"I have a message for Ms. France," a voice said as the same messenger from before approached her and Scotland. She beckoned him near, ignoring the tense line of Scotland's shoulders. "General Kirkland wishes Ms, France to know that he has custody of General d'Arc and that-"

The rest of his message faded out as France stiffened and turned her head to stare at the English encampments across the battlefield.

"Take me to him," she said when she registered the still silence from the boy at her side.

Scotland's hand shot out and caught her wrist. "France," he said, voice tight with a warning.

France glared at him and jerked her wrist, trying to throw off the hold. When he didn't, she frowned harder and bored her eyes right back into his.

"She's just a girl, we can't let him get you," Scotland reasoned. And it made sense, why risk the safety of a whole nation over just one life?

She grabbed his thumb, pulling it back and he was forced to let go of her wrist. "Not just any girl," she said as she pulled farther away. She made for her horse, ignoring the dumbfounded look on Scotland's face. She turned to look at the messenger, a scrap of a boy in a tattered English uniform. "Take me to your General."

He nodded and scurried off as she flicked the reins of her horse and followed.

In a story, this would the point where the hero would ride off to save the damsel and they would both return, the damsel on the back of his horse as he brought her to safety, the evil finally defeated.

"France!" Scotland yelled.

But this wasn't a story


"Can I have my sword back?"

The Devil gave him a Look and Jean stared back with widened eyes. "Why would I do such a thing?" The Devil asked with an air of impatience and resignation.

So I can kick your ass. "Because it's a family heirloom."

"You're not going to live long enough to use it."

"I think you would have killed me by now if you intended to kill me," Jean pointed out.

The Devil approached him, leaning over him, a sneer on his lips. "You're just bait. As soon as France gets here, you don't matter anymore."

Jean rolled his eyes. Not this France crap again. "Okay, yeah sure, Diable. France is on his way, I'll be out of your hair in no time."

The man's face screwed up in anger and he groaned in frustration and turned away from Jean and kicked the other chair. "You," he said, turning around and pointing a finger at Jean, "are infuriating."

There was a silence only punctuated by The Devil's heaving breathes. "And besides," he spat, "France is a girl."

"Is England also a girl?"

The Devil turned around, almost as though he was offended. "Do I look like a girl?"

Oh right, he claimed to be a sentient being that represented the islands across the Channel. Jean shrugged.

The Devil growled again and folded his hands into fists, but refrained from punching Jean. "What is taking that girl so long?" he hissed through clenched teeth.

"You know if you want to punch me, you should just do it. I can take it."

The Devil tossed him an incredulous look. "As if France would ever accept my terms if you are anything less than stellar when she comes to retrieve you, and come she will."

Jean frowned at the crazy look in the man's eyes and angled his body away from him. There was a clamor outside of the tent, a distinct sound of a horse coming to a stop outside of the tent and The Devil stood up straighter and seemed to have a mental war with himself before he stepped outside of the tent with a grand flourish.

Jean stared after him for a moment until he heard his voice ringing out with cheer. Probably a messenger from the battlefield bringing news of French defeat, Jean thought blithely as he reached under his clothes for the knife that Rémy had suggested hiding there. He unclasped it from the holster, but noticed the tent flap moving out of the corner of his eye. He whipped his hand out from under his clothes, hooking his knee to catch the blade before it could fall to the ground.

The tent door opened just as grandly as The Devil had exited. The Devil entered, grinning smugly, a grand gesture thrown towards Jean- who frowned reflexively at the man, not wanting to be a sideshow to any messenger that had come.

Except it wasn't a messenger that followed The Devil in. It was-

"Françoise?" Jean spluttered as the woman entered. She was wearing breeches- Jean snapped his eyes up immediately, a blush staining his cheeks- and a large cotton shirt- though she still has her purple cape. Her hair was messily done, not in the intricate braids that it had been in at the castle, but instead tied tightly against her head in fashion many of the Scottish men had theirs. She wore no armor and what was it with people and not wearing armor in the middle of a battle? Her violet eyes were blazing as she scanned the tent, finally settling on Jean.

When their eyes met, Jean couldn't breathe for a second. What was she doing here? She was supposed to be back with Prince Charles.

Françoise turned suddenly back to The Devil with a deep frown. "Is she okay?"

The Devil grinned cheekily. "I laid no hands on her. Don't fret, Franny."


A/N, I'm sorry this is so late (I cringe when I think about the last time this was updated)

Also if someone ever has a hold on you, if you grab their thumb they have to let go (what France did to Scotland)