Author's note: This isn't intended as "bashing" of any sort on L'Arachel – I don't think she's a Sue, but I do think that if she were to tell the story, she'd make it as much about how amazing she was at darkness-vanquishing and being beautiful as possible. So, take that as you will.
"Innes! Innes! You must read it, you truly must, or I shall never speak to you again! Ever!"
It was all too familiar a refrain for the prince – soon to be king, if his father's health was any indication – of Frelia.
"L'Arachel. I've told you before, and I'm sure I'll tell you again, I've no time for nonsense like this. Really."
"But you've no idea how long and hard I've worked on this! It is simply the best retelling you'll ever find! If you do not, I swear it, you will never look upon my face again!"
He loved his wife dearly, truly he did, but her little "pet projects" were often too much for even his patience. This time, it was a thick, heavy volume, claiming to be the story of the Great Demon War of Magvel (her own title, nothing like the simple "War of the Sacred Stones" everyone else had taken to), and, of course, the Holy Princess of Rausten and Frelia (thankfully, she'd dropped the "peerless beauty" bit a year or so previous – she claimed it would make her sound too vain.) Unfortunately, this was not the worst of her shenanigans. The last time, it had been a huge chart detailing a plan to completely remodel Frelia's castle to more closely resemble "the glorious architecture of the holy empire of Rausten". When Rausten became an empire, and how she thought a kingdom like Frelia could afford such things, was beyond Innes.
The time before that, it had been a grand plan to educate the entire kingdom – and indeed, all of Magvel – on the historical ties between Frelia and Rausten, and why they were the most holy of kingdoms (Rausten, of course, just a bit holier than Frelia), all backed up by "a scholar of great knowledge and esteem". Again, Innes could only wonder how she'd managed to drag Knoll all the way from Grado, and how she'd convinced him to recite a spiel obviously penned by herself ("holiest of exceptionally holy things that are really quite holy" really didn't seem like something the poor man would say.)
Unfortunately, like every other flight of fancy from his dear, dear wife, Innes knew he'd have to indulge this, or he'd never hear the end of it. The first time he'd said "no" to that castle plan without even glancing at her bizarre charts and graphs, he'd slept alone for a week, and messages from his wife were relayed by Dozla, an aspect which, on its own, was enough to make him crave a stiff drink. He wondered to himself if at least pretending to read the monstrosity of a tome his wife had set before him could really be worse than facing that terrible "Gwa ha ha!" After a moment of thought, he decided it really couldn't be.
"Fine. I will get to it when I've finished this paperwork. All right?"
There was a squee of delight as L'Arachel threw her arms around him. "Oh, Innes, you truly are the most magnificent prince there ever was!"
As irritated as he was at that moment, Innes couldn't help but appreciate the little stroke to his ego.
It was near dusk when Innes finally finished the stack of papers he had been working on. It didn't take him so long, typically, but the thought of opening that ridiculous book as promised (somehow, she always knew when he was lying, and always had a lecture at the ready to boot) had made coming up with reasons to procrastinate very easy. He held it now, a heavy thing with the sort of gaudy binding usually reserved for books of the clergy. It was definitely heavier than anything he'd seen a church member cart around on a regular basis – though, the thought of a decrepit monk straining under the weight of such a book made him snigger a bit to himself. Especially amusing: the thought of any monk carrying a book with a title like the one stamped in gold on this one: The Chronicles of the Holy Princess of Rausten and Frelia: A Tale of the Great Demon War of Magvel – Volume I.
Volume I? Did she really intend to pen more after this beast of a book? What more could there possibly be to say? He could have chronicled the army's every thought and move, and still have pages to spare in a thing that large. But then, L'Arachel had never been one for brevity. With his luck, this tome ended sometime just before the fall of Renais.
He sighed and lit a candle, so he could see what he was reading, at least. He opened the book and began, reluctant though he was, to read.
Midnight fell like rain upon the holy capital of Latona's gem, Rausten. Its princess, L'Arachel, rode with the blessing of the saints upon her ivory-clad shoulders and beneath her well-shod heels. Her companions, the ever-faithful Dozla and secretly worshipful Rennac, gazed upon her with adoration as they trailed behind, for they knew this was a mission of destiny: only their emerald-haired princess could save Magvel from the ravages of the foul Demon King-
(Wait a moment: didn't she leave Rausten long before we'd heard anything about demons? What?)
-whose presence in the frail Prince Lyon had been revealed to her in a vision from Latona herself.
(. . .Oh.)
It would be a long journey, but her spirit was strong, and her faith unshakeable. Her porcelain skin glistened in the moonlight as they rode onward, to aid the troops of Rausten's failing sister kingdom, Renais. Her cloak was spun of the finest Jehannian silk, nearly as soft as her jade-hued locks, but just as strong as the warm, piercing gaze of her remarkably bright orbs-
(This. . . is dull. Perhaps I should skip ahead a bit. Just a few chapters, she'll never notice.)
The princess finally met the eyes of Renais's prince. His hair was like an angry ocean, the perfect compliment to her opulent, grassy tresses.
"You must be L'Arachel," he murmured. She could see that his fingers ached to caress her perfectly placed curves, but she was not just any princess, but a holy princess, and would abstain from allowing such indecency. "The holy princess of Rausten, vanquisher of darkness. I have heard of your deeds from afar."
(All right. I definitely did not need that image in my mind.)
Humble as always, she smiled radiantly and shook her head. "I am but a servant of Latona. I am undeserving of such praise, Prince Ephraim." A blush graced her delicate, refined cheeks, and she looked away daintily, as any proper lady would.
"But the bards have sung of your deeds all along our perilous journey! Surely it is fate that we have met here, dear princess! Even you, with your perfect grace and humility, must recognize this!"
"I do, of course. I will lend you my aid, and the aid of my noble retainers."
(This incarnation of Ephraim is somehow even worse than the one I know.)
The princess turned around and suddenly met the gazes of the others in the party. The men all gazed upon her, the gasps of amazement at her radiance carrying through the chilly air. She smiled, letting the soothing aura that surrounded her always penetrate their adoring bodies. Even as a humble, ordinary member of their army, she would spread light and love with her staff!
(All right. I can't read much more of this. . . am I in this somewhere? Oh. Here I am. I think.)
It was not long after the holy princess joined the noble retinue of Prince Ephraim that they were joined by the princess's sister. She wasn't terribly important, save for her endless admiration of Princess L'Arachel's skills, and so this tale does not especially concern her. At her side, however, was the most fantastically gorgeous man who had ever walked the land of Magvel.
(Now that's more like it!)
His hair was the color of moonlight, his eyes like a stormy sky. His rough, rugged features were the perfect compliment to the refined elegance of the holy princess. She could see as he turned to face her that he felt the same way she did: he was in love at first sight.
"You must be the princess of legend!" he gasped, as he fell before her and kissed her hand. "Princess L'Arachel! The holy princess of Rausten!"
(could she possibly have more instances of "princess" in this thing?)
"I am," L'Arachel said, flattered by his words. "And you are Prince Innes! My visions have told me that though everyone shall love me, you and only you shall be my soulmate!"
And they kissed, passionately, to the applause of the entire army.
(. . . no. I cannot read this anymore.)
Despite his determination that he could not possibly get through the tome, Innes flipped through, hoping somehow it would get better. Instead, he read as L'Arachel vanquished every enemy, instructed Lute in the proper use of magic, outdid Marisa at swordplay, and thoroughly trounced Natasha's healing skills at every turn – all while the men of the army fell over themselves in an attempt to separate her from her "soulmate". By the time he came to Lyon's tearful confession of love while he died in her arms – after, of course, she had saved his poor, broken soul from the grips of the Demon King (whose stench had been described, in contrast to her own aroma of roses, at length) – he felt rather ill.
"Innes! You're reading it- oh, you're all the way at the end!"
He looked up to see his wife, beaming over at him from the doorway of his study.
"So, did you like it? You're looking forward to volume two, aren't you? It shall tell of the rebuilding of Renais and Grado, and of course of our glorious marriage-"
There were so many things he wanted to say, so many things he wanted to correct. But again, the thought of Dozla and his laugh flashed in his mind, and he simply smiled.
"It was lovely, L'Arachel. Truly lovely."