A/N: I'm working on another story now, this one lol. I've decided that I want to show you Roswell's story, so that maybe you'll all appreciate the role he plays in the other stories a bit better. Remember, I don't say exactly when he's born, so I want you to assume that it was hundreds of years ago. But you should be able to recognize that by the information in the story... Well that's enough rambling, here's chapter one to Roswell's story!:

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Clarence. If you were to request for me to sum up the earliest memories of my first life, hence my mortal existence, in a single word, this would be my immediate response. Clarence was the first living being that I ever loathed, and yet I loved him with all the affection in my dear little heart. He was my hero, my rival, my bliss, my anguish, my day, my night. But most of all, Clarence was my brother.

He was five years older than I, with smooth skin and shaggy blonde hair, taking more after my father in particular than I did. They both had those broad, lean shoulders and toned muscular body to die for, without having to do so much as lift a weight. His eyes were a crystal blue, sending the girls into frenzies of swooning by the mere glance of them. I watched him every morning as he and father would scarf down their breakfast, then hurry out into the forest to chop wood and hunt for lunch. But Clarence had always had a healthier relationship with father than I could ever dream of. You see, as far as father was concerned, I was a disappointment to him.

And had mother not insisted that the four of us go into the city together, no one would ever have realized that my father and I were related in any way, shape, or form. Our appearances were nothing alike, me with my thin, straight black hair as dark as the darkest ebony, and pale face from hovering indoors all day, and father with his thick blonde hair and tanned body. Honestly, he much resembled a larger version of Clarence. But it was not only our physical contrasts that set us apart, but our personality clash. I was somewhat rebellious, you might say, and by age seven I had learned to accept that I would never be content in his eyes, never be his beloved Clarence, whom he loved with every ounce of his heart. Father looked down upon irrational behavior, and strongly believed that as the man of the house, his word marked the final statement, and there was to be no more prattling on about the matter, whatever it may be.

It was ironic really, because where as father neglected me entirely, mother babied me like a prized possession. I was her jewel, her charm, her child from God. And although there were times that I felt inadequate next to Clarence, she had the ability to land me back on my feet again, to remind me of who I was. She also treasured every artistic or even remotely creative action I displayed.

"Oh my!" she swooned one time when I had taught myself to weave the threads of sinew into a basket, at only nine years old, with no previous training. "That is amazing, Roswell! Lambert, you must come and look at what your son has made!"

I can recall my father entering the room of our log cabin, his chin raised in his foolish pride, shoulders back as a silent demand of respect and authority. He halted with his hands folded sternly behind his back next to my mother and stared down at my expressionless face, of which my proud smile had disappeared upon his entering. There was always tension when he was near to me, and I was either afraid of him, or just determined not to make a wrong move. I held the basket in sweaty palms, which were knitted behind my back, and looked up at him innocently.

"Well, what is it, boy?" he asked firmly, his voice sounding almost irritated.

Mother smiled reassuringly and gently urged, "Go on, Roswell. Show your father what you made."

Slowly I released one hand from the basket, moving it in front of me to display my long hours worth of work to my father. He stared coldly at my work, my "masterpiece", and I felt nervous and fearful as Clarence approached from behind father, peeking around him to see what I had created.

"Isn't our son talented?" mother grinned, gazing at me with admiration shimmering in her eyes.

"Oh yes," my father agreed. "The boy is very talented indeed."

I couldn't conceal a sheepish grin at this statement, relieved and amazed by his praise. Had he really complemented me? Was he honestly impressed? Had I done something right in his eyes for a change?

But the atmosphere shifted, and my father added a final comment, declaring, "And while he's weaving baskets, why don't we apparel him in a maiden's gown and promise him to a hearty young gentleman?"

My heart sunk so low that I could have almost swore that I physically felt it sink down through my ribcage. And with it sank the smile on my face, tainted and agonized by the discrete sarcasm to his tone. Clarence smiled, trying not to giggle at father's comment, but mother wasn't impressed. Of course, she had no real power over father, as he was indeed the man of the house, but the dazed grin that had been previously shining on her lips and in his eyes vanished to nothingness, and a grim frown tugged at the corner of her mouth as she folded her hands and pivoted her head to stare at father.

"Lambert," she muttered softly, yet scoldingly.

But father's expression did not alter, and he stood with that manly pride radiating off of him, slowly taking his repulsed eyes off of my figure and shifting them to meet with mother's soft, green eyes. My own pallid green eyes were just like hers, and it was a feature I was actually particularly pleased to have.

"Millicent, I'll not endure this. He is a boy, and as such he should be hunting and building, not weaving baskets," father said firmly.

Mother slid closer to him, resting a hand on his shoulder, and the other on his waist, then whispered, "Darling, please." Her eyes fell from me over to Clarence, emotionless, and she gently demanded, "Leave us be."

I nodded and sighed, my eyes to the wooden floor as I trudged passed father and left the room at Clarence's side. The door closed behind us and I lingered there, not moving from the spot I was seemingly implanted on. My gaze then fell on Clarence, who shrugged and walked off towards his own room. I hadn't bothered to mention it, fearing that to bring up the fact would display a lack of respect, but it was my room that they were occupying.

Although I knew that I shouldn't eavesdrop, it was so very tempting, and I gave in to the temptation. I pressed my little ear against the grains of the door and pressed my palms on the cautiously shaped frame. My father had built this log house before I was born, and the features, everything from the support of the walls to the hinges of the doors, were still in perfect position.

"Lambert darling, you mustn't be so hard on Roswell," mother cooed as father paced the room in his heavy boots. "He's only trying to express himself, and he wants you to love him."

"Bolderdash!" father scoffed, his voice harsh and unreasonable. "I'll not have the boy dashing about doing such feminine tasks as weaving baskets! That is strictly woman's work, and I'll not be the father of a son who weaves baskets and knits clothing!"

Mother sighed, then softly urged, "Please dear, don't act out this way. He can sense your disappointment in him, and that is no way for a child to live. I fear that someday he may leave us for good, and without even receiving a bride to build a future with."

Father laughed dryly, then objected, "My dear Millicent, I can not think of even the homeliest peasants that would take him!"

This statement really bore into me, hurt me in ways you cannot imagine. My own father, banned against me and referring to me as utterly unattractive! He didn't even have faith enough to believe that I could be the head of a family one day! Oh, the humanity!

"Lambert, you're being irrational," mother said firmly, but her tone tainted with a timid coating.

"Oh, am I?" father asked sternly. "Millicent, we must face the truth. The boy is... Well he's... He's a burden. I fear that he will bring dishonor to our family."

Mother made no attempt to respond to this cruel and disceitful comment, and I heard no sound from beyond the limit of the doorway, nightfall approaching as the light from the gas lantern seeped under the door itself. I could only wonder how repelled father was by my existence, and the effects of his demise for me were painful and agonizing. At my age, I was to begin schooling very soon, and yet I still had no support from father. Though in his own subtle way I believe he was proud of my leaving the home to obtain an education, mostly due to the fact he would not have to take note of my presence during this range of time...

"Lambert, how can you say such a thing? He is, after all, your son. Can you not accept him for who he is?" she pleaded gently, her tone proving how cautious she was being not to anger him or sound disrespectful to his orders.

"I cannot and will not!" father boomed loudly, causing me to flinch at his voice.

There was a long pause here, and I was dissatisfied with my sense of hearing, as I could not detect all of their silent gestures and movements. I could not observe what they were doing, or how mother's eyes were, either windows of sorrow or closed over mists of nothingness. Unable to bear my blindness to their actions, I peeked under the door, my hands and knees supporting my weight.

I could see them, two figures of pride and endowment bringing structure and life to the dull and dimly lit room. Mother was seated on my bed, her hands in her lap and only a single strand of black hair loosening from within her tight bun, slipping into her face. Father was standing up, his back to me, gazing out the window. His hands were clasped behind his back, as they often were when he was displaying either authority or honor, in this case authority. Neither of them moved, aside from the slight rise and fall of their upper bodies, provoked by their shallow breaths, and it was as though I were gazing at a beautifully constructed painting, one which seemed to tell a story.

"I cannot believe you would do this to your own son," mother whispered in a soft, woeful voice. I wanted so badly to hold her, to hug her and ease her pain the way she would do for me when I was afraid or upset.

"And why me alone?" father proposed in a shocking calm tone, his fingers twitching slightly from behind his back, his facial expression not visible to me. "You neglect Clarence for that meek boy of yours, and that is very out of role for your position. Clarence knows that you love your boy, your Roswell much more than you love our Clarence. Heck, everyone knows it."

His words were so awful, so morbid, like poison to my ears. He had referred to me as my mother's boy, not hesitating to lack ownership over me for himself. In his eyes, I was not his. And the way he had spat out my name, as though it were a cut of distasteful meat, I felt that I could sink down into the depths of grief for all time!

But mother would not let it be so.

"Darling, please listen to yourself. How can you say such dreadful things about your son? How can you claim no responsibility for him, but are able to proudly announce that Clarence is shared by us both?" she asked tonelessly.

Sighing in irritation, father said, "Oh Millicent, you're doing it again! Comparing Clarence as a negative aspect! Come now, both you and I know that Clarence shows more potential for becoming a magnificent man and father than that boy ever could. Clarence will make a fine husband someday, and we shall buy him the perfect bride."

"Oh darling, darling," mother mumbled shamefully. "And what will become of Roswell? Shall we sell him to the gypsies, or just lose him in the forest one day? We must consider both of our children, both our boys. I admit, Clarence does show wonderful potential for all that you say, and more at that, but we cannot just shun our youngest child. I love them both, and so dearly, and if you would only give Roswell more positive attention and praise, then I, too could display my love equally amongst them. But you neglect him, and so I must love him overly to balance his poor little heart. Lambert, please give him a chance. I know that you wanted a girl as a second child, but Roswell is what we have, and we must bless that good Lord for bringing him into our lives."

Yes, I'm certain that this was the issue that labeled me as a disappointment to father, that I was not female. And yet, it was ironic in some sense, as you often gather that a man prays daily for a son. But this was not the present case, as my father wanted dearly to sell a daughter to some wealthy young man, and still have the energy to brag of his beloved son Clarence, whom he cherished in every possible way. Of course, I was not the daughter that he wanted, and in conclusion to this, father was convinced that he had done wrong, and the good Lord had sent me as his burden, his punishment. I suppose this is the best explanation that I myself can infer as to why father constantly turned and gave me the cold shoulder. I was not his strong, young son, I was merely his condemned load of heavy lead, chaining him to earth and holding him back from the sanctuary of Heaven. As you can plainly concur, my father was very religious. But so was everyone in the days of my mortal life...

An irritated sigh reverberated from within the room, and I knew immediately that father was taking no heed whatsoever to mother's words. I hadn't expected him to, either, as you can visualize this was not the first distorted conversation between mother and he, referring to my role in his heart and life. And yet, part of me had been somewhat hopeful, almost pleading for this to finally be the day when father would say, "Roswell my son, let us go hunting," or "Come along Roswell, we've men's work to attend to". My name, my name, how awkward it felt never to be addressed from my father by name. 'Roswell' seemed almost a foreign language to him, one that he refused to take part in. He never referred to me by name, it was always "boy", like some medieval servant. Oh, how I carved for him just once to call my name out loud...

Sometimes I actually wondered if when he thought about me, if ever he did, that perhaps he did match 'Roswell' to my face. But then again, when would father ever think of me? I was not Clarence, so sleek and masculine. I was just "the boy", the child who lived under the same roof, and nothing more.

"If I've said this once, I've said it a hundred times, my love," father muttered in annoyance. "I want no quarrel with the boy. But I want no contact with him, either, unless it is necessary. And school will be starting for him soon, he's nine years old, after all. Learn to let go, Millicent. Sooner or later we'll have to find some adequate family that is desperate to marry their daughter, and we'll rid of him then."

A sudden voice behind me caused me to jump, announcing in a whisper, "Roswell?"

I turned quickly, startled, and gazed at young Clarence, who was fourteen at the time. He already had the features of a young man, with his deep voice and built figure. And as I looked at him, I couldn't help but think, 'How can my brother, the boy I envy and hate with all the loathing in my heart, also be my best friend, my idol'?

He reached over and patted my back in reassurance, promising, "Don't let father's words upset you, dear brother. You and I both sprung forth from the same loins, share the same family, the same values. He'll see beyond your exterior someday, you'll see. One day he will look behind the mask, and become a proud man to have you as a son."

Oh, Clarence. He was never a dreadful man, nor was he crude or spiteful. In fact, each time he and I exchanged words, I found myself caught in his rapture, and unable to allow my envy of him block my undying affection. He was just too kind, too forgiving, too full of consideration to be shrouded by my black cloud of disgust.

I smiled and shook his hand in thanks for his inspiration and support, and the two of us spent the rest of the evening chatting about anything that passed through our dense minds. I talked about school, and how excited I was to be earning an education, like the wealthy boys in the city. Clarence was ashamed to admit that he, too desired the pleasures of schooling, but alas, he could never go. Father would not send him, claiming that Clarence was needed here at home, to prepare for his future as a husband and head of a family. It was sort of flattering to see him jealous of me for once, but from the sullen expression in his face, I felt mostly remorse and pain for him. He really did want to go.

And time evolves like the summer leaves altering in colour for the season of autumn. I was soon prepared to go to school, nervous and excited all at once the morning when mother would lead me into town, a two day travel on foot to assist me on my journey toward the schoolhouse.

She packed a lunch of meats and fruit, claiming we would dine on our own food this day, just she and I, and the second day she would buy up some bread and soup. I was ecstatic about spending two days without father's cold eyes staring through me, just mother and I alone on our journey to sanctuary! And so, with a "good bye" to Clarence and a quick, "So long, sir," to father, and we were on our way.