Author: Lindsay
Rating: MATURE
Disclaimer: The characters of Roswell belong to The WB, Melinda Metz, and UPN. This is also a repost of an older fic of mine, rewritten and edited.
Summary: This is an installment in the Time After Time challenge by Fred. Time After Time is a series of loosely linked stories throughout history. Each story will feature Max and Liz in a CC relationship. Most of the other pairings will be CC, but it is not required (meaning that mild UC is a possibility). Nor is pairing the other characters with anyone necessarily going to happen. The stories in this series can all be read independently, but will be connected by Max and Liz's relationship, and by one other trend. See if you can pick it out! The stories may end happily, or not. This is at the discretion of the author. The backstory in each fic might be different. These stories are not necessarily canon based. The events of the TV show Roswell are just another link in the time after time chain.
The time is 1359, and something truly magical is about to happen...
banner by Anniepoo98
banner by roswellianprincess16
The Jade Tower
Prologue
…And thro' the field the road run by
To where many-towers laid;
Round an island there below,
The Tower made of Jade.
There a maiden waits by night and day
For true love’s kiss to be laid
A curse is on her if she stay
in the Tower made of Jade.
There is a tale that is whispered among the villagers of Roswell. A tale of magick and intrigue, of fantastical events, which were seldom believed, but heartily accepted. Those who were there when the story began are long gone from this world, leaving behind contradicting bits and pieces of what really happened.
Fact became legend, and legend became myth. However, one part of the story remains untouched, untainted by the gossiping tongues and forgetful minds. This is the story I shall share with you, and one that you will carry in your hearts forevermore.
It is a story of integrity and corruption, of bravery and cowardice. It is a tale of woeful grief, and absolute happiness. It is a tale of a love so powerful that it survived insurmountable odds and is remembered by all who treasure the kind of magic true love can bring.
It is good versus evil, of a courageous knight, and a princess who challenged him to the very depths of his soul. It is the story of a man who had lost himself, and the woman who found him.
You might not believe the story I am about to tell, but everything I speak of truly happened. It can change your heart if you allow it to. Light the fire, and cuddle closer, pilgrims, for a have a tale for you…
The Jade Tower – Chapter One
Elizabeth Parkana, Princess of Roswell, suffered from no illusions. Had she but, the world might have appeared a brighter place and she might have gladly accepted the fate that had been cast upon her without choice. Being of sound mind and body, however, she found it difficult to hide the fear and anger knotted inside of her.
Leaning against the balcony window of the Tower of Jade in the eastern wing of the castle, she gazed upon the bustling kingdom before her. Golden sunlight beat down from the sky, bathing the lush, rolling hills below in its heavenly warmth. Villagers could be seen going to and fro during the wee morning hours, preparing themselves for the unpredictability and opportunity of another day.
But not her. Oh, no…never her. There was no unpredictability in her life; every day she awoke with the knowledge of her duties and the sacrifices she must make for the kingdom she loved.
Her heart swelled with a longing she couldn’t suppress as she watched the mummers set up for their play in the Town Square, their faces obscured by colorful paint that gave the impression of masks. The idea of joining in the festivities that would occur that day had her releasing a lingering sigh.
Her father would never allow it. She might be ten and six and of able age to marry and bear children, but she was certainly not old enough to be given a glimpse into the coarse lives of the commoners. God forbid, she should expand her limited knowledge past that of what was considered appropriate for a woman of her station.
She was assailed by a terrible sense of bitterness as her fingers clenched around stone. She continued to watch her people below, envying them their freedom as her father’s revelation from the day before echoed in her mind.
The King’s proclamation had announced her betrothal to a knight from the neighboring kingdom of Antar. Once more, she suffered no illusions: Elizabeth was well aware that the affiance was merely an advantageous arrangement between two powerful monarchs looking to establish dominance over the richest of lands. And truly, Antar was a beautiful place – it’s flourishing countryside and abundant riches were reputed to rival even the affluent Roswell. The people of Antar were humble and hard working, and greatly loved their noble family, so truly she could have no objections to the match, or so said King Geoffrey as he had revealed his plans to the entire court in front of his stunned and dismayed daughter.
But Elizabeth could think of one key objection. Her fury almost choked her as she thought of her betrothed, and her knuckles turned white as she gripped the pane harder. Maxwell of Antar.
His name was whispered throughout the villages, causing many a young girl to sigh with dreamy pleasure. Noble women measured tales of his charms, giggling in sensual delight. It was said that he was as handsome as Adonis, and that Aphrodite had kissed him at birth, gifting him with a spirit as zealous as the goddess of love herself. This rumor was proven by his reputed many mistresses, who swore he was as passionate in bed as he was fierce in battle.
Elizabeth had never been acquainted with the desirable young knight, but she had heard the stories of his many exploits and the idea of marriage with him made her skin crawl. She didn’t want a handsome husband who would expect her to please him while he humiliated her by seeking pleasure elsewhere. She wanted to marry for love, to know without a doubt that she held her mate’s heart as he would hold hers. Something she knew would not happen with Sir Maxwell.
But it was already done, her engagement sealed by two ambitious kings. Her fate no longer lay in her own hands, if it ever had. Her eyes filled with tears of frustration and helplessness as she leaned farther out the window, savoring in the freedom she could almost taste on her tongue. If only…
“Your Highness?”
Elizabeth looked over her shoulder to see her lady-in-waiting standing just inside the Tower entrance. With one last look at the countryside, she turned and pasted a serene smile on her face. “Yes, Marian?” she spoke, quickly dropping her lashes to hide the emotion within.
Marian curtsied and gazed at the floor as she spoke, showing the proper respect for royalty. However, to Elizabeth’s frustrated countenance, her display only seemed one more sign of her captivity. Oh, how she longed to have a friend, to have the liberty to giggle with Marian and the other servants and walk through the village and… and even to flirt with the footmen and stable boys!
“His Majesty reminds you of your engagement feast this evening,” Marian answered demurely.
As if she could forget. Elizabeth silently bit back her impotent anger as her maid, unaware of the princess’s dangerous mood, continued, “He asks for you to join him in the dining hall.”
Elizabeth’s eyes darkened and her nostrils flared with fury, then she set her shoulders. “Of course, I shall be there as soon as I am dressed.”
Marian immediately hurried to her side. “Allow me, Your Highness.”
Elizabeth surrendered to Marian’s nimble fingers as the servant tied the fastenings of her brightly colored silk gown. Her eyes once again wandered to the open window outside her bedroom, and she fingered the cool, emerald stone that lie between her breasts.
<center>***</center>
Sir Maxwell Stefan Evanston, servant of Antar, spread his legs apart and held a hand to his mouth in a tactless maneuver to hide a yawn as he studied the raging female across the room.
He’d let this go on long enough, that much was certain. With a clearing of his throat, he sent the weeping female a quelling look. “Cease this, immediately. It is happening, and there is nothing you nor I can do about it, my lady.”
“But… but Maxwell,” Lady Delilah choked, as he unfolded his length from the chair. “You can’t be engaged! How… when did this happen?”
“Last night,” Maxwell answered coolly, not even bothering to sweep his gaze over her tempting form as he brushed past. “It is a great triumph, I am told.”
She forced down her anger and beneath the folds of her dress, her nails dug into her palms hard enough to bring glistening tears to her eyes. In a small voice, she asked, “Did I not please you, Maxwell?”
It had taken her far longer than she’d planned to seduce the handsome knight, and she had been aghast to realize that the tales of his insatiable appetite were greatly embellished. In fact, had it not been for the help of Vilondra, Delilah greatly doubted whether she would have ever seen the interior of his chambers.
And now, he was dismissing her as if she were nothing more than a serving girl whom he’d dallied with! It was not to be borne. She breathed heavily as she stared over at his profile, where he was not even pretending boredom. Her eyes narrowed as he spoke, his voice husky with natural timbre.
“It would be best if you left now, my lady,” he murmured, staring out of the open window. “Take the servants’ corridor, no one will see you.”
Delilah’s lips tightened. At the realization that he had already forgotten her, a desperate need welled inside her. “No!” Delilah cried. “This can’t be happening!”
This time his lips curved in a smile, but not in amusement. “Oh, but it is happening, my lady. And there’s not a damn thing you nor I can do to stop it. I am loyal to my King, and I do that which he wishes for the betterment of Antar.”
Delilah’s cheeks flushed and before she knew what was happening, her hand flew out to connect with his cheek. He caught it easily, and threw more salt in the wound by laughing softly.
“Dear Delilah… no reason to make a scene. We both enjoyed ourselves tremendously, but now we must go our separate ways,” he spoke as if it were already decided when in actuality, she had no intention of letting him go.
She took a deep breath and forced herself to remain the carefree seductress that had gotten her this far, and laughed lightly. “But Maxwell, you can’t mean to forget about us,” she murmured meaningfully, wrapping her arms around his neck and pulling his head down to meet her lips. Instead of responding to her invitation, he stepped back so that she almost fell against the chair that he had previously been reclining in.
“That is precisely what I mean to do,” he answered, and then turned in obvious dismissal to stare out the window once again.
Delilah fumed. “I’ll tell everyone!” she wailed. “You’ve ruined me! I’ll make it where you must have me!”
This time he didn’t even turn, but she didn’t imagine the smirk in his wry tone. “Whoever ruined you, sweeting, was around long before me.”
Those simple words finally broke her control and with a screech she threw herself at him, her fists pounding against his back as she railed. Out of nowhere guards appeared and restrained her as she fought, her eyes wild with rage.
“You will have me! You will have me!” She continued to cry the words as she was forced from his chambers, and Maxwell turned back to the window with a bemused expression.
“No, Lady Delilah, that is where you’re wrong” he whispered as his eyes searched across the never-ending landscape, “for no one shall ever have me. I would never bestow that curse upon a person…I swear it.”
<center>***</center>
Elizabeth wrapped the coarse woolen cloak around her body, making sure to cover herself from neck to toe. Her eyes flashed in excitement, her heart beating rapidly at the knowledge of what was to come.
She caught sight of herself in one of the hanging glasses decorating the stony walls and the image of a common woman was reflected back at her. Her wealth of dark hair tumbled carelessly down her back, defined by reckless curls.
“My Lady, I am not so sure about this.”
Elizabeth spun around to find Marian wringing her hands as she stared down at herself, dressed in one of Elizabeth’s gowns. Elizabeth’s eyes widened at the sight of Marian’s long hair coiffed atop her head, the pure image of royalty. With the maid’s coloring, she could easily pass for Elizabeth herself, especially since they’d managed to hide the gold in her hair with club moss.
The idea had come to Elizabeth while she’d been forced to listen to another of her father’s diatribes about the importance of making a superior impression that evening, and it had refused to leave her wandering thoughts.
She only wanted one night… one chance to see the outside world without all the trimmings that came with being royalty. One night to hold onto during the future years that she would be held prisoner in a marriage of convenience and formality. When Marian had followed her back to the Tower, she’d thought of the similarities between herself and her maid, and her plans had come to fruition.
“Nonsense, Marian,” she replied, walking over to straighten the brooch that held Marian’s robe together. The brooch had been a gift from King Philip of Antar to congratulate her on her engagement to his most favored knight. It was beautiful, molded in the shape of a rose and trimmed with diamonds and rubies. She would have loved it, had it signified anything other than the death of all her dreams.
“You must remember, do not curtsey to anyone,” Elizabeth continued, hurriedly giving last minute instructions to her worried lady, “only when you are presented to the kings. Everyone else will bow to you. Also, you mustn’t wring your hands like a cook does a chicken’s neck. Simply smooth the folds of your gown should you feel yourself become nervous.”
“But Your Highness, what if I am recognized?” Marian asked for what had to be the eleventh time since Elizabeth had hatched her plan.
“You won’t be,” Elizabeth responded surely. “Not only do you look the part, but it is a masquerade and you shall be wearing a mask. Just remember, try not to speak as much as possible. You’re only there to be beautiful and obedient,” she finished with an edge of resentment, which Marian picked up on, because her maid’s eyes widened and she looked away.
“You must be careful, Your Highness,” she whispered, then jumped when a knock sounded at the door, signaling the arrival of the guests for Elizabeth’s engagement ball. Elizabeth bent her head and opened the door, curtseying to the awaiting servant who delivered the summons for Elizabeth’s presence in a flat tone.
With one last terrified expression, Marian nodded and followed stiffly, leaving Elizabeth trailing behind. Once they passed the servants’ corridor, Elizabeth snuck away.
Following the servants’ hall to the rear castle exit, she found herself in the courtyard outside of the castle. She took a deep breath and stared back at the glittering lights and laughing people who arrived clothed in the most expensive tailored frocks.
Pulling her disguise more firmly around her, she disappeared into the night.
<center>***</center>
“Hyah!” Maxwell clicked his tongue and dug his heels into the belly of his great stallion Greyson. The two took off through the growing dusk as Maxwell’s pulse began to race. He knew he was shirking his duty, and he would surely pay for it the next day. However, he simply needed to get away from everything that was happening before he went irrevocably insane.
Since the scene that morning with Delilah, he’d been in a brooding mood. Even the sight of the lovely village girls and their flirtatious ways hadn’t lifted his spirits. He felt as though he was standing in the gallows, the noose ever-tightening around his neck.
He didn’t begrudge Delilah her shock at the news of his engagement. He felt much the same way – surprised, angry, resigned. He’d known it would come to this. Yet he’d still hoped…
Philip had not been happy with his decision, and for the first time he could remember Maxwell found himself and his King on opposing ends.
“I’ve decided not to attend the ball, Your Majesty,” he’d calmly reported earlier that morn, causing Philip to nearly choke on his tankard. “This is merely a… transaction. It doesn’t really matter if I’m there to wait on Princess Elizabeth.”
King Philip had taken a deep breath, obviously struggling to retain his composure, but his eyes flashed and he’d boomed out, “Say now, are you saying you refuse to wed the girl?”
Maxwell had swallowed, wondering if perhaps he should tell his King the reason why he was so fearful of the alliance. Why he feared marriage to any woman. But no matter how he trusted Philip, this was a secret he simply could not bestow.
“No, Your Majesty, I am fully aware of my duties to the Crown. I will marry your Princess. But until that day, my life is my own. You can expect no more from me.”
“But… but… what am I to tell Geoffrey?” the king sputtered. “You are expected to attend! I’ll not ruin this union by having you insult your future father-in-law.”
“Then have someone stand in my place,” Maxwell replied smoothly. “I’ve never met the Princess, she’ll never know. It is a masquerade after all.”
Philip’s eyes narrowed, taking in Maxwell’s riding clothes and the sack of food and wine on the ground next to him. “And where will you be, boy? Are you planning some sort of tryst with one of those tarts you seem so fond of? Is it that infernal Lady Delilah? I won’t stand for it, Maxwell.”
Instead of answering Philip, he’d simply turned and began saddling his enormous black charger, for a ride, secure in his knowledge that Philip would bluster but not refuse him.
After a hearty ride through the countryside, Maxwell pulled Greyson to a stop just outside of the forest, near a flowing stream. The sun had set an hour ago, casting its last dying rays far on the horizon in an explosion of pinks and reds. The moon had already risen to take its rightful place in the heavens, and by its glow he dismounted Greyson, leading the tired horse over to the bubbling water.
The fertile grass was a lush carpet beneath his boots and he felt the stiffness begin to leave his shoulders as the serenity of the area seeped into his body. Tying Greyson to a nearby tree and leaving the animal to drink, he wandered further down the bank where the river emptied into a small pond. Covered head to toe with dust from his long ride, he itched to dive into the refreshing water and wipe away any traces of his exhaustion. With one last look at Greyson, who was now munching happily away on the meadow, he bent to unlace his boots. He placed first one, then the other, under the canopy of a large oak and began unbuttoning his linen shirt. Draping it across a low-hanging branch, his fingers fell to the clasp of his pants when he heard a splash nearby.
Immediately he stilled, his battle senses honed and ready as his ears perked in awareness and his breath caught. The sound came again, this time even closer than before.
Maxwell crouched and reached inside his left boot for the small dagger he kept hidden within the tough leather. His fingers closing around the rough-hewn hilt, he crept behind the tree and waited for whatever was out there to show itself. It was most likely only a wayward animal using the mountain water to cool off, or perhaps a member from the nearby village out for an evening swim.
But Maxwell had been a soldier for too long, had seen too much destruction to ever take such a risk. What if it was one of his enemies, having followed him hoping to attack when he was at his most vulnerable?
He snorted arrogantly. They’d soon learn that Sir Maxwell of Antar never allowed himself to be vulnerable. His body coiled for attack when a figure appeared from the other side of the river, lying on its back as it swam towards him. It was definitely human. He could barely make out the evidence of long legs and elegant arms in the darkness, but he knew he was staring at another person.
Squinting against the night, a frown lit his handsome features as the figure swam nearer and stood in the waist deep water. His eyes widened and his mouth went dry as the moon appeared from behind the clouds and reflected against silky skin, highlighting bare curves.
The figure, the woman, ran her fingers through her hair and dislodged a shower of silvery drops back into the pond. In the moonlight the strands appeared black as midnight and fell to somewhere beneath the water in a flowing curtain of curls.
Maxwell stared dazedly at the unsuspecting water nymph. She was the most beautiful creature he’d ever laid eyes on. He watched as she swirled her fingers through the inky water, sending small ripples away from her. Who was she?
He cursed the night that had previously been his sanctuary, hating the darkness that cloaked the woman from his eager gaze. He leaned forward, straining to get a better glimpse, and succeeded in breaking a twig as he pressed against a weak portion of the old tree.
The woman’s head flew in his direction, and she stooped in the water to cover her body. “Who’s there?”
Maxwell swore at the sound of her wary voice, and stood frozen in the hope she’d forget the small diversion and go back to her alluring swim. Instead, she took a tentative step in his direction. Maxwell crept stealthily towards his clothes when once again her musical voice filled the air.
“Show yourself immediately, vagrant!”
Maxwell cocked a brow at the commanding tone, stifling a surprising burst of amusement at the situation. Here was Antar’s most feared warrior… and he was running from a woman? But he had no intention of showing himself and proving he was a voyeur, so he reached over for his shirt at the exact moment an object went whizzing past him. His eyes widened as he stared at the small dagger embedded in the tree just inches from where his fingers gripped linen.
He gave the shirt a slight tug, and watched in amazement as it held fast, stayed by the sharp end of the blade. The weapon appeared similar to his own, but instead of the many nicks and scratches covering his dagger, this one was glittering and undamaged, thus proving it hadn’t seen much struggle in its life.
The sound of soft footsteps brought him out of his reverie and he turned to see the woman staring at him, water sluicing down her nude form from her mad rush out of the river. She did not appear to realize the fact that she stood naked before him.
It was then he saw the second dagger in her hand.
His eyes fell on the small garters circling each thigh where she’d drawn her weapons and he quirked a brow. Interesting place to hide one’s defense.
“Do not move, sir,” she spoke, brandishing the knife like an expert swordsman. He lifted his hands in entreaty, a charming smile curving his lips. He watched as her eyes made a quick survey of him as he’d done to her, then returned to his lips. A flare of heat surged through him at the interest in her gaze, but when he took a step forward, she lifted the blade higher.
“I implore you, my lady, I mean no harm to your person,” he spoke quietly, standing still as she moved menacingly closer. “You may put down your weapon.”
“I rather think I’ll keep it, until I discover why you were following me,” she returned hotly. Her voice trembled slightly, giving Maxwell the idea that perhaps she wasn’t as calm as she appeared.
He smiled again, hoping to set her at ease. “I assure you that was not the case,” he said, watching as doubt crossed her lovely face. “I was simply tending my horse and debating over a late swim when I happened upon you bathing.”
At his words, her eyes widened and for the first time she seemed to realize she was, indeed, naked. Her cheeks flushed deeply and she looked away. Maxwell bit back a chuckle as she struggled to find something to cover herself with.
Apparently he wasn’t successful, because her eyes flashed angrily at him. “You dare to laugh, you knave? Turn around at once!”
Maxwell debated over telling her that it was truly too late, for he’d already seen everything of interest. But in the end, he took pity on her obvious embarrassment and turned to face the tree.
A very un-ladylike curse reached his ears and he grinned, crossing his arms over his broad chest. “There are blankets in my pack, to your left,” he offered, and heard the sound of her rifling through his bag seconds later. His mind filled with images of her bending over and wrapping herself in a sheet that smelled of him. He groaned quietly and reached down to adjust himself.
“You may turn around now,” she spoke regally, and Maxwell quickly complied, most eager to set his sights on her again.
She had tied two sheets together in a surprisingly fashionable toga, which covered her from the tips of her breasts to her ankles. He lamented the loss of her lush curves, but was wise enough not to say so.
“Now, sir, you will tell me your name.”
Once again Maxwell caught the authority in her tone. This was a woman who was used to people obeying her. Was she a member of the nobility, then? But he’d never before seen her, and he had thought he knew all the beautiful women in his kingdom and Roswell as well.
He assumed it was possible that she was from a distant kingdom, perhaps lost on her way back. But where was the rest of her party? A woman of her station didn’t travel alone - not in this day and age of debauchery.
“Who are you?” he blurted, unable to hold his hunger for answers back another moment.
Her brows rose. “I believe I asked your name, I did not consent to give you mine.”
Well, that just wouldn’t do. “And I believe that you are currently wearing something that belongs to me, my lady,” he pointed out. “Therefore I think that makes me deserving to know at least your name.”
She frowned and looked down at the blanket, her cheeks flushing at the subtle reminder of her previous nudity, and the fact that he had been witness to the event.
“Nevertheless,” she stated hastily, “it was you who spied upon me. Therefore I demand your name.”
“A small price to pay,” he murmured silkily, and was rewarded with another blush. His lips curved as he bent to perform a bow. “I am Maxwell.” He didn’t allude to the fact that he was also well-renowned warrior. The title tended to cause a woman to swoon at his feet or throw herself into his arms once she realized who he was. Not that he would mind having her in his arms. But he still preferred to keep his identity a secret for the time being.
Judging by her narrowed eyes, his reputation had preceded him. “Maxwell? Are you by any chance related to Sir Maxwell of Antar?”
He bit his lip, hating to outright lie. “Do you know him?” he settled for.
A strange expression crossed her features. “Why yes, I am…” She broke off suddenly and Maxwell waited for her to finish. She appeared to be thinking and then continued with, “No, I do not know him. I have heard of him, however.”
“And what do you think, my lady?” Maxwell asked, only half-teasing.
She threw her head back and frowned. “I think he is a wicked, sinful scoundrel of immoral policies!”
Maxwell choked at the heated words of disgust. “Well, you certainly seem to… disapprove… of Sir Maxwell.”
She simply scowled. Maxwell cleared his throat and decided to change the subject. “May I not have your name? I have, after all, given you mine. Along with the only blankets for my bed tonight.”
She stared at him, obviously warring with herself over whether or not to submit to his request. Maxwell smiled charmingly.
She sighed. “Very well, sir. You may call me… Rose.”
