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The second that bullet hit Alexander between the ribs was the moment he knew he would not survive this.
He'd lived a good life. Some mistakes should have never been committed, his sins would greet him on the other side soon enough.
He wished to gaze upon his wife, Elizabeth, one last time. He wanted to tell her he'd see her on the other side.
But for now, all he could do was wait while the blood left his body. His Legacy would be remembered. His name would be remembered.
This bullet was his Legacy, and he was proud to call it as such.
If he knew what came next, he would have been laughing. It would have been amusing to him that he considered this the true end.
But this was not the end for him. It was never the end for Alexander. The gods needed him alive. For what reason? He was not sure, but he did know now that he was meant to be alive.
Just you wait.
The prince of Ithaca walked around, sword in hand as he observed the shore of the island he'd known as home all his life.
It had been 3 weeks since his father had returned home, and he could not be happier.
This was a time to smile, was it not?
Then why did he feel as if something bad were about to happen.
Perhaps it was the way the waves seemed not to touch the island as if the god of the seas avoided it at all costs (which, despite what occurred between him and Telemachus' father, felt impossible). Or perhaps it was the way the sky seemed to be free of any clouds.
But something was up.
Then suddenly, a groan was heard behind him.
Telemachus turned around, ready to strike at the sudden noise when his gaze focused on the man in front of him.
He wore a non typical outfit, fabrics the prince had never seen before that day, round circles of glass with frames to keep them together hung on the base of his nose.
But that wasn't important, what was important was the severe bleeding between his ribs he could spot.
With no other thoughts coming between him, the prince grabbed the man by the shoulders and began to drag.
Alexander woke up with a jolt, his hands immediately jolting to his ribs... but all he found around the injury was bandages.
Traditional cloth bandages, ones that felt slightly harder compared to the bandages he'd felt during the revolution.
He gasped for air. He'd survived Aaron Burrs bullet against all odds.
"You're awake..." a voice near him muttered, his breath hitched. He wasn't alone.
In front of him was a young man, about maybe 20 years old? A blue cloak draped over the man, covering the soft white fabric tied together by a gold tinted rope.
His eyes a strange light brown, his skin slightly olive-tinted and his hair medium length and dark.
Alexander suddenly remembered he still had to speak, his tongue was the best ability he held after all.
"Who... who might you be?"
The young man rested his chin upon his hand, humming. "That's a strange first thing to say to the man who saved your life." He commented, causing Alexander to slouch slightly.
"I'm Telemachus, if my name's any of your concern." He replied regardless. "And you are?"
The founding father gave him a smile, the least he could do was give the boy in front of him a clear answer. "Alexander Hamilton... my name is Alexander Hamilton."
"...you have two names? Or may your title simply just be Hamilton?"
The question confused Alexander immensely, the boy spoke as if he had no last name.
Alexander looked around, swords around the room and a pillar spotted on the open wooden exit door.
"Where... am I?" He questioned, shifting his gaze back to Telemachus.
"Ithaca's Palace, allow me to get you accustomed."