.” He finally said.
Jefferson stared at him for a few good seconds before breaking out into a laugh. “James, you must have hired some physician off the street. I’m alive and well.”
“Thomas, remember the doctor who was just here? He’s Dr. Hans, a reputed physician, and he was the one who officially announced you dead. You were unconscious for a few days before you…died.” Madison explained, “But just 3 days ago, he said that you were going to wake up, and the next day, as he was doing his examination, he found no pulse. No breathing. Your skin was as cold as ice.”
Jefferson’s smile faltered.
“Does the public know?”
“Not yet, but we were deciding on how to tell them just now.” Madison said. He paused for a few minutes before hugging him tightly. Jefferson, caught off-guard by this action, slowly wrapped his arms around the smaller man.
“I thought I lost you,” Madison whispered into his shoulder, “We all did.”
“I’m fine, Jemmy. I’m right here.” Jefferson whispered back.
Madison didn’t respond right away. He just held Jefferson tighter, as if the warmth beneath his fingers might vanish if he let go. The silence between them was thick—not empty, but full of everything they couldn’t say.
Finally, Madison pulled back, his eyes glassy but steady. “You were gone, Thomas. Not sleeping. Not unconscious. Gone.”
Jefferson looked at him, the weight of those words settling in his chest. “Then how am I here?”
Madison shook his head. “I don’t know. The doctor doesn’t know. No one does.”
Jefferson leaned his head against the wall again, staring at the ceiling crack that had greeted him when he woke. “Maybe it was just a mistake. A miracle. I’m alive, Jemmy. That’s what matters.”
Madison nodded slowly, but his gaze lingered on Jefferson’s face—searching for something he couldn’t name.
“Maybe,” he said. “But miracles don’t come without a cost.”
Jefferson was sitting on his bed, staring at the floorboards like they had answers. He gripped his knees tightly as his mind whirled with questions and pieces of events: the forest, the creature, Hamilton. He knew it was all connected, but how?
The room sat in hushed stillness, broken only by the sunlight filtering through the window. It crept across the floor, curling around Jefferson’s feet, then climbed slowly up his legs—pausing just before his lap, as if uncertain. He didn’t notice. His thoughts were elsewhere, tangled in fragments of memory: the forest, the creature, Hamilton. His gaze was vacant, breath shallow, lost in the storm of questions. Why had he returned? What had changed? Was Hamilton still alive? His hands tightened into fists—not out of rage, but desperation. And in that moment, the sunlight flared—briefly, softly—like a pulse echoing his own.
Jefferson suddenly stood up, sending the light scurrying back to its place. He walked down the corridor to the bathroom, and forced himself to look in the mirror.
His skin was mottled—patches of red and pale flesh stretched across his chest and neck like a map of pain. Thin, branching scars ran down from his temples, curling along his jawline and disappearing beneath his collar. They looked like tree roots or veins of lightning—raw and jagged.
His hair was singed at the edges, uneven in places, and a faint burn traced the side of his scalp. One eyebrow had thinned, and his left cheek bore a shallow indentation, as if the heat had carved into him. His eyes, once sharp and calculating, now held a strange sheen—distant, glassy, but alive.
He almost didn’t recognize the man in the mirror.
Jefferson turned to leave, but the mirror caught his eye. The crack in the glass shimmered—not with sunlight, but something deeper. He stepped closer.
The eyes staring back pulsed once with a gold shimmer, faint, unnoticeable.
Jefferson squinted his eyes, but he couldn’t see anything wrong with his reflection. He turned away and stepped into the hallway. Behind him, the mirror shimmered once more. A thin vein of light traced the crack—slow, deliberate, alive. It pulsed faintly, then faded. And for a moment, the reflection lingered… even after Jefferson was gone.
Notes:
The first few chapters were to set the stage. Now, the actors are getting added and the show is starting!
Also, it would be great if you could drop a kudos or comment! I would really appreciate feedback.