one more kiss

To Monarch, the monster was Titanus gevaudan, named after the legendary beast that rampaged through south-central France in medieval France. To Jean, she was simply Cherie, his darling cat.

An oversized one, Napoleon observed.

This was the third time he escorted Jean to see his nonhuman friend. Or probably his only friend, period. The man seemed to be having trouble adjusting to his new social surroundings at the containment site.

Maybe he had no intentions to be buddy-buddy with anyone at Monarch at all. If his stiff interactions with their resident behavior expert, Satsuki, were anything to go by.

"Maybe, try talking to him like you're his squad captain or something?" She approached him one day. "He's...hard to approach, yes, but we need him to get Titanus gevaudan in control. You were both in the military, so maybe you can get through him?"

"But Satsuki," Napoleon smiled. "I was in the Army, and Jean's a fighter pilot."

And the former officer wasn't entirely sure he could talk about their respective military careers without accidentally bringing up Jean's....scar. For all Napoleon knew, there could've been an empty socket underneath that eyepatch.

So they talked about Cherie, even if Napoleon knew the predator (tiger? giant cat? Man eater?) wasn't warming up to him. Yet. The creature would hardly come approaching whenever he stood in front of the cage from where Jean called to her.

Fair enough, he was in the frontlines when they cornered her in Paris. Jean was there too, stretching his arms in front of the beast to protect her from the firing squad. 

The young titan seemed to cherish Jean as much, bending down to nuzzle and lick him before entering her carrier.

Satsuki said there was "some sort of an emotional, if not telepathic bond” between them. Some joked Jean was the titan's manager, while others agreed that he was simply her Papa. 

"But titans had been worshipped as gods, hadn't they?" Sebastian, their historian, suggested. "Does that make Jean Cherie's priest?" Napoleon laughed at the notion, having found out that Jean had been raised in a devout Catholic family.

Now serving a different god, then, The older man smirked. Jean did act like a Templar when he tried to fight off Monarch, thinking they'd hurt his furry friend.

Suddenly, a loud purr emanated from the enclosure.

"Did —did she just do that?" He pointed at Cherie, bewildered. "I thought only housecats can do that." 

Jean let out a low 'hmm' in response and allowed Cherie's giant paw to press him against her face. The creature's belly was flattened against the floor now, her limbs tucked under her body.

"Look at her loafing. Loafing!" Satsuki waved excitedly upon seeing Cherie do it for the first time. 

Napoleon couldn't help but agree. The beast looked so incredibly adorable it was hard to believe she was the same monster who rampaged through Paris. Although to her credit, Cherie did refrain from intentionally harming humans.

But the collateral damage, well....at least it was nothing like a MUTO's attack.

Napoleon stared as the titan stood to tenderly lick along Jean's body like she was grooming him. Wait, shouldn't her tongue be rough to the point where it could lick Jean's entire skin off?

But Jean didn't seem to be uncomfortable, so maybe monster tongues were nothing like a normal tiger's, after all. Oh well.

And boy, did Jean seem to enjoy her ministrations. He looked —did Napoleon dare say it? —soft. Jean was undoubtedly a pretty man, but his indifferent demeanor made him more intimidating. And Jeans'....straightforwardness certainly didn't help.

But Napoleon was glad to bear witness to this scene. Who knew the man was secretly an affection hog And towards a gigantic physical goddess, no less! 

Jean d'Arc was one of a kind.

"My Cherie," Napoleon could hear him mutter. "I'm so glad I still have you."

Napoleon stood still as Jean buried his face in Cherie's coat, clinging to the titan like she was his security blanket. 

The former captain smiled at both man and beast.

"I won't let these people bring any harm to you," Jean whispered, rather audibly.

This kid. Napoleon dropped his smile.

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"She's still growing," Jean spoke in the elevator.

Napoleon turned his head at his companion, a part of him surprised that the stoic man would initiate a conversation.

"Cherie's still growing. She might grow to be the size of a building, they say." The younger man murmured. "Would she still recognize me then?"

Will she finally start posing a threat to humanity? 

It was a conversation Jean never involved himself in, because should that time arrive—

Should that time arrive, then Jean would finally be truly alone. Helpless as he watched the creature he once nurtured turning against humans. Against him.

Napoleon doubted that time would arrive soon. But then again, there was always room for surprises with these titans and their otherworldly physiology.

"Don't worry about it," Napoleon assured. "We'll think of a way before that happens."

Jean cast him a doubtful glance.

If it were Satsuki, Napoleon would no doubt ruffle her hair and tell her it's okay, we'll get through this together. If it were Sebastian, he'd hug the historian to his side until he calmed down.

Napoleon's arm stuck to his side. He couldn't simply reach out for Jean's shoulder, could he?

"I didn't know you were injured," Leon cleared his throat. "I'm sorry. I didn't check on you immediately—"

"Don't be," d'Arc replied with a hoarse voice. "You were preoccupied with the adjutant, after all."

"How did you know?" Was d'Arc observing him as well?

"I heard it from d'Alencon, who heard it from the nurses in Gilles' ward," he explained. "Some of them... fancied him, apparently. I understand why they'd fawn over such a gentleman, but still."

D'Arc coughed. He's a dying man, d'Arc failed to say.

"I will be praying for the Second Adjutant," d'Arc breathed. "As I've been praying for Gilles, I mean de Rais."

Another gust of wind billowed, scattering dead leaves on a stone walkway not too far away.

"How is de Rais?" Leon asked, if only for the sake of politeness. "I understand how you feel, but don't forget to mind your own condition, at least for your own sake."

Or my sake. Because I'm worried about Sebastian and now won't stop worrying about everything else. Leon thought to himself.

D'Arc slowly stretched his long legs and sighed.

"They needed to remove an arm. And there were some complications during the extraction of some bullet shells."

Leon wondered if nothing could shake the man. Even his voice was calm as he described de Rais' condition. Leon couldn't expect less from the stoic man.

He gazed at d'Arc's profile.

What did it take to be the perfect soldier that d'Arc was? How does one retain such a mask, even after leaving the front lines? 

Underneath all that invisible armor, was there a man as secretly vulnerable as Leon?

Dark eyes mirrored bright emerald eyes.

"Second Lieutenant," d'Arc called softly. "Would you like some time to yourself?"

Yes, please. Words resonated in Leon's head, or No, don't. This is only a momentary lapse, you see? We won't speak of this ever again, and you would forget I cried all over you.

Did he want to cry?

Leon, unknowingly, had lunged for d'Arc's static wrist. He was so thin and easy to yank forward. 

Into his embrace

But it was foolish. D'Arc wasn't Sebastian. He'd only push him away if Leon insisted that the other hug him. That he wanted another warm body to ease him into containing the grief, the feeling of uselessness that was crawling from his stomach and clawing at his throat.

A cold hand rested on top of his own.

"If you want to cry," d'Arc whispered. "By all means, cry to your heart's content."

Leon loosened his grip on d'Arc's sleeve.

"Don't force yourself to keep a straight face. No need to pretend," D'Arc's murmur was distant. "Not while we're alone."

Your secret is safe with me, always.

"You're too strong for your own good," D'Arc murmured, even as Leon slotted his face into the crook of his neck. "Even when you're at your weakest, you're still a worthy officer. You always are."

A tender hand found its way to the back of Leon's head.

"No, Monsieur Bonaparte," d'Arc rumbled. "You're only human."

Leon pulled his waist closer.

"Therefore," another arm circled below Leon's shoulders. "Think of nothing, and let yourself go."

The dark fabric of d'Arc's coat masked tear tracks left behind by Leon. And like their meeting in the café, tonight, too, will just be another memory.

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"Win this war for me, Bonaparte." Sebastian clasped Leon's hands before they carried him home. "We'll meet again in Paris when this is all over."

Leon promised to write to him often. He wasn't sure about the doctor; Saint-Germain was quiet when he informed Leon of Sebastian's potential discharge.

"At least, back home, he won't have to worry about losing his life," The doctor had murmured with a thin smile.

Leon found d'Arc outside the hospital not much later, and he was holding several stalks of lilies to his chest.

"He was finally freed from this pain this morning," d'Arc stuttered. "Will you accompany me?"

Both men stepped out into the stale air of morning side by side.

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The following nights brought forth desires within Leon he’d never expected.

Long before their parting, Leon would dream of a soft mouth trailing kisses down his chest before finally enveloping his member. 

Hazel eyes would gaze at him with adoration, with love. And his fingers would tangle between imaginary light brown locks as she swallows.

Such dreams were no more, as the form beneath him shifts into something else. Soft curves turned into muscles and hard planes no different than his.

He'd dream of a broad chest on his back, supporting him as lean, nimble hands (sometimes gloved) wrung him dry. He'd seize the sturdy neck to claim thin lips as he hungered for air.

And sometimes, he'd be the one taken on silk sheets, his dark, steely eyes coming to life as he rutted into Leon, hard and fast.

Leon quietly cried Jehanne's name as he finished.

Then, the next morning, he'd wake up to soaked trousers, embarrassed, before he reached down to start all over again.

He didn't mention it in his letters to Sebastian.

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The months turned to years, and the years turned into a full decade. Another two, and Leon was almost a general.

And so was d'Arc, who, by some good fortune, nearly matched him in rank.

People changed too. Leon's teenage sweetheart was now following her husband to concerts in Vienna, a proud mother of two. 

Meanwhile, Sebastian and the good doctor had parted ways. He went on to Firenze with an up-and-coming painter (as Sebastian begrudgingly wrote in his letters). Sebastian remained content in Paris to continue studying History, his long-life pursuit before the draft.

Like her, Sebastian settled and soon grew a family. 

Meanwhile, Leon remained faithful to the Grande Armée, politely declining marriage offers and claiming he'd sworn his heart for the service of the motherland.

It wasn't so. Leon knew it deep in his heart.

The prolonged war never took away d'Arc from his side. Even as duty beckoned them from opposite sides of the country.

But there was always time to rendezvous during the holidays. Leon loved being at home among his siblings and mother, but he had also learned to cherish the few precious moments he shared with the colonel.

And it was on this chilly January evening where they sat by a hearth in their current base. Leon had learned not to offer the other wine to avoid repeating that one night almost a dozen seasons ago.

Leon chuckled. It seemed only yesterday that d'Arc was moaning about his brother and sister-in-law. Now, it was a secret they both shared in the open. 

Reminding him about the event was a joy to Leon. The colonel would cough and look away, while his ivory skin would be tinted a delicate pink.

"Your hard work will soon be rewarded, d'Arc." Leon sipped his drink. "Soon, they're going to promote your rank to general."

His companion silently pondered Leon's word as a hand covered his eyepatch. Even with a black cloth obscuring half his face, d'Arc was still as stunning as the day he rode into camp.

"I think," he finally spoke. "It's time for me to return home."

Leon jolted and nearly dropped his wine glass. Thankfully, d'Arc didn't notice, and Leon encouraged himself to ask:

"Are you sure about this?" Leon tried to mask the trembling in his voice. "There's still time to think. You don't want to regret your decision later."

Can't I convince you to stay?  

But the rare gleam in d'Arc's orb was resolute.

"I'm certain," he answered. "I've been away from my family for too long."

Napoleon nodded in silence. He grasped the velvet of his coat until his knuckles turned white.

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This time, it was Sebastian who sat across him in a homely Parisian café. It wasn't too far away from the university where Sebastian studied (and now taught). 

Leon had invited him out to talk, and without commenting on his sullen face, Sebastian passed him a black, palm-sized notebook.

There were names and addresses, as well as a piece of paper sticking between the pages.

Leon's hands trembled as he laid the damn thing on the table.

"But, Sebastian, this is—" He stammered. "How did you find this?"

"They kept me around for a while after they fitted my prosthetic leg," Sebastian tapped on his left knee. "Got some names and all sorts of blackmail material. That, right there, could have gotten our friend killed if I hadn't collected all those conscript letters."

Sebastian reached to pour Leon's cup more coffee as the latter flipped through the notebook.

"Unbelievable how the war made our bureaucracy so lenient," he commented, "Then again, the army has been benefitting of these loopholes,"

"Hmmm," Sebastian stirred his cup without purpose. "I don't think that's the right question to ponder at this very moment."

"What do you mean?"  Leon stared at Sebastian, his thumb involuntarily brushing the page beside which he found the paper.

"Go and see D'Arc, now that you've got the address," his gaze challenged Leon. "Wouldn't you like to see for yourself?"

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Cold was the morning she rode her father's horse from the stables. The frigid air of Domremy followed her to the training camp, to the battlefield, to the cities. It stayed with her as she sat at the loom, in a lonely spot by the window.

Jeanne silently caressed the cloth she'd abandoned before donning her father's gear. Her sister had finished it for her, and all that's left was to adorn it with gold needlework.

Embroidery had been one of her stronger suits, but now her calloused fingers were struggling to reacquaint herself with the needle's flow. It frustrated her immensely how things that were once familiar to her now felt foreign.

Like the dress she had exchanged for her decorated colonel's uniform.

But shedding her uniform was easy. Returning to her old, long-retired 'self' wasn’t. Jeanne couldn't abandon the way she used to walk at camp, her stern way of talking from when she was still barking commands, and the way she loomed imposingly over nervous neighbors.

Her armor had become one with her skin. 

Her family, surprisingly, was welcoming as she entered the threshold in her uniform. In the kitchen sat her father, whom she had never spoken a sentence to even through her letters.

And then he embraced her tightly, before weakly chiding her for riding to her supposed death. Then came her beloved Pierre, with his lovely children and comely wife.

Her sister noted how handsome she looked, even after she slipped into a newly bought linen gown. Her old smocks no longer fit her sinewy frame, and her new garb made Jeanne feel wrong looking at her own reflection.

These things took time to settle, as her first months in the military had taught her.

And then the shrill voice of Jeanne's sister pierced through the silence. She was tempted to rise and come out to scold her but refrained when she heard a male voice alongside Catherine's.

Jeanne recognized his voice, and her fingers curled tightly against the cloth in her lap.

It didn't take long before the footsteps reached her, and she kept herself from turning away to the window.

Still, a part of her urged Jeanne to stand and salute.

"At ease," the voice commanded. "I'm not here to arrest you."

Ah yes, she almost forgot. It was an offense that she'd done, wasn't it? The thought seeped into her dreams as she slept from inn to inn. But it disappeared the night she returned to bed, exhausted after such a long masquerade.

So, Jeanne looked at her hands, no longer looking like a woman's. She could hear Leon approaching, sensed him even as he dragged a seat to sit by her side.

Jeanne could no longer let the silence drape over them.

"I'm sorry," she breathed. "I fooled you. Have lied to you all these years...All for keeping my father and brother away from the war, if possible—"

But her general just burst laughing, alleviating and worsening her nerves at the same time.

"Sorry," he managed in between laughs. "I didn't expect it to be your natural voice."

Jeanne scowled, and for the first time, she looked at his face. Just as tired, but still very much the handsome captain who trained her years ago.

"Then again," Leon's laugh abated, and he was now looking at her properly for the first time. "You don't change much, do you?"

Jeanne hated how his eyes seemed to drill into her. She never felt this way when they were together in the army.

"I suppose not," she muttered. "I can't quite return to the girl who snuck out of the village on a mere whim."

"On a whim?"

"I had no confidence that I could survive the war," Jeanne confessed. "Let alone maintain the charade for nearly a decade. It was only by God's grace that I came along thus far."

Leon hummed.

"But you did it anyhow," he countered. "I don't think I've ever seen a braver soldier than you. You got more than you bargained for, and you breezed through it like it was nothing."

No.

There was the hollow socket where her right eye should have been and Gilles's bones, now resting in his family's mausoleum.

The medals and achievements were no compensation for the comrades she lost, for the times her courage faltered. And neither did they take away the emptiness that now settled in her heart.

Then Leon suddenly came, hopefully with answers to the questions remaining in Jeanne's mind every night before she finally dozed.

Napoleon watched as Jeanne gazed out the window. Beyond it was vast empty soil, ready to be tilled by the returning men.

They ask Daughter who's in her heart.

They ask Daughter who's in her mind.

But her mind was clean as a slate. 'Jean' was now resting, and the long slumbering 'Jeanne' was awake, taking his place. But she was the same Jehanne who wrestled with Pierre when they were little and eventually took up arms when he couldn't replace their father.

She chuckled. Perhaps for the first time in decades.

"What's so funny?" Leon asked. Oh right, he was still here.

"Ah, it's nothing. Forgive me," Jeanne turned to look back at Leon. "And you, Monsieur? You're blushing."

Jeanne only said that to get back at him and catch him off guard. But her cheeks, too, heated at the sight of him reddening. Bantering felt less...complicated when they had been brother-in-arms.

Some things did change, after all.

Leon cleared his throat. "Ah, zut." he cursed. "Sorry. This isn't going as I expected."

Jeanne smiled. So she wasn't treading into new territory alone.

"Will you accompany me, General?" She slowly moved from her seat. "We can stroll through the village as we talk."

"You don't have to call me General, uh—" he responded uneasily. "Mademoiselle d'Arc?"

"It's Jehanne," her one dark eye glinted. "Please call me Jehanne." 

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He stopped at a familiar bookstore, one he and Sebastian liked to frequent on breaks. Large yet cozy, and only sparsely crowded. It was the perfect sanctuary, and Leon grabbed a novel from the shelves to start reading.

But none of the words drew him in, and soon Leon put the book down to observe the other persons. One was particularly noticeable, a tall figure clad in a black shirt.

It was none other than Sergeant-Major d'Arc, flipping through a selection of leather-bound notebooks.

Jehanne, Leon gulped uneasily. Memories of gloved fingers stroking the nape of his neck resurfaced.

Leon (along with Sebastian and Saint-Germain) swore to pretend nothing happened to preserve the sergeant-major's dignity. The man in question himself woke up with no recollection of what transpired the previous night, and everything was back to usual.

But Leon's head was currently in a jumble, and it took him a while until he noticed that the other man had spotted him. 

Iolite eyes bore into emerald eyes, and Leon had never felt more vindicated in his entire life.

So he did what most sensible men would do, sweep it all under the rug and show your opponent your flashiest grin.

"D'Arc! What a coincidence!" he greeted. "You alone?"

D'Arc held his chosen notebook to his chest, a rosy-colored thing that didn't suit him. "Mm," he answered. "My friends are currently preoccupied....elsewhere, and I need to replace my old journal."

"Ah, so you're keeping a journal!" Leon exclaimed, only to scold himself because soldiers keep a journal nowadays and that it's an obvious thing to say. 

"Not for....reasons you might expect," D'Arc looked away. "I've been told that my writing is terrible. Gilles suggested I practice my cursive in a notebook."

The other man's bluntness never stopped being a surprise to Leon. "Ah."

They exited the store together, and Leon thought about following him for the entire day. Leon felt guilty for imposing himself on the man, but it was bound to be a long day, and he needed a distraction. 

Was it safe to assume he was close enough to Jehanne—D'Arc to take up his personal time? Soldiers don't usually grope their superiors when they're drunk.

It didn't hurt to ask, Leon thought. And his initial embarrassment was already long gone. "Seeing as we're both alone, why don't you accompany me? I can treat you if you like."

Leon could sense some slight hesitation on Jean's part.

"Fine," he muttered. "I don't see why not."

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D'Arc ended up following Leon throughout their entire excursion. The Sergeant-Major wasn't one for small talk, but Leon didn't mind the peace. 

He had to admit it was immensely refreshing to learn more about d'Arc. One, he was apparently skilled in sewing, and that he'd mended his own uniforms flawlessly. And second, he had as much interest in flower viewing as he did in testing weapons.

There were rumors about a soldier whose firearms expertise was unmatched and was second to none in swordsmanship. This mysterious soldier was said to swing his sword out in the open every morning without fail, even during midwinter.

The sharpshooter turned out to be d'Arc, who didn't seem to take much pride in his commendable habits. He even asked (insisted really) Leon to keep them a secret.

Even more blackmail material, Leon thought, amused.

But Leon felt some degree of affection for the innocent man, and something tugged his heartstrings when d'Arc marveled at the posh café they entered. There was probably none in his hometown, Leon wagered.

D'Arc, the humble man he was, refused everything else but water (Leon insisted he try the café’s renowned rose tea). And it wasn't until Leon ordered a plate of colorful macarons that the youth's interest was piqued.

And you said you're against sweets. Leon smiled as he took a bite of his own crêpe.

He was puzzled when d'Arc suddenly bent down and set a sheet of crumpled paper on the table. 

Leon's eyes widened in recognition but didn't immediately snatch the letter back into his pocket.

"Must have fallen when I took out some coins," Leon smiled. "Thank you, d'Arc. I didn't notice."

"I didn't read it," d'Arc whispered.

"I beg your pardon?"

But there was a tinge of redness on his cheeks, and the way d'Arc tried to bashfully hide his face was....was....

Darling. But damn the entire Grande Armée if Leon had to say it out loud. Last he checked, he had none of Sebastian’s inclination.

"Don't worry about it," Leon cleared his throat. "You've told me your secrets, and I showed you mine. It's alright."

D'Arc raised a thin eyebrow. Any other officer would've found the act insolent, but Leon wasn't just any officer.

He was a considerate officer. And a distraught one.

"I suppose I can't blame you for peeking then," Leon smiled wryly. "I should've kept my problems to myself. Put that letter back in my quarters or something,"

D'Arc listened calmly and took a sip of his tea.

"But maybe I'm just not capable enough to solve this one," Leon mumbled. "I'm never good at this.... at this sort of thing. She's always the one to go after me and make me sit down and....and talk. But we're far away from each other, and I'm at a loss on what to do."

Leon ran a hand through his black locks. He was crumbling in front of his subordinate, but it didn't matter. He trusted that d'Arc trusted him with his secrets, and that was grounds for confiding in the man, wasn't it?

And d'Arc's presence was calming, like a sturdy bastion amidst the whirlwind around Leon.

"We're drifting apart. My fiancé's got a fancy for this gentleman whom I had introduced sometime during the holiday. I can't entirely blame her," he continued. "He was elegant. Very charming, I might add. A bit standoffish, perhaps. But definitely attractive in every sense."

He straightened the creased letter over and over. 

"At least he can be by her side all the time," Leon toyed with his fork. "I never thought once that I'd be losing her. We've been friends together with Sebastian. I simply can't imagine the thought of us, well....not being together."

"I'm not supposed to leave this as it is. But," Leon's breath hitched. "I have too much on my plate right now. A part of me wished I could run away. I don't run from problems, I don't. But this? This is something completely new."

When Leon finally raised his head to look at d'Arc, the man was staring outside the window. 

Had Leon finally bored him?

"Choose your battles," d'Arc finally replied. "Be it at home or at the front."

D'Arc snatched a macaron and rotated it between his gloved fingers.

"I have no real experience in matters of the heart," he went on. "But you are a capable commander, Second Lieutenant Bonaparte. Even if you can't guarantee they'll eventually result in victory, you're always willing to see them through."

Leon listened to d'Arc, articulating his words like a saint. Do pious men all speak in tongues?

"Look," Leon countered delicately. "War and people are two very different things. You can't just think about...defeating the other person and be done with it."

Leon sighed. "Friendships may suffer, and hearts can break. I don't want to hurt her. I don't want to hurt...us."

"But does it hurt you?" D'Arc asked.

"Huh?"

"Does it hurt you?"

Leon laced his fingers on his lap. Did this cause him to lose sleep? Did it cost him hours of pondering whether the relationship had any hope of salvaging?

If the relationship was even worth salvaging?

"I'm not sure," Leon breathed. "I still love her. Very much. But I'm afraid I won't be getting much rest if I let this on any longer."

"Good," D'Arc nodded. "You can't fight a war while having...troubles from home lingering at the back of your head."

"Troubles?" Leon couldn't help but ask.

"My father," D'Arc confided. "I haven't spoken to my father since I left home. From the letters my brother Pierre sent to me, it seemed he hasn't quite forgiven me for departing."

"I see," it was a fairly common problem among recruits, especially those as young as d'Arc when he enlisted. 

To some, it sustained their will to survive the wars and come home. The less fortunate ones, however...

The coffee tasted bitter on Leon's tongue. D'Arc had to survive, and so did the other countless young men under his wing. Their wings.

Napoleon chuckled. Funny how he was moaning about his love life a moment ago. And now, he was concerned for the younger man's personal struggles.

Friends, eh?

"Is something the matter?" D'Arc tilted his head, exposing a swath of his slightly tanned neck. He had become less paler over the years, Leon noticed. 

"It's nothing," Leon ceased his chuckling. "Tell me more about your family, then, d'Arc."

His chest now felt a little lighter, and Leon decided he'd deal with the letter in the evening. For now, he was content listening to d'Arc talking about the mysterious Pierre and his hometown.

Twilight came, and Leon finally found his courage to write to his fiancé and ask about Herr Mozart.

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"So things didn't go well between both of you," Sebastian confronted Leon one day over coffee.

"I didn't— I haven't told you. How did you know?" Had Leon been too obvious? Or was it Sebastian's uncanny ability to read people?

"She's been writing to me, too. You both broke off the engagement pretty neatly, I must say," Sebastian sipped his mug. "You even wrote to her parents and told your mother. How gentlemanly of you."

Leon was wary of the tone in Sebastian's voice.

"But you didn't even tell me, your friend of ten years!" He hissed. "I thought you know better, Napoleon Bonaparte!"

"I'm sorry," Leon answered sheepishly. "I wasn't sure how to go about the entire issue, even when it was just between the two of us. I wanted to talk to you, but everything was resolved quicker than I expected."

Sebastian's lip thinned. "Congratulations,"

Outside, the wind was roaring, and mist descended upon the camp. 

"So," the grey-haired man clapped his hands. "You're free to pursue whoever you like then."

His friend's abrupt change of demeanor baffled him. "I've just broken things off with my childhood sweetheart. Is a man not allowed to rest?"

"Ah, but she already left you for another man. All while you were moping," Sebastian pointed out, "I'm not telling you to take revenge or anything. But I can see you've already sorted things out in that department."

"I have absolutely no idea what you mean," Leon retorted.

"You've got your eyes on somebody," Sebastian waved his hand. "Nothing can escape me, Bonaparte. Don't think I've been unaware."

"There is absolutely nobody," Leon swore. "I've not met with another woman for ages, and you know that."

Sebastian stepped forward and flicked Leon on the forehead.

"So is that what you prefer, Bonaparte?" The man grabbed Napoleon's shoulders, practically shouting in his face. "Lanky, quiet youths with narrow eyes?"

"I-I don't follow," Leon rubbed his forehead. That flick stung!

"So, you like them beautiful? Okay, I can see why!" The other man continued his rant, "Was I too manly for you? How come you're suddenly paying attention to other men when I'm already with Saint-Germain?"

"The fuck are you even talking about." Leon had all but lost Sebastian at this point.

Sebastian finally released his hold on Leon, who stared bewildered at his best friend.

"You said you had no interest in men when I confessed to you," Sebastian closed in on Leon. "But you're eyeballing Sergeant-Major D'Arc all the time."

It finally dawned on Leon that Sebastian was referring to their budding relationship. Their strictly platonic relationship.

"Is that what you're thinking?" Leon gulped. "Nothing more than brotherly affection. Yes, that's it."

But the slate-colored eyes only narrowed at him skeptically.

"Oh, I give up! I accidentally consulted him about her letters, okay?" Leon gave in. "I admit that's rather private considering I haven't known him for long, but he shared his secrets too, alright? I wasn't the only one airing my dirty laundry out in the open."

Sebastian stared down at him silently.

"What?" Leon frowned. "Are you jealous or something?"

But he was instead met with laughter from the other man. There was a mischievous glint in his eyes.

"No, at this point, no." Sebastian giggled. "I have my man, and you get yours. You're free to come crying to me whenever your relationship with d'Arc goes south, though. Consider we're even after keeping me in the dark about your breakup."

"Incomprehensible as always, Adjutant Second Officer." Napoleon squinted his eyes.

"Go at him while it's still eager, then," Sebastian brandished his mug exaggeratedly. "You're not the only one doing the ogling, you know."

"What—" but he was left hanging as Sebastian opened the tent flap and went outside. 

"Time is of the essence, Bonaparte!" The man shouted. "Good hunting, I say!"

Napoleon was left in the empty tent with another headache.

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Leon wondered if there was a sliver of truth in Sebastian's words.

God only graced his most beautiful angels, and d'Arc was one amongst throes of monsters in uniforms.

Some joked that he was a sort of holy man, sent by God from the provinces to aid the Grande Armée in its lowest point. Others say he was, in fact, a he-witch who could not die and could not be grazed by any bullet or sword.

He was a lucky bastard, Leon concluded. A lucky bastard who also happened to be a living embodiment of beauty.

D’arc was perfect in many ways that Leon and his men couldn't be. He was pious, educated despite his origins, and had no interest in women whatsoever. 

The sergeant-major was kind to nurses and milkmaids they met while passing villages, yes. But he was also known to fly into an unexpected rage when he discovered his lads were smuggling wenches into camp.

When teased why he didn't just volunteer to be a standard-bearer, d'Arc simply answered, "You men wouldn't survive a day without me behind the cannons."

It wasn't ambition, Leon noticed. Some men just found their purpose after escaping death after five battles despite no real hope of staying long upon entering the camp.

"I wager he's just horribly repressed," Sebastian joked one evening over wine. "Hey, maybe you'd get a chance with him. With those types, you never know!"

Leon thought of nothing when his best friend suddenly confessed that he harbored feelings for him, back when they were only with the army for six months. He kept mum when he learned Sebastian was visiting their blond doctor after hours and only coming back before dawn.

Hell, Leon himself was been looking forward to a quiet life with his fiancé and their children, back in Paris. He also never expected to be left to continue his life in the barracks, tending to an empty heart and a never ending war.

At least, there was now a face to look for after the smoke cleared.

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"We only had to amputate one of his legs. He'll make it through the night. I guarantee he survived." Saint-Germain's words rang in Leon's ears as he weaved through hordes of medics.

He didn't find Sebastian immediately after they retreated. And now he knew the reason why.

The ward smelled of soiled linen and painkillers. It was a miracle that they found a makeshift hospital nearby, a university building filled with rows of beds and better supplies than what they were used to having out in the fields.

Leon found Sebastian on a bed near the window. There was an empty space where the left leg should have been.

Leon scrambled to grasp at his pale hand, thankfully still warm. Yet the man barely stirred, even as the afternoon light streamed in and hit his bandaged face.

"Sebastian...." Leon whispered, "Can you hear me?"

But the man didn't. The morphine was potent, and Leon was left to stare blankly at his best friend's prone body. 

Nurses came and went, and more soldiers were wheeled in. The clamor inside the infirmary was constant, but Leon was deaf to everything but the slightest rustle from Sebastian's paralyzed form.

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The haughty farmboy turned out to be one of his cadets in the artillery. 

He wasn't half-bad, Leon supposed. The boy was clearly a quick study and obedient, to boot. Somewhat distant from his fellow trainees, but still handy nonetheless.

D'Arc clearly preferred the company of horses, as Leon came to learn when he found the latter loitering around the stables. The unwitting boy was gingerly brushing Leon's beloved mare, Angé.

Napoleon cleared his throat. "You do know it's my horse you're brushing, don't you, soldier?"

Jean d'Arc started at the sound of Leon's voice. Even so, he didn't stutter. "Forgive me. I hadn't been aware."

But Napoleon signaled him to stay at ease, seeing how easily Angé leaned into his touch. No doubt a skill he brought from home. 

"I couldn't resist approaching such a magnificent horse," d'Arc spoke to Leon's surprise. "Such a gentle steed."

“Tame” wasn't the right word Leon would use when describing Angé, especially not regarding how she'd usually react to new faces. "Did you bribe her with a carrot?"

Leon was joking, but Jean answered him like his entire month's salary depended on his answer. "No, sir. It was an apple I offered instead. Although this time, I had been meaning to give her a carrot." The dark-haired youth answered, holding out a spindly carrot for Leon to inspect.

Napoleon couldn't help but chuckle. "I hope you didn't steal that from the kitchen."

"No, sir. I procured this out of my own pocket." Jean replied earnestly as if the dark brown mare wasn't trying to chew on his uniform shoulder.

It was dangerous for Napoleon to allow himself to laugh. There was no stopping him once he laughed, Sebastian once said. In the end, Leon only smirked and turned to exit the stables. "If I had known you were this skillful at handling horses, I would have turned you over to Cavalry instead."

There was a solemn glint in d'Arc's eyes, one Napoleon couldn't find in himself to ridicule. 

"I enjoy being in the artillery, sir." Sharp, once-glazed iolite eyes held Leon's gaze. "There is so much I have yet to learn."

And master, Leon wanted to add. Given time and the opportunity, it's intelligent men like d'Arc who were quick to advance in the military.

"Is that so? Good to hear." Leon replied, just as sincere. "We're glad to have you."

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True to Leon's word, d'Arc scaled the ranks in no time. He was promoted to Sergeant Major, just as Leon himself rose to Second Lieutenant.

It had been a snowy night when Leon and the now-Adjutant Sebastian were making their way to their temporary base, located not too far from the town’s business district. The streets were relatively quiet, save for the distant jeers and shouts of soldiers making merry in brightly lit taverns.

The lanterns reminded Leon of Paris, of home. Of the face of his mother and siblings.

And of his fiancé with strawberry blonde locks, who is no doubt currently enjoying the holidays with her family, waiting for him to arrive home.

"Everybody seems quite spirited, aren't they?" Sebastian smiled fondly. "I mean, literally.

Napoleon didn't answer. He was too absorbed watching black figures dance on the light pouring from the door of a tavern. They reminded him of a shadow play he watched once in Paris with his fiancé

Which meant he was caught off guard when a body was flung to his side from the open door. He struggled to maintain his footing as he propped the other man.

Only to be met by a familiar face, now flushed red from drinking.

"D'Arc!" Leon exclaimed, "You frightened me! Are you alright, man?"

Judging from the sweat clinging to his skin (despite it being midwinter) and his vehement groans, it became evident that d'Arc was far from alright.

They were soon joined by d'Arc's friends: fellow officers whom Leon quickly recognized as the three young nobles who constantly hung around the farm boy for some reason.

"Jean! Where are you— ack, Second Lieutenant Bonaparte! Forgive us! We didn't mean to—" One of the lads shrieked. What was his name? d'Alencon? "See, see? This is why we shouldn't have forced him to drink!"

Leon glared at his subordinates. "You made your friend overdrink?! Why?"

Sebastian glanced back-and-forth anxiously as a burly man with raven hair stepped forward. "We didn't mean to, sir. D'Arc's birthday is approaching, and we thought about celebrating since we may not be able to get off camp by then." He explained.

"D'arc birthday? Oof!" Leon grunted as he felt Jean slipping from his side and onto the cobblestones. "That is still no reason to make your friend this intoxicated. If this were the barracks, I'd have all of you thrown out and never mind your parents!" he barked. 

D'Alencon piped up. "It was a small pint, sir. Jean went down immediately after that one shot."

Leon's bewilderment was cut short as he felt d'Arc's breath caressing the side of his exposed neck. The Second Lieutenant nearly yelped and threw d’Arc off if it wasn’t for the vice-like grip on his waist.

"If you'd allow us, sir." Another dark-haired youth approached to pry d'Arc off Leon. "We'll take him back inside."

But d'Arc's iron hold on Leon proved too much for both men (three, as Sebastian rushed to their aid). Napoleon let out a defeated laugh as d'Arc only clung tighter to his victim. 

Sebastian eyed Napoleon with a look that said well, he's your problem now.

The unconscious d' Arc somehow managed to climb even higher and grunted audibly against Leon's ear. The sound sent shivers down Leon's spine.

"So, what do we do now?" d'Alencon asked.

"Get him to the base," Leon breathed laboriously. "Let Saint-Germain treat him."

It was overkill for a drunk soldier, but d'Arc was no ordinary drunk. Leon feared the inebriated youth might get himself into trouble if they let him loiter outside the base

And, God forbid, do something that will besmirch their corps' name.

Leon looped one of d'Arc's arms behind his neck as he held the sergeant-major's ridiculously thin waist close. "Leave this to us. We're taking him back to the Doctor. Don't try anything else and report to me in the morning." He informed the officers, all of whom reacted differently: d'Alencon with wide panicked eyes, the tall, dark man who stayed silent (he was clearly drunk), and the quiet one, who regarded the commotion with well, silence.

"We'll take it from here then," Sebastian hurriedly added. "If you'll excuse us, gentlemen."

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It didn't take long before the trio finally reached the base. By now, Leon had resorted to piggybacking d'Arc as the latter suddenly seemed to have lost every bone in his (surprisingly light body).

"Friends, they say." Leon heaved. "And they don't even accompany us back to base."

"There's not much to do at the base if they choose to return," Sebastian answered. "And they're still afraid of you."

"Me? Do I still come off as threatening?" Leon laughed. It felt like ages since he last barked orders on the field to the then-recruits. Now, they were officers with a third of his burden and responsibilities.

Someday, they'd be in his shoes too, growing older as the never ending war raged on. Ah, how time flew.

"Not as my long-time friend, no." Sebastian giggled. "You don't often show your friendlier side these days. Imagine your subordinate's shock if they found out you're a charismatic, passionate man who laughs, eats, and speaks as if every moment was a gift."

Napoleon smiled at the dove-haired man.

"So, like a normal man?" He chuckled. "You flatter me too much, Sebastian."

It was the increasing body count. It was the uncertainty one faced before heading off to battle, and not knowing whether it would be their remains that would be scattered across the fields the next minute.

"At least you're with me from the start, Sebastian. That's all I could ask,"

was all Napoleon could manage. It elicited a hearty laugh from his best friend.

"Save those words for your fiancé, Monsieur Bonaparte," Sebastian grinned. "You're making me fall for you all over again."

The Corsican grimaced, and both men continued their walk through the military complex, which was dead silent as a cemetery.

They managed to reach d'Arc's quarters, which he shared with d'Alencon after clambering through several corridors and a flight of stairs.

"You, get Saint-Germain or anybody else who's still around." Leon panted after he successfully hoisted d'Arc's body onto the bed. "Remember, time of the essence. No fooling around with the good doctor."

"Didn't expect you to say that," Sebastian grinned. "But you can count on me."

"You, get Saint-Germain or anybody else who's still around." Leon panted after he successfully hoisted d'Arc's body onto the bed. "Remember, time of the essence. No fooling around with the good doctor."

"Didn't expect you to say that," Sebastian grinned. "But you can count on me. I’ll be right back." And with that, he disappeared.

If he were shameless, Leon would have joined d'Arc on the bed beside him. But not even exhaustion could conquer the Corsican, and so Leon sat straight-legged by the foot of the bed. 

D'Arc's side of the room was as bare as bones, Leon noticed. There was the Holy Book on the bedside drawer and a gold rosary, but not much else.

"I wonder what your family would think if they caught their good, Christian son drinking until he's plastered." Leon chuckled to himself. "You'd be in so much trouble."

Leon's idle hand groped around until he felt a piece of paper under his palm. Picking it up, he recognized it as a manual on newly produced cannon types, which he penned.

Around the illustrations and diagrams were d'Arc's chicken-foot scribbles, cramped next to each other until there was barely any space left on the paper.

Like his former fellow cadets, he too had grown.

Leon sighed and leaned against the bed, gazing at the ceiling. This year marked d'Arc's third New Year with the company. He was no longer the solitary boy hanging around the stables feeding Angé carrots. D'Arc was now a man with dozens of cannons under his command and his own soldiers to lead.

The war has yet to strip his innocence, Leon mused. There was a time when he wished farm boys like d'Arc remained boys, away from the dangers of shrapnels and enemy bayonets.

His thoughts were interrupted when he felt gloved hands coming to grope at the back of his head, the sides of his face. Was d'Arc awake?

"D'Arc." Leon turned. "You—"

He was cut off when he was suddenly knocked down towards the floor with full force. Leon's head was full of how and why he felt d'Arc's body slide down from the bed and cover his.

"D'Arc!" Leon shouted frantically. "Get off me! You're heavy, for heaven's sake!" But resistance was futile as d'Arc began to boldly crawl all over his prone form, the former's chest firmly pressing down on his back. 

"K-keep still," The man on top of him slurred, his nose burrowing into Leon's hair. "Y-you're moving too much."

This idiot! Leon screamed internally. His energy had been wasted to the point where he couldn't just roll over and dislodge the other man. "You keep it together! You dared to tackle your Second Lieutenant, and now you're crushing him to death!"

Leon continued struggling against his predicament until he realized he had no more hope than a cockroach flipped on its back. In the end, he gave up and stopped thinking until slender fingers began to wander all over his neck and face.

Just like a banshee with her clawed hands. Leon sighed to himself. 

Just when he thought nothing could surprise him anymore, d'Arc somehow had to whisper right next to his face, hot air grazing against the shell of Leon's ear.

"Pierre, 's that you?"

Leon's prior mortification faded. There was the smallest hint of a sob in d'Arc's otherwise unwavering voice.

"Pierre, 'm so sorry." D'Arc sniffled. "I went ahead without telling you." 

Leon stilled. Who was Pierre? His brother? He remembered d'Arc mentioning male siblings who were unfit to enlist, so he went in their stead. Was this Pierre one of them?

"Dun want you to go," D'Arc continued. "Please...be happy with Émile."

Leon was an imaginative man, and he was convinced d'Arc had taken his brother's place as he had been newly married. It was easy to position himself in the situation. If he were d'Arc, he'd go in place of his brother too.

But his career in the military as a second was a given. What he didn't understand was why d'Arc would trade a peaceful life in the pastures for bloodshed.

It's not every day that a boy woke up and decided he was brave enough to kill a man. Or risk getting himself killed.

But none of it mattered as more words flowed out of the Sergeant Major's mouth.

His thoughts were interrupted when he felt gloved hands coming to grope at the back of his head, the sides of his face. Was d'Arc awake?

"D'Arc." Leon turned. "You—"

He was cut off when he was suddenly knocked down towards the floor with full force. Leon's head was full of how and why he felt d'Arc's body slide down from the bed and cover his.

"D'Arc!" Leon shouted frantically. "Get off me! You're heavy, for heaven's sake!" But resistance was futile as d'Arc began to boldly crawl all over his prone form, the former's chest firmly pressing down on his back. 

"K-keep still," The man on top of him slurred, his nose burrowing into Leon's hair. "Y-you're moving too much."

This idiot! Leon screamed internally. His energy had been wasted to the point where he couldn't just roll over and dislodge the other man. "You keep it together! You dared to tackle your Second Lieutenant, and now you're crushing him to death!"

Leon continued struggling against his predicament until he realized he had no more hope than a cockroach flipped on its back. In the end, he gave up and stopped to think until slender fingers began to wander all over his neck and face.

Just like a banshee with her clawed hands. Leon sighed.

Just when he thought nothing could surprise him anymore, d'Arc somehow had to whisper right next to his face, hot air grazing against the shell of Leon's ear.

"Pierre, 's that you?"

Leon's prior mortification faded. There was the smallest hint of a sob in d'Arc's otherwise unwavering voice.

"Pierre, 'm so sorry." D'Arc sniffled. "I went ahead without telling you." 

Leon stilled. Who was Pierre? His brother? He remembered d'Arc mentioning male siblings who were unfit to enlist, so he went in their stead. Was this Pierre one of them?

"Dun want you to go," D'Arc continued. "Please...be happy with Émile."

Leon was an imaginative man, and he was convinced d'Arc had taken his brother's place as he had been newly married. It was easy to position himself in the situation. If he were d'Arc, he'd go in place of his brother too.

But his career in the military as a second was a given. What he didn't understand was why d'Arc would trade a peaceful life in the pastures for bloodshed.

It's not every day that a boy woke up and decided he was brave enough to kill a man. Or risk getting himself killed.

In place of sobs spilling from his mouth, d'Arc's nose dug even deeper against the nape of Leon's neck. What worrying behavior, Leon thought. Other people will be sure to take this the wrong way.

"D'Arc? No, Jean?" Leon called softly, wondering if calling the soldier by his given name would work better. "Jean, I need you to—"

"Jehanne," d'Arc murmured.

"What?"

"It's Jehanne. Not Jean, not...d'Arc. Jehanne." D’Arc repeated as if his own name were a litany. The added syllable lent more personality to his unremarkable official name, given to a million men across the country.

And shaped a clearer image of Jean d'Arc as a whole, a person.

It wasn't much but enough to distinguish him from the lonely d'Arc who was no longer alone. And from the resigned beauty who seemed more at home on the distant moon than the lines of cannons and armed men.

God, Leon was starting to sound delirious. Even more than the actual drunk on his back.

"Excuse me, I believe someone requested medical help — oh dear, I didn't mean to interrupt!" a voice alerted Leon from his reflection. He noticed Saint-Germain by the door, followed by a disheveled Sebastian.

"Good evening, Doctor. You sure took your time coming here," Leon smirked. "Would you kindly free me from Sergeant Major d'Arc? Careful, he bites."

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Recommended BGM: (X)

Notes: yeaaa, so I changed the nature of Napo and Sebas’ relationship here because they’re supposed to be more or less equals (Sebas still thinks of him as his superior, but still). 

Vlad chuckled as the fox crept under its master's chair with no care for the grieving youth. The little devil proceeded to devour its prey with its back turned, oblivious to Charles' dismay at the loss of his companion-turned-fox-fodder.

Charles nearly forgot their previous exchange until Vlad called the young man back to attention. "So, I take it you intend to woo Sister Joanna?"

Charles gave no reply as his green eyes stared at the flickering ember.

"I don't think that's entirely right," He wiped a hand over his sunken face. "There's just...something about Sister Joanna that makes you curious about her. But she seems to be very secretive of her circumstances, and I'm not sure if tailing her around is the right thing to do."

"You're blushing," Vlad observed. "Ah, to be young and full of love."

Charles let out a sigh at his insistence.

"Well, no." Charles defended himself. "She's a charming woman, a capable one too. But I'm leaving just before the end of spring, and Sister Joanna... well, she doesn't strike me as someone interested in men or any sort of close companionship. Faust said she wasn't part of the convent, but the way she conducts herself convinces me otherwise."

"Awfully blunt, aren't you." Vlad drawled. "Well, she must have said the same."

Charles's cheeks turned beet red. He contemplated excusing himself and leaving for his room to avoid further questioning from the kibitzing innkeeper.

"But to answer your question, yes and no." Vlad set aside his handiwork as he welcomed the cold-blooded beast onto his lap. "You'd think she's the sort to devote her services in the name of God. I don't blame you. You see her praying by the statue all the time."

"But to my knowledge, nobody has ever seen her step into the church, and if Faust's words are anything to go by," He scratched the yawning animal between its ears. "She was apparently married at some point."

"Married?" Charles's shock stifled an oncoming yawn. Now, this was news. "So she has a family? Where are they now?"

Vlad's ruby-colored eyes were solemn as he watched his pet blithely gnawing his fingers.

"Who knows?" the pale-haired man murmured. "The doctor and the nuns mentioned that her husband died because of war."

A widow. Charles swallowed as he remembered their first exchange at the town square. She was praying for her own departed husband.

" But that matters little to us now, yes? You know what they say about her. Sister Joanna does what she likes " Vlad declared merrily. "If I were you, I'd respect her wishes and keep my nose out of her business too."

While freely putting your nose in mine, Charles thought. It was a shame. Although he'd suspected from the start that no woman of Sister Joanna's age and standing would deign herself to his company, a doctor from the Capital still wet behind the ears.

She must have witnessed enough of the world through that eye.

But Charles was a straightforward, insistent young man. Nothing would stop him from approaching the inscrutable dame, not as a suitor, but as a friend. Sister Joanna seemed to need one —someone other than the morose town doctor and the erratic innkeeper ex-possible fugitive.

An exhilarating warmth bloomed inside Charles's heart as he pondered on the countless outcomes his little project would bring.

"It matters very little whoever resides in her heart, husband, or God," Vlad concluded. "A woman is as good as holy by merit of her own virtue and devotion to her role."

True to Vlad and Faust's words, Charles never saw Sister Joanna within the church's halls on the rare occasion he did join the congregation.

It made Charles all the more surprised when he looked down to see her sitting in the abbey's courtyard one balmy afternoon. She was accompanied by two other people, whose faces were unfamiliar to Charles.

Their attire suggested they were aristocrats. Charles guessed the guests — a man with pearly hair and a woman with long strawberry blond waves — must have arrived from the Capital or another distant city.

Sister Joanna laughed with ease as she chatted with her companions. It sounded wonderfully pleasant and foreign to the young doctor's ears.

This is the first time I've seen her look so chipper. Charles decided to observe the trio, admiring the changes in Sister Joanna's marred features.

It took a while before the trio finally parted. Then the gentlemen shoved a rectangular object into Sister Joanna's hand, and she fell apart.

She enveloped him in a tight embrace, and the man cradled her head as she buried her face in his neck. The other woman didn't seem to be bothered. Just as gently, she approached the hugging couple and caressed Sister Joanna's mauve locks.

Charles felt indecent for spying at their affectionate display. He distanced himself from the stone balusters and went on his way. He needed to look for Doctor Faust.

Charles couldn't banish the image of Sister Joanna, smiling and weaving her fingers with the woman. How often did the nuns in this abbey see her in such a state?

Well, whatever. Charles brushed his face with the sleeves of his coat. It doesn't concern me.

Vlad's words continued to echo as Charles struggled to locate the ill-mannered doctor's whereabouts and resume his business.

They went together in early March. Charles had already been drained of his initial excitement when Sister Joanna suggested he accompany her on her annual flower painting.

He went anyway, unanswered questions and the image of Sister Joanna with the two strangers still fresh and lingering on his mind.

"Poppies? " Charles exclaimed, as Sister Joanna handed him a bag of black and brown seeds. "Not lilies?"

"I thought of doing something different this time around." She quipped. "They should yield magnificent red blossoms come August."

The couple spoke no more until midday. Sister Joanna invited Charles to sit with her under the shade of a nearby tree. They shared between them a bundle filled with sourdough bread and cheese.

"But I'm honestly surprised. I didn't think that I'd be here, planting poppies. With you, I mean," Charles spoke between bites. "I was expecting it to be lilies or roses. If you were going for red, I imagined that you'd be going for roses."

Roses fit you better nearly slipped out of Charles' mouth if not for Joanna's trenchant eye silencing him.

"No particular reason," she whispered, her gaze turning to that of the fields they had just cultivated. "But, maybe, it was our encounter at the statue that led me."

"I beg your pardon?"

Sister Joanna sighed and wiped away the beads of sweat gathering on her brow. Even as perspiration drenched her entire face, she still refused to part with the damned eyepatch.

"Red poppies are often considered a symbol of remembrance for the war dead," she began. "There are tales of blood-red flowers growing near the bodies of fallen soldiers."

A breeze tousled her chopped locks, and Charles marveled at how they shone under the sunlight trickling through the foliage.

"Even on what were once barren wastelands such as these," Charles followed her gaze, "Now they name it the Lily Hills."

How apt. "If it wasn't for your hard work planting those lilies every year, it wouldn't have reached this state. On your own, no less!"

"I'm humbled," Charles could see the ghost of a smile playing on her lips. "It's the least an old woman like me can do."

"You're not that old." Charles blabbed. "Wait, are you?"

Ah, again with the inane questions. Rein it in, can't you, Charles?

But Sister Joanna merely smiled, as if it was an overzealous puppy she was dealing with and not a grown man.

"I don't believe I've ever told you," she answered wistfully. "I'm turning thirty-six this year."

Oh.

"Well," Charles hoped Sister Joanna was looking elsewhere for fear of her noticing his embarrassment. "You certainly don't look that old."

Charles prayed that the Earth would swallow him right then and there. No wonder Vlad's assuming I'm courting her. What is it about her that has me unraveled so effortlessly? She —

"I'm flattered." Her answer was curt if a bit hesitant. "Most would take me for a gnarled hag."

Charles willed the exchange to die as he diverted all his attention back to his meal. Most of their work was finished. They could return to town soon. And Charles would be allowed reprieve in the sanctuary of his room.

Sanctuary. Charles' mind flashed back to that day in the abbey, to an image of Faust, the nuns, to Sister Joanna and her elegant companions.

And then, there was the gold-plated cameo locket dangling from Sister Joanna's neck by a long chain. It made quite the sight, nestling against the fabric of Sister Joanna's sable robe.

He began noticing the locket's existence after the spectacle in the courtyard. A parting gift from her friends, perhaps?

"That's a beautiful locket. My mother sometimes wears them back at home on special occasions," Charles dared himself to ask.  "Although hers usually have profiles of beautiful ladies on them. This is the first time I've seen one adorned with a flower."

On the surface of Joanna's locket were ivory roses against an obsidian background.

"I'm not one for icons and such," She sheepishly ran a thumb over the carvings. "I thought my husband would think my preference to be nonsense, but he listened anyhow."

This is the first time I've heard Sister Joanna's mention her husband. "Not lilies?' He joked.

"My husband preferred roses. Not that I complained," Sister Joanna replied matter-of-factly. "He did as he liked."

There was not a hint of sentiment in her voice. Maybe Charles was wrong. Maybe Sister Joanna just didn't think much of her deceased husband. Charles was a fool, for thinking Sister Joanna regarded him enough as a close friend that she was willing to divulge her secrets.

"Was it given to you by your friends in the courtyard?" Charles clutched his sister's handkerchief. How the question had possessed him for so long!

Charles thought that his candidness would earn him her retaliation. Instead, Sister Joanna slumped back against the bark and closed her eye.

"So you saw me," she sighed dolefully. "They're....old friends from Belvedere. The woman was my subordinate in the Order of the Maid, and her husband was a musician I came to know in the capital. I was the one to first introduce them to each other, in fact."

"Oh, that's so sweet." Charles was reminded of how affectionate the couple was to the old widow. "Wait! Did you say the Order of the Maid? You never told me you're a Maid!"

The Order of the Maid was an all-female military unit said to have been formed during the middle ages. Its members, consisting strictly of unmarried young women, were mostly drafted from the peasantry and nobility alike. Under the aegis of the Church, it grew to nearly five thousand strong. 

Charles had listened to his mother's tales of women on stallions defending her village's borders and riding out to meet invaders sent forth by the neighboring Monarchy.

It was a shame their nation never considered letting them serve alongside the men beyond the Empire's borders. We can't have our country's most exquisite treasures meeting their early doom, Charles once heard a grizzled colonel remark.

He was the very few who wished the Emperor's appraisal towards the Order during their debut at the Capital's annual military parade was more than empty praise.

Then again...

"You seem rather excited," Charles nearly lost himself to his thoughts that he didn't realize Joanna had shuffled closer. "What of the Maids?"

Charles could feel his childhood fantasies coming to life, free of the malaise brought upon by years of warring and adulthood. "My mother adores and admires them greatly. I grew up listening to her stories about the Maids of her youth and how she wished she could join their ranks."

"I used to admire them. And I still do now," Charles beamed. "Very much so. No wonder you could carry all those boxes the first time we met. And your knowledge of weapons? That's spectacular. I don't think I've had the pleasure of meeting any other woman with such skills."

"You just haven't met with enough women," she deadpanned.

Ouch. "Anyway, I'm glad I met you. I never once dreamed that I'd be talking to a Maid, in the flesh! My mother would be ecstatic. I can't wait to write to her about our encounter!"

"Fiery, aren't you." Sister Joanna huffed. "There's not much you can glean from an old maid like me."

Charles wasn't entirely sure if Sister Joanna was intending to joke or if she realized she'd made a pun at all. Either way, Charles poured himself another glass of water and downed it in one gulp.

"So, how long did you serve within the Order?"

Sister Joanna removed her gloves, revealing lithe fingers with burn scars coiling around each of them. She pocketed the gloves, and Charles couldn't decide whether it was deliberate on her part.

"For long as I can remember," she answered. "There was a time when I thought there was no more to life beyond God and the Order."

"And now?"

"I betrayed both," she ran her bare fingers down the cold comfort of her chain. "And gave in to a man and his fantastic pursuits."

Charles nodded. She doesn't sound too different from Mother.

"Was it as they say?" he went off with his curiosity. "Did they teach you to shoot guns on horseback? Did you help victims of floods and landslides? Ride with the Emperor in the Anniversary parade?"

Her eyes widened in overwhelm. "One at a time," she admonished. "I never thought you'd be this eager."

Charles settled against the bark with arms crossed behind his head. "Of course! I was in the Capital when they joined the Emperor's parade. How old was I? 12? 13?" He grinned like a schoolboy as he did that fateful morning. "I saw the Empress!”

"The Empress," Sister Joanna curled her lips, her leer indecipherable. Her strange turn in countenance subdued Charles.

Am I imagining things? “I mean, that was before she became Empress.” He smiled bashfully despite his discomfiture. “I never missed seeing her at the Parades. I believe I was 10 when I started watching her, way before she became High Commander and began riding at the front just behind the Emperor's carriage.”

"High Commander...." Sister Joanna murmured. "A sumptuous name for what is merely a decorative pawn."

"No, it isn't!" Charles whirled around to face his elder companion. Had he not realized Sister Joanna was a woman of different standing, Charles would have launched upon her and grabbed hold of her shoulders. "Whatever other people say about her, I think she's incredible! She'd been working hard to reach that position, and not a single soul can diminish that fact!"

"That so," Sister Joanna chuckled. Chuckled? "I take it you were one of the broken-hearted lads who cried upon hearing her marriage to the Emperor?"

"I didn't," Charles' flushed face burned a deeper shade of scarlet. "Okay, so I did. But I'm positive I'm not the only one!"

A satisfied smile graced Sister Joanna's lips. It was such a rare sight that Charles wished he could draw well that he could forever commit it on solid paper and not just his fleeting memory.

In that very brief moment, Charles could see the traces of Sister Joanna's younger self, a gallant soldier in the Maids' sleek white uniform, to be yet unsullied by the corrupted realities of the Empire.

Maybe she wasn't too far off about the horrors of leaving the Order and getting married. Ordinary life isn't as peachy compared to their glittering adventure-filled lives, come to think of it.

But neither is facing real battles and not knowing when or where you're going to die. These women DID face enemies even from a very young age.

With heavy steps and an even heavier heart, Charles sat by the side of the road. It would take at least five hours to reach his destination on foot. Gears turned inside his exhausted head as he devised a plan: hide the crates inside the house, walk along the road, and see if there are any houses nearby. Walk up to their door, knock, smile and ask them if you can borrow their cart —

And risk leaving the crates unsupervised. Right. No one would have the mind to somehow spirit away crates full of vials of dubious substance, but Charles dreaded losing his precious cargo if that meant another three days' ride to the Medical Center.

What a conundrum! Charles's idle hand grabbed fistfuls of snow, feeling the raw chill bite into his skin. The sensation helped alleviate his fidgety nerves.  

Besides, there's no guarantee I'm not going to get caught in another blizzard when running around seeking help. The rose-haired man sighed, scratching at the memento wound around his neck. What should I do now? Stay put and pray for a miracle to come my way?

Back at the battlefield, in the flapping tents where prayers die on the mouth of soldiers reaching to grasp at specters of their beloved, Charles lost his faith in the Almighty. H is more cynical colleagues joked that God had been replaced by the emperor, his enemy monarchs, and whatever whims they impose on us poor, downtrodden common folk.

It wasn't until his mother pestered him that Charles once again re-adopted a habit of praying. Ironic, considering his mother's pragmatism towards their soiled family business. War was capable of moving the smallest of things, it seemed.  

Charles realized he had been dozing when he felt something approach. The tremor he felt underneath his feet signaled that it was another cart, most likely heavy duty. The young doctor jumped to his feet, regretting it immediately as he felt himself swoon and nearly losing his balance.

"Excuse me!" He waved at the cart, a figure clad in a dark blue cloak from head to toe at the reins. "Are you in any way passing through the next town?" Charles yelled.

The stranger stopped his cart right in front of Charles, silent. Worried he didn't hear him the first time, Charles composed himself and cleared his throat.

"Will you, by any chance, be passing through the town? The one with a mountain abbey?" He pronounced his words carefully, his heart beating in trepidation as the veiled stranger didn't seem to respond. He could wait for another cart to pass by but damn if he let this chance slip.

The figure nodded, and a deep-toned, feminine voice reverberated through the crisp, winter air.

"I am heading to that town." The woman answered severely. "How may I be of service?"

Charles was perplexed by her manner of speech but approached her nonetheless. "My apologies. I was transporting some cargo on my own cart when the blizzard came, and I had to take shelter in that empty house over there."

The cloaked woman regarded him in silence as Charles struggled to resume his explanation. Did she find him suspicious? Was she to be suspected, herself? Countless scenarios rushed through Charles' restless mind as he motioned vaguely at the dilapidated building.

"And then my horse broke one of its ankles—"

“Your horse?”

Charles was ready to receive whatever tirade the woman was prepared to discharge, judging from her pressing tone. But to his surprise, the woman was already jumping off her cart, the wind knocking back her veil.

Revealing a burn scar mark in the shape of a spark over her right eye, concealed in part by her thick, lavender bangs. It extended across the side of her face and neck, disappearing underneath her collar. Her left eye was hidden under a black eyepatch, revealing a scarce expanse of alabaster skin.

Charles' face grew red as he realized that he was staring. Her dark, empty orb seemed to suggest that she too had noticed. Quickly, Charles apologized.

"Forgive me, I didn't mean to stare—" but the woman had already turned towards the house.

"Show me the horse," she commanded.

Swallowing his guilt away, Charles brushed invisible snow off his pants and followed suit. "Right," he coughed. "This way, Madame."

"So, you've met Sister Joanna." Monsieur Faust concluded. He was the town's only doctor, a strapping young man in his late twenties. He had on him shapely, robust shoulders and intelligent eyes behind a pair of square, thin-framed glasses.

The only aspect Charles found disconcerting about his temporary senior was his penchant for sardonic, offhand remarks that seemed to serve as a barrier between him and the vernacular crowd.

"Sister?" Charles exclaimed, having signed the last of the transport papers. "Is she part of the convent?"

"No, not at all." Faust chuckled. "In fact, I believe it's been years since anybody's ever seen her inside the church or taking part in any religious gathering."

Charles recalled how the lean woman helped him move the dead horse out of the barn and buried the horse by a nearby tree. He was still amazed by the woman's astounding demonstration of strength as she loaded the bulky crates onto her own cart.

"It was the nuns who called her that during her stay at the abbey. The nickname carried long after she left," The older man continued. "I was the doctor who treated her when she first arrived a year ago."

Those burn scars, Charles gulped, amethyst eyes still boring into his own long after their parting. "What does she do now?"

"She's the town's handywoman, for lack of a better word." Faust's nimble hands arranged the vials into neat rows inside a cabinet. "She accepts odd jobs every now and then, though you're more likely to see her at the weapons shop by the square. She seemed to have lived quite close to the military at some point."

The man's curious pause before rolling the word military didn't escape Charles. Whether it was said out of genuine disdain for their country's warmongering exploits or twisted sympathy for his own history, he didn't know.

"Other times, especially outside winter, you can find her attending to flower beds just outside of town," Faust muttered. "She would bring back different-colored flowers in vases and deliver them to the flower shop. You'll see what I mean quite soon."

"Flowers? The military?" Charles was at a loss for words as the man slew exposition after exposition in rapid succession. And he had pegged him to be the quiet sort! "I take it she must have been living quite illustriously before she came to town."

"That she is," The other man nodded. "Quite the character, isn't she? Sister Joanna does what she likes, regardless of what others see."

Charles decided to take a stroll after lunch. Now that he's done resting and arranging his belongings at the inn, it was time to explore the rustic town.

The innkeeper was an amiable man with ivory hair and crimson eyes, not much older than Faust. The flower shop the doctor mentioned was adjacent to the inn's lobby, and the owner of both establishments introduced himself as Vlad. Not Vladimir, not Vladislav, just Vlad.

Charles detected something beyond mere eccentricity beneath the man's lighthearted disposition. There was a noble air to him that made Charles suspect Vlad was related to one of the hussar princes the Continental army overthrew seven years ago.

The man responded to Charles' prodding joke with a subtly accented, good-humored reply. "I hail from Targoviste! But now that you mention it, my family is descended from a long line of voivodes from the Middle Ages . "

Charles decided not to pry further lest he be turned to fertilizer for the pansies at the inn's backyard.

His feet took him to the town square, where Sister Joanna's weapons shop supposedly was if he remembered correctly.

In the center was a sizable statue of a peasant woman, her arm cradling a bundle of wheat to her bosom. The other arm was reaching towards the sky, a long strip of sash winding around the limb like a vine. Charles found it so lifelike it could've been fluttering along with the icy wind.

Sister Joanna was standing by the base. Her slacks visible below her dark robes and sinewy stature made it easy to confuse her with a man. Charles walked towards the lone woman, intending to thank her.

“Sister Joanna!” He called excitedly. “Sister Joann—”

Charles fell quiet as he observed the woman pressing her hands firmly pressed together in front of her breast, long fingers pointing towards the statue in silent prayer.

It took a moment before she finally turned to look at Charles. The young man noticed a bundle of freshly picked snowdrops and hellebore resting at the statue's foot.

Charles found himself speechless as he was once again met with Sister Joanna's hollow gaze.

"Yes?" Her dry voice penetrated the once-welcome stillness. "Do you need anything?"

It wasn't that Charles was unaccustomed to make small talk with women. It was Sister Joanna's mannerism that had put the younger man at unease. He collected himself and knelt down, paying heed to spare her some distance.

"I think I should pray, too." He smiled, hoping to reduce the tension. "But I don't have any flowers on me. Too bad."

"Do as you see fit." The woman replied impassively.

Charles' heart regained its composed pace after he offered hushed words of prayer for the souls of his fallen comrades. He rose and beamed at the indomitable woman, whom he caught staring.

Sister Joanna wasn't the least bit unfazed when Charles's youthful face broke into a grin. "Do you know who you're even praying for?"

His eyes returned to inspect the statue, the granite matron towering over the strange couple. "This statue was built in honor of the fallen soldiers and their widows, was it not?"

Sister Joanna didn't respond, seemingly absorbed in the statue's presence as well.

"The Emperor marched through these passes on the way to claim his first victory. Thousands of the men died in the expedition, and they were laid to rest by the abbey."

Charles stepped forward to run his palm over the statue's nameplate.

"The Weeping Widow," He read. "The woman's statue was meant to stand for the widows and lovers of the fallen men, waiting somewhere at the other side of the country. I can't imagine what it feels like to have someone come knocking on your door and tell you that the man you love is dead."

Ignoring Sister Joanna's lack of commentary, Charles continued. "This statue was built with the hopes that no more widows would have to share that fate. That's a beautiful thought."

"How did you come to know all this?" she finally interrupted.

"My uncle took part in the expedition. He lost an arm after the battle and was recuperating in this town when they built the statue." Charles recounted heartily. "It is sweet and proper to die for one's own country, he’d say to his nephews and grandchildren. He kept boasting about wanting to follow his friends to heaven. Or hell."

"It is sweet and fitting to die for the homeland is a more precise translation," The elder corrected. "They keep omitting the following lines:

sed dulcius pro patria vivere,

et dulcissimum pro patria bibere.

Ergo, bibamus pro salute patriae.

'A reasonable translation would be but sweeter still to live for the homeland, and sweetest yet to drink for the homeland. So, let us drink to the health of the homeland." She recited, her sonorous voice unwavering. "Why choose to die at the behest of unconcerned rulers when you can return to a loving home and family?"

Charles was taken aback by the mistress's sudden erudite lecture, almost sharp in its delivery.

"Forgive me," Charles blushed in embarrassment. He'd been correct —Sister Joanna was as enigmatic as her appearance, if not more.

 “To die for one's own country. The Emperor's beloved quote." Sister Joanna murmured. "A flowery epigram befitting an equally deranged man."

"I beg your pardon?"

Two years after the Emperor's death, all of the Continent remained in discord after his abdication and subsequent death. There were demands of his generals' execution after they failed to have the ruler beheaded himself.

In some parts of the country, statues in his image were toppled, and his estates were raided. Angry mobs and disillusioned former soldiers banded together to hunt down possible adherents to the old, 'warmongering' regime.

The recalcitrant woman stood tall against the backdrop of a secluded, provincial town hidden among mountains. Maybe there was a truth to Faust's words about her past dealings with the military.

Speak no ill of the dead doesn't apply to warlords and rulers, it seemed. Joanna sighed. "I can't imagine anyone deigning to pray for his poor soul."

His family, Charles dreaded to say. Whatever was left of the royal family were chased to the shores, some immediately captured as they attempted to land in the Isles.

Their encounter had taken quite the morbid turn. Yet it didn't deter Charles from wanting to know more about the woman standing by his side. The young doctor felt small, figuratively and literally, considering his shoulder didn't quite reach hers.

"I should return." Sister Joanna announced. "The sun is setting."

She was heading to the weapons shop, no doubt. Charles nearly forgot his reason for wanting to approach her in the first place.

"Wait!" He called, "I forgot to thank you for your help!"

"What?"

Charles panted as he struggled to match Sister Joanna's pace. Not only does she act like a soldier, she even walks like one!

"I haven't thanked you enough for this morning." He considered extending his hand but refrained, remembering that in proper circumstances, she would be the one extending her hand.

"I don't think I've introduced myself properly, have I? My name is Charles. Charles Henri-Sanson." He flashed her what he thought was his most bedazzling smile. "I might be staying here for the next four months or so,"

Sister Joanna regarded him with mild interest. "I see." She nodded. "Nice to have your acquaintance. I presume the doctor has told you plenty about me, considering you called me by name."

"He did!" Charles answered, not missing a beat. "He told me many things about you."

"Did he, now?"

The pair continued to make their way towards the edge of the square, Charles continuing to engage her with a barrage of questions, and Sister Joanna placating his curiosity with lukewarm zeal.

It didn't take long before they arrived at the entrance to the shop.

Sister Joanna uncovered her cowl and faced Charles. The entirety of her charred visage was now visible, unobscured by the midnight-colored fabric.

"You're a strange man," she observed. "Are you not revolted by the sight of my face?"

"Madame, I used to serve as a doctor until the last days of the war," He chuckled in earnest. "Before I was captured by the Coalition and became a prisoner.”

To be continued in Part 2.’