France lept and parried with his shining silver sword slashing through the air, glinting in the sunlight. It was always exciting, battle. the sweat on your back, dirt on your boots, and blood on your blade. France was far more of a lover than a fighter, but that didn't mean he disliked the adrenaline that came with fighting. And now, this hundred year war was more thrilling than ever. Of course, over these long hard fought years of war, Francis had endured, quite a bit, of loss. His countrymen and battlemen alike tragically falling to the pathetic military of 'Oh-So-Great-England'. But things were looking up for France; a great patron had risen up from poverty declaring to hear the righteous voice of God. They all laughed at Joan and her claims, but here she was leading them into battle.

She was beautiful, and France couldn't help that he was smitten for her. For her passion, and her devotion; He had found someone just as intense as himself. He could think of no one better to lead them to victory.

Soon the battlegrounds were littered with bodies, both french and english. But the battle ended with British retreat; finally victory. France had reclaimed his land, and all was well. Joan of Arc was to be declared a hero, a savior to France. And as Francis looked at her, high on her stead, her hair blown by the wind and sun outlining her armor; she was indescribably stunning. He cheered with his people; for he had won.

France sat behind a quite magnificent oakwood desk, just weeks after english defeat. Feather capped quills, old papered documents, and a kerosene lit lamp cluttered the beautiful writing table. He was dressed in one of many styled outfits, this one especially gaudy to commemorate the end of this much too long war. So there he sat, signing papers, smiling to himself and at his seemingly endless good mood. A knock at his study door interrupted his reverie.

"My Sir, are you busy," came a small, hesitant voice

"No no, of course not. Come in," France announced at once, he recognized the little man at once, it was his messenger boy finally back from service in the war

"Jean, what a nice surprise, you look well,"

"Thank you sir," he spoke quickly, his eye stuck on the floor, Francis frowned at his composure, "I have a message," the messenger explained cautiously

"Yes…"

"It's not… It's not good," he finished solemnly. France's good mood dropped instantly, his mind raced with possibilities.

"Tell me now, what happened," he ordered, the man rung his fingers evading eye contact, Francis slammed his hands on the surface of his desk, "That's an order!"

The quiet cringed, "It's Joan, sir," Francis heart dropped, the seconds passed like hours before France spoke again

"What do you mean," his voice came quietly,

"Sir, im so sorry," he cried, "We had no idea-"

France's fist whipped out over the table, grabbing the man's collar and pulled his so strongly his was almost hauled over the stand,

"What. Happened," he said through gritted teeth, tears rolled down the messengers cheeks

"Oh sir!" he wailed, "The English captured her," he spoke through sobs, "They put her on trial," France's eyes widened in horror, "She was b-burned at the-the stake!"he yelled

France dropped the man's shirt, and the emotional squire collapsed on the oakwood. Hands trembling, France was speechless, he didn't know what to do next. He felt as if he were choking, or more accurately drowning. Joan, his Joan, murdered. After all she did, to die such an unsavory death. Pain, and strife, and turmoil boiled within the country. and it boiled with strength for many long years. And it's still there, buried beneath layers of humor, and romance. The boiling pot of hatred. His love for Joan of Arc is still there, never fading, never dying. Just as France will never fade, and never die. The heart and Soul of Joan of Arc atop her horse, the sun illuminating her smile will live forever on with the country she fought for.