SUMMARY: She's a fair princess imprisoned at the top of a tower because of her father's fears. He's just a poor servant boy with a borrowed horse and intentions to save a pretty girl. It's a picture perfect fairytale. Or so it should be. Instead, Jemma Simmons breaks herself out and ends up saving Leo Fitz from the big bad dragon.
AUTHOR'S NOTES: I have no idea why this sprung to mind, but.. I felt like writing a sappy little fairytale roleplay. But instead of the usual 'knight saves the princess' deal, I thought I'd do my own take. Besides, I could totally imagine Jemma breaking out of the tower herself, and Fitz just watching in awe.
There will be a few cameos, so keep an eye out for them! I'm hoping that this story will have a few plot twists, but it's probably pretty predictable. At any rate, do enjoy!
CHAPTER ONE: Daddy Dearest
Jemma Simmons had never exactly been a daddy's daughter. Even as an infant, she had stuck closer to her mother and her nursemaids, preferring to leave the king to his many important duties as the ruler of the kingdom. At any rate, he was a very busy man who hardly found time to get a good night of rest, let alone check up on his wife and daughter every so often (as an ideal father would). She didn't blame him, of course. The kingdom needed looking after, it wasn't her father's fault that he was needed so often by so many important people.
But Jemma had expected more from her father than this. They were related by blood, after all. It only made sense that they would care for each other (she prided herself on being logical on most subjects of matter). Or at least, she had expected some more rationality from the Grand King of the Kingdom. As a little girl, she had always admired her father's intelligence, and the ease with which he would decide on how to handle one particular situation or the other.
But now, staring him in the eye as he sat uneasily on his fancy golden throne, she wondered whether he was really just insane.
"Father, you can't just lock me up and expect it to solve your problems," she protested with a small splutter. She kept her tone polite, of course. She had been brought up to be like a 'proper lady', or so her uptight governess often stressed when she complained or moaned or even yawned without covering her mouth.
Upon his throne, the king heaved a weary sigh, shifting in his spot and staring down at her like he hadn't slept in a million years. And indeed, he looked like that too, with knitted eyebrows and tired eyes, not to mention the rather drowsy way he held himself up. Jemma didn't need to be educated to know that he needed sleep. Perhaps fatique is making him delirious, she wondered absently as she waited for his verdict. That would certainly explain things, wouldn't it?
"Jemma, we've been over this already," he spoke slowly, as if she was dull or slow. Jemma Simmons, if she was anything, was not slow. In fact, even her governess had mentioned that she was an incredibly bright young girl. "It's for your own health, sweetheart. You know that your mother started going insane when-"
"Mother was never insane," she snapped before she could help herself. Her father raised an eyebrow and she composed herself quickly, taking a tiny moment to breathe. "Sorry, father." But she wasn't sorry. Not really. Well, maybe a little bit sorry. Her father already looked so tired, shouting at him was hardly going to fix anything. But how can he say that about mother?
"See? The process is starting already, my sweet," he said, his voice patronisingly soothing. "My normal daughter would never be so rude and haughty. And especially to her own father, of all the people."
Normal Jemma is still here, she thought sharply, the words barely held back. It's my father that's gone crazy.
"With all due respect, Father," Jemma began again, each word as stiff as the one before it, "Mother was sick. The doctor was giving her some medicine, perhaps that started the madness, and if you'd just stop to consider that maybe-"
"Enough, Jemma!"
She was startled into silence, the reasonable words she had been preparing dying on her lips quickly. Rarely did her father raise his voice, if ever at all. Snapping her mouth shut quickly, she reached to toy with the soft fabric of her violet dress nervously. Suddenly, all the angry fire from before faded away, replacing itself with quickly rising fear. This decision was going to predict her future. Maybe her father was right. Perhaps she should just comply to his orders.
"Blaming the doctor for the Queen's sickness," the king snorted incredulously, his tone light with scornful humour. After a few moments, his gaze softened and he rose from his throne, his eyes darkening as he made his way down the steps and closer to his daughter. "I'm sorry, Jemma. But you know what happened with your mother. I don't want the same to happen to you. I can't let that happen to you."
Jemma flinched suddenly, blinking the tears from her eyes at the mention of the kind lady that had once been her mother. Still is my mother, she corrected hurriedly. The queen had caught a disease. Some sort of illness, the doctor had suggested after a few check-ups. At first, it had seemed like a harmless flu. The Queen was given some extra treatment and the kingdom went on as usual. But then things got worse. Wracking coughs, a harsh fever. Often, the palace was woken up at night from screams caused by fitful nightmares. Then, she'd gone mad. Started talking to the walls, to herself. Singing songs, laughing at random bursts. Sometimes, when Jemma dropped by to visit, she had stared blankly at her own daughter and inquired why she wasn't wearing the suitable clothes for being a palace servant.
Then, on a snowy winter morning some time later, some poor unsuspecting maid had found the fair lady dead. Passed away in her sleep, so the doctors said. A painless way to go.
The king had been distraught. He'd hidden up in his study for days, refusing to come out for anything at all - not even to eat something. The only thing he'd accepted was tea from the maids. Eventually, the doctors had forced a therapist upon him, and he now seemed to be much better. Or so he claimed. One time, when Jemma had been creeping around the hallways (she'd forgotten her books and dreaded to think of what her governess would say if she found out), she heard the unmistakable sniffles of her father crying. The brave, noble king crying. And now, Jemma's father was completely convinced that the disease was contagious. No matter what anyone had said to him, he became paranoid. And then some wise scholar had thought it a good idea to suggest isolation.
Her father had heartily agreed, and together they'd devised a plan without her consent. Which brought her back to the current conversation, blinking pleadingly up at her father.
The current conversation about locking her up for the rest of her life in a tower, miles away from any comfort or company. Needless to say, she didn't like the idea of it. She'd attempted to tell her father this, but he was having none of it.
"What happened to Mother won't happen to me," Jemma pleaded, gripping the skirts of her dress harder, until the skin on her fingers began to turn white. "Please, Father. I've done everything you've ever asked of me. At least allow me my freedom."
When he said nothing, she fully understood that he was serious. Her lips parted and she shook her head at him slowly, taking a quick step back. "You can't be serious. If the illness even is contagious - which I highly doubt, judging by the doctor's reports - it would have spread to the whole kingdom by now! You can't keep all of them in containment," she accused. Her voice was shaking now, but she didn't care. Maybe she was overreacting, but all she could picture were the endless days stretched in front of her, all by herself. Loneliness was not something the princess enjoyed, and days filled with echoing silence seemed to haunt her.
"I may not be able to protect the kingdom from this illness," her father said gently, "but I can at least keep my daughter safe from it."
"Father-"
"Go pack your things, Jemma."
This was a war she would not win.
...
Jemma made no move to pack up her items, as she'd been instructed by her father. Instead she sat on her bed, running her fingers over the smooth fabric of an emerald dress that she'd plucked up absently. She still couldn't wrap her head around the events that had just taken place.
Her own father was going to lock her up for god knew how long. She couldn't believe it, if she was being completely honest. Her father had never been the most put-together parent, but he had been kind and generally supportive when he did have the time to talk to her. And now he was going to stow her away without her consent? It wasn't fair, honestly. It was her own life, why couldn't she take control of it herself? She was of legal age, after all. There was nothing stopping her. Aside from the king, of course.
Sighing, she let the fabric drop from her grasp and fall into her lap limply. Now she was just being childish. All the king wanted to do was protect her - despite the numerous times she'd informed him of the lack of contagion from her mother's so called illness.
A bird's tweet suddenly interrupted her from her thoughts, and Jemma's attention was drawn to the open window. Crossing over to it, she tugged it wider carefully, sticking her head out and peering down below. For a brief moment, the wildest thought flitted through her mind. She could run away. Right now. She was alone, no one would ever notice her slipping way.
But the drop's far too long. I'd undoubtedly break an ankle if I tried to clamber down, she reasoned sensibly. And besides, where would I go? The whole kingdom knows who I am, I can't exactly ask someone to take me in.
She was quickly stopped from thinking about it further however, when a sharp knock sounded at her door. "Come in," she called out, snapping the window shut, hurrying back to her bed and scooping the previously abandoned dress from the floor. No doubt that her father would grouch at her for leaving her clothes all over the floor. Disrespect for your possessions, he would tell her, frowning disapprovingly all the while, is not a very lady-like thing to do.
However, it wasn't a stout, frowning king who entered. It was a woman, with dark hair and a lean figure. Mrs May, her nursemaid. Well, Jemma wouldn't exactly call her a nursemaid. It didn't seem right, calling her a nursemaid. She didn't fit the typical role of a nanny. She wasn't particularly affectionate. She never cooed or fussed or grouched at her when she did something wrong. But she did care. Just not in the most visible of ways. Jemma's father always claimed that May was harsh, that she needed to be fired for being more like a prison guard than a nursemaid. But Jemma had always been an observant girl, and she noticed the quiet fashion in which May took care of things. She knew May was a good person. She cared.
May said nothing, only opening up Jemma's expansive wardrobe and pulling out some various clothing items with a fluidness that the caretaker always seemed to bring to everything she did.
"You heard, then?" Jemma asked quietly, training her eyes on May.
May nodded, pulling out a robin-egg-blue dress and laying it out on the bed smoothly. Another thing - May wasn't much of a talker. But that was okay, because normally Jemma spoke enough for the both of them.
"He's going to lock me up," she sighed finally. Although she didn't really want to seem weak (especially not in front of stoic, brave May), she felt the tears prickling at her eyes, and soon she was sitting on the bed with her head in her hands. "Put me in a tower somewhere so I don't turn out like Mother. He's going to lock me up in a tower for ever and ever, and I'll never be able to leave and live my.. my own life."
When May didn't speak again, Jemma closed her eyes. It felt strangely silly to her, crying in front of someone as resilient as her nursemaid. However, she was greatly surprised when the rustling stopped and she felt a comforting hand lingering on her shoulder.
Looking up, she was even more startled to see May blinking kindly down at her, a faint smile (yes, a smile) on her lips. "You'll be fine, princess."
"Do you think so?" Jemma sniffled, twisting up to meet her gaze.
"I know so."
...
"You're really doing this." Jemma had to ask one last time. Just to check. Just to make sure that her father wasn't playing some ridiculous joke on her.
"I'm really doing this," the king confirmed with a small, sad smile.
They stood in the middle of the throne room, Jemma with a pale cream cloak around her shoulders and her father in his usual kingly attire. They were dressed like it was just another normal day. But today was no normal day. Jemma was going to have her freedom stripped away from her - and she didn't think she was exactly ready for it.
Princess Simmons exceled in preparation (or so she said to everyone), but how could you prepare for imprisonment?
"You're going to lock me away," she stated flatly, her voice thick as she looked her father in the eye.
"It's for your own safety," her father countered warmly, reaching an arm out to comfort her.
Jemma took a cautious step back, just out of reach of her father's hand. "I'm ready to go now," she announced quietly.
That day, Jemma Simmons left the castle and was never, ever seen again... that is, until two weeks later.