History Sings to You (and the future watches)

The Foggiest Idea

None of the shirts he is packing look like they will survive the harsh way he's thrown them in his satchel. Through the bitter haze in his head he acknowledges that he is behaving like a petulant child, yet he's tired, cold, hungry and most of all, outraged. He's finding it difficult to care after being forced to leave the life he'd built for himself here. His hard-fought opportunity for a chance at glory, his reason for thriving-

Eliza's face flitted through his mind for a second, smiling and beckoning him forward, filling his chest with warmth. He remembered the calm and contentment he'd felt with her, but the memory was distant, like a dream, so unreal while away. Yet, he knew the second he returned to her, he would feel it again. Would want to give her the world, and all she asked was for him. But, he wouldn't leave this place. Couldn't, really. Not with his comrades-in-arms, his glory and John still there.

He could ride into the fray regardless. Turn the tide. It would put him at risk, and if he failed he could kiss his position in the army goodbye.

The thought of not doing anything clawed and crawled inside his head and set free a storm of restless energy he's not sure he could contain.

He realized with a jolt he'd been folding and refolding a single pair of breeches for the past minute.

(He also realized he couldn't bring himself to disobey George's orders.)

He felt a shiver run down his spine. Gelid fog touched his skin and it couldn't have been more alike to what he was feeli-

Wait.

Fog?

It shouldn't be this thick, not inside the tent, and was it moving like tentacles, moving and it began climbing the walls, what-

And then it was gone.

Along with everything else in his tent.

He was in a foreign room, decorated sparsely. Everything in it appeared to be of high quality, but any sense of luxury was marred by how everything looked vaguely familiar and profoundly foreign. At the same time. (He didn't think that was possible)

To his right, a group of comfortable black chairs and plumped couches faced a bare wall. (There wasn't enough room to make a speech, much less to put anything there. Why were they there?)

To his left a dark brown dining table, covered in a green tablecloth almost insulting in its simplicity. A row of cabinets composed the background for the rest, some of them bare of handles.

Further examination was interrupted by a sharp gasp beside the table. He caught a few wisps of the fog before he recognized Laurens' face. It was only natural to rush to him and steady him.

"Alexander, what-" He cut him off by means of an embrace, leaning forward to whisper in his ear:

"My dear John, it appears we are trapped in a wealthy man's living room. Be on your guard."

Laurens snaps into the tense awareness of battle, pushing away the confusion and vague sense of dread creeping up behind them almost instinctively. If they could convince themselves this was just another battle, they would be fine. He hoped.

"Are we armed?" Lauren's asks, and they both step away, whirling around to cover each other's backs and disguise the twitch of a hand to a gun handle.

The weapon was thankfully there.

"How long have you been here, Alexander?"

"Not much longer than you, I'm afraid. If that is for good or ill remains to be seen"

A startled shriek rises from behind a row of chairs, the eerie fog fleeing from the folds of a dress. And unmistakable long black hair.

"Betsey!" Alexander rushed to her side, eyes wide and disbelieving. Nevertheless he engulfed her in a hug, and drew her to her feet.