"Lord Maiden?"

"Yes, Marco?"

"It is very late. Please retire and rest now."

"In a moment, Marco."

He withdrew quietly. Jeanne D'Arc kept looking out the window. She waited. For him.

Lyserg...


Waiting For You


Disclaimer: I wish ManKin was mine. But it isn't. I only own Rune Minor.


Note: May include references to my previous ManKin fics. Don't be surprised to find certain people and scenes that you're sure you never saw in the anime or manga.


Ever since he left her side that fateful day, the final battle against Hao done, hitching a ride with the Lily Five to who knew where, she had waited for him to come back. With inhuman patience and calm obstinacy that were amongst her strongest traits, she waited.

In the morning she roused herself out of nourishing sleep, up and awake at an hour even Marco considered ungodly. She spared only the briefest attentions to herself– a quick prayer of thanks; a brief shower, denying herself the luxurious length of a hot bubble bath; putting on fresh clothes, the first ones she set her eyes and hands upon from her dresser– and then immediately resumed her silent vigil by the window.


Hot and sunny days, with drifting skies of the clearest azure, perfect for lazing about, tempted her to doze. Troubled thunderclouds and curtains of torrential rain blocked out the world as far as she could see, attempted to drown her faith in him. Cold from fierce blizzards and gentle snow permeated her room and herself, piercing like the needles of her coffin, gripped her in an effort to force her retreat.

Not once did she close the window. Never did she abandon her watch.


As days went by, so did the seasons. Springtime filled the air with newborn life, only to graciously give way to hot and vibrant summer packed with the energy of youth. In turn summer would fade, its energy spent, emerald become crimson and then earth brown, leaves falling in droves. Birds filled the skies, fleeing, warned by autumn. And then the dearth of winter, cold and forbidding, would hold sway.

Still she remained, always the same, eternally waiting.


She dallied on how to greet him. Should she be distantly formal, like their relationship before as Iron Maiden and X-Laws soldier? Or was prim and proper too stifling? Maybe petulance, childishly so, was called for, having been made to wait for him for so long. She had been so open for so long, giving and generous, that a little selfishness did not seem to be that much of a sin, if at all.

In the end simplicity served her best. Rush into his arms and tell him that she missed him so, wanted him so, loved him so. Yes, brief and heartfelt, that was the best, she decided. That was what she would do once he came back to her.

Oh, and a kiss would be just perfect, too, she decided with a pretty blush.


Sometimes daydreams took her. Sometimes she allowed herself such tiny luxuries. Fanciful flights reflected her current situation and idealized ending. Drawing upon fairy tales and ancient histories she'd read in her free time for material, her imagination then gave them life.

Most prominent was a recasting of Rapunzel, she of the long locks of silver, lowering her magnificent mane down for her Prince to climb up her tower. (She obsessed with her hair, her single issue of vanity. Perhaps it was because he'd once commented during an unguarded moment that he found her hair… distracting. And he was so cute when he was distracted.)

Her next favorite was, obviously, Sleeping Beauty. It caused her so much sinfully delicious embarrassment to imagine him kissing her lips, awakening her from the magical coma that held her suspended between life and death, bringing her back to life.

Of course Marco would not approve. That made it even more delightful. To needle both men she so loved– the Iron Maiden was, after all, also human.


Once she even delved into pagan mythology, becoming Penelope, waiting for her husband Ulysses. Weaving a tapestry of mourning for her father-in-law, only to unravel it in the evening, she deterred amorous suitors left and right for three years with nothing more than womanly cleverness.

Then he would come home, ten years gone, string the bow that was his alone and prove himself the better man to all others– proved the only man for her.

Inspired by such notions, she even tried her hand at weaving. It was nothing special; just a simple scarf, a gift of nostos, her token of welcome for his homecoming. She never succeeded in making one that was even serviceably pretty, was not chastened. She had all the time in the world to perfect it. And even so, would he not see all the effort and love she invested into her gift? He was so kind.


In her dreams she always starred as the maiden needing rescuing. And he was her knight immortal, her prince charming, the invincible hero of her dreams come to life and to her arms.

Yet he was not there in person, not yet, and could not be made to arrive despite her fondest wishes. So she set aside silly dreams and kept waiting.


Marco tried so hard to please her. He was the closest she ever had to a father, to true family. He was the one who found her, who told her of her special destiny and brought her up in the light of that determination. He took care of her every need and few, slight whims. He was, perhaps, next to him, the most important person in her life, one of only two men who meant something, was special to her.

But perhaps it was his fault that she ended up like this. Seeking a weapon to defeat Hao, he succeeded beyond his wildest dreams– only to see that weapon become far more powerful than he could ever be. Wanting to protect that selfsame weapon he loved as his own daughter, he shielded her from the ugly world and its dirty denizens. Yet she proved all too human in the end and fell in love with a boy.

And perhaps, he would concede to himself sometimes, perhaps it was for the best.

Only one person could defeat that fortress of solitude protecting her. Only one person held the secret to her walls and battlements.

And he was not there.

And so she waited for him to open the door that locked her heart to all but him.


Slowly, increasingly exhausted, lonely beyond comprehension, she found herself besieged by doubts. About him. About his faithfulness to her. If he was ever coming back.

At first she tried to shrug them off. Surely these were nothing more than inconsequential thoughts, random products of her subconscious? They didn't matter.

But that they were there, that they drew origin and strength from her, must mean something.

Did they?

Whatever the explanation for their existence, they kept coming at her in increasing number and voracity. They wormed their way past her defenses, insinuated themselves into her heart and drew life from the darkest corner of her soul.

They sought to weaken her resolve, break her oath. They wanted to make her theirs and not his.

Dark visions danced before her, damning him, taunting her. He dawdled with women. All the Milly Five. Hao's three witches and that mysterious Black Druid with the scythe. That itako and her friends. Even– and here she uttered a truly shocked gasp of "My God!"– Meene. Every single female who lived– or had lived, spirits not exempted, Morphine lovingly clinging to his cheek.

He flirted with every skirt in the world– except her.

She who held herself chaste. Who saved herself for him and only him. And for this he despised her, for thinking she was special to him.

He did not care for her anymore.

He did not love her. Never did.


She fought those accursed images with the truth, with memories of him. The desperately driven youth who wished to avenge his family. The soft-hearted child Meene sacrificed her life for. A shining symbol of hope and courage, he stood tall and proud in that last apocalypse with her.

The boy she utterly loved.


Having survived these emotional bouts, she would hate herself for being so weak as to entertain doubts. The so-called Iron Maiden, savior of the world,

But she could never hate him. She loved him too much for that.


Time passed. Years flew by. She only became lonelier.


The day came when Marco died. She found his body cooling upon the kitchen floor. He was wearing the cute UFO apron she'd gifted him with. Ingredients for a cake lay half-done on the countertop. One hand clutched at the ring on his hand.

He was actually smiling.

She knew he was old and tired. His health hadn't been all that good lately. And yet she had always thought that he was indestructible. Always he was the one who tended to her. He put her needs first before his own. He seemed indestructible. Surely Marco would outlast her.

But now he was dead.

She closed his eyes, covered him with a tablecloth and said a prayer for his soul. Then, just this once, she allowed herself to cry.


The next day, the Black Druid, Justicar, the woman named Rune Minor, came for Marco's body. She said she was Marco's childhood friend, that his ring was hers. She would bury him in Ronamorium, his home town in Italy, at the place he held so special in his heart.

Though she so wanted to stay with him, she suffered to let go of Marco.

After all, Rune was in love with him the same way she loved him.

For this, she received a simple rosary. It had been Marco's, who gave to Rune, who now gave it to her.

"He would have wanted you to have it."

"Thank you."

"Take care, Jeanne D'Arc," Rune had said with a slight hint of warmth.

She never saw her or Marco ever again.


Now she was orphaned. Now she was alone.

Save for one last flickering hope.


For the first time ever she knew what it felt to be helpless. She had depended on Marco and her X-Laws for so much. Now there was no one to take care of her, no one to watch over her and serve her.

She learned how to cook food and clean. Her clothes tattered and frayed, just as her delicate fingers bruised and cut, as her heart grew old and weary. Meals came more and more infrequently. She no longer bothered herself with anything save the barest necessities. Just the things she needed to survive, to live a little longer.

She endured.

And still she waited at the window.


One morning she woke up feverishly weak. She could not even raise her head. It took all her strength to stagger out her room, downstairs, to fix herself a glass of juice and a sandwich. She promptly vomited all of it onto the floor. Despite her weakness and better judgment, she took time to clean the mess before limping back to bed, utterly wretched.

The sickness worsened. Her whole body burned. It hurt to move a single toe, to drink anything, though water was the only thing she could subsist on for a long while. Her stomach rejected whatever solid food entered her system.

Her misery was such that sometimes she wished she would just die and end it. One time she decided to kill herself, refusing to drink, trying to ignore her body's growing pain, licking her cracked and dry lips as she waited for her body to give up.

Delirium seized her on the second day of her enforced fast. Marco admonished her for overworking and offered her soup, which she of course refused, plainly wanting to die. His comical look of offense was instantly supplanted by being swallowing whole by a Taro Panda. She had to laugh, however hoarse it felt.

Meene, who stood guard at the door, counted her rosary beads over and over again. When she asked her to stop that, the older woman only chuckled and raised her voice. She did not mind when Rune Minor stepped through a wall, took her head off with one swipe of her scythe and left as spectacularly as she had arrived, declaring as she went "He's mine." No, Meene's bleeding head continued to enunciate numbers, every now and then breaking into cackles as thunder sounded outside her window, like the vampire puppet from that old children's show.

Her window. Something was important about it. She couldn't exactly remember. It felt so long ago. Sure, there was Hao at the window, though he wasn't grinning at her suffering. He actually looked kindly pitying.

"If you were really this weak at the beginning," he told her, his voice sounding as if a million miles away, "How could you have hoped to have even lasted against me? But I feel sorry for you now."

"Go away," she tried to say, but couldn't.


Why did he never appear? She thought of him all the time. He was her world, her light.

But why was he never present in her fever-brought dreams? Had she finally exhausted her capability to love? Did she no longer love him?

What was his name again?


She wept.


She was dying, she realized, lying in her bed like this, barely breathing, almost unconscious. Half dead, her mind having finally accepted what her body had been screaming for years now. No, she was not afraid to die.

She was afraid to die without him at her side.

She fought off torpor and weakness, rose from her bed and took five steps before collapsing. She crawled, one painful inch at a time, for what seemed forever. But she got there, to the window, got up and yelled at the world with all the conviction and strength she ever possessed:

"Lyserg! I love you!"

I love you.

For one long moment, she felt young and strong and very much alive again.

But no one answered her call.

She sagged. Her legs gave way beneath her. The floor felt like frozen rock upon her skin. Her world dimmed, grew cold and remote and worthless.

Without him, she was nothing.

Foolish girl, she told herself with just a bit of cynicism. Now you've killed yourself for real.

Maybe. But I have no regrets. I have no second thoughts.

And I still love him.


She felt her body grow light, to fly of its own accord. It felt like being lifted by strong arms, like she was being held close to someone's warm bosom. Light filled her sight. Light that was–


"I love you, too, Jeanne."


And she smiled.

Her wait had ended at last.

He was there.


"Lyserg…"