I'm back! But not with the North Dakota fix I promised :'(

Sorry I got really bad writer's block for a really long time. I'll get on that as soon as I'm finished with this one.

This is a collaboration with Oblesikx who asked for a nyo!francexjeanne fic.

Favorites and follows would be fantastic, helpful and positive reviews are treasured!

Thank you for reading

France hated England.

It wasn't enough that he had taken Gascony from her all those years ago. Now he was leading a siege on Orléans because he was just this close to getting control over upper France.

Please.

As if she was going to give up that easily after the past century.

She was going to beat him into the ground the next time she saw him on the battlefield. Mark. Her. Words. Even if that priss was more concerned with getting his clothes dirty than actually taking her lands.

She would storm into his pretty little command center, watch him shriek like a little girl, yank him up by his perfectly white shirt collar (ruining it with her stained hands), scream profanities at him in French just to watch him struggle to understand, taunt him in French, throw him to the ground, and smush his pretty little face into the ground. Then, after her soldiers had taken care of his guards, she's spit on his face and set fire to his tent. Girls can't fight, son cul (her ass).

Oh yes, the next time she saw him would be glorious.

Then again, she would be hard pressed to get away from her little entourage the Crown Prince had set up for her after the countless times she had snuck out of the castle to join her people on the battlefront. She never even got close enough to smack England and new one; they always saw through her disguise no matter how well she thought she looked passing off as a man.

She was bitterly eating an apple, lounging on her sette languidly, taking up as much space as she possibly could, when Scotland entered. She paused mid-bite and stared at her ally.

He was wearing his usual clothing for wartime; a blue suit with a white cross across his chest. His hair was the same shade as the apple she was eating, she thought distractedly. Then she realized belatedly that she should probably sit up and fix her skirts which had splayed to her mid-calf and even if she was wearing boots, Scotland probably did not want to see that.

"You weren't at the meeting," Scotland said when France pushed herself up into a sitting position- apple trapped in her jaw like a pig roasted for supper -and turned to face him.

Swallowing her bite, she placed the remains of the fruit on the table in front of her. "I was not," she agreed.

"And why not?" Scotland pressed, coming to stand next to her.

She shrugged and tucked an errant strand of hair behind her ear. "I didn't need to be told yet again that I'm not allowed where my countrymen are fighting for their lives."

"Don't sound so bitter," Scotland chided. "The battlefront isn't a pretty place."

"Do I look like I care if it's a pretty place?" France snapped, standing up to glare hotly at Scotland. "My boys are out there fighting for their lives and I should be right there next to them, should I not?"

"No you shouldn't."

"And yet you are?"

"I'm a man."

France let out an enraged groan and stomped away from Scotland. He followed her, arguing over her noise that she couldn't argue with his logic.

France whipped right around and wrinkled her nose at him. "Yes I can when your logic is stupid."

"My logic is not stupid," Scotland spat back. "Women are weak and fragile. It'd be too much stress on them to wage battle everyday."

France's face pinched as she frowned up at Scotland. She turned around to stare out her window; the one that faced the Northwest, to England. "What would your mother say if she heard you saying that?"

Scotland pushed his shoulders back and his frown tightened. "Please don't bring up my mother."

"What about Gaul, Ancient Egypt, Ancient Greece, Iber-?"*

"Okay- I got it," Scotland snarled. There was a moment of silence before Scotland cleared his throat harshly. "I came to inform you that I'm stepping out with a group to Orléans to bring them fish for Lent."

France turned halfway, her mouth open to ask a question that she already knew the answer to.

"No, you're not going," Scotland said. His voice was softer now, almost sympathetic.

France scowled and crossed her arms across her chest. "You're not going with the intention of fighting. Why can't I-?"

"Because if we do end up fighting and you're killed-"

"I can't be killed, I'm a nation."

Scotland seethed. His hands were curled into fists at his sides. "What if England gets you?" he bit out.

"What if he gets you?" she fired back so she wouldn't have to think too hard on his question.

Scotland smirked down at her. "He won't. I'm much stronger than my baby brother."

Still unhappy about the whole situation, France sighed, her mouth pinched into a frown. "Fine. I don't like it at all. Please be safe. There isn't anyone else who'll go drinking with me. I'd hate to go find a new drinking partner."

Rolling his eyes, Scotland inclines his head towards her. "I will try my best. Don't do anything ridiculous while I'm gone."

"I'm never ridiculous," France said flippantly as she watched Scotland leave.

"This is ridiculous, Jean."

"I did give you the option of staying at home, Rémy," the blonde said as he struggled to right the pieces of armor he was wearing. "Right, how do I look?" he asked once he was finished, turning to his friend leaning against the wall of the alley they were in.

Rémy frowned at his friend. "Stupid. Jean, seriously. We should just go home."

"No. I've told you before. God told me that-"

"You would be able to save France and stop the war, yeah yeah. But Jean, I really don't see how you got it in your head that God meant for you to dress as a woman to accomplish this."

"Just trust me on this, Rémy. This is what I'm supposed to do."

"Then just go as Jean. Not Jeanne."

"But it won't matter if another man wins a battle against the English. It'd just be luck. But if a woman were to lead the battle and win…" Jean looked expectantly at his friend.

Rémy frowned at Jean. "But you're not a woman."

Jean's head fell back and he stared up at the sky, groaning. "I know, Rémy. But they don't need to know that I'm a man."

Rémy still didn't look convinced. Jean sighed. "Come on, don't you trust me?"

Rémy sighed through his nose. "Yes I trust you, Jean. But I think you're just going to get yourself in a whole heap of trouble."

Jean waved a hand. "No I won't. I'm good at getting out of trouble."

Looking off to the side, lips pinched together, Rémy silently mulled it over. Jean waited expectantly and hopefully. "Fine," Rémy hissed. Jean smiled widely. "But," Rémy said, pointing a finger in Jean's face, "I'm going with you. Just to make sure you don't get yourself killed."

Jean's smile widened. "Thank you Rémy."

Rémy huffed. His critical brown eyes swept over Jean's armor. "Your shoulder is on crooked."

*ancient civilizations that are female

the title is a song by Blackmore's night (you should totally check it out)