Rouen. Quite the historical city of France, it was. Layers of history lay hidden underneath its populated city streets. The museums, the cathedral, the Gros Horloge; it was hard not to notice the influence from the Middle Ages and the Renaissance in Rouen.

Francis, with Arthur at his side, would continuously ramble on and on about each place, each street and corner, every person he had met there, and every tidbit of history behind it all. Arthur would silently wonder why he agreed to take a trip to France in the first place. But as they passed down a particular street, Francis fell completely silent, standing frozen on the sidewalk, looking up. Arthur followed his eyes, which led up to a tall column, tapering to a cross. Arthur looked to Francis, who was still frozen, and then back to the cross. It stood in front of a church, a most interesting church with modern architecture, yet still elegant. The two stood there motionlessly as tourists passed, occasionally stopping to snap photos. And amongst the murmur, Arthur could hear a voice say "Jeanne d'Arc," and that's when he knew.

Rouen, the city that had been taken over by the English during the later years of the Hundred's Year War. The city of Joan of Arc's execution.

Arthur's eyes glazed over as he remembered. Although it happened hundreds upon hundreds of years ago, he could remember that young woman like no other, for he had been there on that day.

They always came to the stake squirming and screaming, howling with desperate voices, asking God for forgiveness, pleading their innocence. Never-ending babbling until they were up and flames and their voices screeched at unbearable pitches.

But she was not like them. She put up no fight, not even the slightest hesitation. He had almost felt bad dragging her up to the stake. Almost. It wasn't his decision. But, it was deemed a decision for the best.

"Burn the witch!" The crowd was in an uproar, cheering and laughing. "Burn her, burn her!" The irony of it all. Everybody knew she was no witch. This was the only scapegoat for getting rid of her. She was the morale of the enemy, a political threat.

Arthur never know why he had been chosen as one to help do the deed. Perhaps the King saw it as an honor. If it was so honorable, as His Majesty so proclaims, then why not he do it, himself? Arthur frowned. He tightened the ropes on the woman, signaling to the guards that she was ready. Just as he was about to step away, he heard her weak voice call out for him.

"Please..."

Arthur turned, and for the first time, he looked at her- he truly looked at her. He looked at her pale, frail skin. He looked at her sunken, cold eyes, and her torn, frayed hair, and the bruises on her body, and the dirt smudged on her face. She was tragically beautiful. He took a small step closer, facing her.

"Please, sir. Could you do one thing for me?"

Arthur rose an eyebrow ever so slightly, his voice hesitant. "…What is it you wish?"

And he couldn't believe it: she smiled. In this awful situation, she managed to smile- so softly, her eyes cast downward. "You will live on forever, whereas I am to die here today. I can no longer speak for God and guide my people." She paused to take in a breath, before lifting her gaze to match his. "I know it is a lot to ask, but when this is all over- the war, and fighting, and conflicts- when it is over… will you protect Francis for me? As best you can… please. Be there for him, as I did."

Arthur was taken aback. Despite her weak, croaky voice, her words were powerful. He didn't know what to say. It was not appropriate to say no, for it was her dying wish. But if he said yes, would he be able to fulfill that wish?

By this point the guards had lit the fire, and the crowd had grown even more rowdy, the cheering made it hard to hear his own thinking. Her face grew more strained, and she leaned forward, the ropes cutting into her skin. "Please, Arthur!"

Arthur swallowed hard, and stood up straight, holding a hand over his heart. "I will, I promise." He closed his eyes, and gestured the sign of the cross, tracing the image of the holy cross across his torso. With a nod, he turned around, opened his eyes, and with a heavy heart, he walked. He could have sworn he heard a "thank you" behind him, but he was never sure.

Despite her screams, he never looked back.

Shaking his head, Arthur rubbed his eyes, returning back to reality. With a sigh, he looked back to Francis, whose gaze was still fixated upon the cross in the sky. His lips moved lightly, forming silent words. A prayer, he assumed. He wondered what Francis would have been like if he had seen her that day at the stake. It would have been too much to bear, that much was true. Perhaps it was better he hadn't.

With a bittersweet smile, Arthur placed a hand on the other's shoulder, and Francis looked at him, blinking a few times, those deep blue eyes as lost as his serious expression, until his always-cheerful smile returned to him.

"Let's go grab a coffee, no?"

"Tea for me."

"I know, I know."