Francis stared at the young woman in front of him, oceanic blue staring into warm honey brown. She smiled at him, and he couldn't quite tell if it was an honest smile or a crafty one, what with one corner being lifted a little higher then the other, her eyes sparkling. It was the first time they had met face to face, though he had watched her from the days of her youth.
This was her. His Maid of Loraine. She was beautiful, but not in a conventional way. She was too tall, too muscled, too… unfeminine to be called beautiful by most men. But then Francis was no man; he was a Nation, the embodiment of France. Francis only saw that light that seemed to shine out from the core of her being, her wide and confident smile, the way her eyes could be hard and commanding or soft and motherly. And when she held a sword- ahh. It was poetry in motion. Yes, his Jeanne was beautiful.
"Merci," he whispered, reaching forward with trembling hands (but no, his hands never trembled), brushing some hair out of her eyes. "Merci, mon cher."
She bowed her head, refusing to look at anything but the ground for a long moment. When she looked back up, he saw that her eyes were shinning with unshed tears (but that was impossible, for Jeanne never cried). "Non." She said strongly, her voice unwavering even for a split second. "It is I who must thank you."