Even now, she can still remember when she first saw him. Even when she was shoved into that dark, dirty cell that reeked of human waste and illness and froze her body to the bone, and now as they tie her hands behind her back, leading her across the frost-bitten courtyard to that looming, malevolent piece of wood.

He had his back to her as he examined a small dagger, turning the silver blade over and over in his rough hands. He was speaking to the military advisor, paying his new guest no mind, or even seeing her. She cleared her throat softly, frowning and perplexed at this new player in the king's war.

The man turned to look at her with cynical blue eyes hardened with years of a wicked, harsh reality and countless blood-spattered memories. A small smirk turned up the corner of his lips.

"Well, she certainly looks the part."

And what part were you, sir?

They pin her against the hard pole, the rough wood scraping at her back through the thin robe they had given her to wear. She bites her lip, looking around, seeing nothing but mocking, jeering faces.

"You didn't pray," she said to him after the mass.

He halted his horse, turning to look at her, his glance quick and cold. "I never do. Why should I? I've seen plenty of prayers never granted. My faith died long ago."

"God watches over all of us, sir. We can't simply choose to ignore him."

His icy eyes pierced her with a glare. "I watch my own back. And now, I watch yours as well."

Yeah…you were always watching my back, weren't you?

Her hands are bound behind her, chained to that hateful entity that seems now to have a life of its own, and the memories pour into her mind. All those times…when she had caught him watching her, his gaze always stone on the surface, but a strange warmth behind it that had grown since Orleans.

The battle raged all around, men screaming with bloodlust or pain. She turned abruptly, her heart stopping as the English soldier leapt at her. A scream caught in her throat.

But the soldier's cry was cut off abruptly, as a sword was plunged through his neck, then pulled out again with a cry from the bearer, only to be embedded deep in the chest of yet another.

She felt her stomach lurch as the second soldier's blood spewed up in a dying fount, as the mercenary pulled the blade from human flesh, and turned so that eyes of steel met her own.

Always watching over me, huh? Like some angel of battle and death with those bitter eyes that always end meeting mine.

The hay crackles a little as it is lit. She moans in fear, and cries out in a frantic attempt to let God's presence reassure her;

"A crucifix! Let me see a crucifix level with my eyes!"

Again she searches the crowd, wanting that freezing stare to meet hers. But it wouldn't be freezing now, no, it would be hot with rage at the English, burning with the same warmth she had seen at that first battle.

She cried out in pain as the arrow pierced her. The world spun around her, screams and voices calling her fading in and out. She had never known pain such as this, and fought to keep conscious in the midst of such agony.

Then she felt the arms, lifting her, carrying her…she looked up to see her friends…Bertrand, Jean…all of them carrying her to safety.

And then suddenly he was by her side, lifting her head onto his lap and ripping off her armor to see the wound.

"Help me sit up," she groaned.

She was lifted, those strong arms against her back, supporting her, helping her.

"Break off the tip." She hissed at Jean.

He started. "You'll bleed to death!"

Her head twisted round, and she looked up into that hard face, now filled with a strange concern and fear. "Break it off," she ordered again through clenched teeth.

He stared into her eyes for a moment, and then nodded, pulling off his glove and putting it in her mouth.

She bit down on it, screaming into the leather as the tip was snapped off, her blood staining his bare hands, but she pushed her friends away as they tried to remove the arrow, her hand gripping it and pulling it out herself. Tears flowed down her cheeks and she moaned as the wood came free from her shoulder.

"Help me up."

"You can't-!"

But I did anyway, didn't I? And you helped me even then.

The flames rise, catching on her dress and her feet start to blister and burn. Tears of pain and fear steam down her cheeks, her blue eyes fixed on the heavens above her.

"Now we are both entirely alone."

His eyes are different now, still cold, but full of something else, now.

Hurt? This hurt him? The ruthless mercenary who had long since forgotten the pain of killing others?

Alone.

Her mind races back, back to the courtroom, when she had anxiously looked around the assembly in desperation for a kind word, a kind face.

And had gotten a glimpse of frozen blue, framed by a worn, scarred face.

And hurt, pure and simple burning agony, beneath the bitter winter.

No…I was never alone. You were always there, weren't you?

We kept each other warm.