**Hey, y'all. I have no updates besides I still haven't seen the latest season of Hetalia. I know, I'm terrible, it's been like a year since it came out. I mainly read the manga tho, so I do have a general understanding of what kind of shenanigans the countries have been up to (not like you really need to watch/read the thing in order to get it).

But we in Paris now, bitches, so it's all downhill from here. Very little good things are coming Joan's way, so yeah, it's gonna be rough. Tootles**

"There should be an opening in the east, over by the Seine."

"No, they would have all waterways blocked or swamped with soldiers. We should stick to the woods."

"They'll be expecting that after what happened at Patay. We need a new plan of attack."

"Well, whatever path we choose to take, let the composition of Paris remain standing after the end of it all. There's too many civilians and precious resources to put at risk. Not to mention that whatever happens on Parisian grounds will have an effect on our country's personification."

"Yes, I agree. We must act accordingly."

A low chorus of acknowledged grunts echoed around the room. Jeanne leaned forward on her elbows to see the map in front of Charles. Bluebeard, who sat beside him, tapped his finger upon the parchment.

"Nothing of significant importance occurred when we attacked the gateways in the south," he recalled, "so we should advance elsewhere. Perhaps a port instead of a bridge would be more beneficial to us."

"Waterways of any kind will be difficult to cross." Charles said this in a grave tone as if speaking from personal experience.[1]

The Bastard also leaned forward. "But Your Majesty, if we manage to take a port, we can halt all English and Burgundian exports from coming in, and replace them with Armagnac ones. It could win over the citizens' hearts as well."

"Aye, but yer king is right," Allister spoke up, rubbing his eye. "It'll be mighty difficult to take back an entire port. Those things are always crawling with soldiers and sailors and all kinds of government knob heads. I'm not saying it's impossible, just nearly impossible."

General Stewart nodded along while the Bastard glanced up at Allister. "We've got ten thousand able-bodied men ready for their next set of orders. I am certain we can take back one lousy port in all of Paris."

"And yet you still haven't recovered a single fucking gateway, so I don't know where you think you're going with this."

Jeanne sent a glare Allister's way but, of course, he couldn't care less and kept on rambling his mouth. Absentmindedly, she caressed her jaw where a nasty, multi-colored bruise the size of a rose petal coated her skin. It was still a bit swollen, but felt much better compared to the other day when, still at battle in Paris, a citizen—a Burgundian—who had somehow gotten caught up in the fight threw a rock at her face to protect a fallen English archer. It hurt to chew (it still did) yet the physician said she was lucky she didn't lose a tooth or dislocate her jaw.

She caught sight of Francis in her peripheral vision. He was sitting next to the Bastard across from her, arms crossed, eyes staring off into space. Clearly he wasn't listening. In fact, he hadn't been listening much the past fortnight, since the day they talked by the fairy tree. He told her that she mustn't worry about him, that he appreciated her honesty, but she knew he wished for a different answer from her. The atmosphere between them became awkward after that. He didn't ignore her or turn the other way. No, not at all—he was still charming as ever, never left her side without a sweet smile or a careful kiss upon her cheek, but now he was quieter, a bit subdued, more emotionally distant.

She swore she would protect him from all harm, though she never would've thought that she'd had to save him from herself. The flakes of guilt sprinkled over her like gently falling snow.

"Maiden."

Jeanne glanced at Charles. He was looking at her the way he always did—a focal trust so concentrated that she could feel its hefty weight settle upon her shoulders.

"What say you?" he offered. "Have you any thoughts on the matter?"

Her eyes drifted toward the map of Paris spread out before them, crinkled from use and inked with updated notes she couldn't read. She still heard her voices from time to time, but she noticed that they hadn't spoken as much as they used to. They often played an important role when planning battle strategies (for the greatest general of all, Saint Michael the Archangel, was never too far behind her), although they haven't contributed much to the siege of Paris.

However, one thing was certain; her voices did mention one circumstance. No matter what, they mustn't abandon the city. This was the capital, Francis's heart, so she understood the risks and significance of the campaign. And if the saints were telling her to remain on city grounds, then she had a sneaking suspicion that this campaign would experience major difficulties, perhaps grave losses.

This attack on Paris would challenge both her men's strength and faith, but, as always, she would devout herself to pushing onward, to carry her soldiers' burdens and replace them with rays of light.

Her finger landed on an isolated circle near the edge of the map. "Is this a moat?"

Charles leaned toward the black dot. "Oui. C'est la Porte Saint-Honoré."

"It's the main entry gate in the west, isn't it?"

"C'est vrai."

"Are there any considerable buildings or natural resources nearby? Or is it surrounded by people's homes and businesses?"

"Well…" The king studied the area more intently. "Citizen property is everywhere, no matter what angle one decides to enter from. Alas, that's simply how most cities—if not, all—are constructed. But the Abbey of Saint Denis is located just north of the port, which is a very important building for both religious and governmental matters."

Jeanne's ears perked. She recalled Francis speaking about that place back in Reims. If she remembered correctly, the Abbey of Saint Denis held the precious crown and scepter that was barred from them during Charles's coronation. It would be true poetic justice if they started there first.

"Then we shall advance from there—the Port of Saint Honoré," she claimed with a firm nod of the head.

"But it's a moat," Allister emphasized. "A moat is a fort surrounded by water—"

Jeanne shot him a deadly glare. "I know that."

His bottom lip drooped, and his thick, red eyebrows lifted high. His hands also rose in the air, giving off a mock look of surrender. "I'm not denouncing your methods at all, darlin'. I'm actually a big fan of knocking on their front door and then punching them in the face. I was merely wondering how you plan on getting over this particular hurdle without drowning half of your army."

She raised her chin in response. "By lessening the layers of iron our soldiers are required to wear."

"What do you mean by that?" the Bastard asked, intrigued.

"Our armor, I'm sure you've noticed, is suffocating and quite heavy to carry around—too heavy, in fact—that it literally weighs us down, sometimes creating more harm than good. In order to cross the threshold of the port, maybe we should lighten the load of the armor."

"We'll lose protection if we do that," Bluebeard pointed out. "Those plates of iron save lives."

"We'll save even more if we give them the ability to move through water." Jeanne winced at her own response. It came out sharper than she meant it to be. She glanced up at Bluebeard with apologetic eyes.

She must've been more stressed out than she thought.

"Now how can we protect our soldiers with lack of full armor?" Charles inquired. "There's a bridge connecting the port to the city, so it's not as though the entire army will be submerged in water. What will protect them from the rain of arrows?"

Jeanne lightly touched his wrist. "My king, please do not be mistaken. Soldiers will not be completely void of any armor nor will I have them march through a river unless it's absolutely necessary. I'm advocating for a lighter uniform, one that allows movement without tripping over our own two feet. As for 'protection'…" She hesitated. "We should bring out the culverin."[2]

Allister hummed in amusement, a righteous smirk pulling at his lips. "I'm all for using anything that requires gunpowder," he inputted.

The Bastard nodded his head slowly as he thought out loud to himself: "It won't take too much manpower, space, or time to set up unlike a cannon. It also provides a suitable amount of damage without too much traumatization." His finger circled the dot on the map. "We could surround the moat and fire at the fort while overwhelming the enemy yet keeping the damage to a minimum. As discussed earlier, we must protect the city and its citizens at all costs; the English alone are our primary target."

Bluebeard argued that the Burgundians should at least be considered, and the Bastard and he argued for some time before Charles dismissed them all for the night. Jeanne tried not to think about the Burgundians as she slipped out of her seat and bowed toward the king.

She'd accepted the reality of her oncoming death, yes, but she was still a little scared of how it would happen. She could sense something inside her shiver with coldness; it was a foreign sensation to her, for it was there, in her soul, that she felt sparks of life, little fires that warmed her entire body and drove her forward. Her lungs deflated, her fists constricted.

I really need to pray.

She filed out of the camp fit for a king, complete with thick, sturdy canvas that stretched several meters and enough stationary knights to bring down a mob of angry citizens (she too tried not thinking about that either). Her gaze swept across their current place of residence: the neighboring town of la Chapelle, which reminded her a bit like home, except it was more populated and wealthier. The people were kind and friendly (a single mother and her three children invited her to rest in their house during their stay in Paris—Jeanne had no choice but to accept when they refused no as an answer). She, however, overheard Allister say that they only liked her because she was the commander, a person of high standing who was giving them food and protection. Parisians are huge snobs and always try to outdo one another with their haughtiness, he had insisted, yet they weren't as prejudice or condescending as Londoners.

That might've been true, but Jeanne liked to think that her country's heart was full of spirit and charm and compassion and happiness, despite the flaws that everyone had.

And the sight from where she stood now, from the top of that hill, would have been lovely if it weren't for the troubling shouts and stomping hooves in the far distance—the ugly howl of warfare. The black night and abnormally chilly breeze made it more unbearable; out there Armagnac soldiers were putting their lives on the line just to keep the Burgundians at bay, just to keep the faith alive.

The sound of heavy footsteps and faint arguing came up behind her. She didn't bother to turn, for she knew it was the other generals following her out. Bluebeard and the Bastard were still bickering about battle formations; she knew them both well enough to know that they weren't taking it personally—it was all business.

The Bastard eventually broke away from their debate, and she felt a gentle touch on her elbow.

"Need an escort?" he offered. "Night is already among us."

She then faced him. "I'm going to the nearest church to pray, if you wanted to come along?"

He paused in thought and then nodded with a slight grin. "Why not? It'll do me some good."

She returned the smile just as the familiar gruff voice of la Hire hollered out, "Well, what did he say? Are we off to plummet those English bastards into the ground?"

Jeanne noticed said burly man climbing up the hill, his armor clanking loudly with each massive step he took. He must've been waiting out here this entire time.

"Not at this moment, mon ami," the Bastard answered for him. "A few ideas have been stirred, but no plan has been fully prepared yet. I'm afraid there will be no head-bashing from you tonight."

La Hire hissed through his teeth as though he were annoyed by the news (not by the lack of a planned attack necessarily, but more so by the lack of any attack at all). "So, what do we do now?"

"We're going to pray at the nearest church," Jeanne piped up, "for it's never too late to converse with the Lord, especially during trying times such as these. It'd be an honor to have you accompany us."

La Hire's hearty chuckle pulled her lips back in another natural smile as he ruffled her hair. Jeanne recalled when la Hire swore like a sailor and his religion circulated around violence and drinking. Not even a year had passed, and there had been significant shifts in his thoughts and actions. He attended mass regularly and she'd seen him fall on his knees in prayer right before battle and, on more than one occasion, she witnessed him show mercy to frightened or beaten Englishmen. If he were the same man, he would've sliced their heads off without a second thought.

"Little commander," he said in that deep, mountainous voice of his, "you know I would never deny an invitation of any sort if it's from you."

Jeanne giggled while the Bastard rolled his eyes.

"Bluebeard," la Hire called over her shoulder, "would you like to join us at the Saint Genevieve chapel?" He then scratched his beard and mumbled to himself, "I believe that's the name of it?"

Jeanne turned to her right to see Bluebeard slowly descending the hill with Francis standing alone off to the side. Bluebeard smiled thinly and politely refused; Jeanne jogged over to Francis and enveloped his hand in both of hers.

"Francis, will you please come with us? It would mean the world to me."

It was slow, but his lips curled into a classic Francis Bonnefoy smile: his straight, white teeth revealed themselves between his perfectly pink lips, and his gentle blue orbs softened even more once his gaze became locked with yours.

"Of course, my dear." He said this like it was a secret. His fingers—so light and delicate, just like the wings of a butterfly—brushed back a few strands of hair from her forehead that la Hire had displaced.

If she had just met him at that moment, she would've thought him to be charming and exceptionally kind, but she had known Francis for a while now, and it seemed like he was trying too hard, like he was a drop of water trembling at the tip of an icicle. Something within her grew heavy. Things would never be the same between them, would they?

"Sieur Scotland!" called out la Hire again. "Say you're coming to the chapel with us!"

Allister, who'd been lumbering after Bluebeard, stopped in his tracks and peered at la Hire quizzingly. "Is today Sunday?"

"No, it's Friday."

"Then no." He then followed Bluebeard down the rest of the way and, when la Hire tried calling him again, he merely waved his hand as though he were shooing away a pesty flea.

Hearing this, Francis rolled his eyes and flipped his hair back. "And he wonders why he was shot in the head with that arrow."

Jeanne laughed behind her hand and the reaction morphed his smile into something more personal, more genuine. It brightened like how a child's would; the corners of his lips pulled further back until the wrinkles around his eyes were more apparent. It reminded her of just how old he really was, and to create and cherish small moments like these with what little time she had left.

Francis led Jeanne, la Hire, and the Bastard to the closest chapel (which indeed was Saint Genevieve's) and there they stayed for quite a while. Jeanne kneeled upon the steps of the altar and prayed there for some time; the chapel's priest also came by and sat beside her where they discussed scripture and the power of faith. The Bastard and la Hire sat next to one another in one of the pews further back. They clasped their hands and bowed their heads in prayer, but over time, their muffled conversations and the priest's tentative footsteps became the only sounds that echoed throughout the vacant church.

Francis took his seat in the first row, closest to Jeanne. She never heard him speak with the Lord nor the delicate pages of a bible turning behind her. Whenever she snuck a glance over her shoulder, she always found him in the same position: with his elbows planted on his knees and his gaze switching from the crucified Jesus hanging on the wall to his booted feet on the floor.

Time swept by (as it always did for Jeanne whenever she was in a church). The Bastard and la Hire eventually came up and tapped her on the shoulder, saying that they were leaving her in Francis's hands and getting some rest before the inevitable battle tomorrow. She thanked them, prayed some more, and then finally rose to meet Francis.

She offered a hand and a smile. "Thank you for coming with me, as always."

He accepted them both, the palm of his hand just as warm as his smile. "It's a pleasure, as always."

They exited the chapel and began the walk to the house she was staying at. Before they traveled further into the city, Francis gently tugged on her wrist.

"There is something I wish to ask of you, Jeanne," he said quietly.

She faced him with a nod. Based off his attitude earlier and how much hesitancy he put into what little conversations they shared that day, she figured he wanted to talk about their relationship (after all, he'd been like this ever since that day by the fairy tree). But he surprised her by saying, "There's a good possibility that England's personification is in Paris right now and will play a role in future attacks. For your safety, I want you to avoid him by all means possible."

She blinked at his unwavering, almost harsh gaze; he was dead serious. A disappointed knot formed in her chest and her shoulders slumped in response. She paused before mumbling, "You can't stop what—"

"Jeanne."

He suddenly leaned forward with his jaw locked. A storm was brewing in his eyes; she could sense the frustration rolling off of him in waves. She thought of two things when he jutted forward like a snake: one, how Francis's close companions had once informed her that he wasn't an easily outraged person and yet she'd witnessed his bouts of "strong annoyance" more often than they did, and two, she couldn't help but to see her father in Francis's movements. It was like that time when he threatened to drown her; Francis's fear for her was so overwhelming that he was morphing into an outraged person.

"Do not approach him," he hissed through his teeth. "He'll have your head as soon as he crosses paths with you. If you want to save Paris, then you must avoid England at all costs."

Jeanne frowned. She didn't like the way he twisted her prophecy and goals around to center on England like he was both the key that locked up Paris and the cause of her downfall, and she told him this. "For all I know, that moat is the way to success and I may catch consumption later on. Sieur England may have nothing to do with it."

Francis gave her a look that she hadn't seen in months—he didn't believe her. "This is war, I must remind you. You've seen bodies being ripped apart by cannonballs and hear the dying moans of those who slowly bled out. Anything goes in war, and with minimal punishment too. I know, without a doubt, that Kirkland will take every opportunity available to find you and crush you."

It was his turn to frown, although his appeared more like a scowl. "And I don't appreciate how you disregard your own life so easily."

That little spark in her chest that smelled like fire, like anger jumped to her throat and she took a step forward in response. "My life isn't yours to judge," she growled, "and I don't know how many times I have to say it, but this is the path that was given to me and you can't stop it—"

"I'm not trying to stop you, I'm trying to protect you—"

"I said you can't stop it!"

Both reeled back at her sudden outburst. Somewhere in the corners of her mind, Jeanne knew she was causing a scene, that she might've frightened nearby citizens, but she was in too deep to acknowledge the thought completely.

The alarmed irritation still scratched behind Francis's eyes as he stared her down, but now a drop of disappointment—on the verge of a desperate sorrow, really—had mixed into the blue. The resemblance between him and her father during spells of distress was uncanny, so she confronted him the same way she did with her father.

She took a deep breath and spoke quietly, "I know you're saying this because you're afraid that I may die—"

In an equally hushed yet all-the-more frustrated tone, he interrupted, "I know you know, Jeanne. You know these things and yet you never listen, not to me at least." He then clutched her hands tightly and gave her a look pinched with so much worry that she thought he might cry.

"Please, please, Jeanne. I'm begging you: please avoid England, no matter what you do."

Her chest ached just looking at him. Everything was tight, despite it crumbling like how an old roof slowly caves in after years of wear and tear. She wanted to fix it; she wanted to replace the mold and the cracks with new planks of stone or indestructible nails. And if that meant she'd have to work out in the most desolate conditions and use impractical tools to accomplish it, then she'd do just that. If only the roof himself would learn to understand that.

Knowing that they wouldn't get anywhere, she squeezed his hands and told him, "All I can promise you is that I will protect you, no matter what." She then slipped out of his grasp (though with more effort than usual) and walked herself to her temporary home.

When they met in His Majesty's tent the next morning, Charles gave the go-ahead on Jeanne's plan, yet agreed with Bluebeard that armor was essential and said soldiers should wear them as usual. Jeanne pursed her lips at this but said nothing.

Soon enough, she'd been given her army and was sent to the Port of Saint Honoré. Charles saluted to her before she left, informing that he'd be waiting here with messengers at the ready. Jeanne bowed in response and reassured him that she'd keep him updated.

The closer her army advanced, the more nervous they appeared, which Jeanne had seen time and time again, so she tried calming their nerves with words and gentle smiles. It worked to a degree, but there were still quite a few whose demeanor didn't shift in the slightest.

Rageful screams echoed like thunder as they drew near, and the faint outline of a great stone block and hundreds of ant-sized bodies rushing around was soon in sight. A round of synchronized explosions sounded off with puffs of smoke wafted into the equally grey air. Jeanne knew at once it was the culverins that Charles had ordered out earlier in the day. From this distance, she couldn't tell if the damage was significant or not. All she knew was that it wouldn't cost as much as a cannon.

If it weren't for the overpowering aura of constant worry and powerful dread throbbing at her side, Jeanne never would've realized Francis had been riding beside her the entire time. He and his horse were back far enough so that they didn't touch her peripheral vision, but she couldn't ignore the pulsing rays of over-protectiveness radiating from him, even if she tried to. Usually she was the one following his shadow, attempting to create a defensive bubble around him, an invisible shell of unbreakable armor. It felt strange to have their roles reversed.

"I'm assuming you've never been to Paris?"

Jeanne looked down. Allister was peering up at her with his hands on his hips and his head tilted to the side. She failed to notice that he and the other generals had dismounted their steeds and were speaking with a few unfamiliar captains.

She heard Francis's armor clanking as he shifted off his horse and dropped to the ground.

"I have not," she answered Allister as the red-haired nation offered his palm toward her. The gesture surprised her some, but still she took it and hopped down from her horse.

"Well, here's a word of advice: the city and the people may look nice on the outside, but on the inside, they're nothing but a bunch of wee vermins in a long coat. So, don't let them get to you with whatever nonsense comes spewing out of their mouths."

Francis came around just as Allister finished his sentence. He glimpsed at him, smirked, and added, "No wonder Paris is your core: nice to look at, yet just as snobbish and annoying as the rest of us." He then blinked. "Aye, though I must admit, Paris is home to many excellent seamstresses."

Despite the dangerously-high tensions, so sensitive that one could prick it with a pin, Jeanne burst out laughing, no doubt startling nearby soldiers with the joyous sound. She smiled up at Allister. "Why, Sieur Scotland, I would've never guessed that you had an eye for needlework."

"Well, of course I do! Do you know how many old ladies gift me with quilts for saving their grandson's life? I could clothe every sheep in the Highlands with all the shit they keep sending me; Scottish gals are a lot like you—they don't listen when you tell them no. So, I figured if you can't beat them, join them, and now I gotta whole castle decorated with the stuff."

Jeanne put her hands on her hips and puffed out her chest, a prideful grin gracing her lips. "Paris hasn't seen me yet; I'm the best seamstress in my hometown, and I'm not afraid of a little competition. I bet you I can make the most beautiful quilt you have ever seen."

Allister chuckled and ruffled her hair. "I believe it, squirt, just as long as you don't gift it to me."

"Don't worry, I'd never do such a thing."

Allister barked out laughing. He playfully pinched the tip of her nose and wagged it from side to side, calling her "a good craic" and other slang that sounded odd in the French language. She glanced at Francis, whose solemn expression didn't change. It saddened her to see the fear eating him alive, that he couldn't even joke around or plaster on a smile just to get by.

She only had enough time to smile sadly at him and place a hand on his forearm before the Bastard called them over. Sympathy would have to wait; the flames of war had risen, probably higher than they've ever been before.

Jeanne slammed the ladder against the stone wall along with Edmond's help. The air rippled as another blast from the culverins echoed behind them. Debris started falling from above—rocks, broken arrows, even their own helmets—and, among the ruckus, Jeanne couldn't tell if the plan was working or not.

Francis backed up against the wall with his shield over his and Jeanne's head. The iron wobbled above them as what must've been a rock bounced off their line of defense. A fresh line of crimson, glittering against his skin like blood-dripped stars, was smeared across his cheekbone, but other than that, his body appeared untouched.

"How are the others?" she asked him.

"This is the only ladder that's made it across."

It took her a great effort to not turn back; instead she let the whistling arrows be her motivation to move forward. She turned to Edmond and said "Don't let them take the ladder. Help our men climb up safely."

He nodded once with that pinched, stern look of his, knuckles bulging under his grip of the ladder. "I will."

She then looked at Francis and frowned. "Don't get in my way."

Before he could argue with her, she raced up the ladder, legs pumping, heart pounding. She refused to let the vulnerability of being halfway between the tower and the ground weigh her down, but vulnerability is still vulnerability.

Her body was nailed with all kinds of blunt objects; there were so many coming at such rapid speeds that she couldn't even see straight. It was only when two bricks slammed into her—one on her right shoulder, the other on top of her head—that she lost her hold and plummeted toward the earth.

As her body ached and her head rung with a metallic clang, Jeanne was ready to admit that full-plated armor sometimes had its perks.

Francis grabbed her arm and yanked her to her feet. Edmond, baring his teeth, shouted "Hey!" and then rammed the ladder upwards, the top peg bashing the nose of an archer who looked over the wall at the wrong time.

"What I was going to say," Francis muttered while easily deflecting an arrow with his shield, "is that you can't go up a wall where every soldier is waiting for you."

It was true: the deafening cries and commotion from above and the shower of rubble dominated the spot they were in. There was very little they could do. Jeanne clutched her shoulder and huffed in frustration. What was going on? Why wasn't she thinking straight?

"We need more help—" Francis added before a particularly boisterous "Move it!" came from their right.

Sprinting toward the fort was a group of men (mostly Scottish) crowded with iron shields and bows and arrows. They fired at upcoming Burgundians and blocked off diving arrows. Inside the closed circle Jeanne could see Allister and Stewart carrying a ladder under their arms. La Hire, she saw, assisted them in his own way: wielding a sword and battleaxes, by literally getting his hands dirty.

Jeanne whirled toward Edmond. "Clear their path, Edmond!"

He didn't need to be told twice. With a heavy grunt, he stepped forward, held firmly onto the ladder, and then swung it down, knocking two nearby Burgundians square on the head. She heard a splintering snap spring from the wooden ladder, and she saw one of the men collapse and the other clutch his head as he slumped against the wall.

La Hire slung his weapons at a few other soldiers before heading in Edmond's direction, acting as his guard so Edmond could reposition the ladder. Allister and Stewart and their sphere of defenders ran several yards further down the fort, almost to the edge of the Seine. They wasted no time in rushing up their own ladder.

"Ha! Look at those bastards! They have no idea what to do!" la Hire laughed at the same time Francis growled in Jeanne's ear, "You're lucky the ladder didn't break. Edmond still doesn't understand his own strength; you have to be more careful—"

But, once again, Jeanne grabbed the ladder and raced back up, this time with her shield at the ready. She could vaguely sense the ladder bouncing with each step she took, despite Edmond's hold on it, so she climbed as quickly as possible.

One or two rocks scraped her shield, nothing big enough to slow her down. Once she reached the top, without even looking, she drove her shield forward, assuming that someone was already waiting for her. She did collide with another body, but this soldier was prepared for such a defense. He rammed his body weight against her, but she luckily grabbed the edge of the stone railing to keep from falling overboard again. Unfortunately, her shield flew out of her hand and tumbled down below.

Vaguely she could hear someone cry out her name and feel the ladder tremble underneath her. Taking Francis's warning, she swiftly grasped the blond fringe of the soldier's hair and pulled him back. Grunting, his giant hand wrapped around her wrist and yanked her to the side. She crashed hard against the stone flooring, but she'd rather scrape her palms upon the loose bricks than fall to the earth again and break something irreplaceable.

Behind the Burgundian soldier now looming over her, Jeanne watched the first two pegs of the ladder flip back in an awkward way that indicated the ladder had snapped in two, dropping whoever was hiking up back to the bottom.

Jeanne rolled out of the way just as the man above her swung his leg back to kick her face in. She scrambled onto one knee and picked at her sheathed sword. Even though the soldier was currently unarmed—she noticed the empty pack of arrows slung across his back—he wasn't hesitant to morph his fists into weapons. He launched one of them at her; she was at a disadvantage, still being on the ground, and couldn't avoid it.

She fell back down when his strong knuckles struck her jaw, sending a new, powerful flare of pain across her jawbone, igniting the dark bruise she received in the last battle.

A grunt escaped her, and she felt dribbles of blood leak from the corner of her mouth. She ignored the loose feeling in her mouth and the tangy taste of iron on her tongue. Still, she slid her sword out and whipped it back. It hit nothing, and when she looked back, she was met with a gruesome sight: a third hand had wrapped around the Burgundian's forehead and another one came out from behind with a dagger in its grasp. As if slicing through jam, the blade slithered across the Burgundian's neck and blood—black with a red hue—spurted out like rain from a gutter.

The soldier's eyes bulged out of his head as he staggered forward, grasping at his throat, gagging weakly. He ended up tripping over Jeanne's foot and landing beside her, but not before his blood sprayed her down, coating her legs, chest, and face. She squeezed her eyes shut and swiped a quick hand over her face; her fingers came back warm and slick.

"Ah, fuck."

She glanced back up and saw Allister, already caked in grime and bodily remnants, looking down at her with a surprised yet impressed expression. The chaos behind him seemed mountainous, like they were moths trapped in a spider's web, but Allister was either oblivious to it or chose to ignore it.

From her spot on the ground, she could only make out perhaps half a dozen Armagnac soldiers in the fort with her (including Allister). All sorts of desperate struggles occurred, and Jeanne counted it as a miracle that no one had stepped or fallen over her. The ladder Allister and Stewart brought over (Stewart, however, wasn't anywhere to be seen) was stuck in an intense tug-of-war game—Burgundians and Armagnacs were clobbering one another in order to claim the mode of transportation. Another ladder kept poking in and out of view behind the stone edge; her men, she knew, were also battling for the right to climb into their own city.

"Sorry, munchkin, didn't see you there," Allister said, though Jeanne could barely hear him above all the noise.

He stretched out a hand with that stupid little smirk on his face. She swished the blood and salvia around in her mouth before spitting to the side, a pale-yellow tooth laced in red skittering across the floor; Allister responded with a bemused "Ooh, he gotcha good, didn't he?"

She mentally sent a quick prayer of a safe departure for the man next to her still choking on his own blood; she tried her absolute best not to look him in the eye, for she knew that would only hold her back. She reached for Allister's hand, but only brushed his fingertips before being sucked back into a rocky abyss.

Something ear-deafening blasted off from her left as though the sun itself had fallen from the sky. She didn't see what it was exactly, but the enormous sound startled her, and her hand involuntarily flinched away from Allister's, which would prove to be a vital mistake. All at once, she felt herself slipping with great weights thrown upon her (bricks and stones, no doubt); it was like somersaulting down the gravelly side of a steep hill. The last thing she saw before being swallowed by the darkness was the ice blue sky and Allister's stunned expression as his hands flailed about, trying to reach for her again.

Jeanne tumbled some more; random parts of her body were stabbed with heavy pressures that felt like she was getting punched by la Hire. Eventually her body came to an ungraceful landing: her sword was ripped from her grasp as she smacked onto the cold stone flooring face-first like a dead fish. Another great weight slammed onto the back of her leg, and she let out a painful squeak in response. Rocks continued to roll and clatter until the sound echoed away like a noble steed dashing into the distance.

Jeanne laid motionless for a moment, regaining her strength, recalling what happened. Body racked with dull aches, she slowly lifted her head with a groan and looked around. Though still dim, the soft sunshine from a single window poured in enough daylight to see that she was in some sort of battle strategy room—maps were plastered among the walls, and wooden chairs surrounded a long table that was also littered with unfurled pieces of parchment. But nearly half the room was blocked with clusters of the fort's broken foundation, smashing two said chairs and blocking the sole door to the outside.

She peered behind her, at the collapsed roof and mountainous piles of stone and dust. Slivers of light peeked between the gaps of the mountain, along with quiet shouts and muffled footsteps. She saw two limbs—an arm and a leg, one near the top and the other on the floor, respectively—sticking out like sore thumbs. The leg sat unmoving, but the bloodied arm trembled for some time before becoming still.

Preventing any worried cries from tumbling out her mouth, Jeanne took a couple deep breaths, smushed her lips together, and then dragged herself out from the rock mountain's grasp.

Luckily it was just her left calf that was trapped, and she had enough muscle to escape the rubbish, but still her body shook in exhaustion, and she knew her current condition would cause problems later on. More stones rumbled and clattered to the floor when she moved, yet she went on until no crushing bulk kept her locked in place.

Once she was free, Jeanne stumbled to her feet, despite all the aches and pains that came from falling through the roof. She reeked of blood and sweat; she could feel the fresh blood of that slain Burgundian sliding down her face like rain. Her eyes scanned the room once more. Nothing of importance was spotted (other than what she already knew).

"Jeanne!"

Though faint, she heard her name being called from above. She turned back and scrutinized the gaps in the rocks, watching shadows dart between the slices of blue sky.

"Jeanne! Are you alright?"

That voice—she recognized it immediately: Sieur Scotland.

"Yes, I'm alright!" she called back. She went to climb her way out, but, quickly realizing just how steep the hill really was, she stepped back and attempted to search for a plan B.

Allister said something in Gaelic before switching to French: "Don't you worry, lassie! We'll get you out of there. Just-Just hold on!"

"Admirable sword you have there."

Panic seized her heart at this new, unexpected voice. Jeanne whirled around, legs wobbling at the sudden twist on a numb calf. There stood a ghost, shielded by the harsh shadows opposite the gentle light flowing in from that sole window. He marveled over her weapon, turning it this way and that. Jeanne squinted at the figure, trying to distinguish certain characteristics, but all she could make out were his small hand and choppy hair.

Before anything else could be said or done, the stranger shifted his weight and tossed her sword out the window as though it were an ordinary object, as though it belonged to another Armagnac solider that he'd have to bury.

A strangled gasp escaped her as her body lurched forward to grab her sword but then halted midway. Anger flared up in her core like a bonfire, setting her veins ablaze, sparks flying from her grinding teeth. "You leech!" she bellowed. "I'll have your head cut off for this!"

A humorless snicker. "With what blade?"

He spoke perfect French yet his English accent was as clear as bells. He sauntered toward her and she could finally see just who this Englishman was.

At first, he seemed just like any other English solider: wrapped in leathers and daggers strapped to his thighs. But he lacked a bow and arrow, and she realized why when she noticed he was missing his right hand—it was a pale tree stump, that lumped wrist of his, and the pink scars crossing it were its roots.

And then, with the same sharpness as if being slapped by cold water, the familiarity of this stranger's face dawned on her. The blocky eyebrows, the moss green eyes, the slender lips, the long straight nose. He looked much like Allister, except his hair was thinner and the shade of golden wheat. His facial features were more youthful than Allister's, however, though she knew his age surpassed almost every soldier on this battlefield.

"And besides," Arthur Kirkland added with a look that could've been mistaken for innocence, "I've been looking for you, 'Maiden.' I have some questions to ask you."

Allister's voice rang again, just as muffled as before: "Oi, munchkin! Stay right where you are; I'm sending in la Hire and some men inside to come get you, alright? Is that alright, munchkin?"

As he spoke, continuously asking for her to answer him, Arthur merely put a finger to his lips and stared her down. Jeanne glared back but remained silent (she had some things to say to him, too).

Arthur rolled his eyes to the shattered ceiling. "Bloody annoying, isn't he?"

She said nothing.

The personification of England shifted on his heel and slowly began orbiting the room as though he were sauntering in a garden, observing the strange sunflower that could somehow grow without the sun. Jeanne eyed his missing hand and smirked pompously.

"It's difficult to do things with only one hand, isn't it?" she replied with the same pretentious undertone he used with her.

Arthur's stare narrowed; she could feel the resentment burning off of him already, and she thought to herself, If it's this easy to irritate him, then he'll soon burst into flames. As a response, he plucked a dagger from one of the holsters strapped to his thigh and began lazily twirling it between his fingers with such smoothness and ease that even Jeanne was impressed.

"One has to be near to see that you are indeed female, but all that blood makes it harder to tell," Arthur remarked as though Jeanne's comment hadn't bothered him in the slightest. "You had me fooled at Orléans, I'll admit."

"I aim to surprise."

"Well, you're certainly doing a marvelous job at that."

Her clever smirk misted into a frown. "I'm not afraid of you."

Arthur raised his eyebrows while maintaining an indifferent look. "That's what they all say right before being stabbed in the eye."

She ignored the bright glare of the sun on his blade and stepped forward. "It is you who will be struck with fear if you don't surrender Paris over immediately. Drop your weapon and I'll spare you your head."

At this, Arthur blinked and then laughed a kind of laugh that one would use with children—pretentious, forced, a little pitiful. It was clear that he thought lowly of her.

"Young Maiden," he grinned with a tilt of his head, "you continue to astound me with every word that comes out of your mouth." He now stood about a meter and a half away from her. The collapsed ceiling was a heel's kick behind her. She was trapped.

Her frown deepened, her fists tightened. "I'm offering you one last chance—give up your hold on Francis's heart and return from whence you came!"

Arthur rolled his eyes again and huffed, "How old are you, fourteen? Either way, you shouldn't be here—women haven't the capacity to handle war or politics. Your face is still littered with specks of youth; you're nothing but a child. Truly, I hate seeing young people lose their lives over something that doesn't concern them. What France and England are fighting about is purely business, nothing personal."

It was Jeanne's turn to blink. "Nothing personal?" She glowered. "You've been at war with the same man for nearly a hundred years. Who's the child now?"

Quick as thunder, Arthur moved inward and positioned his knife at the base of her throat; the blade felt cool and slick against her hot, sweaty skin.

"I'd choose your words carefully if I were you, little girl," he growled under his breath, eyes glowing like lightning. "Your life is in my hands."

Allister's cries had stopped—was he simply drowned out by the sounds of warfare, or was he overwhelmed by all the Burgundians who were after his head? Her eyes took one last desperate glance around the room; there had to be something. It was then that she spotted the curved doorframe of a proper exit at the edge of the rocky landslide to her left.

Allister said la Hire and some others were coming for her, so they'd have to enter in through there. But how? The doorway was three-quarters blocked and they'd had to get pass the fort's numerous soldiers and various rooms. Perhaps she could stall until help arrived—or at least made its presence known.

"You won't kill me," she told Arthur, looking back at him.

She felt the knife press slightly into her neck, though she couldn't tell if blood had been drawn. "Are you positive about that?"

"Yes."

"Why's that?"

"Because you just told me you don't like seeing young people die." Her chin lifted. "And I believe you."

Arthur's pointed glare sharpened even more. She was right.

"Besides, didn't you wish to speak with—"

"Surrender yourself." His jaw, dotted with fine blond hairs, stiffened in rising frustration. "Surrender yourself to the English army or retire from your position as commander—in fact, retiring from the army overall would be the wisest decision you could make. I am not responsible for whatever may happen to you if you don't take either proposal."

"I'd rather die than hand myself over to your people!"

"With that attitude, death will most likely be arranged."

She kept the indignant expression on her face postured, but what her voices warned her about rang in her head again; she could already hear the evanescent church bells. She knew she was going to die soon, and she'd learned to accept it, yet the possibility of dying at the hands of the English was more than enough to chill her blood. She prayed it wouldn't come to that.

Before anything else could be said, loud banging and shouting vibrated from the other side of the blockaded door. Its suddenness made Jeanne flinch which caused the tip of the blade to pierce her skin. She winced but Arthur held it in place—if she so much as screamed, the dagger would sink deeper into her flesh, perhaps prick an artery. She was even afraid to swallow.

"I'm giving you one last chance, Maiden," Arthur retorted, "to save your own life—stay out of this."

From behind him, right beyond the solo window, Jeanne saw a ladder shakingly being placed on the right side of the opening. Its wooden pegs trembled under someone's weight climbing it. A pair of grimy boots scrambled down the ladder, and then familiar leathers, plaids, and a certain breastplate with a recognizable dent under the left armpit came into view.

Allister wasted no time in diving through the window, unstealthily going straight for Arthur with nothing but his bare hands.

Jeanne took the golden opportunity to have the last laugh: "Funny, I was going to say the same thing."

Arthur seemed fully prepared for an attack from behind (maybe even from Allister himself), but Jeanne thought she saw something flash across his eyes, something hot and sharp like a knife in the stomach. She half-believed he would spin her around and use her either as a meat shield or as bait, yet still her gut said she wouldn't die here, not by his hands anyway.

Her gut, once again, proved her right: Arthur smoothly retracted the blade from her neck and then whirled it around in hopes of slashing Allister across the face. Allister apparently was expecting Arthur to make a move as well, for his body easily dodged the attack as though he had done it time and time again, as though the two brothers were stepping in sync to an old, familiar dance. Allister caught Arthur in a bear hug with the limb that wielded the dagger pinned to Arthur's head, and then kicked back his brother's leg so that they both went crashing to the ground. Jeanne was knocked over in the process and landed hard on the rockslide behind her; she hardly had time to exhale.

"You still haven't learned to deflect that?" she heard Allister huff as the two rolled around on the floor. "It's like you're still only two hundred years old."

He had Arthur in a headlock, his legs wrapped tightly around his pelvis. If it wasn't clear that Arthur was angry before, there was no doubt about it now. Growling in English with a painfully furious look on his face, he wriggled around like a worm in the sun, trying anything and everything to break free from Allister's clutches.

For a moment, Jeanne saw her own brothers—Jean and Pierre—struggling on the floor beneath her, biting and hitting and kicking and scratching. She watched them fight like that ever since she could remember, and yet Allister made two hundred years seem no more mature than a seven year old.

A fleeting thought fizzled in the back of her mind: perhaps some people will never change.

Jeanne scrambled back onto her feet, dull pain shooting up her left leg the second she put weight on it. She grimaced and clutched her thigh by instinct, but then swiftly recovered and began limping towards the door.

The sounds of Allister and Arthur fighting each other were louder to Jeanne than the once previously booming ruckus on the other side of the door, which worried her. Just as her hands reached out to start digging away at the rubble blocking the exit, a sudden and violent crack came from above, and she felt woodchips sprinkle in her hair.

She fell back and looked up.

In the middle of the door was a splintered hole with the shiny, curved edge of a battle axe sticking out of it. Aggressive shouting, clanging metal, and loud stomping filled her ears once again. The axe jerked around in the hole, stuck, before wrenching itself free and then plummeting back into the opening, prying it wider. More woodchips sprayed out; Jeanne couldn't help but gasp.

When the axe disappeared again, la Hire's face replaced it. Blood was splattered across the side of his head, and he was breathing heavily; she couldn't tell if he was injured or not.

"Maiden!" he cried. "Go another—"

He cut himself off and momentarily vanished from Jeanne's view. A second later, a crimson puddle splashed against the stone wall on la Hire's side of the door. His bearded face appeared once more, but hardly lasted a moment before he went away again, wet guttural noises substituting his absence.

Jeanne didn't need him to explain himself; she understood already.

Go another way.

Reluctantly, she struggled back onto her feet yet again and eyed the open window. An occasional arrow or bird would fly across that sad, bleak sky; the wretched odor of blood seemed to waft out from the window like smelling stew from a pot. The deadly echoes from the other side of the door were the same outside, a sound she could never get used to.

Her eyes flicked to the brothers. They were now standing in the middle of the room. Allister had gotten cut somehow and blood streamed down his right cheek, yet he wore that infamous smirk of his as though he was having nothing but fun. Arthur still possessed the dagger, though appeared just as enraged and unhurt as before. They pounced on one another like alley cats; there was no strategic combat between them, but rather that same big/little brother tussling.

It wasn't a hard choice to decide where to go next.

Jeanne moved in as quickly as possible and, when Arthur dodged a punch from Allister, jumped onto Arthur's back and began tearing, kicking, beating, anything that would render him frail.

Arthur grunted as she got in a good punch to the head, but that was really all she could do before he reached behind, caught a fistful of her dampened hair, and tossed her over his shoulder as though she weighed nothing more than a clingy dog.

She let out a cry as her body once again slammed onto the hard pieces of stone rubble. The aches and pains pulsed heavily as if her entire body was one throbbing heartbeat. Blood filled her mouth again and she spewed it out to the side.

I'm taking more of a hit than usual, she thought to herself, coughing. Why is that?

Jeanne saw Arthur pull out another dagger from one of his thigh sheaths, his previous one now lost among the ruins. He snarled at her from above, a hawk swooping in for the prey, but Allister rammed himself into his brother before the blade could get any closer to her. Jeanne's heart clenched itself as she watched that very same blade dig deep into Allister's shoulder.

Allister swallowed a grunt as the two wrestled above her, yet she wasn't trampled over as if she was an old, used rug. Allister's blood trickled down and she felt droplets splash against her forehead and hairline. She sensed tears swelling in the back of her eyes—so much blood spilled in such a short period of time—but still she grabbed a sharp rock beside her, rolled onto her side, and then smashed it atop Arthur's foot.

This caused only a second's discomfort on Arthur's part, but it was all Allister needed: with one final push, he toppled his distracted brother to the ground (away from Jeanne) and then kept him down with a knee planted on his sternum and his wrists pinned on either side of Arthur's head.

With Allister's back to her, Jeanne sat up and whirled around, rock still in hand. Dark stains bloomed from the space between his shoulder and neck, one of the few openings in a French soldier's armor. In fact, Allister looked just as beaten down as she felt.

"Sorry, little darlin,'" he coughed out, that cocky smirk still evident in his husky voice, "but you're gonna have to leave this fight to me. Be best if you'd go out and raise further hell; I'm quite certain Prince Charming is having a fit somewhere. I'll take care of this bastard."

Arthur squirmed under his grasp and spat something in English to which Allister merely chuckled.

"I can't just leave you behind," Jeanne protested.

"You can and you will. Besides, it's not as though I'll be fighting alone."

As if to prove his point, the air cracked as la Hire's axe smashed into the door once again. She glanced up; a few more strikes and help would come flooding in.

Her eyes fell upon Allister's hunched spine again. "Sieur Scotland—"

"Less chit-chat, more running. Go, Commander Pain-in-My-Neck!"

With a reluctant huff, Jeanne dropped her rock and headed for the window.

"Your reign of victories won't last forever, little girl!" she heard Arthur holler behind her. "You will regret not surrendering to the English army! I'll be watching you, Maiden!"

Jeanne tried to ignore his almost desperate last laugh, focusing on what may lay outside the fortress's crumbling walls. Another crash sounded behind her and then came a rising wave of running and shouting—la Hire must've broken through. Jeanne kept moving, nevertheless, and only stopped when she crouched on the windowsill, overtaken by what she saw with her eyes and what she heard in her head.

Too many still bodies littered the grounds and stream below. Smoke should've clouded the morning sky with all the culverins firing away, but mere grey wisps the size of distant hawks dotted the open sky—the culverins haven't been fired in a while. Despite the numbers being on their side, she couldn't spot as many (living and fighting) Armagnac soldiers as there should've been. English arrows continued to rain and, just beyond the city's borders, French Burgundians chucked loose bricks and garbage at the Armagnacs, hurtling insults at the ones who came to save them.[3]

Jeanne's head rang with heavy church bells, so loud and thunderous that her temples began to pound like a war drum. Soon, her voices—low, melodic whispers that had the power to tame her wildest nerves—told her what to do:

"Do not abandon Paris grounds."

"Jeanne! Watch out!"

She didn't even glance back to see who spoke or what to watch out for. Recovering swiftly, she took hold of the ladder and swung over; she felt an icy shiver shoot up her spine when something metallic—a sword, an axe, a dagger maybe?—banged against stone, where she sat not two seconds before.

That was too close.

She eyed her potential killer: a heavy man with wide hands and an even wider nose looked at her as though she just offended his great ancestors. His knuckles bulged as he went to swing his bloodstained axe her way.

The last thing she saw before she plummeted toward the earth (only loosely holding the sides of the ladder to keep from outright falling two stories) was Arthur kicking Allister's nose in the darkened background, freeing himself just as more soldiers poured into the room.

The ladder trembled greatly underneath her when the Burgundian's battle axe sliced through the ladder's pegs instead of her. Luckily, she was only a couple meters from the ground when it collapsed, the top half cartwheeling to the corpse-littered floor below. The bottom half, the half she was sliding down, whirled under her weight and ended up knocking her against the wall.

The impact wouldn't have hurt so much if she hadn't fallen through the roof earlier. She bit back a cry and struggled to regain steady footing.

Just then, a pair of arms roughly tugged at her waist, yanking her out from between the ladder and the wall.

"Let go of me!" she shrieked as she tried punching, kicking, squirming, slapping her way out, but, good God, how her whole body ached! She felt she was hurting herself more than her captor.

"Ow, s-stop it, Jeannette! It's me, ow, it's me!"

Jeanne immediately slumped back once she recognized Edmond's voice. Relief was great, yet not complete.

"Are you hurt? Are you okay?" Edmond unfurled one of his arms from her waist and something light brushed over the top of her head. It was then that she noticed her flag—the standard Queen Marie designed specifically for her—flapping above them, still gripped firmly in Edmond's blue-veined fist.

She coughed and tried dismissing the bright burst of pain emitting from her stomach and leg. She straightened up, clutched Edmond's enormous bicep, and insisted that he take her to any Armagnac general.

"Why?" He glanced behind him to check for enemies and then faced her again.

"My voices spoke to me just now; they say we mustn't abandon the battlefield, we mustn't retreat!"

Edmond's eyebrows crinkled as his gaze drifted to the side again. "It's not looking good, Jeannette. I haven't seen the others for quite some time and Sieur France and I have spent this entire time just trying to get to you. My sword was even stolen from me."

What he then pulled out of his sheath wasn't his typical broadsword that'd been given to each French soldier, but Jeanne's five-crossed blade, unearthed from the hours of the crusades, emerged instead.

"However, I did retrieve your—" Edmond added, but then silenced himself at her suddenly intense grip on his fist.

"Where is he?" she demanded with fierce eyes.

"Uh, we split up to find another way into the fortress. He's probably on the other side by now—"

She then took the standard from Edmond and grabbed his now free hand, entrusting him with her sword. She looked him dead in the eye. "The second doubt enters your mind is the very moment that it's all over." She squeezed his slightly trembling fingers. "Calm down, take a deep breath."

A shuddering breath and a dark shade of pink blooming across his cheeks. She nodded her head once and said, "Take me to him."

It took him a moment to bear their surroundings, but Edmond's strength tightened around her hand as the pair ran out of the safety of the shadows and head-first into the sun, where all the bodies laid.

Seeing the battlefield from a broader perspective didn't make Jeanne feel any better. More arrow-riddled soldiers plagued the grounds and front-line combat was few and far between. There were far more Armagnac corpses than Burgundian—they sprawled out in the grass, floated in the river, hung out of the fortress's windows. The culverins were no longer in service for whatever excuse they would later whimper to her; the weapons were apparently no match for wooden bows and arrows. Very little progress had been made.

Jeanne had trouble keeping up with Edmond. Every step she took sent thorns up her leg and into her stomach, barbed wire constricting her worn muscles and chipped bones. The horrid stench of blood would not leave her nostrils and she feared she would become sick if the smell did not fade away soon. Her breaths were haggard, her feet were heavy, and she knew she was holding Edmond back—he wasn't running at his full potential.

Eventually more fighting soldiers came into view as they rounded a corner. Fatal threats became greater as one, two, three pairs of Burgundian eyes followed them. Jeanne kept her own eyes peeled for Francis, a flash of sunlight in a sea of dense greys, but it was like peering into a swarming fog, where structures and faces blended together in a hazy soup.

Once they got closer to their fellow comrades, Jeanne weakly dug her fingernails into Edmond's hand, let out a breathy "Wait." Edmond's pace slowed and his gaze whipped back to meet hers, but he never stopped running. She then tried waving her flag to her cowering men in tired arcs and, as soon as Edmond understood what she was attempting to do, he reduced his speed even further, so she could channel more energy into rallying up her army. He stood guard of her, armed with her heavenly sword and a new sense of courage.

"Citizens of France," she hollered, salvaging whatever bit of air she had left in her lungs, "don't let the English deceive you, bully you. Don't let them take what is rightfully ours! Don't abandon the heart of our dear country; keep on fighting! No matter what, we must—"

A splintering pain drilled through her bad leg, swift yet undying. It had force behind it and knocked her to the ground, her tie with Edmond severed. She lost her grip on her standard and it clattered to the soft earth too.

Her teeth gritted together as a strained groan echoed from the recesses of her throat. The veins in her neck popped, blood filled her mouth once again. She looked down—protruding from her thigh, by the edge of her armor on her side, was an arrow, sunk about a quarter of the way in her flesh.

"Jeanne!"

Edmond dropped beside her, eyes widening, jaw tightening. He placed a hand on her knee and her leg jolted involuntarily which sparked another gust of pins and needles to light up her limb. His hand flinched away when she yelped at his touch.

"Not again," she growled between her teeth. With one hand she reached for the standard next to her and with the other she carefully cupped the underside of her thigh. She felt liquids slip over her fingers.

Hard confusion flickered across Edmond's stare. "Did you just say 'not again-?'" he started but Jeanne practically shouted at him, "Break off the arrow! Do it now!"

He complied, snapping the thin wooden body near her thigh. It shifted around in her flesh and she groaned at the agonizing movements, but she forced herself to roll onto her stomach and try to get back up. Her body weighed like an anchor, her brain fizzed like a pot of water over a campfire. Her senses blurred in and out; she dropped her standard again out of pure exhaustion. She wasn't certain how much longer she'd be conscious, but she knew she must deliver her message before all color drained from her world.

The ground shook as several heavy footsteps pounded pass them, though she couldn't tell who they belonged to. Edmond moved beside her, fighting back, protecting her. His war cries sounded distant like a fading memory when it should've hammered against her eardrums. She gripped her thigh with trembling fingers and clawed at the prickly grass beneath her.

I can keep going, I have to keep going. Please Lord, let me get to him first.

Someone new approached and took up her fallen standard. The brave soldier stood there and proclaimed some encouraging words on her behalf before the frightening sound of an arrow piercing flesh cut him off. His body collapsed and Jeanne felt the hard pole of her standard land across her spine, adding to the multitude of bruises that no doubt colored her back.

Edmond wasted no time: he picked up the soldier's shield and kneeled beside Jeanne, dicing at any enemies within arm's length while looking out for incoming arrows. She remembered feeling frustrated when black spots began appearing in the corners of her vision as if someone was flicking paint at her eyes.

Please not yet. I have to see him.

And then she travelled back in time to when she was thirteen-years-old, lying in the grass as a beautiful blond man in shining armor stood over her. But instead of the calm, welcoming smile that reminded her of melodic chirping under a sunny sky, this blond man had the panicked eyes of a wild storm, the demeanor of some natural yet saddening disaster. His armor wasn't decorated with jewels nor glowed like the setting sun, but was coated in every shade of red.

Even though she knew he wasn't Saint Michael the Archangel, she felt the same tranquility descend upon her as though she were gazing at God's greatest warrior. And, just like the first time, she cried happy tears.

Francis's voice warped in and out of her consciousness like a wounded, squawking hawk flying in lopsided circles. She could barely make out his cries, catching a few words here and there: you, me, where, told, how. Nothing logical or important, just pure terror.

Edmond shifted, Francis kneeled down. The pain in her thigh reignited once again the moment she was moved, and she didn't have enough energy to cry out anymore. All she could manage were pitiful whimpers; still she needed to warn him.

"Don't surrender," she mumbled. "Don't abandon these grounds. My voices…told me so."

Francis gave no indication that he heard her. Pain lit up her nerves as he struggled to gather her up in the gentlest yet most effective way possible. Edmond was saying something to someone but she didn't know what. She couldn't even hear herself.

With another spurt of agony, she felt herself being lifted into the air and bouncing uncontrollably as if she was atop a running horse. The fire in her bones was quickly eating her alive and her fingers sluggishly tugged on the collar of Francis's breastplate.

"My voices," she coughed into his shoulder, "my voices say we mustn't leave. Don't run away; stay and fight."

Again he showed no signs of acknowledgment. Her hazy vision was nearly absorbed by those little black holes, and she no longer could distinguish the features on his angelic face. He was still shouting but she heard nothing. Bubbles of faint frustration simmered in her abdomen along with boils of anxiety.

Please hear me. Please listen to me.

Jeanne wouldn't remember the next series of events. She wouldn't remember Francis narrowly missing a speeding arrow aimed for his knees. She wouldn't remember Stewart and Bluebeard running up to meet them, and witnessing another arrow plunge itself into Stewart's shoulder, toppling onto Bluebeard, his blood spurting from the wound. She wouldn't remember Edmond trailing Francis's tail the entire time and shouting at every standing general what she'd been trying to say all along.

What she would remember before slipping into oblivion were the dying words that God had entrusted to her. I'm sorry, my Lord. I have failed you.


[1] Water of any kind is not good for the armor that the French often wore during the Hundreds Year War. Because of the major rainfall before the Agincourt attack, French soldiers had to drag themselves through the mud and guck before eventually being slaughtered. Earlier, during one of the many crusades, a king (forget if he was English or French) had fallen off his horse and was drowned in a river because of his heavy iron armor weighing him down. You think after so many deaths this type of military wear caused that they would learn their lesson and switch to something else or not put on so many layers but no. Humans are big fans of repeating history apparently.

[2] A culverin is kind of like a medieval version of the musket and was later adapted for use in naval combat instead of field artillery. The French called it the "couleuvrine" meaning "grass snake" (I'm assuming it came from the fact that these were, once again, used in field artillery and were shaped like long, skinny snakes). It had a long range and flat trajectory. You can think of this as a smaller cannon, one that is handheld and doesn't make as much damage.

[3] Paris was almost purely Burgundian at this time. Despite Charles's official coronation, people still think he represented the old Armagnac party, which they associated with government corruption, high taxes, and greed. They also thought that if the Armagnacs did take control of the city, they would all be hunted down and slaughtered for daring to oppose the "real French government and king." Orleans was a very different scene; they wanted the English out and did everything they could do help the Armagnacs. The Burgundians of Paris hated Joan and often fought back.