Jeanne
May 30th, 1431, Rouen, France
No light escaped from behind the grey clouds that late spring afternoon, as if the nation of France itself knew what was soon to take place – and he did. Francis had forced himself, literally forced himself, to get out of bed that morning. The light that normally shone in his sky blue eyes was gone, long golden locks matted down and tangled, and chin unshaven. For today was the day Jeanne d'Arc was to be burned at the stake on account of witchcraft. The trial had been unreasonable and unjust, and as much as Francis had tried, there was nothing he could do to stop The Maid of Orleans from being condemned to such a fate. It only made him angrier to think that it was his very own people who sold her to the English for 10,000 gold livres and an annuity. He could only imagine what that must have felt like, and the thought caused his heart to ache.
Francis donned his commoner clothes, as to blend in with the crowd that would surely be present for the burning. He made his way to the town square in Rouen, where Jeanne was just arriving, escorted by two French policemen. As noon approached, the crowd only seemed to grow larger, gathering around the marble pillar she was chained to. Francis couldn't help but feel slightly proud, as the teenage warrior held her head high, showing no fear for what was inevitable. Slowly; however, the Frenchman's lips curved downward solemnly, as the man who would be seeing to her execution rose from where he sat, the chattering crowd falling silent. "Any last words?" he inquired, emotionless and as if he'd asked that question hundreds of times. Jeanne merely scowled at him, staying silent. "Very well then."
The executioner made to pick up a torch, the end wrapped in cloth and soaked in oil. There was the striking of flint on stone and the whooshing noise that fire makes when it is first lit. Francis felt his throat grow tight and he swallowed hard, forcing himself to look onward as history took place in front of his eyes. The bottom of Jeanne's gown caught fire and she began to look increasingly uncomfortable as the flames licked up her legs. The Englishmen in the crowd began to whoop and holler joyously, and Francis felt a cry building up in the back of his throat. How could I let this happen? She's not even making any noise... why won't she just scream? I know she's in pain, why won't she just scream?! "Jeanne!" Francis' voice was high pitched and he seemed to catch her attention through the ruckus, the warrior looking up and their eyes locking. Everything suddenly seemed surreal, like the events taking place were all a horrible dream, and that he would surely wake up soon. But this was not a dream, it was harsh reality.
Before he knew what he was doing, Francis' legs had begun moving forward and he began to push through the crowd. "Jea-" his cry was cut short as he felt arms grasp him firmly under the arms, yanking him back. Francis struggled, not knowing who had grabbed him until he craned his neck around to see. Thick eyebrows furrowed above green eyes and Arthur snapped, "Francis, stop! Francis, you can't save her, stop!" But the Frenchman was frantic now, screaming and struggling, tears clouding his blue eyes, blinding him as they ran down his cheeks. "Jeanne! Jeanne! No, let me go!" Jeanne was now engulfed in flames up to her neck, the heat intense as it emanated from her body and the odor of burning flesh starting to fill the air. It was all Arthur could do to hold Francis back, arms locked under the Frenchman's. People were starting to stare at them. Francis was almost glad his tears were blinding him – he didn't want to have to see her flesh being charred, wanting to remember Jeanne's beautiful face as it was. He continued to scream, unsure what was being said anymore.
Finally, with great struggle, Arthur dragged Francis back out of the crowd and onto the sidewalk, throwing him rather harshly to the ground. He sobbed and sniveled for several minutes, curling up and covering his face. Arthur crossed his arms, but couldn't help feeling a bit sympathetic for the frog. He did have quite a lot to do with this, after all. Finally, gasping and sniffing, Francis rose to his knees and looked up at the Englishman. "Go ahead, tell me how stupid and what and idiot I am-!" Arthur wasn't sure what to make of the statement. He'd never seen Francis like this – he looked absolutely broken. His eyes were puffy and red, face damp from tears and appearance unkempt. "I..." he trailed off. They had never been on good terms, but this was rather severe. Arthur knelt down next to Francis and made to place a hand on his shoulder. To his surprise, it was slapped away and Francis stood, if not a bit unsteadily. "I'll never forgive you for this..." Francis was suddenly furious, he never could have expected a blow like this would come from Arthur. Though it was more his government's fault than the Brit's, it simply hurt to see him at the moment. "Francis-" Arthur sounded exasperated, standing and crossing his arms. "No," Francis shook his head, angrily wiping the tears from his face.
"I hate you."