Lucas had initially taken up a post near the borders, Jeanne knew that, and he'd only come here for her and in doing so, left himself vulnerable to attack but then, why did he have a smile on his face, even as his breathing slowed and slowed in her embrace?

Why wasn't there any complaining or snark like there usually was?

With tears dripping from eyes, the Saint of Orleans leaned down, resting her forehead against the man dying in her lap, "You didn't need to..." He didn't need to save her, she couldn't ask that of him when she knowingly ignored his desires and advances.

"Get up, Lucas." Jeanne attempted to speak sternly but failed miserably, her voice only a hushed whisper as she felt his chest slowly rise and fall, "God, I beg of you." She failed to look up, closing her eyes as she clenched the dark fabric of his dressing.

She'd wept before, be it for fallen comrades or pillaged villages but not like this, never like this.

Her own voice betrayed her, as did her heart.

Did she not love all equally?

Why then did this feel far, far worse than anything before?

She recalled how he'd been reclusive as a child and how she'd dragged him out to play, how he'd toil away in secrecy, disinterested in proclaiming his hard work to the world, how he'd slowly become more outgoing as time passed.

He'd learnt strategy, memorised their maps, at times convinced those she could not to rise up and march under her banner. Sure he had a habit of complaining and making fun of her but he would always be there to fall back on when things got too tough, he'd listen.

And her, she wallowed in the confusing nature of her inevitable end and failed to even protect his life when he'd given his to protect hers.

Jeanne softly caressed the scar on his face, Midnight was invincible but he was not. This wound was one he'd suffered during battle, pushing her out of an axe's way and almost losing his sight in the process; the dragon had been a child then.

From when she'd first picked up her banner and marched for Orleans, Lucas had been there.

When she'd fought the English, he was there.

When Gilles and her were declared saviours and heroes by King Charles, he'd watched on with a smile, genuinely happy with the development, disinterested in prestige and credit.

And now, at her end, he was here.

Ah, she'd been a cruel fool, hadn't she?

Jeanne tried to smile, laugh at herself as her tears mixed with his blood, but couldn't, she couldn't even do that.

The Lord never prohibited marriage, He never prohibited love.

Why was she so blinded by her own desire to end bloodshed?

Blinded to a boon, to what was a gift from her Lord.

Near her, Midnight let out a small pained moan, trying it's utmost to move to Lucas but failed.

"I'm sorry."

In the end, that was all Jeanne could come up with and repeated it.

Was this the Lord's punishment for her?

To show her this before she could look to the future?

In her stupor, she failed to notice Lucas weakly raising his hand, slowly reaching for her face and opened her eyes wide when he tried to wipe her tears, marring her delicate face with blood, "T...T'is but a s-scratch. I'll go ahead."

Jeanne forced a smile, nodding her head slowly to assure him while forgoing her own turmoil, "I'll see you there." She whispered gently in his ears, clutching his head as his breathing slowly came to a peaceful halt.

As he perished, his companion did as well, Midnight faded into wisps of light that conjoined with it's Master, both of them departing into an eternal rest, or did they?

And as the Saint of Orleans wept, the clouds made way for a ray of sunlight that illuminated her final moments, making what should've been disgusting blood, glisten and shine.

Their morale boosted epically by the death of a beast of legend and it's master, the English cheered as Jeanne wept, and ripping her away from the corpse of Lucas as she wept and requested to be left with him for a moment longer, they put her to death right there.

Now for the heinous crime of slaughtering innocents and insurgency.

Yet as she was once more put to the stake and was set alight, Jeanne failed to have a regret significant enough that she would truly wish to see her life undone, hardwired so by the life she'd lived, Jeanne D'Arc did not wish for anything more, she only felt like a cruel monster.

Jeanne did not feel her dress catch fire, she did not scream or show pain to her punishers as her skin melted away and her bones turned charred under the heat, only staring on defiantly at those that called her a heretic, hopeful for a brighter future. She did not care for their hateful words, she did not care for their cruelty or jeer.

If she were to meet Lucas once more, with the thoughts and realisations she had only once reality smacked her across the face with them, would she be the same?

She had no wish left ungranted but if there were to be one, it would be that she'd seen the truth earlier. She wanted no revenge, nor did she wish to be saved for someone had already tried, showing her something she never wished to see.

He should have forgotten her, let her go, it would be better that way.

The pain she would feel was something she would accept, not this, "I didn't... want this for you."

Instead Jeanne believed, she believed that the Lord had not forsaken her, he would never forsake anyone. Lucas' end had been noble, he would surely be rewarded for that.

*

The English believed it to be one of their longbowmen who had done the deed and revelled in the death of the Wolfheart. A ruthless soldier cum commander who had no honour to speak of and acted as the necessary shadow to Jeanne D'Arc's light, doing what she could and would not to ensure she succeeded. To them, he was a pillager, torturer and murderer skilled in the use of poison and espionage. It was Lucas Blanc who held Compiegne until reinforcements arrived and put the Burgundians to the sword, slaughtering them with none spared.

To the French, he was a Godsent Guardian who dutifully watched over the Saint of Orleans. Accompanying her from beginning to end, a liberator who defended those that could not defend themselves.

However, as man progressed and science became law, the existence of Midnight was chalked up to superstitious exaggeration by the people. The burning of Burgundian forces was attributed to Greek Fire thrown using a dragon-like siege weapon lost to time.

It wouldn't be the first time in history that a knight was depicted as a dragon rider and it wouldn't be the last, it did not however, change the fact that such creatures were products of fiction and simply did not exist.

In the first place, it made no sense for a dragon to exist for only two years or fall to a metal and wood arrow no matter where it struck such a beast.

This was not entirely improbable and so was taken as the objective truth.

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You can find up to 7 chapters ahead at patre0n.com/Bleap or so is usually the case but they're actually less than that. No need to worry though, they'll be filled soon enough.