AN: Guys, I really love this chapter! This is where you get to see how France and Jeanne really feel about each other and the situation they're in. Be sure to keep what you learn here in mind during the rest of the story...

Please review! Thanks very much for reading and I hope you enjoy :D


France stared at the ceiling, feeling like his whole body was crawling with fire ants. I can't take this!

He threw off the covers and put his feet to the cold floor. His seafoam green pajamas whispered slightly as he made his way down the hall to Jeanne's room.

As silently as he could, he cracked the door open and peered inside. The room he'd given her was simple, as he knew she would prefer, but elegant. None of his rooms were plain. Simple, sometimes, but never plain. A king-sized canopy bed carved in heavy, aged mahogany dominated the room, its comforter plain sky-blue. The room was painted just the faintest baby blue, and its decorations were all in the same dark wood as the bed. Antique porcelain bowls, vases, and pitchers sat on the nightstand and chest-of-drawers—but they were just decorations, not for use. He hadn't had the chance to tell the maid to remove them yet.

But his eyes were all for Jeanne. She was still there, sleeping peacefully, tucked away like a doll among the sky-blue blankets. Just as she had been the last hour, and the hour before that, and the hour before that.

France hadn't slept at all tonight—he was too preoccupied with worry that he would wake to find her vanished. Every hour or so he found himself tiptoeing back to her room, just to take a quick glance and make sure she wasn't going anywhere. No matter how hard he tried to keep himself firmly in his own bed, he was tormented by waking nightmares of finding her gone until he was forced to get up and just make sure she was there.

The door chose that moment to squeak very loudly on its aged hinges. Wincing, France tried to steal out of the room before she could notice him.

Unfortunately Jeanne was a light sleeper—a soldier's instincts. "Francis?" she said blearily, sitting up and rubbing her eyes. She was wearing a floor-length white nightgown with a pink bow at the neck and gathers of lace at the wrists—she had refused all other sleeping attire. She had come from a much more modest time, and had not lost her tastes in Heaven. "What are you doing here?"

France hesitated. "Can I sleep in here?" he blurted against his better judgment.

Her expression instantly grew distrustful. "I don't think that's proper…"

"Please. I just need to know you're there," he begged. "There's no way I will be able to sleep tonight if I can't feel you here with me."

She softened slightly, though her apprehension was still clear. "I suppose… But if you try anything, be warned that I haven't grown any less adept with a sword for being so old," she added warningly.

He chuckled. "I would expect no less, my love."

Carefully, so as not to unnerve Jeanne, he climbed under the coverlet beside her and carefully reached out to brush a few stray gold hairs out of her face as she snuggled back down.

She blushed prettily pink and took his hand, maintaining a strict distance between their two bodies. "There. Better?"

He shoved down disappointment. Not exactly what he had in mind, but he couldn't really expect her to allow him to hold her while they lay in bed together. "Yes, much. Thank you."

Jeanne dropped off to sleep not long after. Her sleeping face was so innocent and beautiful. He could have stared at it forever, but sleep was a stern master, and soon he was dropping off into dreams as well.

As reality faded, a cold realization hit him. Jeanne knew. She had to know what he'd been doing for the past six centuries as far as women were concerned—why else would she have been so hesitant to allow him to join her in her bed, and touch her when he got there?

Hot shame flooded his cheeks. What must she think of him? Jeanne d'Arc, a saint, and he, a man who'd lived in sin for as long as he could remember. Was she really happy to be here with him? Could she really love him, knowing what he was and what he'd done? Could she even be happy here, on fallen Earth, after having lived for so long among the marvels of eternity?

Had he made a mistake in forcing her to return?

o~O~o

Jeanne d'Arc dreamed of the past.

First, she dreamed of dying. That shocked her and terrified her, but unfortunately not enough to wake her and allow her to escape from the burning. She had never relived her death—in Heaven, there was no such thing as death, so it was of little import. Of course, new citizens of the Kingdom came in after their deaths, but no one thought of it as death; to them, it was more of a graduation into eternity. Furthermore, even if she had chosen to explore the memories of her execution, they never would have come with such painful clarity. Heaven knew no pain or suffering, so her memory of death would have been washed-out, an anesthetized version of the reality.

Back on Earth, memory burned. So much burning—agony, flesh crumbling, eyes drying, hair aflame, each lick of fire a jagged rip of exquisite pain, each one distinct—the Devil's whip laid open her flesh again and again—screaming, screaming, screaming until the flames consumed her throat and she was forced to scream in every tortured cell of her body, soundless screams that did nothing to relieve her pain.

And then light.

Heaven was a lovely place. There everything was golden, and the halls and streets rang constantly with the prayers and praise of both the victorious dead and the living souls on Earth.

When she first woke up to this life, she had been shocked by the silence. It had taken her a good while to realize she was awake—the only times Heaven's hum ceased was in dreams, and sometimes not even then. Seeing Francis' face had done nothing to convince her that she was seeing reality. She had often seen him from Heaven—only touch could make her realize that she was alive once more. The dead could not touch the living, a fact that had disappointed her for centuries. Disappointment was the Heavenly equivalent of bone-deep sorrow.

For the better part of a millennium she had watched Francis from Heaven. Truly, time did not exist in Heaven, so she had watched him forever. After she had been declared a saint, she had been considered a patron of France—although that wasn't really accurate, because no one human stood higher than others in the eyes of God, she thought it was a very fitting sentiment. By the estimation of the Catholic Church, it was her job to look after France, and that's exactly what she did, although more specifically than the Catholic Church assumed she did. And although she could not feel it herself because of Heaven's buffer against painful emotions, she knew his sorrow at her death. She understood better than anyone the agony he was in, the loneliness he felt that was now set deep into the core of who he was—maybe better than he understood it himself. Heaven offered the perfect vision that was reserved for hindsight on Earth.

With that perfect vision, she saw what Francis did after she died, and she understood. She saw him in the arms of woman after woman, and while that hurt her as much as was possible in paradise, she knew why, even though he did not. He was lonely, and he was trying to fill a void left by her death that simply could not be filled. As relationship after relationship refused to satisfy him, he turned to drastic measures—he was driven into bed to find something that would make him feel anything. Women, men—it ceased to matter to him. Anyone that would allow him to feel something again, something that bordered on the love he'd had for Jeanne before fate ripped them apart—he took them, and it always made him feel just as empty as before.

She loved him so much. That much she could feel in Heaven, because it was an emotion pure and sweet enough to survive in a land of perfection. And yet she was disappointed in him, and hurt by his unfaithfulness. Part of her knew that this was seriously unfair—she had been dead for six hundred years; how could she expect him to remain as he was, stagnant, as the world changed around him? The disappointment was justified, at least—even if he had moved on, adultery was forbidden by God, and he never should have done it—but her jealousy was unwarranted. Unfortunately, irrational emotions were a trademark of the living.

It had begun to rain in the night, and Jeanne had been awoken by a peal of thunder. Francis had slumbered on, even as she shocked bolt upright in bed. Their hands were still linked, but her movement didn't disturb him.

Reluctantly, Jeanne settled back into bed. Lightning storms had been much more of a danger back in her time—nowadays, lightning damage was less common. If Francis was still sleeping, they should be safe.

As she lay back down, Jeanne stared into Francis' face. Just as handsome as ever. He'd been clean-shaven when she died, as was regulation for young soldiers, but she liked the slight stubble he wore now. He looked slightly rugged that way. She loved his bright blue eyes and his sun-dark skin. Even from Heaven, where she could see all corners of the world, she'd never seen a man more beautiful than her Francis.

Blushing, she reached out to brush fingers across his lips. How she'd missed kissing him.

His eyelids fluttered slightly, but he didn't wake. She withdrew her fingers quickly anyway for fear of drawing him from his slumber.

Restlessly, Francis shifted towards her in his sleep, his hands roaming across the sheets as if searching. She had seen that from Heaven before—when he was dreaming about her, he often reached out for her only to find her gone.

This time his eyes flickered open in surprise when his hand met her waist. Jeanne snapped her eyes shut, just the littlest bit afraid of what he'd do if he realized that she was still awake. That was why she had pretended to fall asleep so quickly too. Being in bed with him just made her nervous, after all she'd seen him do. In reality, that anxiety had kept her awake until she was sure Francis was asleep.

She heard him sigh with relief and contentment. "Still here…" His arm tightened around her waist. A gossamer kiss brushed across her temple, making an involuntary shiver crawl up her spine. He smiled against her skin.

Although she waited, trying to ignore the pounding of her heart at his proximity, he didn't move away. His breathing became slow and even, and she knew that he had fallen asleep.

Unwillingly she forced her taut muscles to loosen. She couldn't sleep if she was as tense as a drawn bowstring, and she needed her rest. In many ways she felt like a newborn—weak and unable to provide for herself, without a single possession to her name—despite the fact that she'd lived an eternity.

Slowly her eyes drifted shut and she began to fall asleep. It was actually…surprisingly comfortable, sleeping in his arms like this. She'd never slept in a man's arms before. It was nice…

She kissed him briefly, unable to resist. "My love," she whispered. "I'm so glad to be back with you."

Yet, as she sank back into dreams, she felt a pang of longing. For Heaven.

o~O~o

England wanted to be anywhere else but at the door of France's country estate just outside of Versailles, where he knew France had taken Joan. Modern cities and crowds of modern people would probably shock her—otherwise they would probably be at France's flat in Paris or his beach house. Of his three homes, his Versailles estate was his least favorite simply because it was large and hard to manage. He spent most of his time in Paris, although he favored the beach in the summer months.

Stop stalling, England ordered himself, and took a deep breath to steel his nerves. He raised his hand and knocked.

A butler opened the door. "Welcome, Mr. Kirkland," the butler said, opening the door wide. He recognized England, of course, although he didn't know his real identity. All of the servants noticed that none of Master Bonnefoy's friends aged, but France's staff was well paid to not ask any questions. England's own maids and manservants had a handsome bonus added to their salary to keep them silent.

"Thank you," England said, inclining his head to the butler. He spoke in impeccable French—he was also well-versed in Russian, German, Japanese, Italian, Spanish, and Mandarin, and spoke scattered phrases in almost every other language you could name. He could get by in almost any country, excepting a few regions in Africa and Latin America that spoke obscure indigenous languages. "I presume the master is in, right?"

"He is upstairs with his lady friend, as far as I am aware," the butler replied. "Shall I show you to him?"

"Please."

England followed the monochrome-clad butler up a spiral staircase and down a hallway as intricately decorated as the palace of Versailles, every surface covered with gilt and lacquer and every niche filled with a priceless vase or other artifact. The graying old man stopped before a carved door of dark wood and knocked with one gloved knuckle. "Master? Mr. Kirkland is here to see you."

"Let him in," France called through the heavy door.

The butler held the door open for England, bowing slightly with his hand to his heart. "Please ring for me if there is anything you require."

"Thank you." England entered the room, calling, "France, I don't suppose there is any way I could convince you to part with your butler? He's excellently trained, much better than mine."

"Of course not!" England rounded the corner, following France's voice, and was embarrassed but unsurprised to find himself in a bedroom. France was sitting up the sky-blue bed, with Joan just stirring to wakefulness at his side. England should have guessed that the Frenchman would make his move immediately. But for a wonder, they were both fully clothed!

Joan squeaked slightly when she saw England and gathered the blankets up to her chin, although she was perfectly decent in a white nightgown that concealed her down to her lace-covered wrists. She shrank into France's side, then seemed surprised to find herself doing so and flinched away.

A shadow of pain crossed France's face, but it was gone so quickly that England was sure he had to have imagined it. France was many things, but subtle was not among them. He never hid his emotions like that. With a cheerful smirk, he asked, "I assume you came to examine your subject?"

Joan smiled at him tentatively. "I never properly thanked you, sir. You have my gratitude."

England inclined his head in response. "No, that isn't why I'm here. Actually, I have… Unfortunately I have some bad news."

There was an icy silence. "Bad news," France said flatly, cracking the quiet like an ice pick. Joan's hand slid under his in comfort.

Hot shame flooded England. "I got on the plane the moment I found out," he said quickly, as if that would make the news easier to bear. "But, France… The spell, I found out that…"

"Spit it out, England," France said calmly. His hand on Joan's tightened, however. "What is it?"

England wished France would get angry, or show some emotion. This icy calm was more terrifying than shouts or even blows.

"France… The spell only reincarnated Joan for a set amount of time. She has her death date set," England said with difficulty.

Pain filled France's eyes, but his face remained as expressionless as ever. Joan's eyes widened—but not in fear. She looked more…intrigued…than anything.

"When?" France asked. His voice carried only a slight trace of strain.

England felt like his heart was ripping itself to shreds. How could he say this to France, his best friend, who loved Joan so much that the pain of losing her again might be unbearable?

But he had to do it. This was his fault, and he just had to say it. "It's… Oh, God, France. The spell only gives you five days. Joan only has four more days to live."

o~O~o

France's heart shattered.

o~O~o

Jeanne wasn't sure how to feel.

o~O~o

It's okay, get it together, France ordered himself. This could be for the best. She belongs in Heaven. She might not even want to be here. This way I can see her again and then she can go back.

o~O~o

It wasn't that Jeanne was eager to get away from Francis—she loved him so much that she felt that it would be almost unbearable to go back to watching him from afar. But she knew that in Heaven, she wouldn't feel that way. Nothing was sad in Heaven. There was no possible way she could be upset once she got there. But her heart went out to Francis—he would feel the loss just as keenly as the last time.

But… Earth was an unhappy place. She was unused to feeling unhappiness, and she didn't want to go back to it. She would rather be in Heaven with Francis at her side.

Unfortunately, she could not have both him and Heaven.

Unfortunately, she could not have a choice in the matter, either. In four days she would expire, no matter how much grief she felt about it. So she decided she would not mourn, but enjoy the days she had been given to be with him.

o~O~o

Jeanne didn't look upset about their impending separation. France was so empty inside that he had no tears.

It's true.

She doesn't want me.

What have I lived for, if she doesn't want me? I loved her so long, and she doesn't feel the same way.

Why am I doing this? What's the point?

I've never loved anyone else. Ever. How can't she feel that too?

He'd never felt too miserable to cry before.

o~O~o

Jeanne took Francis' hand and pulled it onto her lap. "It's alright," she told him, gently lifting his hand to her lips. "It's going to be okay. All things work together for good, remember?" Why did he have to be so sad? It was selfish, but he was breaking her heart with the agony in his eyes. She wanted it to stop, his pain and hers.

o~O~o

Don't be kind. He didn't want her pity. He didn't want her kisses if she didn't mean them.

Her death, he could deal with. He had before. But he had dealt with it in the knowledge that she loved him, and that had carried him through the years he spent alone.

This time, how could he carry on? Not only was he witnessing the slow, wasting death he had so desperately, foolishly hoped for, but he now knew that she had not loved him enough. There was a good chance that she did love him, of course—but if she wanted to be in Heaven rather than on Earth with him, then it didn't matter. Either way, she left.

So even if she does love me, it's not enough. A crushing weight collapsed onto his heart.

He couldn't imagine that her execution had hurt as much as this.

o~O~o

Something tickled at the edge of England's consciousness. I could try to adapt that spell… Could it work? "I have to go. I'm so sorry, France."

As he drove back to the airport, he made a reservation for a flight leaving in an hour. He had to be back home as quickly as possible. The only way he could erase that stain he could feel creeping deeper and deeper into his core was by saving Joan's life.

Could it be done? It had to be possible. He couldn't go back to that living hell again.


AN: ;n: Poor France. And Jeanne. And...well, not England. He's kind of a jerk in this fic. But anyways, allow me to assure you right now that this fic will have a happy ending. No matter how depressing it seems, rest assured that the ending will be a good one :)