Archive of Our Own ^beta

Alexander wasn’t exactly having a good day, or life. Definitely life. 

Quiet, narrator. Let me speak.

My apologies, go ahead. 

Hello demi-gods and non-demi-gods, you might be wondering, ‘who are you mysterious narrator two?’ 

My name is Alexander Hamilton. Yes, I was named after Alexander the Great. No, we are not related. 

I am a demi-god.

What is a demi-god, you ask? Well, I’m not glad you definitely asked! You know Greek mythology? Yeah, that Greek mythology. With Jason, Theseus, Achilles, and Heracles, famous Greek heroes who you most likely know? 

Well if you know mythology at all, you know the gods loved to have. . .relations with mortals, specifically Zeus. Most of the children are children of Zeus. 

And as the gods did love to have. . .relations with mortals, which made a lot of children, who had nowhere to go. 

So in 1528, a place was created by Greek immigrants to train and help Greek demi-gods thrive. With this, the Greek gods moved to the West, up to New York, specifically Long Island to create the camp. The Greek immigrants pray to the gods to acknowledge and bless the camp by bringing a trainer who would set the demi-gods up to thrive and honor their godly parents. 

The Twelve Olympians acknowledged their efforts and prayers, bringing Chiron to the camp to start training demi-gods to bring honor to their parents and to themselves, but mostly the gods themselves.

Now it’s been over two-hundred years since then and the camp is still standing to this day, which is where I come in. And now I can finally start the actual story.

This is how I, Alexander Hamilton, learned I was a demi-god and became a Greek hero at Camp Half-Blood.

So. . .you may be wondering how I got to camp in the first place? It’s not really–heroic? It’s not heroic, okay! I'm fourteen for gods’ sake! Leave me be!

I wasn’t born in New York, hell, I wasn’t born on the mainland. I wasn't really born at all, but I’ll explain that later. I was born in the year of seventeen-fifty-seven and raised in Charleston on a British owned Island called Nevis. 

According to my–to my mother, she had found me in her house, in a basket on her bed, with a note. She never–she never told me what the note said, but she took me in with no questions. She named me Alexander, because she knew I would be great. I was raised with a brother, James Jr., and my father. . .James Hamilton. We didn’t exactly–we didn’t get along.

I was raised alongside my brother. . .and with my father. For ten years. That was–until he left, something about bigamy, and–other stuff I’d rather not mention for at least a little while. 

When I was ten, my mother and I got sick, sick with yellow fever. I got sick first and I gave it to her. We would lay in that bed for hours on end, days on end. That’s when he left, too much of a bother to deal with us. With the limited medicine, it helped me, it helped her. But it wasn’t enough. It wasn’t–it wasn’t enough. I got better, but she didn’t. 

Within the next year, when I was eleven, she passed from yellow fever. 

We were sent to live with our cousin, Peter Lytton. My brother blamed me, he blamed me for months. While I was with my cousin, I worked. I needed to make myself into something, someone. I couldn’t die there, on that island. I couldn’t let my mother down.

A few months later, I was working as a clerk, and when I came home–he was hanging. I tried to get help, I ran until my lungs were sore and my head spun, screaming for help, but it was no use. Peter Lytton was dead. 

My brother looked at me with such remorse when he got back from his own job. He looked at me with blatant disgust. I won’t say it didn’t hurt. Even now, as I write this, I think he blamed me. 

Not long after that, he left. He left to go pursue an education.

I worked a whole year more at my clerk job, saving as much money as I could. Skipping meals, and working extra hours. It was grueling, but it was worth it.

Then the hurricane came when I was fourteen, and destroyed my home. I was devastated, but I was too stubborn to give in, to give up. I wrote an article on it, and got it published in the newspaper. I didn’t know it at the time, but it touched the hearts of the people of the island, so much so that they pooled money to send me to the mainland, to New York, to pursue an education. 

I didn’t know how much they cared, but cared, they did. They saw my writing, and they loved it. They wished for me to get an education. I would thank them all individually over and over if I could. 

Less than a week later, I was on a ship to the mainland, to New York. I was ready to pursue a new life, even though I was leaving everything behind. 

But I was naive, so very naive back then. 

I had landed in Boston and made my way to New York City. Boston was large, with protests in the streets and newspapers of scandal about and around. New York was smaller, albeit not quieter at all whatsoever, but a little less. . .mad? Unstable? Unhinged? Certainly, unhinged summarized Boston. 

New York City had pubs and lodges all around, with brick and dirt roads. It was the place to be. I was in awe. . .when I bumped into a fellow running from the opposite direction, who ended up falling far backwards on his hind. 

“Dear me, good sir, are you alright?!” I asked, rushing forward, and holding out a hand to help him up. The man firmly grabbed my hand, standing up and letting go of my hand to brush himself off. 

He wore a tan waistcoat over a white collared shirt, with larger sleeves and darker brown breeches. He wore a dark tan coat that went down to the backs of his thighs, with narrow, buttoned wrists. An ivory cravat was fastened around his neck, with stocking’s underneath his breeches. He wiped off his square-toed buckle-fastened shoes off the bricks, a warm brown tricorn hat lying upon his head. His brown hair was fastened with a ribbon into a low ponytail. His warm brown eyes contrasting to his pale skin.

“I’m–I’m alright,” the man reassured, meeting my own bright blue gaze. “Robert Troup,” he introduced, holding out his hand to shake. “But most simply call me Robert or Dick.”

I held out my hand to his and shook it firmly. “Alexander Hamilton,” I paused. I hadn’t really had many interactions with people my age, which is what the man seemed to be. “–but you may call me Alex,” I finished, smiling in a nervously warm manner. 

The man’s expression changed, eyes widening when I mentioned my name, which was strange, but I elected to ignore it in favor of shaking his hand. He seemed like an alright fellow, and perhaps he would be my first friend. 

That, ladies and gentlemen, is called naivety. This will be understood once you read far later into this book, which I might add, is most likely very long. But I wouldn’t know yet, I’m only on page four. 

But regardless, the fellow was nervous, but firm and standing tall. “New to the area?” he asked.

I chuckled. “How could you tell?” 

“You’ve got a spark in your eye,” he responded, scratching the back of his neck. “Like you hold the world’s hopes in your eyes.”

“I was always told the eyes were the windows to the soul,” I attempted to joke, catching a small chuckling smile from Robert. 

“Still trying to find a place to stay?” he asked me. 

“I am–I don’t even know where to begin to look for work or lodging–” I admitted, grinning sheepishly.

“You can come stay with me–and with my family, in Long Island,” he interrupted, a nervous smile on his face. 

I couldn’t notice at the time, but he was clearly trying to get me to ignore another part of the story he was telling. 

“Would I be so grateful as to take the company of your family and yourself?” I repeated rapidly. “I would be overjoyed!”

“Wonderful!” Robert exclaimed, adjusting his coat. “I rode a wagon here, for some business related to my father, as his emissary. I am heading home tomorrow, if you would care to join me?” he asked. 

His words were smooth and calculated, but nervous. 

“Then we better make haste,” I responded, smiling cheekily. 

The next day wasn’t much different to the day prior, much travel and much more conversing though. 

Robert was an interesting man, although he was my age, he was working for his father’s business. He was born in Elizabethtown, New Jersey, but moved up to New York for his father’s business as a child. He had been studying finance and law for many years alongside his brothers.

He asked how I spent my childhood. I told him how I wrote essays after the hurricane, studied finance, law, French and other such subjects. I told him of how intrigued I was in the sights of knowledge, which gave him a puzzled expression for a single moment. 

I didn’t tell him of my mother. He needn't learn of her demise. 

We had reached Long Island by nightfall, and Robert had mentioned a farm hostel close enough to us that we could lay there to rest for the night. In the past few hours of the afternoon, he had been antsy and anxious, no matter how much he attempted to dissuade the feelings or hide it entirely. 

He kept his eyes on the road, checking behind him every so often, like he felt eyes over his shoulders. 

We were conversing over a minor topic, a topic I can’t even recall now, over the roar of something utterly terrifying.

Fear lined Robert’s moonlit features, his eyes fearful as he hurried the wagon along at a faster pace. I wanted to ask what was going on, but it was clear that Robert didn’t wish to speak at the moment.

Then he brought the wagon to an abrupt stop, pulling at the horse’s reins to stop it, grabbing his bag and my own, yanking me out of the front of the wagon. 

“Run to the barn,” he told me, pushing my bag into my chest. “The–the people there will help you. I’ll try and hold it off–”

“Hold what off?” I asked, my heart racing, bag clutched against my chest. 

He pushed me forward, in the direction of the old, wooden barn. “Just. Run.” He stressed, pulling out a shotgun from the back of the wagon and cocking it. 

His tone didn’t leave any chance for disagreement, so I bolted in the direction of the barn, as fast as my legs, and lungs could take me. That was until I heard the roar again, and the sounds of gunshots, and screams.

I wrestled with the thought of going back, as I was so close to the barn. I could follow Robert’s instructions and go to the barn, or I could run back and help. Another roar, scream, and gunshot later, I had made my decision.

The roars were louder as I approached, and I couldn’t believe what I was seeing. There was a bull-man. You read that correctly. Bull-man. It had the head of a bull, but the furry body of a man, with no pants on. A monster, truly. A monster with no decency, and Robert seemed to be fighting it.

I had to blink a few times to attempt to see what Robert was doing. He didn’t look quite human either. 

I felt as if I was hallucinating. He had hooves for feet.

He was holding a falchion sword in one hand, a shotgun strapped to his back, a gunpowder scent exuding from it.

He lunged at the beast, twisting and turning to avoid its giant, furry hands. 

I ran to the wagon, not far from where the fight was taking place. I rummaged through the bags, trying to find something to fight with. I found a sword, similar to the one that Robert held. I clutched it, before running back into the fray of the fight. 

I ran up behind the beast, Robert trying to fight it from the front and avoid its thrashing blows. It was a split second until he had noticed me, but a moment too late to caution me to halt in my actions. 

I jumped as high as I could, stabbing the beast in the upper back, before being smacked by a giant, furry hand and being knocked several dozen feet in one direction, bashing into the bottom of a tree. 

My back ached and my head spun, but the beast was turning to dust in my dwindling vision. I heard Robert’s distant cries and pleas for help, before I succumbed to the darkness of sullied sleep.

I felt myself waving in and out of consciousness several times over a rippled sector of time. I didn’t know how long I had been in and out of consciousness before I’d awoken.

Abruptly, I might add, from a horrendous nightmare. Something was trying to speak to me, a voice that made me want to itch every inch of my skin off, that made me shiver in agonizing discomfort.

I shot up from why I was laying, wincing at the pain in my back, my head aching. My breathing was rapid, sweat shooting down my brow, my right hand over my chest. 

My heart was pounding in my ears, hearing lapping in and out. I could hear someone saying something, my vision blurry as they ran into the room shouting. 

They gently pushed my body back down, speaking something in my general direction. My hearing rang briefly before returning to my general state of hearing.

“-ou can hear me now?” I heard the fellow ask, nodding in response. He sighed in relief, running a hand through his brown hair. “I’ve already fed you far too much nectar, wouldn’t want you to explode now would we!” He laughed dryly at his own less than humorous joke.

“Who-who are you, sir?” I asked, holding my aching head against the cold, clammy palm of my right hand. 

“James McHenry at your service, sir!” the man laughed wetly. “But you may call me James, or McHenry. I’m the medic here at Camp Half-Blood, son of Apollo, cabin seven,” he answered. 

I sent him a look of confusion at the words. What did he mean by son of Apollo? As in the Greek god? Did that mean the gods were real? These thoughts raced through my mind at the speed of an archer shooting on a horse. 

“Right, you don’t know what any of this means yet–my formal apologies,” he said, interrupting my constant stream of thoughts. “The Greek gods, the ones you’ve heard fabled stories about, that have seemed fictional for your whole life, are real, and they exist in our modern day and age–” he rolled up the sleeves of his navy blue coat. “There are the twelve Olympians, the twelve main gods and goddesses of the pantheon, who you are most likely one of the children of, although you could be a child of one of the minor gods, which means you’d stay in cabin eleven, Hermes cabin, which is the same even if you stay unclaimed as you are now. He’s the god of travelers, meaning most demi-gods of minor gods or unclaimed, stay in his cabin, in addition to his own children.”

“And this is where the children of the Greek gods stay? What about the other pantheons, do they exist too?” I asked each question in rapid succession of the next. 

“Yes, the children of the Greek gods specifically stay here. I do believe the Norse are somewhere down in Boston, the Romans, if I can recall, are located in North Carolina. The Celtic are in New Hampshire and some are here in New York. We are in decent contact with the Norse and Romans, but we mostly keep to ourselves. I don’t think anyone from camp has spoken with and Celtic demi-gods in a long time–” McHenry rambled, placing down his quill and paper.

“What does it mean–to be unclaimed? And how-how exactly do you know that I’m one of you-a demi-god?” I asked, twiddling my thumbs over the thin blanket spread over my lower body. 

“It means that your godly parent hasn’t claimed you yet, and might in time, but it’s not a guarantee. And I fed you nectar to heal you as you slept. It’s the drink of the gods, just as Ambrosia is the food of the gods, and if you were mortal it would have caused you to explode,” he answered, sitting on a wooden stool in front of the bed. “And Troup brought you here–which is as an indication as any–” he continued. 

“Robert!” I called out hastily. “Is he alright?” I asked, recalling some of the memories of the evening prior. 

“He got a little banged up, but was otherwise unharmed, thanks to your haste recklessness,” he chided. I sighed in relief, placing a hand over my chest as I sat up slowly, my back resting on the backboard of the infirmary bed. “Next time, don’t try and fight a monster when you’ve never been trained! I can’t heal you if you’re dead!” he scolded, before sighing. “I’ll get someone to show you around in a few hours–once you’ve properly rested!”

He stood up, walking out of the infirmary, walking down the path as the door slammed shut, leaving me alone in the white-sheeted infirmary bed to my own devices.