**Psst! It's Sketchy Tepe ? If you would like to listen to a certain song that fits the tone of this story, I would recommend "You Are A Memory" by Message to Bears. Here's a link to it: watch?v=_O0NpGyMcew. It's been a favorite of mine for a while and I hope you guys like it too. Anyways enjoy my story and merci for reading my fic!**
Francis Bonnefoy had dirt on his hands and tears in his eyes.
He stumbled down a cobblestone pathway, unaware of where he was heading exactly. The sounds of rain pattering, men talking, and his own boots stagger down the street filled his ears. He could still smell smoke in the air and he suddenly felt his stomach twist and turn within him.
He only ran a few meters before falling on his knees and vomiting before him. His throat burned as chunky fluids poured from his mouth, pooling on the pathway and his hands. This seemed to go on forever and he wondered if it would ever end. He coughed and spat out whatever was left on his lips and sat back as he tried to catch his breath again. He heard some men behind him laugh-Englishmen no doubt-but he tried his best to ignore them, standing up and wiping at his thin lips.
His feet guided him to an empty alleyway and he threw his weight against one of the brick buildings. With his right shoulder leaning against the wall, he once again attempted to gain control of himself, to not burst into tears and hysteric cries for the fourth time that day. He slid a hand through his damp hair which was soaked with rainwater that fell from above.
That and river water.
"Dammit," he choked out, balling his hair in his fists and squeezing his eyes shut. That feeling, that horrible, horrible feeling gripped at his heart again like a pair of meaty hands around his neck. It ached and burned and stung and throbbed painfully in his chest and it showed no mercy.
No mercy at all. Just like they didn't give to her.
Francis curled into himself and somehow held back another loud sob; it got caught in his throat and tried to rip through his skin, attempting to escape. He swallowed agonizingly and let his mind play out the now daunting past of her life, of Jeanne's life.
He remembered hearing the news of a peasant girl who requested to see the presence of the uncrowned King Charles VII. A comrade of his, Matthieu Williams, told him this with a slight spark of fear in his eyes—then again, Matthieu was a very nervous man but still Francis questioned him about it.
"Don't fret over an unknown girl, Matthieu," he told him, crossing his arms. "She's a peasant; what kind of harm could she possibly cause?"
At the time, Francis didn't have the energy or passion for life anymore. This senseless war (they were beginning to call it the Hundred Years War) had been going on for far too long and he was growing tired. All his life, others had taught him to hate the English and that they were going to lose this gory conflict. But Francis, frankly, could care less. After all, very little was achieved and his country had lost some pretty embarrassing battles. It was clear of who the winner was going to be and Francis just wanted to get it over with. He only fought in the war because everyone else kept pressuring him to so: his family, friends, even nervous Matthieu said that Francis was a better fighter than him, a better leader.
He highly doubted that but kept that opinion to himself.
Matthieu adjusted his glasses and fiddled with his armor. "They say when she was denied entry the first time, she predicted that we would win the battle of Rouvray." He glanced at Francis, looking for a reaction.
His was a simple raise of the eyebrow. France did win that battle, surprisingly, but Francis didn't think much of this peasant girl's predication. Perhaps it was a lucky guess.
No more was exchanged on the subject that day and it wasn't brought up until a week later, when Francis, Matthieu, and a few other soldiers were to be present at the meeting of Charles VII and this Jeanne d'Arc.
With his battle armor on and his hand laid limply on the handle of his sword, Francis stood with a slump in his back as he waited for the grand doors to open to the throne room. He was aware of Matthieu next to him, eyes wide and aimed straight at the doors and his lips pursed into a thin white line. He sighed annoyingly and whispered, "Calm your nerves, will you?"
"I know, I'm sorry." He moved his posture until he was as straight and rigid as a flag pole, clearly still anxious. "It's just…that supposition she made. It's almost supernatural."
"I told you it was nothing more than a lucky guess."
"But you know how badly we're losing this war. When's the last time we won a battle?"
Before Francis could reply, another solider beside him snickered and leaned toward him and Matthieu. "What, you believe she's some kind of ghost or whatnot?"
"Not a—no. I'm just saying she—"
"She what? Probably just as crazy as the last king we had? Damn lunatics will do and say anything to get what they want."
Matthieu cringed at the man's words and the soldier leaned back to his original position with a smug look on his face. Francis said nothing but also kept his eyes on the doors, not helping but to feel a little curious himself.
When the girl finally arrived with an escort by her side, Francis felt a bit shocked. She was…so young. She appeared to be around sixteen years old, three years younger than himself. Dark frizzy hair draped around her shoulders and she wore a simple white dress with puffy long sleeves. He noticed that she was also bare foot with dirt smudges marking portions of her skin like her thin ankles and bony hands. Francis was a little surprised that no one offered to clean her up or bring her shoes at least, but he figured, just like him, the French government didn't care anymore.
As he watched her slowly walk up to the king and kneeled before him, he thought about this girl some more. He imagined that she'd be older than him (not by much) and have some desperate look on her face. That's what a lot of people looked like when they came through those doors, but not her. She appeared confident and determined and…really pretty.
Charles, Francis, Matthieu, and almost every other person in the room hung on Jeanne's every word as she told them her story: where she came from and how she came to Vaucouleurs and what persuaded her to travel all this way. She claimed that visions of angels came to her back in her home and told her to help France win the Hundred Years War and assist in crowning the king. This was her duty, she said, and she was the only one who could do it.
The king, Charles, was completely enchanted by the girl's words and told her that any help, her help, would be appreciated. Jeanne nodded her head and then glanced to the side, toward the group of soldiers guarding the king. Her big brown eyes scanned each man and each boy until they came to a stop at Francis. On his force of habit, his hand tightened around the handle of his sword though he didn't mean to—the eye contact just surprised him is all. He stared back however and she didn't flinch or look away or do anything but gaze at him. She seemed to be thinking of something. His suspicions turned out to be correct when she raised both her eyebrows in realization and turned back to the king.
"I'll need to join your army, Your Majesty, and be out in the actual battlefields. That means I'll need armor, a horse, and some training," she said, her voice just as confident as before.
The man beside Francis chuckled at the request and Francis elbowed him in the gut, their armor clinking together and ringing throughout the room.
Charles momentarily glanced at them before turning back to Jeanne. "I understand your reasoning for giving such a request, my dear, but why must you be out during battle? If you do so, you'll be the first woman to become a French knight."
He saw the proud smile on Jeanne's face. "That's why I must do just that. Not only did the angels tell me it must be this way, but that title will also be bestowed to me. I know I'm only a peasant girl and don't know much on fighting or riding horses for that matter. But please put your faith in me; I'll make France good again."
And Francis, for some strange reason, believed her.
Francis snapped out of the memory once he heard the mournful scream of a woman down the road. He glanced over his shoulder and saw a man with his arm around a woman, dragging her away from the Seine River not too far away. She had her head thrown back to the crying sky and sobbed along with it, clasping her hands and praying to God to bring her back, bring Jeanne back to France.
He closed his eyes and pressed his back against the brick wall, head tilted toward the dark sky, letting its tears run down his face and soak into his clothes. His teeth clamped down on the inside of his cheek to hold back his own scream of dismay and tried to think back to a happier time, a time when his precious Jeanne was still alive.
And so his mind conjured up a time when Jeanne practiced sword fighting with Francis.
He was astonished when she came up to him and asked him if he could teach her how to properly fight. Apparently training with the military commander wasn't enough and so she personally searched for "the best fighter in the French military" and found him.
"Who told you such a thing?" he asked her, growing suspicious.
"Ah…" She looked at her feet, seeking for a name. "I believe his name is Matthieu?"
Francis frowned. That bastard. He sighed heavily but agreed, bringing her to an empty meadow to practice sword play, hand-to-hand combat, and archery. He knew that she was telling the truth when she said she didn't know how to fight—her moves were slow, predictable, and hesitant. He felt a little bad for her and so he purposely let her win some fights but she eventually figured it out.
"You're going easy on me," she said one day, her fists on her hips in an irritated manner.
Francis exhaled loudly. "Yes, I know and it's—"
"Don't do that. I need to fight and I can't win if you let me think I'm winning when I'm really not." She picked up her sword from her pile of weapons on the ground: a short knife, a bow and arrow, some heavy rocks. She got into a fighting stance with the tip of her sword aimed at him. "Fight me, for real this time."
He gave her a look of sympathy and shook his head. "Jeanne, I don't think you're ready for this—"
She let out a battle cry and went to drive the weapon into his heart. Letting his instincts kick in, Francis did as she asked. He quickly pulled out his own sword from its holster and knocked it against Jeanne's. She went with it but swiftly recovered herself, performing a half-turn and raising her weapon to strike his neck. He dodged and grabbed her sword with his own hand and ripped it out of her grasp easily. He then crouched down and struck out his foot at her legs, bringing her to the ground. She grunted and then gasped when she saw Francis's sword slam down into the soft dirt beside her head, the weapon wobbling a bit from the impact.
He peered down at her, his long blonde hair lightly brushing against her face. "And you're dead," he declared before retrieving his sword.
He stood up and watched her expression. Before she was strongminded and sure of herself, but now that she was on the ground and with the victor looming over her, she looked scared. Her eyes wide, her mouth ajar, and her hands clutched at the collar of her dress, silently pleading for her life. He sighed through his nose; he'd seen that look plenty of times before.
His hand reached out for her as he stated, "The secret to winning a fight is to be prepared to lose it." He smiled a bit when Jeanne glanced up at him. "Confidence is a good thing to have, but having too much of it can be a bad thing too."
She hesitated and then grabbed his hand. He paused at the feel of it—her hand was so small, so smooth against his large, rough one. But for such a tiny thing, it was warm and comforting. He held onto it for a bit longer after she stood up and then shyly pulled away, suddenly feeling hot.
"You, uh, need to work on some strength building exercises," he said as he walked away from her. "If you want to take down a man three times your size, you need to gain some more muscles."
He remembered cursing himself, wondering why he felt so timid and shy after that incident. That wasn't like him at all. He wasn't quiet in conversations and was a bit of a womanizer (he had to admit once he thought about all the women he's been associated with in the past), but why was he suddenly nervous when he held Jeanne's hand? What the hell was wrong with him?
Jeanne came to him a few days later with a bow and a few arrows in her hands, asking if they were to meet up at the meadow later for more training.
He had no option than to say yes.
Francis had told her to aim for the trunk of a tree where he had carved a giant X to mark the spot. So far she had missed every single time, some arrows landing either above or below the X or out into the swaying grass. She groaned in frustration and plucked out another arrow from the open pack slung across her back. "The target is too far away," she complained.
"No, it's not. The point of a bow and arrow is to strike down enemies that are too far away." He smiled smugly at her and laughed a little when she threw a punch at his chest.
"I'm trying my best, you know," she huffed.
"I know you are. Now try again."
She frowned at him before placing the arrow across the bow; he noted how cute she looked when she was mad, with her nose scrunched up and her eyebrows lowered in a curved V. He then took one look at her positioning and shook his head. "No. Your posture is very poor. You need to have stiff and straight arms."
He went to fix it for her, but his helpfulness turned out to be way different than what he originally planned. With one hand, he raised the elbow of the arm that was pulling back on the bowstring and with the other he drew back her right shoulder, making her stand up straighter. His left hand stayed locked on her elbow as he reached out with his right to clasp over Jeanne's other hand, the one with the tip of the arrow resting in her fingers. He slowly moved it to the left and mumbled, "Your aim keeps on drifting to the side. Once you're in the center, keep it steady and don't lose focus."
He intended to pull away after this, but found that he couldn't. Instead he stayed close to her with his hands still on hers. She didn't jerk away or shake him off, however, and he knew she was following his instructions as best she could, for her limbs were tense and she hardly moved a muscle. Attempting to ignore the rapid beating of his heart, he then told her to let go of the arrow.
She obeyed and they watched it drive into the trunk of the tree, dead in the center of the X.
"And there you have it," he said proudly.
He saw the smile Jeanne wore before it faded and she looked up at him. "I'd like to try it by myself, please."
He knew what she meant, and he stepped back with his hands behind his back, feeling a little embarrassed. "Yes, of course."
She nodded her head once like a sign of approval and then tugged out her last arrow and got into her previous stance, the one Francis helped her set up. She paused and adjusted herself before taking a deep and firm breath. Her small, pale hand released the arrow. The short spear flew through the wind and dug itself deep within the tree, snapping the earlier arrow in half as it took up its spot in the center once again.
Jeanne gasped in delight and lifted her arms in the air. "I did it!" She turned to him, a bright and excited smile spread across her face. "Did you see that?"
He chuckled and replied with as much enthusiasm as her. "Yes. That was amazing."
In the heat of the moment, Jeanne laughed triumphantly and jumped onto Francis, her thin arms around his neck. He laughed as well as he wrapped his arms around her waist and whirled her around in the air as a motion of victory. When both of their laughter had ceased, he brought her back down to the ground and smiled at her, getting lost for a moment in those big brown eyes of hers. She returned the gesture and silence overcame them both. It wasn't awkward or intense but instead comfortable and very pleasing.
Jeanne broke it eventually and he couldn't remember just how long that sweet moment lasted. "Thank you for your assistance. I'll meet you here tomorrow for another round?"
With his smile still plastered on his face, he nodded. "Yes. I'll see you then."
She also nodded and then waved him goodbye before skipping over to pick up her arrows.
Francis smiled up at the rain. She was so happy back then, back before she actually stepped out into the battlefield. He didn't know why he didn't see it coming; the senses of war was enough to make any person have nightmares for the rest of their lives. Perhaps it was because of her high passion for bringing glory to France once again. Maybe he was so caught up in her determined emotion that he didn't stop to think of what she would've done at the sight of spilled blood. But he somehow knew that she'd push pass it all and come out on top—and that's exactly what she did.
The siege of Orléans was a life-changing one to say the least. It really was the turning point of the whole war so far. And why was that? Because Jeanne d'Arc was there.
It was one of the first battles she attended since becoming a part of the French army two years ago and it was here she led her small band of followers, including Francis and Matthieu. The English had set up their blockade with huge castle-like structures and sturdy fences outlining it all. She had one portion of the French group travel to the west side of the English blockade to play as a distraction while the other group would attack the east side, planning to go unnoticed. Unfortunately there were soldiers acting as guards throughout the whole structure and spotted both groups on either side.
Francis and Matthieu were there with Jeanne when the French troops hid behind the English's own line of defense. Arrows and shouts flew from either side, more so on the English. Francis gritted his teeth as he, Matthieu, Jeanne, and a few other men sat behind a tall fence when Jeanne asked him to translate what the English were saying to them—she couldn't read or write, much less understand a different language.
"I'll bash your fucking heads in if you don't retreat back, you bloody Frenchmen!" he heard one Englishman say.
"They're just pissed off," he answered for Jeanne.
"They're threatening to kill us," Matthieu corrected, his bow and arrow clutched tightly in his hands.
"Well, we can't turn back," Jeanne declared. "Not now, not ever."
"So get out your bow and arrow and start shooting," he told her as he did the same. He placed the arrow on the bow and waited for a couple arrows to fly pass them before quickly standing up and freeing his arrow into enemy territory. He sat back down and heard a strangled grunt, taking that as a sign that he hit someone.
The wooden arrows continued to fly for quite some time before Jeanne spoke up, haven't even fired once yet: "What are we doing? We can't just stay hidden and shoot at them; we'll lose supplies quickly."
"It's what we've always done," Matthieu explained, risking a glance over the fence before gasping and dropping back down, an arrow missing his head by a hair.
Jeanne looked at Francis, clearly confused and a little frustrated. "But what about sword play and hand-to-hand combat? What's the purpose of learning that if we don't use those tactics?"
Francis didn't answer because he knew how badly that sounded. Jeanne studied the shame in his face for a moment before she narrowed her eyes and got out her sword. She then took off her helmet and grabbed a fistful of her long brown hair.
"What are you doing?" Matthieu asked.
"I'm preparing to lose." She said this while looking at Francis, using his own words against him. She raised her sword to her head and started sawing away at her own hair. The men around her could only stare in alarm as she repeated this action several times, every cut uneven, every wavy strand falling to the muddy ground. "They will be able to grab me easier if my hair is long. This is to get rid of that problem."
Grab her? But in order to grab her, she has to be close…
Knowing exactly what she was about to do, Francis seized her hand. "Don't, Jeanne. You'll get yourself killed."
One more clump of frizzy hair fell from her head as she wiggled out of his grasp. "I was born to do this and no one can stop me."
Her metal armor clinked together as she stood up with a sword and shield in each of her hands and ran out and toward the English siege.
Panic gripped his chest and he screamed her name, beckoning her to come back, but she didn't. Arrows shot in her direction but she protected herself with her shield. The rest of the French army stared and gawked in fear and wonder, doing nothing to go and protect their leader.
"Son of a bitch," Francis muttered under his breath before standing up and rushing to Jeanne's aid. He saw her try to adjust her positioning but she unknowingly exposed her right arm to the enemy and they were quick to attack the sight of a free limb. Jeanne fell back when an arrow shot cleanly through her arm, through an uncovered slit in her armor.
"Jeanne!" he yelled as he slid toward her with his own shield positioned at the air; he heard the whistling of the arrows fly in their direction and felt the sharp tips bang against his metal shield. He struggled to cover both him and Jeanne with their round shields as he looked down at her, trying to examine her wound. He saw her reach underneath her armor and rip out a piece of black fabric that helped held the whole armor together. She went to dress her wound with the fabric quickly, wrapping it around her elbow several times before ending it with a knot. After this was done, she peered back at her anxious army and hollered out, "Attack!"
The French army did as they were told and shot up from their hiding spots with their shields raised in the air, unleashing battle cries that rang against Francis's eardrum. They all ran toward the blockade and knocked down their fences and knocked down their doors, destroying anything that the English planted there. Jeanne screamed along with them and at first Francis thought it was because she was in pain. He lifted her injured arm gently to take a look at the damage but she unknowingly ripped it out of his grasp and fired it in the air, her screams of success never dying.
The French stormed down the blockade and killed any Englishman they spotted. The English tried to fight back but the French's sudden motivation startled them and they ended up retreating further away from France, hopefully back to their homeland.
It was a glorious win for the French but all victories do come with casualties.
Jeanne offered to help clean up the dead once the fight was over, despite her injured arm. Francis stayed close to her and watched her expression shift throughout the job. First it was success; she was caught up in all the excitement the surviving French soldiers had for winning another battle. And then it drifted to confusion, like she suddenly had memory-loss and was asking herself why she was there. Lastly it was mourning. There were many dead Englishmen but there were also dead Frenchmen. She was saddened to say the least, scanning all the broken bodies, stained blood, and fallen weapons or flags.
She was staring at one particular French soldier who was slumped against a wall, an arrow sticking out from his heart. Francis approached her cautiously. "Are you alright?" he asked her quietly.
She didn't answer, not a low response or a turn of the head to help satisfy his inquiry. She continued to stare at this man in pure silence. Francis sighed worryingly and spoke some more: "Jeanne, this is what war is. People die, all the time. Doesn't matter if they're guilty or innocent, man or woman, French or English. Everyone gets hurt. You'll have to adjust to that fact if you want to continue on."
Jeanne didn't say a word as she stepped closer to the dead man and lowered herself onto one knee. Her bare hand (which was stained with some of her own blood) lightly wrapped around the man's open hand and he saw her squeeze it reassuringly. He heard her say, "Your death will not be in vain" before she lowered her head and muttered words under her breath, possibly reciting a prayer. She eventually stood back up and faced Francis, her expression now one of bravery, of strength.
"None of these deaths will be in vain," she restated. "I'll make sure of it."
Francis nodded. "I know you will."
She broke out into a smile like a ray of sunlight settling down on a dark and deadly world. "Thank you for believing in me," she said. "I know it must be…" She searched for a word, looking at the blue sky. "Difficult, I guess, to put your faith into an eighteen-year-old peasant girl from Domremy who claimed to see angels and hear voices from above."
He laughed quietly as he watched her hands curve in the air around her, acting like an angel herself. She giggled and continued, "But it's all true, you know. I'm here for a reason and it's to make France great again. I will protect and fight for my country, no matter who will stand in my way. We will prevail."
She smiled again and ran into Francis, wrapping her arms around his torso and embracing him tightly. "I promise," she added in a joyful tone.
Francis thought his heart would surely burst out of his chest if he didn't do something. So he did the same thing as Jeanne and encircle his broad arms around her and hugged back, his nose nestled in her newly cut hair. It smelled of dirt and iron but he didn't care. She was still so beautiful, even with hair shorter than his and clad in battle armor with a sword on her hip. In fact he believed it added more to her unique beauty.
"Arthur, didn't you attend the execution?"
That disgusting word—execution—brought Francis back to the present. Rain traced his features as he turned his head in the direction of the voice. He couldn't see clearly through the pouring rain and darkened sky, but he could make out several male figures standing under an awning that hung from a building—a restaurant, it appeared to be.
"No, Alfred. That sort of thing isn't for me."
The voice seemed to be coming from a shorter man in a black cloak, a wide hood covering most of his face. He was standing with a tall blond man with small round glasses who wore the same cloak, except he held his over his head as a means of protection against the rain.
"Really?" questioned the blonde man named Alfred. "I'd figured you'd be all over that."
"No, I just want this whole thing over with. It's been nearly a hundred years."
"Well, obviously. Why do you think it's called the Hundred Year War?"
"Quiet, you." Arthur turned to glare at Alfred, but Francis still couldn't make out his face. He sighed and went on. "Maybe now with this 'Joan of Arc' girl gone, the French will surrender, just like they should've years ago. We've had the upper hand this entire time and ever since this mascot came into the picture, they suddenly act all heroic. I mean, she was nineteen-years-old and never fought a day in her life. Why on earth would they put her in charge?"
"Not to mention her cross-dressing. That's awfully strange; I haven't seen a woman wear a suit of armor in all my life."
"After her trial, she signed a confession saying she'd change her ways, meaning she'd go back to woman's clothing and drop the act about 'hearing God in her head.' But supposedly when the judges went to see her in prison, they saw her in her armor again. And then they sent her to the stake." Arthur shrugged. "Serves her right for going against English judges."
"That's because she was trying to prevent your filthy guard-dogs from committing rape upon her, you sick bastards!"
Arthur, Alfred, and other Englishmen turned to Francis at the sound of his angered voice. He could feel his blood boil during their entire conversation. Serves her right? Mascot? Awfully strange? He decided that they weren't even allowed to speak her name; her sweet, innocent name would never pass the lips of the damned Englishmen.
Francis stepped out from his spot in the alleyway and stomped over to the men underneath the awning. Each step was a little heavy for him; not only was he completely drenched from head to toe (his oversized shirt clung desperately to his frame and thick strands of hair hung lowly in his face, dripping with gallons of rain and river water) but once he got a closer look at this Arthur person, he felt almost every nerve in his body cease to work properly anymore.
He wasn't familiar with Alfred's youthful features—not his round face or large blue eyes. But he knew he'd seen Arthur's stern face before. The choppy and dirty blond hair, the darkly thick eyebrows, the narrowed green orbs. Yes, he knew who this person was.
Because he was there. He was there when Jeanne's rise to power began to crumble.
They had the great pleasure of winning another battle—that's what they thought at least.
Surrounded by their dead comrades, some of the surviving English agreed to surrender (though there were very few of them). The French, however, joyfully shouted into the air, danced around, or embraced one another in gladness. They gathered outside a small village where the English once inhabited before they either kicked them out or took their lives by force. It had rained recently so a gentle mist floated about the scenery, blocking their vision from anything approaching or fleeing into the distance. But they didn't care; they already won.
Matthieu joined in on the celebration by laughing along with his friends and offering to help those who were injured. Francis had gotten many slaps on the back and several "You did great!" or "Thanks for the help" by many soldiers. He smiled back and thanked them in return for a job well done. He sauntered through the crowd, searching for Jeanne, but came across her horse first, whom she named "Isabella" (after her mother).
The white horse strolled over to him, her hooves kicking at the dusty dirt, her head bobbing up and down. He reached out his hand for her to lean against and murmured to her, "Hey there, Isabella. You did a great job. Very good."
The stallion whinnied lowly and nudged her head against his own, pushing him back a little. He chuckled and grabbed a hold of her reins. He then noticed a large French flag strapped tightly to the side of Isabella, Jeanne's favorite weapon. It was a little muddy and some of the seams were coming undone, but still plenty useful.
He reached out to undo the straps when he heard Jeanne's voice pipe up from behind him, "You're not planning to steal my flag now, are you?"
He glanced over his shoulder and threw one of his charming smiles in her direction. "Of course not. I'm just admiring your ability to get something so dirty so quickly."
She giggled. "One of my many specialties." She hugged his side with a tight squeeze. "Thank you for your hard work today. Couldn't have done it without you."
"I should be telling you that." He unbuttoned the strap that held the flag in place and caught it in his hand. He handed it to Jeanne and said, "Speaking of which, I think we should go for a victory run. I don't think you know just how fast Isabella here can go."
She smirked at him and took her banner. "Is that a challenge?"
He winked at her. "Only if you want it to be."
She laughed and elbowed his ribs. "Stop flirting with me and get on the horse."
He laughed back and did as she said: he pushed himself onto the noble steed and extended his hand to Jeanne, which she held onto as he pulled her up behind him. With one arm around his waist and the other holding out the slightly torn French flag, she called out to her army, "We are victorious!" as Francis kicked at the horse and together they sped through the crowd.
Cheers echoed around them as Isabella raced against the wind. Jeanne screamed and laughed and hollered behind Francis and he couldn't help but to do the same. The flag rippled and smacked itself as it traveled through the wind and Jeanne held onto it dearly, gripping tighter the faster Isabella got. He smiled at the wonderful feeling in his chest with Jeanne behind him, bathing in their glory and success.
And then he no longer felt her hold on him.
When he peered over his shoulder, everything seemed to move in slow motion.
He caught a glimpse of Jeanne falling off the horse, her French banner escaping her grasp and flying into the distance. He called out her name in a frightful manner as she landed hard on the cloudy ground before rolling off several times. Just as he said that, he heard neighing next to him and it wasn't from Isabella.
He looked toward his right and saw a mighty black steed galloping beside him with a cloaked stranger riding it, a grand sword in his gloved hand. Almost as fast as a shooting arrow, this stranger directed his horse in front of Francis's path, causing him to pull back on Isabella's reins. However, this is exactly what the cloaked man hoped would happen. Once Isabella slowed down, he gripped his sword and swung it straight across her broad neck, blood gushing out from her like a waterfall.
The black horse safely got away just as Isabella's whinnying suddenly turned into a gurgled whisper of some sort and stumbled forward to the ground. Francis attempted to get off before they'd hit the ground but his shocked state lasted longer than he hoped and fell with the injured animal, the horse's heavy body landing fully on his chest.
He gasped out in pain and raised an arm to shield his face from the red blood that periodically sprayed from poor Isabella's neck. She moved her head with each bloody spurt and twitched her legs a few times (which caused more pain on Francis's part) before she came to a slow stop and it was then he knew that she was dead.
He decided he could mourn Isabella's death later, for now more important matters were at hand. He struggled to lift the dead horse off him but he could only manage to move it inch by inch. Panting, he looked wildly around, searching for Jeanne. But before he found her kneeling in the dirt on his far left, he first encountered the man with the black steed.
The horse strode toward Jeanne and came to a stop, the man hopping from his spot on its back. Just as he did so, the thunderous noise of numerous horses running slowly escalated. He turned his head slightly and saw dozens of different colored stallions sprint into view with a soldier upon each one. An English solider.
They were quick to surround the French army, forcing them to step back from Francis and their female leader. He caught a glimpse of Matthieu being kicked back and falling to the ground, a sword pointed at his body if he dared to move. Meanwhile the enemy who had ripped Jeanne off from Isabella, from Francis, pushed off his hood from his head, revealing a mess of short blonde hair and an irritated expression upon his face.
Francis could feel the terror in his chest heighten as he continued to lift the horse from his body (but to no avail) while Jeanne peered up at her perpetrator, large eyes narrowed to daggers.
"I presume that you're the one called Joan of Arc?" asked the soldier in the English language.
Jeanne answered by grabbing the nearest weapon (a small and bloodied blade) and yelling in anger, attempting to stab the man. He was much too quick and highly skilled; he easily dodged her attacks before slashing his sword across the back of her hands, forcing her to drop the weapon and leaning forward in pain. As she did so, he smashed his knuckles against her nose and she fell back to the ground, dirty dust clouding around her feet, her mouth and nose now stained with her own blood.
"Jeanne!" Francis cried out, eyes bulging in absolute fear. That happening took an effect on him as he was able to push the horse a little further away from him, but it still wasn't enough—she lied upon his legs which was what he needed in order to get over to Jeanne. He whipped his head in Matthieu's direction, who was still on the ground, staring at his commander in shock.
"Matthieu! Help her!"
He glanced at him worriedly but then nodded once in understanding. He safely and quickly slid underneath one of the Englishmen's horses and drew out his own dagger. He hurried to Jeanne's support and raised his knife to stab the green-eyed man in the neck.
The man, however, saw this coming and wasn't hesitant to spin around and slice through Matthieu's stomach with his sword.
A choked gasp escaped from Francis and a terrified scream fled from Jeanne as Matthieu painfully peered down at the sword entering his gut. The Englishman's eyebrow twitched in mild frustrated and he pulled back his sword, Matthieu collapsing to the ground in a bloody puddle. The floor beneath him grew deep red and he gripped his open wound, struggling to keep his insides in. Francis could only stare in helplessness and horror as Jeanne's screams and cries echoed throughout the battlefield.
Not only did he realize that his comrade, his friend, was now a goner, but he also comprehended that this was the first time he heard Jeanne scream in a negative manner. She'd bark in victory, in laughter, in happiness, but this was the first time he heard true horror escape her lips in a heart-wrenching cry.
"I'm terribly sorry," the Englishman continued in his home language. "I've forgotten that you're an idiotic girl that can't speak, write, or read in any language beside her own." He shook his sword once, some blood splattering on the ground beside him in a quick strike. He stepped closer to Jeanne and lowered to her level. He frowned deeply and then asked in French, "Are you Joan of Arc?"
As she clutched her bleeding hand and let tears roll down her cheeks, she sniffed and nodded her head. "Yes."
"Now that wasn't so hard, was it? No one had to die if you would've answered me the first time." He reached for his back pocket as he started his next statement: "Now if—"
"Leave her be!" Francis screamed at the Englishman, squirming underneath the horse like a worm trying to escape the strong beak of the bird. "Don't you touch her!"
The Englishman turned his head in his direction, his annoyed expression never leaving his face. He sighed and got up, sword gripped his hand. "Why can't you Frenchmen keep your bloody mouths shut?"
He lifted his weapon but Jeanne screamed again, shooting up from her spot on the ground only to trip over Matthieu's now bloodless body. She grabbed a hold of the Englishman's cloak with her cut hand. He halted and turned his body halfway to her, growling angrily under his breath. She ignored the threat in his eyes as she pleaded with him.
"No! Don't hurt him! Please!" She stared into his eyes, trying to persuade him. "He's injured and trapped underneath my horse. He's no threat to you and couldn't cause you any trouble even if he wanted to. Please leave him alone."
The man grinned mischievously and pointed his sword at Francis. "Judging by your pitiful begging, he's important to you, is he not? If that's the case, then I know exactly how to hurt you and it isn't by killing you myself, but rather someone else." He snorted. "You're not a very strong soldier."
He went to slice through Francis's head but he was stopped short again by another one of Jeanne's cries and her iron grip on his ankles. He stumbled back as she whimpered out, "No, please! I will do anything you ask; just please leave him no harm!"
Francis felt his heart drop for the millionth time that day as he watched the Englishman's face change into one of amusement. "Funny you should mention that…" He kicked Jeanne's knuckles, causing her to yelp and let go of him. He crouched between the two of them, glancing at Jeanne to Francis and back to Jeanne again. "I have a probation for you, if you're willing to cooperate."
Francis didn't like the sound of that and tried to catch Jeanne's eye, to let her know in some way to not take this upcoming offer. But she stared at the Englishman, fully intent on listening to him.
He waved his sword as he spoke, pointing to each person when speaking about them. "My job is to capture you and bring to Rouen where you will be put on trial before the English court, for there are several charges placed upon you, ranging from witchcraft to heresy. If you go willingly, I'll let your entire army go back home safely and personally free your special friend here from his current situation." He aimed the tip of his sword in Francis's direction but didn't look at him. "If you refuse or fight back, I'll have no choice but to destroy all of your comrades and make sure you stay put to watch them all die, saving this one for last." Here he did look at Francis and he found a hint of true evil behind his eyes. He glanced back at Jeanne. "So what do you say?"
"Don't listen to him, Jeanne!" Francis told her, her eyes finally landing on him, little drops of tears still swimming inside them. "He'll kill everyone, no matter what. We can't trust his kind!"
"Say what you want, Frenchman," the enemy sneered, "but I'll keep my word and do whatever you make me choose."
"No, Jeanne! Please just…save yourself. No matter what you do, just make sure you're still alive by the end of it all." Jeanne never left his gaze as he spoke and he could feel his own tears threatening to spill over.
"I need you, Jeanne," he confessed, staring back at her longingly. "I need you in order to live."
Several long and agonizing seconds passed while Jeanne pondered on her decision. When the Englishman asked her again on what her choice was to be, she sighed, a very lengthy and burdening breath, looked up at him and answered, "As long as my army goes home safely, I'll go with you. You must not bring harm to anyone and if you do…" She glared menacingly at him. "I'll personally send you to hell myself."
The Englishman smirked. "It's a deal then."
Francis never felt true fear until that moment. He screamed and begged for them to let Jeanne go as a couple soldiers took hold of her arms and plucked her from the ground. Just before she was dragged away from him, she risked everyone's lives by tearing one of her arms away from the men and struggling to reach out to him, to touch him. Her small but strong fingers ended up lightly brushing away a strand of golden hair out of Francis's eyes as she smiled sadly at him.
"You'll live on without me," she told him. "I know you can. You're much stronger than you think, Francis."
And then she was hauled away.
"It was you," Francis murmured under his breath in realization. "You were there."
Arthur squinted his eyes at him before lifting both his eyebrows in equal understanding. "You were that screaming Frenchman stuck underneath a dead horse," he stated, not bothering to translate into French. "I must confess that I wasn't hoping I'd see you again."
"Uh, what's happening?" Alfred asked with concern in his voice.
"Nothing important, Alfred." He looked at the other English soldiers standing under the awning nervously. "You fellows can go on home. There's nothing to worry about."
Very slowly the men jogged out into the rain, throwing anxious glances in Arthur's direction, but he kept his monotone. Eventually it was just him, Francis, and Alfred, who hadn't moved at all since Arthur spoke.
"Go on home, Alfred. Everything's—"
"You murderer," Francis growled in a voice that was not his own. "You cold-blooded killer."
Arthur turned to Francis, clearly aggravated. "That's what we all are, Frenchman. That's what war makes us become. And besides—" He narrowed his eyes at him dangerously. "—I didn't kill her myself. That would be the executioner's job."
Francis grinded his teeth together. "You captured her and put her through an unfair trial."
"Unfair?" He laughed. "It was abundantly clear that she performed some sort of witchcraft. Women don't wear men's clothing or lead armies or disobey men's orders. Bloody hell, do you know how many times that woman tried to escape from her prison tower? We've had to move her around and add extra security to keep an eye on her."
"Of course I know that!" Francis's voice boomed in the now vacant street, despite the heavy rain continuing the pour down from the blackened skies. "I've been by her side for three years. I know that Jeanne never, ever gives up on anything."
The smoke was too much.
Arthur fired back with the same octave in his own voice. "She gave up awfully quickly when I threatened to kill you and her entire army."
Bright orange flames licked at the morning sky.
"Hey!" Alfred interfered. "Let's all just calm down and—"
"All you English men are superstitious and barbaric!" Francis interrupted, getting more and more furious by the second. "You think a woman wearing a suit of armor is criminal? What about stealing and lying and murdering? Jeanne didn't kill anyone nor commit harm on any person around her."
He reached out his hand toward her, despite the guards tugging him back.
"That doesn't mean she didn't have the intention to kill!" Arthur glowered at him. "A witch's acts are always unpredictable, making them more treacherous."
The English and French surrounded the burning stake; the English held back anyone who tried to reach for the young girl and the French cried and bemoaned for her, for she didn't utter a single word for her own pain and suffering.
"If anyone here works with the devil, it is you! All of you! How could one sacrifice a young and innocent girl to the flames of hell so easily?"
Even though tears clouded his vision, Francis could still see the faint outline of her figure, her face, her wild hair dancing among the roaring flames.
"Don't you worry, ignorant French! The execution of young witches has been done before."
Without thinking, without having any mercy in his heart, Francis slammed his fist against Arthur's left eye.
He cried out her name, as many times as his unstable breath would allow him, as tears rained down his face. She appeared to have heard him because she turned her head in his direction.
"Hey!" Alfred tried again, grabbing Francis's shoulder and pulling him back. He effortlessly pushed Alfred to the side, who landed hard on the slippery cobblestones, knocking off his glasses on the way.
Her face showed she was in obvious pain, but she didn't whimper or scream or cry. Francis knew she didn't want to betray her strong and brave reputation so she kept her pain to herself and struggled through it all.
Arthur quickly recovered from the hit and dove forward to wrestle with Francis, both men punching and kicking and dodging. Arthur landed a few pretty good hits, provided Francis with a split lip and he could already feel a nasty bruise surfacing onto his shin. But he knew Arthur could never beat the anger, sorrow, loss, pain, or depression out of him. So he would have to beat it into him instead.
He called out to her again, even though he knew she could hear him now—he just wanted her to know that he was there, already missing and grieving her. He could faintly make out her lips tilting up in a painful but reassuring way. Her smile seemed to be saying something that words could not.
Francis threw hit after hit upon Arthur, finding it very hard to stop himself. But he knew he would have to eventually. He needed him alive; he'd have to live knowing that he was responsible for taking away his only love from him and slaughtering her like a pig.
"You'll live on without me, I know you can. You're much stronger than you think."
Arthur did eventually give up fighting and let Francis take out the rest of his anger on him, all his energy drained. Francis's knuckles bled and his throat burned after having screamed "You killed her! Bring her back to me!" over and over again.
Her final message didn't stop replaying in his head as he watched the executioner rake back the coals to reveal her charred and smoking body. They burned her body twice more to reduce her to ashes and then threw her in the Seine River.
His pounding fists slowed down and he examined the mess he made. Arthur's face was a bloody pulp: his eyes were purple and swollen, his lips gushed red, his nose was twisted in an odd angle. Blood covered his face and stained his clothes and he looked back at him with an exhausted look in his eyes. Good, Francis thought, now he knows how I feel.
His mind told him she was gone but his body wouldn't comprehend the memorandum. He dove into the river and searched for her ashes, just one grain to hold was all he wanted but he knew that was impossible. He wanted to tell her that he'd fight better next time, be stronger. That would be the only way to avenge her. He could not let her death be in vain.
Francis let go of Arthur's collar and watched him drop to the ground, slumped against the wall. Alfred, his face a bit bloody from landing on the uneven road, glanced up and froze at what he saw.
Rain began to fall from the sky just as he got out of the river and slowly dragged himself back to Rouen. He repeated his promise to Jeanne as much as he could: "I'll fight better, be stronger. I won't give up." These words were his only salvation now and he clutched to them for dear life. They were the only thing he had left of Jeanne. He couldn't find a piece of her clothing, a lock of her hair, a grain of her ashes. This promise was all he had and he going to keep it for as long as he shall live.
"I'll fight better, be stronger," Francis mumbled, not speaking to anyone in particular. "I won't give up." He wiped away a drop of blood sliding down his unshaven chin and it smeared against his skin. He looked down at Arthur, who looked up at him, speechless and bloody.
"This war will end," Francis told him. "And this time, you won't have the upper hand, because I have a weapon you don't have." He smirked to himself and finished his sentence, "A heavy heart."
Arthur didn't say anything and Francis wasn't sure if he could or not. His deep green eyes stared at him like he was trying to figure out a puzzle or a riddle. He then surprised Francis by chuckling lowly and replying, "As long as the fighting ends, I don't care what happens."
Francis nodded solemnly. "That's what I used to think too."
He pushed back his wet hair, adjusted his shirt, and then carried himself home.
**Bonjour and I'm sorry/not sorry for breaking all your hearts. ? Thank you so much for reading this France X Joan of Arc fanfic! I really enjoyed writing this and I hope you enjoyed reading it. First of all, if some of you guys are really into European studies like me and you know a lot of stuff about Joan of Arc, then I KNOW not everything in this fic is 100% true, but come on guys. This is Hetalia—the anime known for bullshitting history so much that we all just go along with it. Most of the places or dates or certain events are true in this fic (as I tried really hard to make it be) like Joan claiming to hear or see angels telling her to fight for France or how she wore her armor while in prison to prevent sexual assault or likewise from her English guards. If you're interested in what really was true in this story or what actually happened in real life, you can either look it up yourself or leave me a question/comment as I did a crapload of research for this fic.
Anyway tell me what you guys thought of the story or if you have your own Joan of Arc or French information you wish to share with me, I'd love to hear it (I'm a HUGE history nerd). Again thanks for your likes/follows/favorites and I hope to see you again in another story. ? Sketchy Tepe loves you all and make sure to mark your calendars for St. Joan of Arc day! (If you're not French or just don't know, it's May 30th—you're welcome)**