i.

They burned Jeanne d'Arc three times, until nothing was left but ashes, and it was from ashes that he was born. He descended from the sky like an angel, but when he walked into the nearest inn, he engaged in every sin they could offer him. When he was done, he left the inn at dawn. It burst into flames as he walked away.

He said he was Jean d'Arc, and for a short while, people wondered what that meant. Though some had once speculated that Jeanne had been a man, that she was in truth the Maid of Orleans was widely known by the time of her death. Perhaps this Jean was her vengeful brother? But his supernatural powers suggested he was something far, far worse.

They only wondered for a short while, though. After that, everybody was far too busy running away or dying. France had betrayed Jeanne d'Arc, and France would suffer.

He became the Dragon Prince and called to him the legions of the damned. The dead walked and wyverns soared above the burning landscape. The gates of the Orleans castle he claimed as his own were guarded by a true dragon, but the prince was rarely there. He roamed the land, intent on tearing France to pieces, and who could stop him? He killed every priest he found, and he laughed as Charles VII died.

Then a new rumor came to the cursed country: that the true Maid of Orleans walked among them once more. Hope believed extinguished flared to life once more, although the madmen and prostitutes that flocked to the Dragon Prince swore up and down she was a fake. They declared that the Dragon Prince born of her ashes was all that was remained of France's savior.

But another rumor spread as well. It claimed that the Dragon Prince had come to burn yet another village—but he offered them reprieve if they would but swear that Jeanne d'Arc had been no true saint but the witch she'd been accused of being. It was such a simple way to save themselves, their land, their future.

They refused.

It was said that the Dragon Prince hesitated and then turned his army aside. As he did, he said, "Hah! It's good that at least one village in France won't betray her. Oh, but the one walking the land now is a fake. Don't give her shelter, or I'll definitely change my mind."

True or not, he offered no other village the same chance.

The Maid of Orleans and her ragtag band of companions made their way through France toward the headquarters of the remainder of the French army. When they met up, the Dragon Prince decided that was an excellent time to deal with multiple reoccurring annoyances.

He attacked in force. Acting on the guidance of his advisor, Gilles de Rais, he feinted at destroying the fake Maid of Orleans and instead captured a different prize: a young woman from a faraway land with hair like fire and eyes like a frightened bird. He bound her in cursed shackles, so that her supernatural guardians couldn't come to her, and carried her to his throne room, where he settled in to wait.

ii.

Jeanne d'Arc looked at the fortress of the evil Dragon Prince, where the massive dragon that willingly bent his scaly head to her counterpart lay coiled in front of the entrance. They'd had plans to deal with that dragon—but God had placed a different path before her now. Carefully, she picked her way down the hillside, keeping her banner held high even when she stumbled. Although human servants and wyvern minions of the Dragon Prince watched her as she walked across the field in front of the castle, not one tried to stop her.

When she came to the castle gate, she saw it was already open. Only the creature's monstrous talons placed in front of the entrance stopped her from walking in.

"And who are you?" rumbled the dragon.

"I am Jeanne d'Arc," she said clearly. "I have come to ransom the lady Ritsuka."

"Hah." The dragon's laugh was the rattle of a hundred swords. "So you have. He'll be delighted." It lifted its foot. "You may pass."

She walked down a familiar corridor and thought about how she remembered it as brighter. One it had been full of hope, back when the bells of God had echoed constantly in her mind and she'd never been lonely. Now, in this dark shadow of her beloved France, the bells were silent and she walked alone.

The great double doors of the throne room had been flung wide and the murmur of many voices emerged. She stopped at the entrance, holding tight to her banner. Within she could see the rabble of soldiers and camp followers that had flocked to the Dragon Prince, along with the nobles who had chosen him over France. But they faded into the background as her eyes came to rest on the throne, where he sat.

She'd seen him before, but that had been from a distance on the field of battle where Ritsuka had been captured. He'd been nothing more than movement in armor, with pale hair and rage flashing in his eyes. She'd tried to fight her way to him, but she'd been too slow to catch anything but his mocking laughter as one of his lesser dragons carried him and Ritsuka away.

She met his eyes now and fought to control her shock. But for his eyes—green-gold instead of her own blue, and almost glowing with how they caught the candlelight—he could have been her brother. Her twin.

Her hands felt cold. How had he come to be? What wish had brought him to life? Not hers, certainly. Then she realized his own eyes were wide with the same shock, and a blanket of silence had fallen over the room.

He sat lazily in his throne, one leg draped over the arm and a crumple of velvet softening the other arm. His shock quickly vanished, replaced at first by a smile that struck Jeanne's heart in its simple joy. But too quickly that smile hardened into a sneer. He glanced to his left and Jeanne realized the Servant form of Gilles de Rais stood beside him, rubbing his hands together over and over. His thin smile was a shudder-inducing mockery of the man she had trusted.

Then Jean d'Arc said, insultingly casually, "Hello, pretender. Why are you here?"

Jeanne's wits were still scattered from the impact of his presence and the mysterious import of that smile. Automatically, she repeated her earlier words to the dragon at his gates. "I've come to ransom the lady Ritsuka."

He gave her a long, slow look up and down. "With what?" A few of his courtiers tittered and were quickly stifled by a flash of fury in his glance.

Flustered, uncertain, confused at this reaction, Jeanne said, "Myself?" She'd spent so long preparing herself to be in the hands of her enemies again. Remembering her fear of the flames, and resigning herself to burning once more. And now he was… what was he doing?

Jean leaned forward. "You? A fake Jeanne? You're worthless." His eyes traced the banner she still clutched. "That, on the other hand, looks almost genuine. That could be useful."

Outrage sparked in Jeanne's heart at the insult to her banner, but she thought of Ritsuka and held herself back.

"Lay it down," commanded Jean, and she knelt and gently did so, smoothing the banner against the fine carpet. When she stood, he wore a cruel smile. "Perhaps we have something to negotiate. You, go and fetch the girl," he added to one of his guards.

As the guard left, he leaned his chin on his hand again. "The armor is pretty good, too. Take it off."

Jeanne froze. In her life she'd required a squire to help her with her armor. Now… her armor was different. She'd been reborn wearing it, but she knew instinctively where the buckles at the back were. It would be far easier to remove. But although she wore her white chemise underneath, removing her armor would leave her feeling naked.

It was nonsensical. She hadn't worn much more than the chemise when she'd been a shepherd.

"Ouch!" came Ritsuka's voice from one of the hallways leading from the chamber, and Jean, watching Jeanne from his throne, tilted his head toward the sound.

Jeanne quickly reached behind her back and unlatched the buckles as Ritsuka's voice went on, "Oh, yes, thank you, I'm fine—"

She emerged, blinking, into the throne room as Jeanne slipped the coat of armor down her arms. Ritsuka looked unharmed, even healthy. She wore shackles on her wrists connected by a long length of chain, but nothing else restrained her. Nobody tried to stop her as she ran over to Jeanne, her eyes brimming with tears.

"Jeanne! Why are you here? What about the—" and she cut herself off with a sideways look at Jean and his Servant advisor.

Jeanne finished placing her armor on the ground and then stood up, taking Ritsuka's hands. Once again she was puzzled. Hadn't the Dragon Prince even interrogated the Chaldean Master? As quietly as she could, she whispered, "Are you well? Has he harmed you?"

Ritsuka shook her head hard. "Oh no. He… he kissed me once, like you and I kissed. Because that awful Caster told him to. But he gave me a bedroom in a tower and told all his guards I was his guest. He visits me everyday, too. He says mean things sometimes, and, oh Jeanne, I know he's done terrible acts but he reminds me a little of Olga-Marie…" She looked around, as if expecting the Avenger to pop out of the gilt-edged paneling along the walls. Then, sadly, she said, "It's these shackles that make it so she can't save me."

"I've come to save you," said Jeanne quietly, and then she stepped forward, placing herself between her and the piercing gaze from the throne.

iii.

He almost set her free.

False Jeannes offended him above all things, but the real one? She meant nothing (everything) to him. His path would not alter one inch because her ghost had come knocking.

That she was Jeanne, true and pure, he knew as soon as she'd walked into the throne room—not by her banner or her armor, but by the twist of his heart as her eyes met his own. He'd been born to avenge her. He knew.

But he couldn't let the enemy beside him find out, and so, although it hurt him like a physical wound, he called her false. He took her banner and her armor from her, for he had to take something to hide the truth from his enemy.

It wasn't enough. As they watched the reunion between the two girls, the Caster Gilles de Rais leaned over to him, pressing one hand on his shoulder as he said, "Did I not tell you, my boy, that you were all that was left of the true Jeanne? But there's something about that girl… Let the Master go if you must—you can always find her later via your bond— but do give the false Jeanne to me. I could find a way to make her useful to you."

As Gilles squeezed his shoulder, Jean felt the draw on his heart and the taste of ashes flooded his mouth. Of all his Servants, only Gilles could do that, and it was one reason why he classified the Caster as his enemy.

Another was what he wanted to do to girls who looked like Jeanne.

As she pushed Ritsuka behind her and stepped forward, lifting her chin proudly, Jean said to Gilles, "Absolutely not. She'll be entertaining me this evening."

"Oooh, Master," cooed Gilles. "Of course. But when you're done, do consider the humble request of your loyal slave? She has… something…"

Jean's skin crawled. He shrugged off Gilles' hand and stood up, waving at some of his soldiers. "Take my guest outside and strike off her shackles. As for you, pretender—" He lunged forward, lightning-fast, and grabbed her by the wrist. "You will come with me."

She struggled instinctively like the peasant girl she'd been, until he jerked her hard and hissed, "Behave, you idiot."

Her eyes widened and she immediately became docile. When Ritsuka wailed, "But Jeanne—" she flung out her hand.

"Go, Ritsuka. Your friends are waiting for you. They'll know what to do next."

Jean gnashed his teeth and hauled her after him before she could say anything even more stupid. Kicking open one of the side doors from the throne room, he dragged her down the hall, ignoring her sputtered complaints and interjections, until they reached his private apartments.

Once he'd pulled her within, he thrust her away from him as he slammed the door. After locking it, he turned to look at her.

She stood halfway across the spacious room which, like the throne room itself, had no windows but plenty of gilt-edged paneling that hid the stone. Her hands twisted in the skirt of her oddly cut chemise, revealing a fair amount of her well-formed legs. What entity had stitched so revealing a garment boggled the mind—

He put that thought aside. "Are you stupid? Why are you here?"

She blinked those clear blue eyes at him. Cautiously, as if addressing a madman, she said, "I came to ransom Ritsuka?"

Jean made an impatient gesture. "Not here. In France. Why have you returned to France?"

Her brow furrowed. "Because you are killing everyone. You are destroying the France I tried so hard to save."

His stomach lurched at the gentle confusion on her face. "Why?" he repeated. "You cannot—you cannot tell me you bear no grudge for how you were betrayed."

A shadow flickered across her eyes, but she answered readily, "I do not. I… I understood what had happened to me, and I did not wish revenge. I prayed for their forgiveness. And my own."

Jean d'Arc, Servant, class Avenger, stared at the Maid of Orleans as his reason for existence shattered around him.

iv.

Jeanne looked at her twin in concern, as his eyes widened and his pupils dilated. He'd behaved so oddly. Although he'd been kind to Ritsuka, he'd rejected Jeanne herself, even though she knew he'd recognized her as she recognized him. He spoke like an invader king in the throne room, but she'd seen real concern in his eyes when he told her to behave as he dragged her away.

She didn't understand anything about him: not where he'd come from, not what his real intentions were. He'd caused so much damage already, but the Chaldean magi had assured her that if they could preserve France from his vengeance, all would return to how it had been when she'd died. It was only when he took France from the hearts and souls of her people that they would truly lose, not just a country but the soul of humanity.

Uncertainly, she once again bunched her skirt in her fists as the silence dragged out. She was no longer sure he even saw her, so she spoke on, words hurried by hope tripping off her tongue. "So you see, Jean, you don't need to do all this. You can stop."

He seemed to snap awake. With a raw, wild laugh, he said, "Stop? Why would I do that?"

Shock uncurled her fists. "Because it's wrong? Because you're destroying France?"

"Who says it's wrong?" he demanded. "France is full of small, petty, awful people. None of them deserve to live in a world that betrayed you."

"God says it's wrong," cried Jeanne, aghast at the horrible turn of the conversation.

He stalked toward her, saying, "I don't think that's why you're back at all. You thought you'd go to heaven, my sister, but you didn't, did you?"

She backed away, shaking her head in rejection of his words. She knew she'd been somewhere between her death and her return, and she even understood its function. But she didn't actually remember it, or have any idea how to explain what she intuitively understood.

He pressed on. "You're back because there is no Heaven, and no God within."

"No!" she said fiercely. "That is not true."

Once again he laughed, and it was such an ugly sound. "Come on, Jeanne. We're basically the same. I know what you know. There's a box where souls too bright to return to the world are stored, but it's no Heaven. It's a prison, and a mechanical effect of the world, like how fire turns hearts to ashes. There's no God there. You know it."

Furiously, Jeanne stopped backing away. "You are wickedness itself. I know no such thing, for I have faith, Jean!"

He came very close to her, until they stood a handbreadth apart, but she refused to take even a single step further. He was taller than her and she had to look up to meet his gaze, but this didn't bother her. She was used to looking up.

"Look into my eyes, Jeanne, and tell me about your faith." His voice was low and intense.

She looked, and saw horrors underneath the greenish gold: an array of the wretched ugliness of humanity that could only be balanced by looking for God's grace in all things. She saw herself, and what she might have been if she'd never been taught to see the true thing beyond all lies. She saw the ashes he'd been made from. For a moment, her tumultuous heart softened.

"My faith warms me, Jean," she began gently. "When I was a child on the grassy hills tending the sheep, I would hear the bells—"

He cut her off by kissing her. His hand cupped the back of her head as his tongue slipped inside her mouth. She was shocked to stillness, but only for a moment. Then, as something hibernating in her began to wake, she shoved at him explosively, sending herself staggering backward.

"What are you doing?" she cried, a thread of panic coiling through her at what he'd nearly awoken.

"Tasting your faith," he said, his gaze intent on her mouth. "Or perhaps testing it."

"That isn't how it works!"

He laughed again, but this time it didn't sound like mockery of her. "Do you know where your precious Holy Grail is? The symbol of God, the prize you search for? Yes, I know about it."

When she didn't answer, Jean thumped his chest. "It's in me. I promise, I'm the opposite of everything holy. It must be blackened beyond recovery now."

"It's not," she whispered.

"Is that your faith talking?" he asked, a sneer in his voice.

It wasn't. Now that he'd drawn her attention to it, she saw past the fair hair, past the features that were so plain on her and beautiful on him, to the light burning within him. She thought nothing could diminish that pure glow. Every sin he fed it, the Grail transmuted into grace.

When she shook her head in answer to him, he scowled. "Let's have a contest, then. If you can retain your faith past the rising of the sun, I'll surrender to you. You'll have proven my existence pointless anyhow." He spread his arms wide. "Better yet, maybe God, if God there is, will strike me dead before dawn for what I'm going to do to you."

"God let me be burned," she said softly.

"Hah, that sounds like we're halfway there already. But you know, Jeanne…" He leaned forward a little. "It was men who burned you, and men who let you be burned. I've since burned them. All of them."

Jeanne flinched, and saw past her own feelings. She clasped her hands together and then twisted her fingers to and fro, her mind racing. If Ritsuka could reunite with her Servants, it was possible that they could deal with the guardian dragon outside—but that would be much easier with the Dragon Prince distracted. And if she could win his contest and gain the Grail—

"This is a trick," she told him. It made no sense as anything other than a trick, a lie, a temptation to lure her into deadly sin.

"It's not."

She eyed him. He watched her with the same intensity some of the judges at her trial had. "You just want to exercise your wicked lusts on me."

He grinned at her almost boyishly. "True."

Clenching her fists against the warmth that smile evoked, she said, "You think that will shake my faith? I was burned."

His teeth flashed brightly. "Ah, but did you beg the executioner for the brand?"

She'd begged to be beheaded. She'd feared the flames like nothing else, and that she didn't remember them was God's greatest blessing.

As she remembered, he circled behind her and pulled her back against his chest. Lost in the memory of the smoke and the crucifix held by the kind friar that she'd focused her prayers on, she barely noticed as he whispered in her ear.

"What do your voices say?"

She was silent, as her voices were. As her voices had been since her return. He moved her to the bedroom's looking glass and positioned her before it, and she came back to herself. When she saw her own reflection, she closed her eyes instinctively, shying away from a wretched vanity that she'd struggled with in life. She'd struggled with so many sins, despite the stories of her holiness.

"Pray if you wish, but keep your eyes open," he said, his grip on her tightening painfully.

She opened her eyes and declared, "This body was made to suffer. Do as you wish. I'm not afraid. You will not break my faith." Then, butterflies in her stomach, she watched—and felt—as he slid his hands up her ribcage to cup her breasts through her linen chemise. His hands were warm, larger than hers but just as calloused. At first the pressure against her breasts was almost comforting, for all that anticipation made her body tighten.

But rather than squeeze or twist, rather than hurt her, he stroked his thumbs gently across her nipples, and it felt like the ringing of bells. A bolt of too-familiar lust ran straight down to her secret place as they hardened, lifting so she could see them pressing against the fabric of her chemise.

The butterflies in her stomach exploded into a storm of longing. Jeanne inhaled sharply as she realized she'd already lied. She truly didn't fear her Grailborn brother. But her own sinful nature terrified her.

As he stroked her, watching her closely, that hunger she'd tried to suppress finally woke within her: her needy, sinful flesh preventing her from thinking of anything but each delicate touch, and the fire it sparked within her.

v.

Jean watched Jeanne in the mirror as he held the soft weight of her breasts in his hands, the linen between their skin damp from her sweat. Although she started stiff, with her eyes wide, soon every brush of his thumbs over the peaks showed on her face. Her breath hissed between her teeth, she bit her lip, and her eyelashes fluttered. She squirmed against him. When her eyes closed again, he murmured, "Eyes open, sister."

He needed her to see herself, as much as he needed to see her. He thought if she wasn't forced to see her own reactions, she might pray herself away, or dilute his touch with mental torments of her own invention. He couldn't allow that. He had to show her through her own body that her faith was false, so that she would accept him rather than rejecting him.

Her eyes half-opened again, unfocused, and she brought her knuckle to her mouth. He grinned and ran one hand down her belly, where he started pulling up the front of her chemise. Because of the indecent design, it wasn't much work to bare the reflection of the golden thatch of hair between her legs to his gaze.

She gasped again and looked away, pressing her thighs tightly together. Intrigued by her reaction, he tucked her chemise into the smooth girdle that was all that remained of her armor and then ran his hand over her bare stomach. At her smothered noise, he glanced up and saw her eyes fixed on his descending hand, two spots of color high in her cheeks. Her hands twisted together behind her back.

He dragged his fingers through the thatch and brushed them over the top of her core. When she shivered, he said, highly amused, "You've touched yourself here before. Wicked girl."

Jeanne's mouth pinched together and she shook her head as if shaking off a fly, meeting her own gaze in the mirror in an obvious attempt at focus. Her lips moved in prayer.

He smiled, licked her ear, and moved his hand to stroke her other breast, which disrupted her concentration nicely. Instead she thrashed against him in a way that was half-pleasure, half instinctive escape attempt. As she did, he slipped his finger between her folds.

Her eyes opened wide, meeting his.

"You've touched yourself just like this before," he whispered, and applied pressure through his fingers above and below. His lower finger slipped against moisture and then slid deeper, while his upper pressed into yielding flesh.

A low moan emerged from Jeanne, and once again, she closed her eyes, pressing her head against his chest. Her breath came raggedly, and from the way her teeth gritted together he thought she didn't know she'd made a sound.

Encouraged, Jean continued to toy with different pressures at her breast and her core, rotating and rubbing, coaxing her repeatedly to the brink of ecstasy before drawing back. Each time he, he'd say, "But maybe you haven't done this after all…" as he stopped long enough to watch consternation pass across her face.

After the fourth pause, she surged forward, panting, "Yes, I have, I'm so sorry I deceived you, the guilt is killing me—" She sagged back against his chest again as his lower finger slicked into with her a tapered, firm stroke.

After a moment, she murmured, "I tried not to. I knew it was wrong. But sometimes it just took over me. The longing for sin." Her brow wrinkled and her hips jerked.

"Ah," whispered Jean and bit her ear again, his finger moving steadily. "Sin. What is sin, my sister?"

"This, you idiot!" she spat suddenly, before his finger twitched and she settled back again, sighing, "And this… You make me want it. You're dragging me into sin…"

His mouth twisted in annoyance. She was hardly making it a challenge. Was all her faith made of the same self-deceptions? But he was piqued, all the same. So that time, when he drew her panting to the brink, he threw her off.

Her body arched against his as he held her, and the low groan of her pleasure only intensified his need. He had to show her that this connection between them was more real than any God of her faith. He had to, or else her rejection at dawn would break him.

She nestled against his chest as she came back to herself, regarding him in the mirror with heavy-lidded eyes. The first thing she said was, "I am not without sin, but I will not be so proud as to believe I am unforgivable."

"You never confessed these sins," he observed, his hands unmoving.

"I did!" she said, stung.

"I did," she repeated, when his hands remained still.

A silence fell. Jean nibbled on Jeanne's ear for a moment, enjoying her warmth pressed against his palms, waiting for her to reach the truth again.

"I thought maybe they didn't matter," she finally said dreamily. "That the sin stayed inside me. That only confessing it would make it real." Her gaze sharpened as she stared at herself. "But I did confess it, at the end. Because I was afraid it might matter when I came to Judgement." She felt silent a moment, and then said, her voice quiet, "It's that I'm more ashamed of, and yet it's the way I was taught to be." Her thighs relaxed and he was able to slip his hand between.

He took a moment to appreciate the view, meeting her gaze as his passed down her half-naked body. She held the sides of her skirt bunched up with both hands, as if only by accident revealing her naked thighs. Her face was flushed, and her breasts heaved against his cradling hand.

Ah yes, her breasts. He'd been so distracted earlier by the secret he'd stumbled over that he'd let attention to those perfect mounds fall off.

Letting his hand between her legs rest, he pulled the ribbon around her chemise's neckline, opening it wide. It fell around her shoulders, baring her firm, high breasts. Whoever had stitched that garment had been a true devil, given how it slid against her breasts with every outraged breath. He'd done whatever he could to keep from dwelling on them since demanding her armor, because he wanted desperately to control them. And at the sight of the creamy swells tipped with deep pink, he swallowed hard.

As she made a wordless sound of protest, he cupped one, massaging gently before tweaking her nipple. It wasn't enough. The next moment, he'd withdrawn his hand from her core to cover her other breast, feeling stiff flesh against his palm. And then that wasn't enough for him either. His clothing vanished as he spun her around, pushing her down to the pile of furs near the mirror, fastening his mouth on the tip of her breast.

Her cry of protest hitched and became a groan. As he curled his tongue against the peak, her fingers twisted in his hair. "I… I don't want this."

It was no fun pointing out her lies if she truly didn't know them herself, so he didn't argue with her. Instead he listened to her fists in his hair, which pulled him closer and a little toward the neglected breast. He listened, and he obeyed. As his mouth closed over that one, she gasped in genuine surprise. "Oh!"

His tongue moved, wet and flexible as it encircled the nub. A few moments later, her body arched as a bolt of pleasure raced through her, and, her eyes closed, she sighed another, longer Oh.

He suckled a moment longer, breathing in the distinct smell of her breasts. Then he rose up and kissed her mouth, tasting her there in a light and passing way. In her ear, he whispered, "You speak with your voice and you speak with your body. I pay attention to both."

She peeked out from her sigh and locked eyes with him. Her sigh became a scowl, so tempting he licked her lips before raising his head to consider his options. He gazed down at her for a moment, appreciating lips swollen from her own teeth and the halo of golden wisps from the disarrayed braid that framed her face. The more he stared at her, the more his desire for her grew, until he found himself overwhelmed again. Nothing of the world beyond his door remained in his mind. Touching her became everything to him.

Pinning her down, he kissed her for a long time, licking into her mouth, dominating her tongue and then retreating to tease her lips before surging forward again. She opened her mouth to him readily, but it wasn't until he'd won several battles that she began to get engaged. Her arms flexed against his pinning grip, and she bit his lower lip before trying to catch his tongue with her own.

A moment of happiness passed through him, quickly chased away by the memory of the situation. By the memory of her rejection. No. He couldn't let her win.

Finally, she began to squirm against him, sending her breasts swaying and her hips twisting. Her thighs parted farther, so that it didn't take much nudging to stretch between them. As he did so, he kissed her more, until he finally remembered what he was about, and stopped to speak in her ear instead.

"Oh, my sister, when you touched yourself, quietly, secretly, what man did you think of?"

Ah. He could feel the shock trembling through her body as her thighs tried to close. "I… I didn't. I just did what felt good."

"I don't believe you," he purred. He lifted himself over her and stroked a breast. "What man did you imagine touching you here?" His thumb dragged over one nipple, down into the valley and up the other slope. But right before her second peak, he stopped and lifted his hand.

Instead, he resettled himself between her legs, nudging his hard shaft against her heated core, where he rocked for a moment, just until she moaned and shifted her hips. In response, he pressed harder.

"What man did you imagine between your thighs, Jeanne?"

"No man!" she said frantically, her hips twitching in an instinctive search for satisfaction. "No, nor woman either. No one. It was no one!"

He moved his head to her breast, where he played patiently for a while until she said softly, "It was a sin. I didn't want to stain anybody else with my sin, even in my own mind. I convinced myself an angel brought me those feelings. But it was no holy communion. I pretended that the angel moved against me, like the beasts of the field. And I liked it."

He kissed her again, his mouth soft and welcoming, while below he found her entrance and pushed himself into her core.

vi.

Jeanne, drenched with sweat and regrets, whined deep in her throat as her brother filled her with a hard, stretching girth that settled deep within her. A burning pleasure trembled through her like the sustained peal of a bell, and she wished she had something to hold onto.

It didn't hurt at all, this joining of flesh to flesh. She'd been given a thousand warnings in her teachings, and they'd all been lies. She couldn't even hold onto those.

She'd been so proud of her purity once. And now she whined like an animal, begging for her mate to cover her.

She was lustful. She knew it. She'd done her best to fight against it, but the way he'd so patiently touched her had overcome her mental walls, her silent prayers and her abjurations against temptation. His fingers had glided over her skin and into her core and every stroke made her body sing with delight.

And now she was sinning once again by giving up, by simply surrendering to the pleasure he kept promising her. That he'd already given her. She'd surrendered to that, too. It seemed to get easier each time.

"Ah, but did you beg the executioner for the brand?"

She stiffened as what he'd said before rose again in her ears and this time made sense. The truth of her own wanton behavior washed over her. She'd all but begged him to touch her as her dream lover had once touched her—

He slid partially out of her and then back in again, his breath hitching, and hitching more as he repeated himself. A delicious friction grew inside her where he rubbed.

—and now he was giving her a taste of that imagined final step, just as she'd craved. She truly was a very great sinner, and knowing that, she yet wanted more. More sin at his hands. More sin from his wet mouth and filthy tongue. She moaned as a wave of pleasure, steady as the tide, passed over her.

Her pride had brought her here, to this edge of disaster. She knew God would forgive, but only if she would repent, and could she truly? That was Jean's true wickedness: making her want more, instead of feeling a righteous shame at her failure.

And yet he knew her so well! She didn't understand it, but it had intensified the flames of her fall. He seemed to see through her lies before she knew them herself. It was uncanny.

Another wave of pleasure passed over her as the pace of his thrusts quickened and his breath harshened. She thought he must be a devil. To know her as only God could know her, but able to drag her into this breathless, desperate sin. How could he be other than a devil?

But he was capable of kindness. Ritsuka's judgement meant something.

Jeanne found herself praying again, mindlessly, fragmented chants of praise as his rutting made her more and more excited, more and more aware of that blaze inside that would eventually erupt. She didn't know if she was praying for salvation, or praying that he would fuck her even harder.

Jean looked down at her, brushed her moving lips with his own. Then he stopped his thrusting long enough to change position, sitting cross-legged and pulling her atop his cock. Instinctively, she picked up the movement he'd stopped, twisting herself until she found the place where giddy fire spread from each bolt of friction. He held her close, whispered her name, praised her with incoherent little sounds. Then, as she rocked against him, he focused his attention on her breasts, running his tongue and fingers over rigid flesh, stiffening it further and making Jeanne furrow her brow and lean into the sensation.

She shoved herself against him with increasing force, seeking and riding each wave of pleasure, all the while distractedly thinking about whether he was a devil or not. It wasn't until a sweet, diffuse bliss spread through her that it finally, finally occurred to her.

Perhaps this perfect feeling of connection wasn't, after all, a sin. For… was he not made from her, as Eve had been made from Adam? Was that not a bond between them like unto marriage?

She stopped, trembling, but Jean didn't. He shifted position to lower her back to the furs, and began to thrust more savagely, his flesh slapping against hers as each shove buried him to the hilt.

Staring up at him, she looked at the gold in his eyes. Without warning, a second wave of ecstasy, much deeper and more intense than the first passed over her. It left her shaking, and when it faded, her certainty grew. This was not the vice he thought it was, but something holy.

His eyes squeezed shut, as if against intolerable brightness, and she felt his hot spasm. As he jerked and shuddered against her, she wrapped her arms around him.

He froze, and then trembled again before relaxing. For a moment, she held him close, tracing the long lines of his shoulder blades. Then, his voice muffled, he said, "You don't mean that, but damned if I can work out what you do mean."

Mildly, she said, "I'm smarter than you give me credit for."

He kissed her neck for a distracting moment before saying, "No, no, don't torment me. I came up with a whole set of deadly sins to tease you with. But you're better than that, and we both know it." He regarded her darkly. "Tell me why you've put your arms around me, when we've only just got started with lust."

"I have a very great deal of lust," she told him solemnly. "But God has shown me the truth."

Jean groaned and fell to one side, but she kept her arms around him so that when he fell, she rose. He put his arm over his eyes, hiding most of his face. "This is going to be a very long night."

She kissed his chest, licking his own small, hard nipple as he'd done to her. He made another muffled sound and then caught her in his arms as he sat up. "I won't let you catch me in your faith," he warned her, and when she smiled at him, he pushed her onto her stomach and rose onto his knees with a growl.

When he rammed into her again from behind, the sensation was even more exquisite for them both. She panted and then spoke, timing her words against his breathtaking thrusts. "One of my besetting sins was envy, Jean. Envy of the boys… who could go to war... for France. I wanted so much to be one of them. But when God spoke to me, I tried to set that aside."

She looked back at him as he pulled back one of her wrists to push himself in more deeply. His face was twisted in a grimace, but when he met her eyes, the grimace faded. For a moment, he had a boy's face, with old and lonely eyes. "I think you are everything I tried to set aside, my brother. My soulmate."

A look of profound yearning passed over his face, and was then replaced by a sneer. He rocked himself deep inside her. "I'm your vengeance. I would kill everybody for you. You will never accept that, though."

Earnestly, Jeanne said, "God will forgive you if you ask—"

"I don't want God's forgiveness," he shouted, yanking her to him, his hands going over her breasts like claws as he jerked within her. For a moment he held her like that, his nails biting into her breasts and his teeth indenting her shoulder.

But slowly, his fingers relaxed. "I don't want your forgiveness either. Forgiveness is stupid. 'Right and wrong' is stupid. All that matters is you, and all I care about is how you make my existence meaningless." He stroked her breasts gently, running his fingers lightly over the marks of his nails.

Jeanne took advantage of the gentleness of his grip to pull away from him so she could face him. Kneeling with him, so like and unlike how she'd knelt to pray with others, she put her hands on his face. "No. Misguided, perhaps, but not meaningless." She cast about for how to convey her revelation to him. "Jean, I think God took that sinful daydream of mine, and made it into you."

Once again his eyes widened in that look of wonder. Then he pulled away from her and staggered to his feet. Nude, he crossed to a table with a decanter and wine glasses, poured himself one and drank it. After, he stared down at her as she knelt on the furs in front of the mirror, his face remote and hard.

Finally, he shook his head and came to her. Taking her hands and drawing her to his feet, he said, "I can't beat that." A wry grin curved across his feet and her heart pounded. "I don't want to beat that. You have an idiot's faith, my sister. But you've defeated me all the same, because I can't bear the thought of convincing you to throw me away." He pressed her hands to his chest. "But I'll never stop wanting to burn the world that betrayed you, Jeanne. It's what I am."

"I know," she whispered, tears pricking at her eyes. "That… that was something else I tried so hard to put aside. And I'm so very sorry, Jean, that such hatred and despair was what survived in my ashes."

"Shut up," he said, with a flash of irritation. "Don't be sorry. I'm not." He shook his head. "We'll never agree on that, though. There's no use in even trying." Under her fingers, his chest began to glow.

Her eyes widened and she tried to pull her hands away. But he held them tight against his body. "You win. You get the prize. You saved France." His eyes darkened. "And this time, nobody will dare try to punish you."

"Jean, no!" she said frantically, but even as she did, she knew he was right. This was why she was here: to know him, to love him, and then to let him go, for the good of humanity.

"Idiot," he told her, as the glow in his chest brightened. "Stupid girl."

"I know," she said wretchedly. "I know. But I won't like it. I won't stop holding you." She felt the searing rim of the Holy Grail press against her fingers. For a moment, it was contained between the two of them, a single cup uniting their twinned souls. Then, with a tingle of gold, it passed into Jeanne, filling her with strength and life and power.

Jean sagged against her and she caught him, lowering them to the ground and cradling his head in her lap. He looked up at her with fogged eyes. "I'm glad I was born, Jeanne. Even if I disappointed you—"

"No, no," she told him. "I will never feel that way again."

He closed his eyes as she felt his dissolution begin. "You were saying something earlier about your childhood, on the hills with your sheep before I… interrupted you. I still don't care about your faith. But… would you tell me about the sheep?"

Stroking his hair, her voice steady and low and calm, Jeanne told him about fluffy sheep and bouncing spring lambs. Even when he was no more than sparkles in her arms, she spoke on, until nothing at all was left. Then she pulled the Grail from her chest, bent over it, and cried.

Hours later, when Ritsuka's forces defeated the dragon, defeated Gilles, and reclaimed the castle, they found her in Jean's chamber, still holding the Holy Grail. She lifted it, showing it to them. "It's empty," she said. Then she frowned. "It's not him. He's gone… somewhere else. But he existed. He was real." She cast her eyes down, as if lost in thought. "I'll find him again."

Ritsuka covered her with a blanket and asked, her voice tiny, "Does that mean you won't return to Chaldea with us?"

Without looking up, Jeanne shook her head. "I can't. Not now. I have to find him first. Who knows what trouble he'll get into without me?"


Author's Note

Hey! I've started a discord where folks who enjoy my stories can meet and chat about fiction and games. Here is an invite code! qey3vdW Come say hi! I promise not to bite unless asked nicely.