[Fanfic] In God's Name

[singing-monk.livejournal.com]

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Title: In God's Name
Author/Artist: singing_monk
Character(s) or Pairing(s): England -> Jeanne D'arc/France
Rating: PG
Warnings: Sexual molestation, but no rape.
Summary: Jeanne D'arc infuriates and confuses England, and he takes out his frustration on the girl. After her death he looks for France to rub salt in his wounds.



The dismissal of her guards and England's quietly stepping into the cell and shutting the door behind him did nothing to shift the prisoner's rapt attention from her tiny slit of a window. She finished mouthing her prayer and crossed herself before turning to regard her guest as he made his way to her pallet.

England regarded this girl, this Jeanne D'arc, for several moments before speaking. She looked tired as hell, but her eyes were still clear and met his own without flinching. "I cannot fathom what that frog sees in you. How do you even manage to lift a sword?"

"The hand of God supports my own. As for France...that I can't answer, for I have no idea." she replied, folding her hands into her lap. The answer irked England somewhat; was she so stupid that she couldn't see when someone was mocking her?

Abruptly he sat down on the cot, leaning forward as if to try and divine some hidden emotion from the girl's face. "Your God is about to get you burned tomorrow morning. Does that mean anything to you?"

Her wan face hardened, and the country briefly imagined the look on it must have been the last thing many men saw before meeting her blade. "God is not condemning me; it is your people, and the Burgundians. If that is my path, then so be it."

England chuckled derisively. "Ah, is that so? My apologies, then. I should have realized your hate would lie with the English, if only for consistency's sake."

"I do not blame you for this any more than I hate you." Jeanne smiled earnestly, tilting her head towards him as if sharing a wonderful secret. It seemed as if she were going to laugh about it, at such an absurd idea!

Something was making England's heart feel like it was being crushed in a vice. He couldn't stand the feeling, couldn't stand her sentiments, the fact that a foreign enemy marked for death would so assuredly say there was no ill will towards him was both infuriating and confusing.

Almost snarling he shot forward and grabbed her arms, pushing Jeanne onto her back and looming over her. He breathed heavily for a pause, eyes scorching into her own. The girl looked terrified and bewildered in equal parts, as though she couldn't wrap her mind around why her captor was doing this. It only threw more kindling onto England's inexplicable fury.

"You don't blame me? What, capture and death not good enough to merit your concern? Perhaps I can fix that." And with that he smashed his lips onto Jeanne's, hands moving from her arms to loosen the girl's clothing.

Her resistance was nothing short of bizarre. Now free from their chains, Jeanne's hands pushed pushed pushed at England's chest, but never hit. As he moved his mouth downwards to plant kisses on her exposed flesh he could hear her hoarsely whispering "Oh Lord, please deliver me. Oh God, my God, PLEASE!"

Just as quickly as it had begun it was ended. England sat up as if electrocuted and practically flew off the cot. He paused at the door to look back at the figure clutching its fallen shirt up and sobbing, crying what sounded like more prayers to God. Wordlessly he turned and stormed out of the putrid cell.

Yes, she deserved to die.

The next morning came far too quickly for Jeanne and not soon enough for England. She was lead from the chapel at the end of the mass, strangely resplendent in her coarse white death robe. Leaning against a doorway, the country frowned as he watched the guards shuttle her to the cart which would bring her to the pyre.

When she finally passed by England, however, the girl stopped. Shaking away the guards with a pleading 'one moment', she walked up to the country and took his hands in her own. Something (fear, perhaps?) stopped him from pulling back as common sense screamed at him to do.

Beaming up at him, Jeanne said "I just wanted to let you know, that I still do not blame you for anything. And...that I forgive you."

With that she stood on her toes and brushed her lips against his forehead. Dipping into a small curtsy, she turned and rejoined her guard. They marched out of England's sight as he watched them go, face betraying the way the encounter had shaken him.

Looking down, he saw his hand was clutching at his heart. His chest was throbbing again.

Putting his arm down, the country turned and stalked out to his own coach. Whatever had happened (and something had passed between the two, there was no denying that) he was going to watch her burn if it killed him.

A few days later Jeanne D'arc was dead, her ashes unceremoniously tossed somewhere out of everyone's thoughts. England felt much better than he had that day, might have even gone so far to say he was on top of the world. He was in such a wonderful mood, in fact, that at the moment he was traipsing through France in search of its nation in order to rub his victory in the bastard's face.

It didn't take long to locate him. France was standing alone in some godforsaken field, staring fixedly at a small cross that looked to be recently placed there. England strode up to stand next to him, snorting as he saw the familiar shape of it.

"What's this, put up a marker already? Not much of a point, is there? Nothing to bury." he started, looking askance at his companion and smirking. The Frenchman barely met his gaze, his whole face conveying an insurmountable sorrow inside.

Disregarding it, England continued, pressing even harder. "Although I certainly can't blame you for wanting to remember her! For all her ravings about God she had the softest lips I've ever had the good fortune to come into contact with. Tasted like something sweet, can't quite place it. Oh, I bet you couldn't your hands off her! Haha, I'm surprised the pair of you got anything don-"

Any further verbal jabs were cut off, because England suddenly found himself on the ground and being choked by a France whose face was so twisted by rage and grief it was barely recognizable.

He was so shocked that even if the hands around his neck didn't have the feeling of steel he wouldn't have fought back. His head pounded against the dirt as France shook it up and down, breathing "How dare you...how...dare you!"

Then the constricting pressure was gone, and England was alone on the ground staring up at the other country, who pressed a hand to his face. In a tone that suggested he was fighting to keep back tears, he threw one last attack before walking off. "You are truly a soulless creature, Angleterre."

England stared at the retreating figure for a few minutes before calmly picking himself up, dusting off his clothes, and making his way home, where he was promptly sick all over the study floor.

His chest continued to try and crush itself.


Joan of Arc, before she was burned at the stake, really was sexually assaulted by one of her prison guards.