Scotland was sharpening his sword when he received word of the French reinforcements approaching. He stopped spinning the whetstone and flicked his thumb across the edge and drew his finger back as it cut on the edge. Perfect.

The small scrape was healed by the time he had stood and replaced his sword into its sheath. He stood as second command to his general as the French arrived.

They were...well, soldiers at the very least.

At their head was a scrawny-

There was a girl leading them.

Hmph. That's new.

The revelation that it was a girl at the front where normally the general would ride whispered through his ranks, but none were so foolish as to raise their voice any higher than the soft whisper they were already speaking in.

The woman dismounted, her second in command holding her horse's reins. She approached his general, as though she had no fear.

"Bonjour," she greeted, giving a half-attempted curtsy and reached into a pocket of her dress. "Je m'appelle Joan d'Arc."

His general turned to him. He was the translator between the two parties, designated because of his closeness to France and the eventual pick up of her language coupled with well, it's his own bloody language.

"This is Mademoiselle Jeanne d'Arc, General."

"Where is the other general?"

"Mademoiselle, où est votre général?"

"Je suis."

"She says that she is."

"Preposterous. Let us have some proof."

"Mademoiselle, avez-vous une preuve à votre demande?"

She pulled a letter out of her pocket and Scotland caught a swirl on the end of a letter before the woman handed it over to his general. "Voilà de Madam Bonnefoy. Il est pour Allistor Kirkland. Un Scot."

His general turned and handed him the letter. He opened it and was met with France's beautiful calligraphy.

Allistor, it read, don't be too harsh on Jeanne, she is special to me. She's going to save France don't you know. Oui it is nice to have a savior, non? Ah anyway, she is what she says she is. My Prince gave her the right to amass this army and to aide you in your quest. Bonne chance!

There is another letter in here, please make sure that it gets to your darling brother. Hugs and kisses, come home soon.

Françoise B.

He looked to his general and nodded. "This is a letter from Madam Bonnefoy, she is as she said."

His general did not think much of that statement. "They are French, sir," he tried again.

That got his general laughing. "Tell her to let her men set up camp."

"Mademoiselle," he said, inclining his head toward his men's camp. "Suis moi."

Some time later- after helping the French get settled, Scotland was sitting by his men as they talk about tomorrow and how they will show those rotten English what for when he felt it. He tensed automatically and turned his head ever so slightly. He would know if it was England- he'd spent enough time around him to know, but this was different.

It was a familiar different though, something he hadn't felt in a long time.

It was definitely a female country- the feeling was powerful but also gentle with something that was inherently...French.

He turned abruptly.

She stood at the edge of the camp, a cloak on and a sword on her hip. Her hood was up so he couldn't see her expression, but he was sure it was smug.

He stood and approached her, feeling anger course through his very being. She should not be here. She should be back with her Prince where she could be protected. She did not belong on a battlefield.

When he was within an inch of her space, she tilted her head up, letting her hood fall. She was smirking at him. "How did you get here?" he demanded in English because for all she paraded about, she knew English.

"Well, the castle," she answered in French, "was missing it's head hunting dog, so I slipped out easy."

"Hunting dog?"

"Um, you? You were the only one who stopped me from getting farther than the city's outskirts. So I figured, that I might as well come and see my own defeat in person rather than hear about it."

That made him pause. "You hold a very different opinion than your champion," he pointed out.

Her cheeks warmed. "She did get here alright, then? Your general didn't give her too much trouble?"

"He doesn't know a lick of French."

She raised an eyebrow. He sighed. "He couldn't directly insult her. Don't worry, every little whim she has is tended to by that little lackey of hers."

"Rémy," she said, shrugging. "That's his name. He and Jeanne are best friends. He has the best stories of Jeanne as a little girl." Her smile was dreamy as she stared off.

Scotland stared at her unimpressed a few moments before snapping his fingers in front of her face. "Stop that."

She glared at him. "Stop what?"

"Being so...girly. You can't tell me that you are falling in love in the middle of war."

She blinked at him. "It's never a bad time to fall in love, Scotland. And no I'm not."

"Uh-huh," he said, letting every feeling of disbelief and frustration drip off from his tone. "That's obviously why you're head-over-heels for this Rémy."

"Rémy?" she asked, as though she didn't know what he had to do with the conversation. She pinked and looked as though she were going to be sick. "Oh," she whispered.

She looked scared. "France?"

She waved a hand to him as though to disperse the conversation. "Nothing, Scotland. I'm okay."

"You don't-"

"I'm just hungry," she said hurriedly. "I haven't eaten since dinner a few nights ago."

He was going to continue to argue, but the look on her face made him pause. He sighed and let his head fall back. "C'mon, I can find some firecake or something for you."

She twisted the cuffs on her shirt, "Could I stay with the Scots, tonight?"

"Why don't you want to be with your own?" he asked, turning back. She was white, completely white and she looked as though she were fighting for words.

"I just…" she took a deep breath in, "I need to- it's harder to focus when everyone is speaking French and at least the ugly English will be a distraction."

"A distraction from what?"

Her eyes were flickering from side to side before, "Tomorrow? I'll just work myself up thinking about who will die tomorrow. It's a feeling I'm not looking forward too."

He knew it wasn't the real reason, but he let her keep her secrets. "Okay, come on, aren't you hungry?"

"Did you get my letter to your brother?" she asked softly, deepening her voice as they walked through the camp to where Scotland's men were just finishing their meal.

"No, not yet."

She nodded. "Before we fight, don't you think?"

He nodded. He approached his men as France stayed back. "Buck up lads, got another share."

A few groaned, but the one who had mostly full firecake, broke off a third and handed it to Scotland. Most followed suit and he eventually had enough pieces to make a full firecake. He returned to France and handed her the meal. "Go on, eat. I've already had dinner."

She took it with a smile.

Scotland watched her eat. "Y'know," he said with an air of casualty, "if you really want to hide from this Rémy boy, you should probably get some breeches so you blend in better. Even if you don't have red hair."

Her smile was tight and her eyes sad and she nodded. "That would be nice, thank you Allistor."

"Jean, you okay?"

Jean looked up from where he had been staring at the fire. There was a purple residue when he turned to look at Rémy and he had to blink a few times to get rid of it. "Yeah."

"You're not worried at all?" Rémy asked in a voice that just oozed disbelief.

Jean shrugged though his stomach churned and spun. He had been barely able to eat the firecake without an excess of difficulty- which he had made the joke that it was because he was used to the fine foods from the castle (which had ultimately resulted in him thinking of Françoise and the high possibility of never seeing her again). "I mean, of course I am. What if they just stop listening to me or we don't succeed." They being his men.

"But God will help," Rémy insisted, leaning forward to tilt Jean's head up. "You said so yourself. God has a plan and you alone are the one who can execute it."

Jean nodded. "Yes, but what if his plan is for me to fall and an actual girl to take my place? What if- you know that vision I had?"

"Yes..."

"The other woman I told the Prince about, you know?"

"I was there."

"Well, call me crazy, but I don't think she died."

Rémy did look as though he were about to call him insane. "Jean, the war started a hundred years ago. She couldn't still be alive."

"But what if that was God? What if he became a human girl and his immortality was discovered. What if he laid low for a couple years before reappearing when he sent me the vision. What if he became that girl again and stood by the Prince's side to aid in my journey. What if he's using me to get back to the battlefield and fight?"

"Jean, that's insane."

"But what if. No man knows what God's plan is."

"But you do."

"Not really, I only know my part, what if there are more parts?" Rémy looked unimpressed and slightly concerned. "Okay, listen to me; what if Madam Bonnefoy is actually God?"

Rémy's mouth fell open. "Jean? Are you sure you're okay?"

"She looks exactly like the woman in my vision- except for the woman was haggard and wounded. And she claims no relation to the Prince-"

"Jean-"

"And she once told me that she has many names that many other people call her by." Jean seized fistfuls of his hair, questioning himself as to why he hadn't seen it sooner. In his excitement, he hadn't noticed that he was standing until Rémy stood and grabbed him by the shoulders.

"Jean! You are unwell."

"No I'm not," he muttered, the previous moments excitement had made way for dejection and exhaustion. "I'm really not Rémy."

"Jean," Rémy said, sounding a lot like his mother when she would scold the two of them for mucking up their pants. Jean slid back down to the ground, his skirt poofing up and hiking up to expose his stockings. At least Rémy was the only one there. "I think that you should go sleep this fit of yours off. Obviously it's because of a lack of sleep or stress from traveling."

He still didn't think it was. There was a cold feeling in his stomach. "I like her."

"What?"

"Madam Bonnefoy, Françoise, God, whichever name. I was such an idiot."

Rémy sighed again. "Jean, Madam Bonnefoy is not God. You're just tired and stressed. Go lay down, I'll make your excuses."

He really hoped Rémy was right, but even if he was, there was no way that any of this simple attraction could end well. If she wasn't God, then she was a noblewoman and still so unattainable. "Okay," he mumbled, feeling close to crying.

Rémy noticed (because Rémy noticed everything and he knew all). He sighed and kneeled next to Jean and pulled the latter into his arms. Jean gasped a little and hugged his friend back just as tightly. God, please don't take him from me tomorrow, Jean prayed as he held on, eyes shut tight, I can't do this without him.

"You're going to be great," Rémy whispered after a moment. "You're going to be fantastic, Jean. You've gotten this far, don't give up now. You'll win this war for France, won't you Jean? There's nothing you need to worry about. God will protect you."

Jean hung on tighter. I'm more concerned with him protecting you, he thought.