Title: The Princess and her Sword
Summary: A revolution takes away the country that Roland has pledged his services to, leaving only a shattered young princess who wants nothing but revenge for her dead sister, the Queen, and his promise to be sword for all eternity.
Disclaimer: I do not own Luminous Arc 2 or any of the characters in this story that are from the game. I do own all OCs, funny foreign countries and the plot.
Update Schedule: Approximately 1 chapter per week/2 weeks.
A/N: Set shortly after the end of the game. Roland is 18 and has only just given his knightly vows.
Prologue: In which a promise is made that will shake the world
Roland spat out blood from his mouth and wiped his cut lip. He looked around himself in disbelief, stunned that he had survived the fall with only a few bruises, scratches and a long gash down the side of his face. The blood felt strangely good as it ran down, soothing the stinging wounds and dripping onto the prone form next to him.
"Oh crap." He said, looking at the girl in shock, "Princess, you okay? Oi, Princess!" He shook the girl, his hands trembling with fear. He drew his sword and set it below her nose. The metal, bloody and red as it was, fogged up slightly. She was still breathing. Faintly to be sure, but at least she was alive.
"Oh thank fucking God," He swore. Roland looked up towards the sky. He was surrounded by the rocky crags typical of Jotzenchoc, and the sky was barely visible between them. Smoke obscured most of the visible horizon, and it was tinged with red from the flames.
The woman stirred.
"Princess! You're awake!" He exclaimed, relief relaxing his taut, panicked face.
"Sir Roland, is that you?" She asked feebly. He vision was cloudy and she could barely make out the silhouette beside her. His voice was cloudy as well, and sounded as though it came from a deep well or some such place where voices don't generally sound from.
"Yes, my lady, it is I." He replied, "Are you able to walk? Or do you require my assistance?"
"Nay, I shall endeavour to-!" Her answer was cut short by a cry of pain from behind them.
"Show yourself!" Roland stood up and pointed his blade in the direction of the voice. A battered young soldier crawled towards him.
"Roland, sheathe your sword. We're on the same side."
"Sir Richter? Oh thank goodness, you're alive."
"Indeed, but just barely so. Come, give me your report."
"Casualties totalling over five thousand, sir. Most of our standing army has been wiped out. Sir Gaston went down with one of the rebel leaders, and in all likelihood drowned."
"I... see." Richter's face was unusually impassive, belying his shock and horror at the atrocities he had just heard Roland rattle off with almost no emotion. He knew that the boy was merely trying to stop himself from panicking, but the blasé tone frightened him at the same time. "And your brother? Miss Rina?"
"I do not know, sir." Roland's face darkened for a moment, before regaining its previous gravity. "And there have been reports that Her Majesty may have been killed in the initial explosion."
"No!" A scream interrupted their conversation. The young princess was looking at the two soldiers with widened eyes, it was as though somehow, the pain, the anguish and the feeling of having the world fall on you, could be expressed in just a look, and that look was what the princess was giving the two.
"Princess..." Roland looked at her sadly.
"There is nothing we can do, Elena." Richter said to her gently, "Come. We need to leave for the border soon, as well as find a way to treat Roland's wounds."
"We must head for Shqiperise post-haste. The Alba family will be able to help us."
"I see. Very well sir. I believe that I can arrange for two horses."
"Good. Do so immediately." Richter turned away from Roland, who jogged away towards one of the more confused battlefields in hope of stealing a couple of horses. "My lady, please. We cannot afford to lose you as well."
"Richter... is my sister truly...?"
"So it would appear. Please, my lady, do not dwell on this. It does no good to brood. We may mourn after we ourselves have reached some degree of safety. Ah look! Roland returns, with the promised horses no less!" He smiled at the pale girl. She nodded at him and walked unsteadily towards Roland.
"Well? Help me up." She commanded Roland, giving him an angry, haughty look.
She has every reason to despise me. I failed to fulfil my vows. I let Her Majesty die.
"Right away, my lady." He set his hands close to the stirrups, so that she could use him to boost herself onto the horse. The Princess was a petite woman, her small body framed by her long, surprisingly dark hair. She did not resemble her sister very much, except for her eyes which were the same shade of crimson-brown. Allegedly, she took after her late mother, the King's mistress. She could barely get onto the horse as such, and Roland eventually picked her up by the waist and hoisted her on. She reacted angrily to this, but kept her composure, giving him only an icy glare. Roland gazed at her for a minute, and suddenly grabbed her shoulders.
"Eh?" She squeaked in surprise.
"I realise this is most sudden of me, and that I have no right to even utter such words in your presence, but Princess, I truly desire to help you. To stand by you, and be your sword. If we retake Carnava, then I would like to protect you. To fight for you." His speech was impassioned and sincere, and it left both Richter and the Princess amazed by his boldness.
"Do as you will." She said, pushing away his hands. Roland continued to look at her with intense eyes. Richter smiled at her reaction.
A/N: Short chapter I know, but it's mainly to set up the primary conflict of the story. This chapter begins in media res, if anyone is interested, so you can expect me to fill in the gaps about what the fuck is happening soon.
Reviews appreciated as always. Again, no unconstructive rudeness will be tolerated, but thanks to everyone who does so in a civil manner.
Shqiperise: Albanian for Albania. I don't know how to pronounce it, so don't ask, but for the purposes of this story, it is [Shki-purr-iize].
Alba: Latin for white. Terrible pun on Albania being the source of the country name.
Italics - character thoughts. I leave it to you, gentle reader, to interpret who's thinking what.