He was fighting. That was all. He ignored the blood on his...well everything and continued to fight back; for France, for Orleans, for the Prince, for Rémy, for his parents, for Françoise.
He felt something like dread settle in his stomach and he turned just in time to catch a blade that was swung at him in the hilt of his sword. The man was tall and lanky and wore very little armor. From Jean's own helmet, he couldn't clearly see what the man looked like.
The man sneered at him and spoke loudly in English as their swords clashed. He ignored it.
He managed to get a cut on the man's arm. Surprised, the man stepped back. Jean kept his guard up, breathing hard. That's what you get for not wearing armor, he thought triumphantly.
The man looked up to him and frowned, the men surrounding them glancing occasionally as they only stared at each other. Jean was impatient- the wound was small, you could barely see it as it closed up in front of his very own eyes.
He almost screamed. He felt sick. That's not normal. "What the Hell?" he exclaimed as all blood vanished from the man's arm.
The man flinched up to stare at him. "France?"
Jean didn't know how to respond to that, but when the man took a step forward, he raised his sword and backed away.
The man frowned. He shouted, "Who are you?" His French was less than perfect and was marred by that ridiculous accent of his.
"I am Jeanne d'Arc, the saviour of France!" he screamed, the noise ripping from his throat. The few French soldiers around him cheered at his exclamation and pushed back with a newfound vigor. "Who are you?" Fear shook his voice, but he reflected in the space it took the man to respond, that it was slightly absurd for the two of them to have this conversation, but the other man seemed obscenely stubborn to have this conversation.
The man sneered and gave a slightly mocking bow. "I am the General Kirkland. The one to whom you sent that letter. I didn't know your English was that good."
"I don't know English- it is a barbaric and disgusting. And I would never send anyone a letter in that language or to any Englishman," he spat back.
This seemed to surprise the man and he looked aside for a few seconds, his mouth moving but nothing reached Jean. When his head snapped back to him, Jean jumped in place, sword up to match any blow from the man. "Where is she then? I know she's here. I assumed she was you," he said the last word as though it were an insult. "But I know you couldn't be. You're too...mortal. Where is she?"
"Who?" Jean demanded, anxiety shaking his hands and nerves. He needed to do something and the fact that he wasn't was driving him insane.
"France!" he demanded.
"Why do you keep saying that?"
"Where is she?"
"Who?"
"France!"
"Stop saying my country's name!"
"I'm looking for her- where is she?"
"Who?"
"France! Or whatever name she goes by with her people."
He had to swallow hard against the fear and apprehension that rose up in his throat, almost preventing him from speaking.
The man sighed as though he couldn't believe that Jean was so incompetent, but Jean was silently hoping that this man was insane. "She's got brown hair and wears a stupid crown. Her eyes are like purple or something. She's probably close to that faux king or prince or whatever."
"Prince Charles?"
"Yeah sure. Where is she?" he snapped.
Jean was shaking violently and it was taking all of his strength to not turn tail and run- where he wasn't sure, just far enough away that there were any people who referred to Madam Bonnefoy as France or suddenly healed up without attention from any medical officer. The logic behind this encounter was making his head hurt trying to figure it out. "Not here? I know no one of that description."
His sword was a blur, but Jean caught it again, but the other was still pressing down on him and his knees were starting to buckle. "You lie," the man spat, his face finally close enough for Jean to recognize him through his helmet.
His heart stopped and he felt cold, ice cold fear wash through him. Though he could no longer feel his arms through the fear, he managed to push back and force the man to step back.
He'd seen this man kill thousands as though their lives held no consequence to him. What was to say that he couldn't easily do the same to Jean. Either he was a madman or...
Think about it, his mind whispered as he swung again at the man, if Madam Bonnefoy is God, then who fights against God?
"Diable," he whispered. The man frowned at him, but did not slow in his attack. "You're the Devil," he shouted louder.
The man laughed. His laugh was rough and scratchy and just this shy of insane. "Now you sound like France." In a few swift moves, infused with strength that Jean had never known, the man managed to disarm him and have the tip of his straight sword pointed at his throat.
So this is how I die, Jean thought, watching the green eyes across from him, but neither moved. Jean was strangely at peace; he had fought with God, listened to his commands, and even went up against the very foe that God had thrown from the pearly gates of Heaven himself. He could die now.
The Devil had other ideas, it seemed. Instead he reached and grabbed Jean's arm, tugging the armored attempted Savior to his side and exchanged his sword for a dagger he pressed to Jean's side.
"You're coming with me," he hissed in Jean's ear. "Say anything, try to escape-" The dagger was pressed harder against the unprotected skin on his side "-and I'll have no problem stabbing you and leaving you to bleed out."
Je peux mourir maintenant
The thought was so sudden France almost lost her breath as she watched her army fight against England's. She sucked in a frigidly cold and nauseating breath and tried to focus back again. There was fear and anger and apparently acceptance from her soldiers. There was elation from some in Orleans, fear of English aggression after the siege failed. There were the normal emotions from the lesser war-affected places.
J'ai fait tous Dieu m'a demandé
She knew who is was and her terror grew. "Jeanne," she whispered lightly. Scotland next to her turned.
"France?"
"Jeanne- something is wrong with her. She just thought that she was ready to die and oh-"
J'ai combattu le diable et je suis toujours vivant
Her mouth worked silently for a moment as Scotland stared at her. "She says she has fought with the Devil- I don't understand."
Où est-ce qu'il fait de moi? Que veut-il?
"Someone's taking her somewhere," she said as she pushed herself up in the horse's saddle, trying to scan the forces for her. "I can't see her," she whined angrily. "Do you?"
"I feel my brother," he said.
She stilled. "Where?"
"You can't?"
"I think you're throwing me off with your presence."
"He was on the battlefield, but now he's too far away to be fighting still. Are you sure that Jeanne is who is speaking in your head."
"Of course, how could I not know for certain." She had spent enough time with Jeanne over the few months they both stayed with Charles. She should know what her thoughts were- she knew her voice and it did sound a little different in her head, but that's to be expected. Blanche had sounded different, too.
"Why can you hear her? Could you do that before?"
"No. I'm not sure, but I think she's thinking about me while she's thinking this so I can hear it. You know how that works."
Scotland shook his head. "No I don't. I'm not all that close to any mortals."
The sheer amount of judgement in his tone made her bristle and settled a sick feeling in her stomach. She scowled at him. "I can't hear her anymore."
Scotland rolled his eyes. "Good. I think her thoughts are supposed to stay in her head, not yours."
"She hasn't died," France continued as though Scotland had not spoken. "So I don't know what it-"
"France, just drop it."
She still worried about it as they remained in their position. A runner came breathless to Scotland's side and panted out a message that made Scotland's brow furrow in confusion. He nodded at the boy and waved him off. He just shrugged at her when she cast a questioning look his way.
The messenger returned to the tent after what seemed an eternity. Jean was getting tired of being in this damn chair. At least the Devil hadn't tied him up or anything, then he'd just beg for death, because he wasn't going to blab about French plans or anything.
The Devil was treating him as though he were a true General that was comforting. The Devil looked up as the boy appeared and nodded at him. The boy said something softly but with confidence that made The Devil groan and bury his head in his hands. He muttered something into his hands and the boy responded indignantly. The Devil dropped his hands and said something else before nodding to Jean, who just stared back as impassively as before. The Devil said something curt and short to the boy and then he dismissed him.
They were silent for a few more minutes before Jean piped up. "Diable-?"
"I have told you not to call me that. My name is Arthur."
Yeah okay, sure. "Diable?"
"What do you want, you infuriating French tosser?"
"What did you tell that boy?"
The Devil only shrugged plaintively. "Nothing more than to tell France that I have you and Orleans and that she should stop this fight."
"You are very stubborn in that France is actually a person."
He sighed and rolled his eyes. "I'm not expecting you to understand suddenly. But there is France and then there is France. One is land, the other is a person."
"Okay~"
"Oh don't just act like a child about it. We live in two different worlds the two of us. You'd be hard pressed to understand it."
"I'm sure, Monsieur Diable."
"Quit calling me that," he shouted, slamming his hand down and finally looking up from the map on his desk.
"What? Your name?"
"My name is Arthur and that is close to the fifteenth time I have told you that today, Mademoiselle."
"Well, I mean if I were named something like Diable, then I would definitely want another name. But you are Monsieur Diable."
"I am not the Devil! I am Arthur!"
"I would have gone with Jean for a name in place of Diable," Jean said, biting back a smirk. "Or John since you're pretending to be English now, Monsieur Diable."
The glare sent his way wasn't as entertaining as the eyebrows residing above them so Jean completely ignored the former. "Silence unless you'd like to get up close and personal with my blade, Mademoiselle."