“Yes, your highness,” Xander bowed and growled through clenched teeth. He winked at Adalia before turning around and walking away.
He met one of his men on his way out to the carriage. He needed everything to go smoothly, if possible perfectly. He tightened his grip around the hilt of his sword as he replayed the romantic moment between Adalia and Archer in his head. It wasn’t fair but he had a plan to correct everything that had happened.
“Is everything ready?” He asked.
“Just as you had requested,” the soldier fell back into line.
Xander couldn’t help but think back to the point where everything had to change:-
“Princess?”
Xander could remember when he was just fifteen years old. He had escorted his father to the palace. His father, Crone, was Gabrielle’s right hand man; that was before he died and Conan came along. Adalia had a wooden sword in her hand, and she was fighting an immobile opponent. Her mother’s Rose bushes. He watched from a far at the skill she possessed at just thirteen years old. The hard set on her face, her eye browns furrowed in deep concentration, her delicate fingers curled around the hilt of her weapon, strangling the wood.
“Surrender you vile creature!” Her cherry sweet voice rang in the air. It didn’t possess any note of intimidation, but it was full of determination. “Hiyaaa!” Her voice rang in the air again.
This time Xander couldn’t help but croak out a laugh.
“Who goes there?”
Adalia turned in his direction. Her knees bent, her hands secured around the hilt of her sword, her eyes scanning for danger. She had the makings of a great warrior. “I said who goes there!”
Xander took a step out of his hiding place, behind a tree. His head bowed respectfully to her title, also, in an attempt to hide the smile splitting his face. “No need to fear, Princess, it is I Alexander son of Crone.”
“Oh!” Xander snuck a peak and saw how Adalia studied him suspiciously. Then suddenly, as if a spark lit in her mind, her expression changed. “Is there a war? A great battle in which my father and I will crush those vile rebels under our feet. We will make them submit to the points of our blades and arrows. Finally a great battle!”
“Sorry, your highness, there is no battle,” Xander registered the disappointment in her eyes. “The dispute we had with the rebels has been dealt with by your father’s army under my father’s command.”
“Under my father’s command you mean,” Adalia put the tip of his blade to his chin, and lifted his head. “You dare claim my father’s victory as you own!”
A sensation of regret slammed into him. “I did not mean-,”
“What did you mean?”
“Of course the glory is to the King and his crown. I only meant to say that my father played a part in it, so did I.”
“What did you say your name was?”
“Alexander, but my friends call me Xander.”
“I’ll call you Xander. Not because we are friends but because Alexander is a tedious name to say every time,” she paused for a second, and then the tone in her voice changed. “You said that you were instrumental to the victory.”
“Yes, I-,”
“So you were there during the battle, fighting?”
“Yes.”
Xander had to stop the yelp threatening to come out of his mouth, when Adalia grabbed his arm and pulled him to the ground with her. He landed on the grass with an undignified thud, and regained his balance just in time to stop himself from falling on his back.
“Tell me what it was like,” before he could speak she went on. “Was it bloody, noisy; did a lot of people die?”
Xander wasn’t sure what to say next. It wasn’t right to speak to a lady about the vile scenes of a battle, let alone a princess. But she seemed so interested. And the way she looked at him, it was like she was the only man in the world, a fountain of knowledge. Xander couldn’t help himself; he wanted her to look at him that way all the time. “Well it was-,”
“Xander!”
Xander scrambled to his feet. Crone’s commanding tone left no room for argument. He waved at her and ran towards his father’s bellow.
The next time Xander saw Adalia, two years had flown by. She was grown now, seventeen years old and looking more like a woman every single day. It was at her birthday party. The palace walls were donned in large bows and roses. Adalia was dressed in crimson red, her ruby tiara shining through the raven color of her hair, piled atop her head. She was a vision of beauty. And for a moment he thought that beauty would be his.
He stood in line behind hordes of titled and untitled men who wanted the same thing, to meet Adalia and hopefully catch her eye. His heart beat harder each step he took. The closer he got to her, the harder his ribs would quake from the force of his ferociously beating heart.
Xander cleared his throat and stiffened his spine when he got to her. He bowed, took her gentle soft hand and laid a kiss on it. Then he stood up straight and smiled at her. But he never saw a spark of recognition in her eyes. It seemed the longer he stood there, holding her hand, the more uncomfortable she looked.
“I guess you don’t remember me,” he admitted in humiliation. “I am Alexander son of Crone.”
“Crone, the dead warrior?” Instead of recognition, her voice was filled with pity.