Tomorrow there'll be more of us

A friend showed me a bootleg version of this before it was taken down, so I kinda know what it looked like, though I don't know Hercules and Lafayette's reactions.

A brown haired man sat at his desk, writing furiously. The ink was scrawled across the paper and the handwriting was barely legible, though that didn't matter. The man it was for could read his writing easily. It was nearing midnight, but the time meant nothing to him.

'I may not live to see our glory...'

Alexander looked up sharply, quill hovering above the paper. His weary, yet sharp chocolate eyes darted around the room for the source of the voice. It was soft, yet familiar. But nobody was there.

The creaking of the room door drew his attention away from the search and his wife looked in, her eyes strained from the single candle lighting up the surrounding area. It was dangerously close to the paper, flickering from the slight wind that had entered the room with the opening of the door.

"Alexander, there's a letter for you," she said quietly, her gown sweeping the floor. She was tired, having being kept up from her newborn son's cries.

"It's from John Laurens, I'll read it later," he said, dipping the quill into ink and hardly looking up from his writing. But then, he heard it again

'But I will gladly join the fight.'

Eliza sighed, biting her lip and looking away.

"No, it's from... his father."

"His father?" Alexander said, full attention on his wife. Henry Laurens rarely paid attention to his eldest son, especially his plan to form his own battalion from black slaves, and yet, here he was, writing to someone who hadn't made a good first impression on him.

'And when our children tell our story,'

"Will you read it?" He asked hesitantly. For some reason, he felt as though something was going to happen, but what? The voice he could hear was repeating the words that Laurens had spoken when they were with each other, along with Hercules and Lafayette.

'They'll tell the story of tonight.'

Eliza sighed and opened the letter, smoothing the slightly crumpled edges. She cleared her throat and began to read.

"On Tuesday the 27th, my son was killed in a gunfight against British troops retreating from South Carolina. The war was already over."

Eliza looked up to see her husband, frozen mid sentence, shaking ever so slightly. She knew that he would tell her to continue.

"As you know, John dreamed of emancipating and recruiting 3000 men for the first all-black military regiment."

"His dream of freedom for these men dies with him."

Eliza looked up again, to see him facing away from her, looking at something she could not see. But to Alexander, a ghostly blueish figure stood in the corner, hair brushed away from his face and tears in his eyes. A dark stain stood out from his cream shirt, just above his chest. His best friend opened his mouth and sang.

'Tomorrow there'll be more of us... '

And then he disappeared, as though he was never there.

He jumped when Eliza placed a hand gently on his shoulder. Alexander turned to face her, and though his face was shrouded in shadow, Eliza could see the pain on his face

"Alexander, are you alright?"

Alexander stood up hurriedly, his shoulders hunched in on themselves.

"I have so much work to do," he muttered, and all but ran out of the room. But not before Eliza glanced the silvery tears in his eyes. She sighed, and walked out of the room, closing the door over.

Neither of them had noticed the candle had tipped over. Its flames ate at Alexander's letter, burning the entirety of the paper, except one small part of it.

'To my dear Laurens,'

.oOo.

Far away, two other men received letters similar to Alexander. One of them stared and took a swig of his flask, wiped his mouth and took off his beanie. His short nails dug into the fabric, leaving small marks as he hissed "Goddammit, you idiot. The war was won and you got yourself killed?!" The man's voice shook as he walked out of the room.

Far away, the other fell to his knees, tears in his eyes. "Mon ami, you did not deserve a fate like zis!" He cried, water trickling down his cheeks. For a few moments, he ranted in French, before tiring himself out and closing his eyes. He leaned against the wooden panels of the room he resided in and let himself grieve.

For the citizens, it was just another casualty, for George Washington, it was a fellow soldier, and for the three men... They had lost not only a friend, but a brother. Their group of four was now three.