Author's Note: This oneshot was very blatantly based around Joan of Arc. As always, butchering of French, timeline mistakes both historical and canonical and characterization fail is my own.
May 30th, 1921 (Taisho 10)
Orléans, France
Twelve-year-old Erica stared, wide-eyed, at the crowd filing into the little chapel. It was not normally this packed every morning when she came in to pray. She tugged on her mother's skirt.
"Maman, why are there so many people today? Isn't it a Monday?"
"Hush, Erica." The older woman examined the girl's face as though seeing her for the first time; she licked her finger, and wiped a smudge of dirt from Erica's cheek. "Mon Dieu, did you fall down again? What have I said about playing with the boys?"
"I didn't play with them – well, I tried to, but I fell down."
"Heaven bless this child," Jeanne Fontaine tutted. "Now you must hush. Today is the feast-day of Sainte Jeanne d'Arc."
Erica bounced excitedly. She loved feast-days – prayers, followed by sermons from gentle Father Luc and topped off with plenty of special food. Croissants, little pastries baked by Pierre the baker, and if she was lucky, someone would have been to Paris and came back with èclairs for the congregation.
"Why didn't we celebrate last year?"
"Such an inquisitive girl. Maman will tell you, after this."
Arman Fontaine watched the entire exchange out of the corner of one eye, his face stern. But when Erica drew closer, he ruffled her hair, earning him a pout. "Be good," he rumbled through his moustache, "or Maman might change her mind."
As the adults ate, drank and laughed, Erica wandered off to the front of the church where the painting hung. After the canonization of Sainte Jeanne the previous year, a beautiful commissioned painting had arrived from Rome; it depicted the saint kneeling in prayer, her famous banner at her side as an angel descended to whisper in her ear. It was hung with great ceremony behind the altar and soon became the little church's treasure.
"She was visited by Sainte Michael, Sainte Catherine and Sainte Margaret when she was about your age; she was just an ordinary peasant girl. But they told her she must drive the English out of France and crown the Dauphin."
Rapt with attention, Erica did not notice a few èclair crumbs fall to the floor. "And she went and did it?"
"Yes! She escorted the Dauphin Charles to Rheims for his coronation and led his armies to victory. She rescued our city of Orléans from the English as well."
Sunlight from the window appeared to make the angel's halo glow radiantly, its light reflected in Jeanne's painted face. Wings, beautiful and glossy-feathered, bore the angel aloft.
"When your Maman was born, Grandperé was worried I would not live – such a sickly babe I was. He dedicated me to Sainte Jeanne and promised he would name me after the blessed saint if I survived."
The radiant, upturned face looked too young for the martyrdom that awaited her.
"But how did she manage to do all those things, Maman? Did she have God's gift like – mmph!"
Erica felt the earth tremble, but dismissed it as her own imagination.
"Hush, Erica," her mother said in a fearful whisper. "I told you never to talk of it in the presence of others. He works in many mysterious ways – they might not understand His special gift to you."
Suddenly afraid, she nodded.
"But I believe so too. You are a special girl and God has chosen you to do great things in His name."
A special girl, with a special gift – just like her.
"You must never tell others of your gift. Do you understand, Erica?"
A strange cracking sound reverberated around the chapel. People screamed as chunks of stone began to fall.
"Maman!"
"I understand."
"Maman! Papa!" Erica fell to her knees as her way was blocked by a falling beam. Another fell towards her; she raised her hands to protect her face – and a shimmering dome of something materialized. The beam bounced harmlessly off it.
"God has a plan for you, Erica. We just don't know what it is yet."
She watched in dismay, safe within her shell, as falling rubble buried the painting of Sainte Jeanne and everything else around it.
December 25th, 1923 (Taisho 12)
Paris, France
"It's cold!" squealed Erica.
Sister Thérèse huffed her disapproval. "You don't come from very far away, Erica," the nun said. "There's no reason to suppose you haven't experienced such winters."
The girl picked at her red habit – the bright colour of the dress belied its inability to keep out the cold. "I used to have a nice fur coat then, Soeur Thérèse..." Erica glumly rubbed the lining of her sleeve.
"You are a nun-in-training now. Such luxury does not befit you."
"Oh, it wasn't luxurious in the slightest! Papa bought it second-hand from a lady, so it had holes and patches where the fur wore through."
The older nun frowned. "It will not do to think of your home always. Such regrets prevent you from serving Our Father whole-heartedly."
"Amen," said Élise piously. The only other novice in the convent, she was a quiet girl from Domrémy-la-Pucelle who rarely spoke except to pray. Sister Thérèse nodded approvingly at her.
Erica sighed and trudged along behind them, sparing a longing glance at the street children huddled around a brazier, roasting chestnuts and tossing them between their hands to cool them.
Later, having been banned from helping the other sisters clean the convent before Christmas dinner (after an unfortunate incident involving a broom and Father Leno's prized statue of the Virgin Mary), Erica decided to visit the street children.
She took out the little purse of money – the meager savings of the year – from under her mattress. There was a silence as she counted the coins.
"There isn't enough to buy even a pudding!" Erica wailed, flinging herself onto her bed. The thought of a pudding-less Christmas horrified her – even the convent's Christmas spread included a pudding, both traditional and the sweet foreign coffee crème-topped variety she adored.
All of a sudden, she sat bolt upright. "Just because there isn't pudding doesn't mean they can't have a Christmas feast!"
Dragging a large sack from the same hiding place, she clattered downstairs, humming carols to herself.
"I'm sure Father Leno wouldn't mind – after all, he did say we should help the poor," smiled Erica as she emptied out the kitchen larder into the sack. "He said the food over in the other cupboard was for tonight's dinner, so I know he won't miss these."
She unbolted the back door and was out, her boots crunching in the freshly fallen snow. "Please wait for me - here I come!"
"That was tiring work, Father Leno," wheezed Sister Thérèse.
"Indeed!" He paused to mop his brow, sweating despite the snow outside. "Maybe we should clean the place more often, yes? Well, at least we shall have a splendid dinner, praise God."
"Élise, child! Help Soeur Thérèse prepare dinner, yes?"
"Yes." She fell in behind Sister Thérèse into the kitchen as Father Leno settled himself into a chair. All was silent for a moment, before a shriek sounded.
"Mon Dieu! The food – all gone!"
Father Leno surveyed the empty cupboard grimly. "... Erica!"
So great was the distress of the others that no one noticed Élise hide a smile behind her hand.
In a small apartment not far from the church, the normally dull dining room was alive with laughter. Children and adults gathered around the feast laid out on the table.
"All this food! Is it really for us, Soeur Erica?"
"Of course it is! Joyeux Noel! And I'm not a nun yet, unfortunately... please, call me Erica."
The woman of the household, bent and aged prematurely from hard labour, clutched her hands gratefully. "We can't thank you enough. Bless you for making this year special."
"The pleasure is all mine," she beamed back.
When Erica sneaked back into the convent's back door late that night, she was surprised to see Father Leno waiting for her.
"Ah – Père! Shouldn't you be in bed... oh. Did I do something wrong again?"
"Good heavens, child – what possessed you to give away our Christmas dinner to the poor? Not that I disapprove, but you should have asked first, yes?"
She hung her head. "Forgive me... I didn't know I took from the wrong cupboard."
His anger dissipated gradually. "I forgive you – though Soeur Thérèse might not be as generous, being deprived of her nougat blanc," he said, eliciting a hastily stifled giggle from the young novice. "You are still young and cannot know any better."
"It's late. Go to your room, Erica. You must be tired, yes?"
"I'm fine," she smiled. "I'd just like to pray first before bed."
Father Leno's own little church, not far from the convent, boasted two things; a magnificent stained glass window that dated back to medieval times, and a fine altar that would not have been out of place in the Vatican.
Erica did not know any of this. She knelt in prayer before it, hands clasped piously.
A while later, the priest poked his head in to check on her – and frowned. There was a definite presence in the room – angels? Did he dare he presume – even the Lord Himself? Light. He sensed light, though there was only a few beams streaming from the stained glass window.
He gathered his wits together and crossed himself. It made no sense at all. Erica continued her prayers, oblivious to Father Leno.
"Light? Whatever are you talking about, Père?"
"It is as I have said," grumbled the priest. "Erica has a presence – though I doubt it is the blessed spirit, given the girl's clumsiness."
Grand Merè considered his words carefully. "... Erica, is it? She is not a confirmed novice?"
"Though it can't be denied her heart is in the right place, I find it difficult to believe she will grow into the quiet restraint of the sisterhood." He rubbed his temples wearily. "Perhaps she will find her true path in life if we send her away."
"Not her home? Hasn't she a family?"
Father Leno shook his head sadly. "Alas, Madame, her parents were killed when an earthquake destroyed their parish church a few years ago. It was a miracle Erica survived unharmed when she was standing right before the altar where the crossbeams fell, praise God. She is a novice here only because my predecessor knew the Fontaines quite well."
"Miracle? I wonder..." murmured Grand Merè. "Ah – Père Leno, if I might make a request of you... please don't send Erica away."
"Not send her away?" His glasses slid down the bridge of his nose in his consternation. "Keep her? But Mademoiselle – "
"Trust me," she smiled. "That child is special, only she doesn't know it yet."
"Special?"
"I believe so."
"... Very well, Mademoiselle; Erica can stay. You have been a good friend for years and if you say she is special... you must have your reasons. Although I confess myself quite skeptical."
"Trust me, Père Leno. God works in mysterious ways, as you often remind me."
He made an unhappy sound.
Sakomizu looked up from his work. "You look happy, Madame. Have you good news for me?"
"The best. We have one potential recruit already. From the sound of it, she hasn't awakened to her true power yet but seems to be quite a powerful one."
"Good, good," said the Japanese ambassador absently. "Where is she?"
"Living with a friend of mine," Grand Merè answered. "When she is ready, we will start training her. Now, for your end of the plan?"
He unlocked the lower drawer of his desk, pulling out a blueprint detailing a bulky humanoid construct. "I'll have Kanzaki-san start building the prototype right away."