And He Protected Her

Francis swiftly arrived at the given location, determined to stop the execution before it was too late. He had to protect her, he had to. Francis saw Jeanne, in only a white, loose dress with her hands tied behind her back, around a wooden beam. Hay was at her feet, ready to be lit by the executioner. Jeanne must've seen Francis, because she smiled down at him, before lifting her head high and closing her eyes, ready to go where she felt was home.

Francis ran up to the stage just as the hay went up in flames and the crowd around him cheered. Francis stumbled as he watched the fire engulf his best friend, his companion, tears rolling down his cheeks as his breath caught in his throat, he fell to his knees and couldn't stop sobbing. Many hours passed before his sons died down to cries of pain, hiccups and shaky breaths. He couldn't protect her, and now all that was left was the ashes of her corpse.

Francis was the one to tell Jeanne's family of the grievous news, watching Isabelle weep and Jacques ask grimly if she died honorably, to which Francis shakily replied that she died a soldier. It took him months before he could even think of looking Jeanne's family in the eye, he broke his promise to her, to her family. She had given the crown to his king, and he ordered her death.

Every night, Francis prayed to God that maybe-just maybe- if she could be reborn, he wished for her to have a normal happy life. Just like she deserved, she deserved to be happy. Every night, he would cry himself to sleep, thinking of all the things he could have done to help her-to stop her from dying. Francis had failed her, he couldn't protect her. And even then, he supported her.

Many centuries passed since then, and the war had ended with a draw.

The day was 30, May 2015. The anniversary of Jeanne's death. Francis had locked himself in his room, he had long since forgiven England- who had mournfully apologized after the war- after all, it wasn't his jurisdiction, it was the king's. Francis had wept all day, and had shut himself in his home, away from everyone.

Arthur Kirkland had gingerly entered the home, softly calling out to Francis. He was worried for his close friend, though he wouldn't say that out loud. He brought flowers with him, red roses that he knew were Francis' favourite. Francis was startled by the sudden intrusion, but he allowed England to come into his room.

England and France sat at the edge of the messy bed, in a somber silence. Tears were rolling down Francis' cheeks, silently and ever so slowly. Arthur wrapped his arm around Francis' shoulder, patting his back in a comforting way, tears welling up in his own eyes as well.

"I'm sorry. I'm so sorry, France. I couldn't stop the King from making the declaration. I'm sorry," tears were spilling from his green eyes in a mournful dance.

"No, don't apologize England. There was nothing you could have done. I, on the other hand, could have saved her. If only I had turned back and saved her from her captors, if only I had been faster maybe I could've protected her from the flames or at least have taken her place!" His shoulders heaved in sorrow, tears rushing down his chin, dripping onto his lap.

They sat in sorrow, neither saying a word. Neither knew what to say, all they could do is cry. Cry over the war, cry over their broken relationship, cry over the people they lost, cry over Jeanne.

England stood and excused himself, heading to the kitchen where he placed the flowers into a vase he recognized as Jeanne's most valuable item. It was a painful reminder of what his people did to her, what they did to France. Tears welled up again, running down his cheeks. The hairs on the back of his neck stood on end as he felt like someone was standing behind him.

France came rushing down the stairs a startled look on his face as he shouted her name. He was in hysterics.

"England, I saw her! She's really here!"

"What are you talking about? Who's here?"

France was going to respond, but his eyes were fixated on something behind England. Arthur slowly turned and saw the object of Francis' interest.

"Joan," Arthur breathed out, eyes wide and mouth agape. There, in steel armor and holding a the flag of France, was Jeanne. Her hair was just as short as Francis remembered it, a smile on her pure face.

"Jeanne? Jeanne is that really you?" Francis stuttered, tears in his eyes. Jeanne nodded, still smiling.

"Bonjour, Francis. Bonjour, Angleterre. It's been a long time," her voice was a soft and smooth as silk.

"Jeanne," Francis gasped as he ran towards her and hugged her smaller frame, sobbing into her shoulder. Arthur stood off to the side, not able to look her in the eyes.

"Angleterre," Jeanne held out an arm to England, allowing him to embrace her as well and cry into her armor.

"I'm sorry! I'm so sorry, Jeanne!" Francis wept, "I couldn't protect you, I couldn't keep my promise!"

"I'm sorry, Joan. I tried to stop the orders but I couldn't," England sobbed, allowing all his regret to spill from his eyes.

Jeanne only smile down at the men, "There's no need to cry. I am at peace. Our countries have stopped fighting, my death was not in vain."

"But, I couldn't protect you!"

"That doesn't matter anymore, Francis. It wasn't your fault. I would've died sometime, it might as well have been during battle. So, please, stop crying, my friends. It's okay. Angleterre, I feel no hate for you, I forgive you. I forgive the both of you. Soon, I will be reborn. And I will see you again, Francis. So, this is my goodbye."

"Jeanne, no, please don't leave me again! Please don't leave me again! I love you, Jeanne."

"I'm sorry, France. My great nation, my great country. I was happy to lose my life protecting you, just as you always protected me. I loved you, France, my best friend, my amazing country. I forgive you both, so please do not mourn me. You'll see me again, I promise." Her body started to fade away rapidly, right from under their arms, "I forgive you."

The men collapsed, sobbing into the hardwood floor, she had vanished. It took an hour for the men to compose themselves, tears rolling down their cheeks silently.

Sad smiles were exchanged between the two of them, finally feeling at peace over what had happened.

All because she forgave them.

Many years had passed and Francis has learned to move on, he still missed Jeanne, but he was okay. In the streets of Paris, he ran into a woman with short blond hair, and a pure face. She reminded him of his best friend, his companion, his protector. And he protected her.