Author - Sarah.
Rating - TEEN/MATURE
Disclaimer - don't own anything from Roswell, Northern Ireland.
Genre - VERY AU.
Feedback - please!
Banner by the EXTREMELY talented ps_dreamer.
Summary - This was a challenge posted by Lille (challenge #14). In this world today, there're a lot of places where people are segregated and torn apart. One of them would be Northern Ireland. This place is as wildly beautiful as it is troubled. This story, while incredible and unlikely, especially when talking about Max and Liz from the show, has the same essence - proof that differences, no matter how indisputable, can be overcome when you've got Max and Liz around. Lol.
Max Evans Flynn is a Catholic whose family has ties to the IRA and directly linked to Sinn Fein. Elizabeth Parker is a Protestant whose father is an important member of Democratic Unionist Party (DUP), strongly allied to the Loyalists. This is their story.
A/N - I understand the subject matter's not only flammable but can also be painful for a lot of readers. I'm not political, neither do I have a bias. This is just a fic, written from the viewpoint of teenagers in a place where they've been brought up to hate and misunderstand each other. I apologise deeply if this offends anyone and I've done my best to try and keep the genre as imaginative as I could, even to the point of taking this to the future. Lol. This is my personal tribute to Max and Liz as well as to Ireland, who's history never ceases to amaze me. If there are misnomers of places, dates, political events and religious events, forgive me but I don't live in Europe or US, so take it with a pinch of salt.
~~~/\~~~
Prologue
2015
Boston River sidewalk, USA
A lone man stood in the path leading to a magnificent view of the Massachusetts harbor. The wind blew across his face, the sunrays glinting in the water, creating an atmosphere so tranquil that it broke one’s heart. The busy day-to-day life was easy to see but amidst that, there were people from all walks of life standing around, enjoying a rare sunny day in the Boston summer. The man took no notice. He stared with unseeing eyes across the wide expanse of water.
Nearby a big clock ticked off the hours. An enchanted crowd had gathered nearby watching a highly motivated group dancing and playing traditional Irish music. There was a quasi-troupe. A slim red-haired girl was dancing the Irish reel while four others gave accompanying music. One played the lute, the other a bodhran, one gave the beat from the ‘bones’ and one provided competition. The two dancers faced off, feet moving like lightning as the music roared. It was with the most primitive of all equipments but the pounding feet of the dancers electrified everyone in the vicinity.
The music sped up, so did the dancers. The feet fell in unison as the couple dared each other with their movements to go harder and faster. This was hardly out of the ordinary in an area where there were so many Irish residents, but today was a momentous one in the history of Ireland. Whether it was good or bad, history would decide. And it would happen within the hour.
The dancing caught the man’s attention. He turned sideways for a minute, giving a teenager a full view of his profile. The girl giggled and turned to her friends. Soon, the ladies in the college crowd preened as they checked out the very tasty dish of the male species. Shock of raven hair, wiry profile, a strong jaw and all the other itty-bitty things girls usually notice about a hunk. It was all there. The man seemed to notice the girls’ interest, so he paused to give them a polite, aloof smile. The women nearly swooned. The best part of his face hadn’t been clearly visible until now. Jade green mixed with hazel, turning it into an amber maelstrom. It was his eyes. They shocked and invited at the same time, but now...now they seemed dead. It was in every line of stance. It was rigid and somehow chained to his post on the rail.
He stared at the dancers, his hear aching. It reminded him of a long lost memory, a memory of a raven-haired belle whirling and quickening her already lightning-fast footsteps across from him in the firelight as the crowds roared their approval and music interwove with the beat. It hadn’t deserved to end like the way it had. The man turned away.
The minutes roared by, counted off to the beat of the dancers’ feet, the clack of the bodhran only matched by the plaintive wail of the lute.
Such an old-fashioned name, and yet it stands for all that was Gaelic. The man thought wistfully. But he’d committed his first errors. He’d let himself explore his memories. And now once started, he couldn’t stanch the flow. They whirled up in the dark recesses of his mind, killing him with the pleasures associated with it and the pain of never knowing them again.
There was only half an hour left. 30 minutes till it was decided that the one person who had died guiltlessly in the name of justice, hatred being the main motivation, hadn’t died in vain.
The beat turned into a constant rhythm. The steps restarted a slow tempo, the footwork dazzling to behold, as each dancer deliberately slowed their pace. They had to, if they wanted to keep it on for another 30 minutes. The clack-clack-clack started spiraling in his mind, jarring loose another memory.
The sound of a tremendous clashing almost the same intensity of cymbals, sounded in the air, creating euphoria in the hearts of the small group of people as they raced along the roads of West Belfast, Northern Ireland. One woman had found an open manhole cover and was thumping it against the road with all her strength, her little toddler joining in the din, laughing madly. One expected him to be scared. He wasn’t. He too, joined in as the group raced by, comprising mostly of school lads.
Amidst the excited atmosphere joined in the wail of sirens. The Brits were coming. This was Belfast, land of division between Protestants and Catholics, which had turned into a battleground for the Irish versus the English, still fighting the centuries-old battle.
The footsteps of a small contingent of the British troops that were stationed in this troubled part of Northern Ireland had homed in, thinking that there was going to be another raid, or another act of violence in the making. For the atmosphere was turbulent, despite the revelry. There was a ferocious beauty in the movements of the crowd. Like a hound smells blood and runs off in its direction, so did the British troops. The shields firmly in place, batons twirling, they chased after the boys.
The boys on the other hand, were well prepared. They ran through the dirty, narrow alleys between each strips of houses clustered together. Loyal Catholic families, opened backdoors, trapdoors as they raced through each house, hiding, escaping, all with the feral thrill of a hunt.
A dark haired boy ran alongside his friends, jade green eyes turned amber from the highlights of hazel. He wasn’t but a little more than 14, but he ran with the speed and grace of a strong runner. He was laughing and hooting just like the rest but inside him was the anger. Anger that the British were actually given the right to chase him in his own land, his own country. By far, it was no explanation for the troubles that had plagued that area for nearly a century, but such were the optimism of youth.
The troops lost most of them as they leapt over familiar areas, evading the British with ease. The chase had ended, as he crawled underneath an overturned bus, but it had resulted in violence. From his perch, he could see the Catholics clashing with the troops, trying to hold them back, screaming. “You’ll not touch our lads!!” The troops charged in to the crowd, the smoke bombs exploded in the mobs making them flee or choke. Yet they didn’t; they stayed and counter-attacked. The howls got louder, petrol bombs were itching to make their first appearance in a scene where the anger hadn’t turned murderous yet. The crowds kept chanting their slogans, vowing to tear the Brits to pieces if they so much as touched the boys. The Irish resonated in them but the troops hadn’t really been to blame. The fault had started with the boys. But this was Catholic area, IRA stronghold. They were able to do whatever the hell they liked and damn the consequences.
The memory ended. Maxwell Evans came to suddenly. The air was balmy- calm and enjoyable. Not the turbulent abandon of the Irish air, mixed with the exhaust fumes and burning tyres. He was not in Ireland, but suddenly, he wished he was there once again, with the lost enthusiasm of his younger days.
The music picked up speed, the dancers impatient to show off. Max forced his eyes away from the happy, optimistic crowd and stared across the river. Within the hour. Then he could find it in himself to let go of the guilt.
A girl laughed in the distance. Instead of hearing the mirth in her voice, Max’s brain thundered down another road.
It had not been raining that June night. The high school crowds had gone to Donegal Square for the weekend for the talent competition and the Irish folk festivals. The raven- haired girl had been eye-catching then just as she had always been. He watched her from afar, the way he had to. Her eyes reflected the fire in the hearth, her movements slow and waiting. Her face laughed politely at her companion’s joke but her mind was preoccupied. He felt himself move, out of his own volition. The movement caught her eyes, making her glance over at him. Another potent look was stolen. He was genuinely curious as to why she wouldn’t make eye contact. They were far away from the troubles. As far as they were liable to get.
His look challenged her; they both knew that. Max thought she’d turn away and go on with her life, the way she’d done before. She did nothing of the sort. She walked over to the center stage. Numerous boos sounded but she cared not the least. With an arrogant smile, she took the fire-eater’s alcohol bottle out of his hand and looked jeeringly over at the suddenly hushed crowd. At him. And then she proceeded to blow out fire from her throat. The crowd was silent. No applause, no jeering. She didn’t care. She swung her hair down her back and strode off, radiating confidence in every step. Which guy was going to remain immune to her?
Max came out of yet another stolen memory. He would never see that sight again, never even imagine it. It belonged to him, to them. It had been their moment. Twenty feet apart and separated by a wall hacked from hatred, discrimination and macabre silence, they stood there, claiming that one second in time as their own. And the rest of the world could go to hell for all they cared.
Don’t do this yourself. His mind begged for release, but today his conscience would not be stilled. He’d had seven years to reflect on this, seven long years to release his mind. The day he’d prayed for had indeed come about, but he was as clueless on how to go about it as he’d been on the day he’d started praying.
From the corner of his eyes, he saw a brunette moving casually towards the rail, nearly 500 yards away. His heart caught in his throat as she flicked back her hair behind her ear in an irritated movement. The sun came out from behind the clouds and it went into his eyes directly. He squinted but her features were too obscured. He pinched the bridge of his nose, the black rim of his glasses sliding down a bit.
She would’ve have laughed had she seen him. She always had, whenever she saw him wearing it, because to her it had been an indicator of his moods. He only wore glasses when he felt like shielding himself from prying eyes. It had been their standard joke that he shielded his eyes whenever she was nearby, because she saw through him in a second. She’d smile and tuck her hair behind her ear, letting him think that. Of course she’d actually had no clue as to what went on inside his head but if he thought she did, it had suited her fine.
Now, of course, Max knew that there had been no truth in that. She would lead him on intentionally. 18 year olds did not have the power to see through each other’s souls. No, but they knew better than to let history get in the way of an attraction so profound, that it scorched them. Can’t you just hear them sigh?? That’s what happens when you try to dismiss the bigger picture. You lose. Experience had a lot going on for it. That in it self, set off another chain reaction inside of him.
They had snuck away for a trip to County Donegal. It was summer; Mt. Errigal was even more majestic in summer than it was in winter. And it was late summer. He remembered the way her eyes glazed over at the beauty all around them. It didn’t take either of them too long to drown in the priceless scenery of the countryside. She’d turn round and ask why she felt this way when she was outside Belfast. Why the fighting and the hatred didn’t matter when they left their normal lives behind. He’d had no answer because he’d been pondering the exact same thing. Their parents knew nothing of where they’d gone. No one did. It took lies and counter-lies to get past the barriers but the prize was sweet. He could practically inhale the smell of the moors and her scent, combining in itself making him drunk off it. They’d watch their country bit by bit, but neither of them was to know that it would be the last. Time stood still for a few seconds of precious release they could find from the daily, lately disgusting, lifestyle.
Max stood back from the rail. He didn’t trust himself to stay too close to the water in fear of doing something crazy. But all he could remember was her and it was making him nauseated. There was only 15 minutes left.
The tempo picked up. It became his personal nightmare as he tried to hide from the images of the past but he was incapable of doing anything. He knew he was punishing himself, torturing his razed peace of mind, but he deserved it. If you become responsible for murdering someone you love, you would too. No amount of begging for forgiveness would ever grant it, so why run?
Here they all were, all the Irish here and around waiting for a thing that had eluded them for seemingly forever. Maybe this time, it was for real. Maybe there was a breakthrough around the corner. This could be the beginning of the end of all the violence in a country, so beautiful that it took mortals’ breath away. Max wasn’t interested in political bullshit, anymore than he was interested in taking singing lessons. He just wanted this day to end the way it was intended. Everything hung in the balance.
He could hear the taps picking up tempo, threatening to send everything into a frenzy. The trio was good; they’d timed it perfectly with the time on the watch. The clock said it was 10 minutes to 1:00 am, June 20th, 2015. 12 years ago, there had been another treaty. It had also ended senselessly in violence.
There had been countless treaties since then. None of them lasted as long as the Good Friday Agreement. The Parliament, the Oireachtas in Gaelic, was full of MPs who did nothing to help the peace process instead of talk. The taxpayer suffered while the British government sat on its duff and issued orders. They’d vowed that it would be the last time the National Assembly would ever be dissolved but that hadn’t happened. Instead of both major political rivals, the Sinn Fein (IRA political rep) and the Democratic Union Party (Loyalist) cooperating, as they’d said they’d do, it had turned ugly by the mark of one year. From then on, whatever semblance of peace they’d found had been washed away like the soot in a sudden April shower.
Promises of peace, more treaties, violence, more talk…it had turned into a sordid deal. Today could prove to be different. All Max wanted now was justice. He didn’t think he had any right to ask of it, but he was going to.
The dancing got more frenzied. The crowds joined in; they clapped to the beat of the bodhran, they cheered at the intricate footfalls. Max felt his head start spinning, all he wanted to was to be back in Eire, running down a road with his friends, chanting and screaming. Or hold her and tell her how much he’d loved her even though they had been too young to understand its full power. The words nearly tore out of his throat. He clenched his jaw, fighting back the tears.
She was framed by the firelight, lighting up his life with her smile.
Max bowed his head. The dancing sped up, leading to the final notes.
She danced across from him, challenging, awe-inspiring.
His jaw swelled due to the pressure exerted. A nerve thrummed along his cheek.
She sat there, reading a book, uncaring that the others were busy subtly taunting her on the train. She sat, framed in sunlight, her hair lighting up in a million shade of burgundy. She looked as heady as the wine, as untouchable as the metal barrel of an AK-47. Ice-like but only he knew of the hidden fire. It made him dizzy thinking that he, of all people, had a claim on her that no one did.
Max turned as if to walk away. A youth standing nearby stopped him.
“Don’t go yet…’ his brogue thick and obvious. “Stay. The best is yet to come. Yer’re Irish, I can tell.”
Max smiled but it didn’t reach his eyes. It came across fake and hard. "Yes, I’m Irish.” He found pride in it, even though there was no pride to be found from being of a terrorist’s clan.
The dancing speed up. The dancers whirled, their feet hardly visible. Adrenaline rushed through everyone’s blood at the sights and the sounds of the spectacle taking place. They were all here on a hope of peace, Catholics and Protestants alike. The bodhran’s tempo taunted the dancers, making them go faster. The lute and the goatskin joined in the melee, hardly heard above the ferocious drumming of the dancing shoes. The troupe was, by far, one of the better Irish performers in the area; they created magic and left hellfire in their wake. But Max wasn’t moved. He stood there, frozen in time.
The clock ticked down to the last minutes. The dancing electrified, the crowd chanted at the top of their lungs, careless of which side they were on. For one minute in time, they were all on the same side. Max stood apart. His eyes stayed glued on the watch, the radio that had been set for BBC was on at full volume, the countdown had already started.
The dancing fell silent, as the anticipated last 10 seconds neared. The sudden fall in volume intensified the silence. How does the song go again, the sound of silence? Max thought idly but his mind wasn’t idle. It was being tortured as flashes of his past life went before his eyes.
The crowd roared as they neared the ended. “ 5…4..3..”
A flash tore Max apart. It was her. She stood there in the darkened alley staring at him in shock. The words made no sense to her. And then it did. It hit her as lightning hits unprotected tree saplings. She flinched as if she was hit. Then her eyes glazed as the implications sank in. Her father was a target. Of the IRA ‘provos’, one of the topmost groups of the terrorist arena. His babbled words made little impact right then but he could see the effort she made not to break down. She turned away in shock. He caught her up in his arms, the bond frightening. This was the most dreaded moment for any resident of Belfast who’d dared to fall in love with the enemy. The end had to come and it usually came in its full brutality. She’d turned to face him, wanting to look him in the eye when she spoke the words. He’d tried to look away but her eyes commanded attention. She hadn’t said anything apart from a half incoherent whisper of “I love you. Know that.” But the depth behind her words convinced him. Even that hadn’t been necessary. He’d seen it in every look, every smile she’d bestowed on him during the one and half they’d had together, turning from allies to lovers.
He tried to hold on to her but she’d left without a backward glance. It didn’t pay not to look where you were going in West Belfast. Good chance that you’d end up dead. He’d watched her go, at least happy that she’d been warned, that she’d been told when the deed was to take place. She was safe.
Max came out of the memory with a gasp. His lungs burned but no air went in. it was nearly over. All the sacrifices, the heartbreak, the fear, all to be gone soon enough.
“2…. 1.…”
Max stared away. His body shook. He grasped onto the railing to control himself. Making a scene here would accomplish nothing.
The clock struck one. The BBC broadcaster announced the much-awaited, much-anticipated words. “The Ceasefire has officially started…" The rest was drowned out by the sudden climax of the dancing. The pause had ended. The beat drummed along every one’s veins, making their pulses comes alive.
Max leaned over the railing, trying not to retch. When everyone else had cheered, the only thing on his mind was the stench of burning human flesh, the charred body parts not entirely covered by the police cordon. Max choked, the smell and the sight was imprinted in his brain.
The fire had taken it all out; the only thing that had killed Maxwell Evans’ previously Maxwell Evans Flynn’s soul was the only identifying factor he’d ever need. He’d know those graceful hands anywhere, delicate fingers, topped by glossy nails, shaped to perfection. Her hands had defined her body far better than any of her other features, not even her hair. They’d ascribed to the notion that behind the goody-two shoes exterior, Liz Parker had enough fire and zest to set any man’s blood to a boil. And those hands had indeed belonged to the corpse that had been loaded away on the paramedics’ ambulance.
Max came back to reality. The Ceasefire had officially started. This time, there had been genuine progress. The world community had finally sat up and taken notice of what was going on in one of Earth’s own paradise. There had been intense pressure on the both sides to compromise and reach a settlement. They had and the public was seemingly satisfied. The treaty of 2003 had been wasted on empty words. This time around, the words had been spoken after the actions had taken place.
For seven long years, the people had waited for a satisfactory edict on the actual outcome of the West Belfast bombing that had killed of the family of one of the most reputed DUP leader, Jeffrey Parker. It had been a conspiracy that had shocked people into believing that two sides could unite. The process had been long but now, they were looking at real hope.
But that particular moment held no joys of bittersweet relief for Maxwell Evans. He was in his own private nightmare and while the ceasefire established the justice, he still had a long way to go before he forgave himself in the inadvertent part he’d played in the death of the girl he’d loved – Elizabeth Parker.
The tears came then. They fell slowly, as if the weight inside him wouldn’t even let the tears fall. As he wept silently, his eyes caught a sight he’d never, ever dreamed of seeing in life again. It was a raven-haired, petite woman walking away. It was Liz.
Well?
Sarah.
me apologieeees, aldies. or are there gents, too? 
I'll fix it soon
