A/N: For whoever was waiting for this to come back. Thank Jackson on the discord. He's the one who convinced me.
Also thanks to Storm, Actually_Satan and Jackson for beta-reading (Y'all were absolutely fucking useless except for Storm.)
-
"Burn the witch!"
Her feet stung, Jeanne realised. The cold steel that clung to her flesh stung too. Every time her captors yanked them, the chains would seep into her wrists, and each time they would leave new bruises. Then, there were the stones and pebbles that pelted her, thrown by new faces each time.
How could they hate her so deeply when they did not even know her? Their fierce faces, their hateful words, and their stones... Why? All she had ever done, all she had ever hoped to do, was struggle for her people to live simply, not as beasts or slaves, but men... No, she had known they would hate her.
What right had a simple village girl to fight in a war? The daughter of a peasant, an ignorant girl who didn't even know how to read and write, nor pray in proper words. And yet, she had taken up the banner all the same, moved by her Lord's sorrow at the state of his most beloved creations. She had decided to devote her life to her purpose all the same. To bring an end to the great war and strife that brought such sorrow to Him, and to liberate those, her fellow countrymen, that suffered needless cruelty.
Unwittingly, her hand reached for the cross hung around her neck, and then she realised that they had taken from her that as well. Leaving her with nothing but the rags that hid her dignity, and the bruises and the wounds that they had left her.
She felt her face grow wet, and realised that a stone had struck her in the brow and that it was her own blood that marred her eye. She did not think to wipe it, she could not, her hands were bound, and her fate was set.
After the English captured her, Bishop Pierre Cauchon had presided over her trial, declared her a heretic and a witch, and ordered her burnt on a pyre for her grave transgression.
Jeanne once again faced her captors now, and one of them yanked her chains, roughly dragging her along as the crowd around them shouted for her death. She did not feel fear, for she had no reason to. She did not weep for she had no regrets.
Such was to be her fate, she had already known.
In what were certainly her last moments, she offered her silent gratitude to her compatriots instead. The brave men who had chosen to believe in her, and to follow her into battle despite her foolishness and her ignorance. She offered a prayer for their well-being.
They had admired her, and believed in her dream, met her with camaraderie and respect. There was none of that now. She saw only hate and fury in the eyes of those that would see her end. It seemed the only one to feel any sorrow were the grey skies above, that watched the procession with a quiet discontent, and looked as though they would begin weeping at any moment.
Briefly, her gaze caught soldiers shifting uneasily all around them, their dark eyes wary as their hands groped at their spears and their swords, as if some great terrible threat loomed over them.
Jeanne knew it wasn't her they feared.
How could they?
She was a mere girl.
No, they were certainly looking for the fiercest of her companions. One who had joined her long before she had even decided to take up arms, and followed her at his own peril, even when she inflicted upon him the greatest of injustices. She had often pondered upon what could have been but did not come to be.
For a moment, her breath hitched, her chest tightened and she felt a tear well in her eye. Then, she pushed it down. She would not have regrets.
Wolfhart, the English called him. Lucas, she called him.
He had been the one to madly resist her capture when the Burgundian forces set upon them, despite previous wounds, and he had been the one to sustain grievous injuries no man could withstand.
She wished he would not come now. She knew he would.
The English feared him for his nature, and the prowess of the great beast he rode. She knew why they were easy. She kept his brutality in check with her protests, he listened, but there were times when he did not and many of them burned for it. Nobles, soldiers, peasants all.
He came upon a great winged dragon that, as she knew, had grown too weak now to truly do anything for the wounds its master sustained but the English feared it all the same. They did not know of its current state, after all. None knew, save for her.
And so, she knew he would suffer unnecessarily if he decided to aid her.
Her hopes were true, it seemed, for a while. As they dragged her to the town centre, and then up to the foot of the pyre, she saw no sign of him. She was relieved. She prayed to her Lord, and went without regrets as splinters tore her flesh.
"Make her pay!"
"Witch!"
But then, as she glanced upon the crowd before her. She caught it. A hooded stranger standing between them. As if it were the most natural thing in the world, he drew an obsidian blade from within the cloak and buried it in an Englishman standing beside him. He ripped it out, spilling the man's lifeblood with little regard before setting upon another. He swung his blade with such terrible force that it lopped off a man's head before any had chance to even notice him.
"He's here!" Some watchman bellowed from beyond her sight.
In mere moments after, the jeering crowd turned to panic. They shouted and stomped and ran and abandoned their own out of fear as men-at-arms and knights rushed to bring him down. The obese Bishop Pierre beside her squealed in fright, attempting to escape as he shouted orders at the soldiers standing nearby.
"What are you waiting for?! Burn her!"
"Because that is such a good idea right now! Go ahead! Piss me off more!"
Lucas shouted back, louder than him as he leaned away from a spear and jammed his blade through its wielder's gut, wrenching it out with a grin that seemed all the more maniacal when it joined the axe-wound scar on his lower lip.
Still, as Jeanne watched wordlessly and prayed for his safety, a man-at-arms rushed to her with a torch blazing in hand. His actions were met with furious rebuttal, as Lucas threw his own sword at the man. It caught him in the chest, and exploded out of his back. Now without a weapon, Lucas wrenched a longsword from the hands of a charging knight, knocking the man back as an arrow struck him in the shoulder.
He did not even so much as wince, she saw, instead, he rushed at her, cutting down man after man, and getting more and more wounded as he advanced. When he finally reached her, she saw that his once dark eyes were now of the same shimmering gold of his dragon's scales.
The dragon, she remembered suddenly.
"What happened to Minui-"
A brief sorrow flashed through his eyes but he shook his head, retrieving the still-blazing torch. He set ablaze the wood under her then kicked at it hard, scattering fire in the path of his-... their pursuers. It wouldn't be enough to stop them, she knew but he didn't seem to care as he quickly undid her bindings, catching another arrow as he did.
And though he looked to suffer no pain for his wounds, Jeanne felt as though they were on her flesh instead. She had not felt sorrow at her fate. She felt sorrow at his.
"...I killed him and… took his blood," He answered her question. His voice didn't have its usual flare, it was low and weak. "For this last struggle."
"Why would yo-"
"If I can get you out of here, it'll be worth it. I have no regrets. We were dying anyway. I got a little too hurt last time."
He had always said that his dragon was a piece of his soul, his very being. Jeanne could not even imagine his pain. He had done it for her. She did not get to thank him, or scold him for his recklessness as she had done countless times before.
He abruptly turned around and swung only his hand, to her surprise, a brilliant flame erupted from within, catching upon the very ground as it pushed back the men-at-arms pursuing him.
"L-Look!" Pierre shouted from afar. "The Witch consorts with demons and vile creatures!"
How could he call someone like Lucas a vile demon? She did not understand.
Her dying friend wrenched her from her thoughts, holding her in his arms as he ran into the city, through streets and roads where men and women shut their doors and windows to them. He knew the city, she realised, he had not come here without a plan. She knew her words to be the truth when they came upon a tunnel.
He rushed in and finally let her free of his embrace. As she watched in a daze, he punched the wall with such strength that it collapsed the entrance, leaving them in nothing but darkness and the flickering light of his burning sword. She who had resigned herself to her fate, had no inkling of what she was meant to do.
But, when Lucas coughed blood and collapsed against the wall, she found herself moving to hold him up, placing his arm over her shoulder. He smiled at that, she noticed.
"No point in it... I'm afraid," He chuckled weakly and raised his burning blade, "This here's about as long as I have after what I just pulled. Really... why'd I think burning up half my soul was a good idea?"
"Half your-... what? What did you do?" She stammered out. His blood flowed freely from his wounds now, onto her hands. His eyes were shot, and he suddenly looked so weak and frail. She hadn't noticed before, in her daze, his skin was too pale, even for his wounds.
"Ah right, yeah... Couldn't move... couldn't let you die either... figured a blaze of glory... I blew open a wall near here... almost free now, let's go."
He forced himself into a walk, and she didn't know what else to do besides help him.
"Why did you have to come here?" She asked indignantly. Her eyes felt wet. "You could've rested and... and lived a long life. The King would have rewarded you. You should have left me. I wouldn't have blamed you."
"Fuck the King," he spat, "he tried to stop me from coming here. Least Gilles helped... I said I'd have died... anyway. This way... I get to feel good about it."
"Because you're injured!" She cried, feeling his sutured injuries come loose against her gown, dying the white of it a deep crimson. "I-I can't-"
Suddenly, he pushed her away. The pale gold of his eyes shimmered in the flames as he swung his blade at the front. She didn't know what at. For a moment, she thought the loss of blood had made him delirious. Then, glistening bolts came shooting from the front, blowing through his arm.
He swung his sword again, and even halted a few. It wasn't enough. The ones he halted with his blade exploded against it and his own weapon struck him in the face.
"...We're almost out... whoever it is..." He pushed out.
"For what it's worth, I am sorry about this." The answer came from an unknown voice in the darkness. "But, humanity's decided Jeanne D'Arc has to die here."
Another bolt came, far faster and larger, Lucas did not get to meet it. As Jeanne watched, it blew through his chest and her friend fell back. Again, her breath hitched, her chest tightened, her hands trembled, and she was lost.
"N-No… No! Please."
The flames lickering at his blade fizzled out as she crawled over to him. With great care, she cradled his head in her arms, and called out his name, as though he would wake up.
"Wake… Wake up. You can't-" Her words caught in her throat.
The Saint had not wept for her own cruel end.
She wept openly then, not for herself, never for herself. She wept, as the English set upon her once again, until she had no more tears to shed.
War made the world hell.
And at last, the saint who had given herself up to set it right… experienced loss.
-
Hope you enjoyed.
Leave a comment or a powerstone, maybe both... I'm sorry.
Join the discord if you wanna yap or beta read, or both;
https://discord.com/invite/MSJgg9DE2M