Work Text:
Jeanne is running, blinking hard against the smoke and ash that paints the landscape around her. Vigrid is in flames; everywhere she looks, fire licks up the sides of collapsed buildings and races along formerly green ground. The angels leave nothing untouched in their wake.
Jeanne avoids the rubble, and the bodies - she tries not to look too closely, terrified of recognizing a face and losing her momentum. Grief is a caged beast in her chest, waiting to pounce at the first sign of her weakness.
Near the ruined clock tower, she finds a small group of witches ( alive, thank the moon, alive ) and she pauses to check in. She needs to keep moving, but they are her people, her responsibility. Her mind screams at her even as her body comes to a stop before them.
She recognizes their leader, Calliope, a girl a few years older than Jeanne. Jeanne’s maman had taken a liking to her, and assigned Jeanne to go with her on a few reconnaissance missions early on during the Hunts. She was not subtle in her machinations - she had hoped Jeanne might challenge her when the time came, and afterwards make Calliope the Queen’s Left Hand. Jeanne liked the girl well enough; she was a good leader, and a strong witch. But she wasn’t Cereza.
Calliope doesn’t wait for Jeanne to greet her; she launches into a status report (most of the clan is dead, and the rest have fled to the east riverbank - their group had stayed behind to allow for a safe retreat). Jeanne asks after the Elders, but Calliope hadn’t seen any of them for hours. She asks the heiress if she would be joining their group.
“I- the Left Eye has been compromised. I have to get her to safety.” Calliope looks around.
“Then where is-” she hesitates, and Jeanne knows she was about to say the outcast , but is thinking better of it. “Where is she then?”
“I had to seal her away. The Left Eye is what the fucking Sage is after - it is my responsibility to get her,” her mind corrects internally, Cereza, the woman I love , “to safety.”
Calliope looks at her for a moment, then sighs tiredly, though she doesn’t seem to be upset.
“Then we will cover your retreat, heiress. Get to safety, and do what you must. We will remain, and secure the rest of the clan in your absence.” The rest of the witches nod in assent. Jeanne knows she shouldn’t be as surprised as she is at their easy acceptance of her plan.
The Hunts had changed so much - whereas Jeanne had a tepid at best relationship with most witches before (in large part due to their harassment of Cereza) now she truly considered them her sisters. She had earned their trust through countless battles, helped them to safety and tended their wounds, and had offered comfort and reassurance when she could.
She knew many of them still didn’t trust Cereza, but they at least respected her now - after all, when Jeanne jumped into battle, it was always Cereza who was a half-step behind her. Despite their cruelty to her over the years, the dark-haired witch protected the clan alongside Jeanne without hesitation or complaint. Jeanne was eternally grateful for her and tried to convey as much whenever they were able to steal a moment alone. She had hoped that such actions would make it easier for the clan to accept Cereza as her Left Hand when the time came. Jeanne tries not to think about how long that would be now, considering.
“I need to go. The longer I stay, the more danger we are all in. Don’t worry about covering my retreat - if there are any of our sisters left, find them and get out of Vigrid. There is nothing more we can do now.” Jeanne speaks quickly while she scans the sky - reinforcements would be coming soon, there was no doubt.
“I understand, heiress. But there is one more thing we need to do, before you go. Please.” And Jeanne knows she needs to move, knows that hesitation now could be the end to them all but - these were her sisters, and Jeanne had a sinking feeling it might be the last time they would all see each other for some time.
So she waits while Calliope quickly unsheathes a small dagger from her side, and leans down to carve a circle into the stone at their feet. She mutters a spell under her breath in Enochian, and purple flames burst forth from the circle. Her movements are quick, precise - practiced. It takes Jeanne a moment to realize what the witch in front of her is doing, but when she does, her eyes go wide.
“Calliope-”
The older witch stands, and without warning, gathers her long hair in a hand and uses the blade to cut it off at the base of her fist. She passes the blade around, and Jeanne watches as the rest of the witches do the same without hesitation. At Calliope’s signal, they all toss their cut locks into the fire, which burns brightly, changing from purple to a fierce red and white. Calliope’s voice is strong over the roar of the flames -
- We honor our leader, Jeanne D’Arc, and offer this sacrifice to her health and safety. May she lead the clan through the darkness with grace, and may her steps be guided by moonlight and sheltered from shadow -
And Jeanne sees her own face in the fire, before it dissipates into smoke. Jeanne recognizes the spell and the words, of course. The same spell that was to be performed at her coronation. Every witch in the clan would have been in attendance, and each would have offered a small lock of hair to the flame as a sign of trust in her leadership. This though - this was different.
A blessing , Jeanne thinks, shocked, they are giving me their blessing . An act of devotion in the middle of the end. Jeanne has to fight back tears.
Calliope speaks then, quickly.
“Jeanne, I know you tried to prevent this outcome, but you are our only hope now. Please get yourself and the Left Eye to safety; we will do what we can in the meantime.”
All Jeanne can do is nod. She reaches out and grasps Calliope’s bicep briefly, trying to convey everything in a mere moment - thank you for trusting me, I am sorry it has come to this, I will come back for all of you - before turning to head toward the Council chambers. The passages there would lead her out of and beyond Vigrid. She hears Calliope bark quick orders to the rest of the group as they make their retreat in the opposite direction.
As Jeanne runs, she turns over Calliope’s words in her head. I know you tried to prevent this - she must be talking about Jeanne’s last meeting with the Council, over a fortnight ago. She had tried to convince them to make an escape from Vigrid. Small groups of witches could make it out safely and without drawing too much attention under the cover of darkness, and head to quieter regions around the globe to let the tensions settle for a while. The end of this conflict was coming, and they were all sure of it (all afraid of it) - so many witches in one place would surely paint a target on their backs. They were losing, and no amount of posturing or positivity could change that fact. Destroying the Sages had cost them too much - there weren’t enough witches left to fend off the forces of Paradiso, especially when they were allied with humans out for blood.
The Council had argued over it for a while, before her maman finally cut in. We will not abandon our ancestral home. The Umbra have weathered worse storms in this very spot, and the histories of our sisters are ones of victory because they refused to lose the Lunar Valley. Defying tradition now would be the act of cowards. The moonlight will show us the path through the darkness, as it always has.
Her words had rung with finality, and Jeanne had left the chamber nearly in tears. Defying tradition - that line was a well placed dig at the rebellious heiress. The words settled themselves close to her heart, ice cold. All she wanted was what was best for the clan, but the Council were blinded by their own arrogance and fears.
They hadn’t seen what Jeanne had for months - humans laughing as her sisters begged for mercy, angels tearing them apart after they’d already been defeated.
With the Council spending their nights arguing in their chambers, the responsibility of caring for the Umbra fell solely on her shoulders. It was Jeanne who was left to bury her fellow witches, to deliver the news to their friends and family that they wouldn’t be coming home, to hold vigil for their souls under each new moon. She had fought to be allowed into the fray - they were her people and they were dying, dammit - only to realize that it was far worse than the Council was letting on.
Everything she had feared had come to pass - the Hunts arrived at their doorstep in full force, and the Umbra were lost.
No , she thinks, not yet . The gem is warm where it rests inside her suit, right by her heart. She had woken before Cereza that morning (it should have been her clue that the day was going to go horribly wrong) and had gotten ready in near silence, trying not to disturb the snores coming from the dark haired witch. She deserved her rest.
Cereza had spent the Hunts fighting alongside Jeanne. She did her best to keep the younger witch's spirits high amidst the constant chaos, all without serious complaint. Jeanne didn’t know what she would do without her unwavering care and support (most likely, pass out from forgetting to eat or forgoing sleep in favor of going over reports into the early hours of the morning).
Unbeknownst to them both, for the first time other witches started to breathe sighs of relief when they caught sight of Cereza, as it meant that the heiress was somewhere safe nearby. She became the heiress’ shadow - no one had the energy to berate either of them for it, and it quickly became apparent that Cereza’s was the only witch close enough to Jeanne to make sure the young leader was taking care of herself. Most witches still didn’t fully trust the outcast, but they trusted Jeanne, which was enough.
Jeanne had brushed a kiss across her forehead before leaving, and smiled at the mumbled I love you she had received in return.
She regrets not staying in bed, not starting her morning with languid kisses and wandering touches. She tries not to think about how long she will have to wait before holding Cereza close again.
She definitely does not think about the possibility that Cereza will no longer allow her to, once everything is said and done.
She reaches the Council chambers in record time, and is almost to the passages when -
“Jeanne!?”
She comes to halt, and turns in time to see Elder Eveline approaching with haste. She stops in front of the white-haired witch, looking over her frantically. Her hands come to grasp Jeanne’s tightly.
“Jeanne, where have you been!? I’ve been looking all over for you - the rest of the clan is trying to make a retreat past the east riverbank. You need to be there, to lead everyone out.”
The relief Jeanne feels at seeing Eveline threatens to overwhelm her. She had always liked Eveline above the other Elders - she tended to be kinder, and more often than not encouraged Jeanne’s curious nature. If Jeanne had a question or needed a favor, nine times out of ten she would find herself in front of Eveline’s chambers, hand poised to knock at the dark wooden door. The other Elders were quick to scold or berate Jeanne, and her maman didn’t have the patience for her endless questions most days (and as Jeanne got older, didn’t have the stomach to face her greatest disappointment). The Council was without a doubt loyal to her maman and the Umbra as a whole, but Jeanne felt that her and Eveline had an understanding between them.
“I can’t - Eveline, he knows she is here. I have to get her out, far away from here. When he realizes she is gone he’ll abandon this place and everyone will be safe, I am sure of it.”
Jeanne tries to calm herself down. Eveline and Calliope will be able to protect the rest of the clan, Jeanne is positive. If she goes with them, she will be putting everyone in danger. Better to get herself and Cereza as far away as possible, force the Sage to track them down and give the surviving witches enough time to find safer grounds to rest.
Jeanne watches a dozen emotions flit across Eveline’s face at her words. The older witch drops her hands, slowly, and steps back. She looks - angry, Jeanne thinks. Why is she angry?
“Heiress.” The tone Eveline uses is the same one Jeanne knows she takes on when scolding the younger witches. Alarm bells are ringing in Jeanne’s head - she has done nothing wrong, so why is Eveline suddenly so cross with her?
“I know that you are not seriously considering abandoning your people, not at a time like this.” Eveline’s tone is pure ice now.
“I am not abandoning anyone! I just spoke with Calliope, told her to go and defend the others. I had to seal Cereza away - the Sage cannot be allowed to have the Left Eye. I have to get her out of here immediately-” Eveline scoffs, and Jeanne bristles. “What-”
“I had always thought that some day, you might make a promising leader for the Umbra. I had assumed that your favor for the outcast was merely political - a way to control her power. A smart move, really.” Jeanne watches as Eveline materalizes a sword to her hands. Her face is devoid of emotion. For the first time since her childhood, Jeanne feels scared of the Elder in front of her.
“Eveline, what are you-”
“But now I see that I was wrong. This whole time you were….” The older witch trails off, seemingly at a loss for words. Jeanne notices the flames that are starting to enter the hall. They don’t have much time.
“Eveline, we need to leave. Please, let me-”
“Let you what? Run off with that halfbreed while your sisters are left to rot?”
The blood drains from Jeanne’s face. This was a side of her Jeanne had never seen. Had never wanted to see. It always comes back to this , Jeanne thinks.
“Don’t call her that.” It is the wrong thing to say - Eveline’s face twists into a sneer.
“I had always written off Rosa’s affair as an act of temporary madness. A sick desire to experience the one thing she wasn’t supposed to.” Jeanne takes a step back. She can feel herself trembling. “That, I can understand. What I cannot understand is why you, who was given everything by this clan, would seek to betray us over a girl who should have never existed in the first place!”
“I would never betray the Umbra! I-” Jeanne wants to cry. She feels so small in this moment. Her entire world is collapsing.
“Loving that abomination is betrayal. The worst kind.”
Jeanne will wonder later what had given her away, how Eveline had seen her heart laid bare. She had done everything she could to shield what she and Cereza really were from the clan - she had hoped, one day, they could be honest. But clearly, she hadn’t been careful enough. She feels the gem close to her heart, still warm.
“You will give me the Left Eye, Jeanne, and go lead the rest of the Umbra to safety. As is your duty.”
“What are you going to do with her?” Jeanne hates how desperate her voice sounds.
“You said it yourself - the Sage is after the Left Eye. If we give him this, he will allow the rest of us to go in peace.”
“You’re insane.” The words are out of her mouth before she can stop them, but the truth in them is undeniable. “The Sage wants to use this power to destroy our world! The Umbra will be erased from history completely, Eveline.”
“But we don’t really know that, do we? The power of the Eyes is beyond comprehension, child. This is our only hope.”
Eveline leaves no room for argument. Jeanne isn’t one to give up, but she can see this conversation is pointless. She needs to get out of here, and fast. In the distance, she can hear the sounds of approaching angels, still searching for the Left Eye.
As if sensing Jeanne’s train of thought, Eveline raises her sword, pointing it directly at Jeanne’s chest.
“Either draw your weapon, or relinquish the Left Eye. It is time to make a choice, Jeanne.”
The implication in her words is clear - Cereza’s future, or the future of the clan.
Jeanne has fought her fellow witches countless times. Beaten them countless times. But this is nothing like that. This is no friendly competition, or duel over honor.
Eveline’s eyes are cold. Her intentions are to kill.
“Please don’t make me do this, Eveline,” Jeanne begs. But even as the words leave her lips, her own sword is materialized in her hand.
Eveline moves first, but Jeanne is faster. It is over before it has really begun.
The air stills, the silence deafening. Blood coats her blade, and reaches all the way up to her wrists. The blood of a fellow witch. She can’t breathe - her throat feels tight, her tongue heavy in her mouth, as if she had come down with some terrible sickness. She watches in slow motion as Eveline clutches at her stomach, attempting to stop her intestines from spilling out onto the stone. Witches by nature aren’t squeamish, but the sight brings bile up Jeanne’s throat.
The sword falls from her hand, the clang it makes echoing in the empty hall around them. Her whole body is trembling, an electric current ripping through her veins, driven by adrenaline and horror.
Her feet move of their own accord - one, two, three steps, hands outstretched. She is not sure if they are to help or to hurt - to try and heal the witch in front of her, or strangle the last remaining life from her body. Jeanne is a stranger in her own mind.
“Don’t.” Eveline gasps the word, and Jeanne freezes. Eveline is on her knees, clinging to life out of desperation, out of spite. Her face is twisted into a mask of rage and hatred.
The last time Jeanne had seen Eveline, she had been instructing the younger witches in beginner lessons. Her face had been serene as she worked with the girls on their Enochian. As Jeanne passed the open doorway they had locked eyes, and Eveline had smiled at her, all comfort and warmth. Jeanne had grinned back, enjoying the moment of peace amidst the chaos that had overtaken her life.
There is no trace of that woman in front of Jeanne now. There is no trace of that version of Jeanne either. Amidst the smoke, they are nothing more than shadows.
Eveline reaches up slowly, and removes her own watch. It glints in the light cast from the flames surrounding them. Jeanne doesn’t understand what she is witnessing, until-
The watch is crushed in her own fist, the last of her strength destroying her own heart. She sneers at the white haired witch, her last word hanging in the air as she finally collapses, lifeless.
“Traitor.”
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
traitor traitor traitor traitor traitor traitor traitor traitor traitor traitor traitor traitor traitor
traitor traitor traitor traitor traitor traitor traitor traitor traitor traitor traitor traitor traitor
traitor traitor traitor traitor traitor traitor traitor traitor traitor traitor traitor traitor traitor
traitor traitor traitor traitor traitor traitor traitor traitor traitor traitor traitor traitor traitor
traitor traitor traitor traitor traitor traitor traitor traitor traitor traitor traitor traitor traitor
traitor traitor traitor traitor traitor traitor traitor traitor traitor traitor traitor traitor traitor
traitor traitor traitor traitor traitor traitor traitor traitor traitor traitor traitor traitor traitor
traitor traitor traitor traitor traitor traitor traitor traitor traitor traitor traitor traitor traitor
traitor traitor traitor traitor traitor traitor traitor traitor traitor traitor traitor traitor traitor
traitor traitor traitor traitor traitor traitor traitor traitor traitor traitor traitor traitor traitor
traitor traitor traitor traitor traitor traitor traitor traitor traitor traitor traitor traitor traitor
traitor traitor traitor traitor traitor traitor traitor traitor traitor traitor traitor traitor traitor
traitor traitor traitor traitor traitor traitor traitor traitor traitor traitor traitor traitor traitor
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
Madama Styx is screaming in the back of Jeanne’s mind.
Don’t let this all be in vain, girl. You need to leave. You are not strong enough to survive another ambush.
Jeanne stares at the corpse in front of her, then at her own hands. To kill another witch was the greatest of all sins. Rosa, even after defying their oldest and most sacred law, was kept alive. Imprisoned, suffering, but alive.
Jeanne - the heir to the clan, the pride of the Umbra - had killed a fellow witch. A witch who had helped raise her, who had trained her, a witch who she knew better than her own mother.
The blade had cut through her flesh just as easily as it did angels.
Think of Cereza. She is still in danger. You have to get the Left Eye to safety, Jeanne. Now.
Cereza. The Left Eye. Jeanne blinks, slowly, as if awakening from a dream. She forces her eyes away from Eveline’s lifeless body, and searches for the exit.
She is in her beast form without an ounce of thought, claws pounding first into tile, then stone, then dirt as she leaves Vigrid behind, the flames warm against her back, screams echoing in her ears.
Jeanne barely feels it when her body finally collapses, hours later. The sun is peeking over the horizon as Jeanne returns to her human form, shaking from exhaustion. Her eyes focus on the trees above her and she tries to get her breathing under control. She needs to keep moving - she isn’t nearly far away enough yet, and if the Sage was as smart as she feared, he will have already realized that the Left Eye had escaped under his nose. She prays that some of her sisters had made it out and to safety.
She moves to sit up, and freezes. Now, back in this form, she can feel the dried blood on her hands, cracking and flaking off with each movement.
She scrambles to a nearby creek and scrubs at her skin hard enough to hurt, desperate to remove any traces of what she had done. What she had to do.
But Jeanne can still see the blood on her hands. It is there when she arranges Cereza in the casket, when she chops her hair off in a fit of grief, and when Balder finally overpowers her, triumphant.
……………………………….
Cereza loves her hands. She traces Jeanne’s heartlines over the dinner table, presses Jeanne’s hand to her own cheek when she is feeling sentimental, grasps Jeanne’s hand under the bar while she teases Rodin.
She especially likes Jeanne’s hands late at night as they work to unravel her from the inside out. She wraps Jeanne’s wrist in a loose grip and urges her on - harder, please Jeanne darling, I need-
Cereza loves her hands, and loves her. She tells Jeanne this, frequently - while they cuddle on the couch in the late afternoon sun, when Jeanne appears to help dispatch an unruly group of angels, as she climbs on the back of Angel Slayer in her ridiculous nun outfit, a smirk firmly in place on her face.
Cereza’s memories return slowly, like honey poured from a glass jar, and with each new one she reaffirms how grateful she is for Jeanne, who had always protected her, had always loved her.
Cereza is all sharp edges and wit in public; as Bayonetta she wears a mask of amusement and puts on airs of indifference. Jeanne admires her strength, her resilience - even without her memories, Cereza had unapologetically carved out space for herself in this world.
At home, she allows herself to be vulnerable with Jeanne - she sheds the edges of Bayonetta for the sincerity of Cereza. She is still shameless and charming in equal measure, of course. But when it is just them, she allows her eyes to soften, laughs with her whole body, and reaches for Jeanne without hesitation.
Guilt and shame burn deep in Jeanne’s chest, despite Cereza’s endless assurances. Jeanne knows who she really is - the horrible things she had done to stay alive during those lonely five hundred years, the even worse things she had been forced to do under Balder’s control. When she blinks, she can still see the blood on her hands - she is afraid she is going to stain Cereza’s skin with it.
There are times she is forced awake in the middle of the night, a silent scream stuck in her throat. She gets up as quietly as possible, careful not to disturb Cereza, who sleeps peacefully. Jeanne will stare at her face for a long moment, admiring the curve of her jaw in the moonlight, before heading to the bathroom. She scrubs her hands in the sink until they are raw, the bathroom light burning her eyes. When she blinks all she can see is red, all she can hear is traitor traitor traitor on repeat, the words slamming into her skull.
On those nights, Cereza makes her way out of bed, woken by the missing warmth at her side. It is always the same- she pulls Jeanne’s hands out of the sink and pats them dry with a nearby hand towel, before gently brushing her lips across them. She presses kisses to her knuckles, the insides of her wrists, her palms, all while Jeanne trembles, desperate for comfort and terrified of it in equal measure.
She then guides Jeanne back to their bed, and holds the younger witch against her chest until they both fall back asleep. In the morning after, she is gracious enough not to mention what had transpired the night before - she instead drags a grumbling Jeanne out a bed and presses a cup of fresh coffee into her hands, letting their fingertips brush as she does so.
Jeanne tries to explain. She doesn’t want to burden Cereza, but needs her to understand that Jeanne isn’t who she remembers. Cereza laughs when she says things like this, says, of course you aren’t darling, neither am I.
It isn’t until after Inferno that everything is laid bare. They make it home, together, alive, somehow. They eat, bathe, and settle in for bed. Anticlimactic. The calm before the storm.
They lay there for long moments, until Cereza finally drags Jeanne across the sheets to her, grip tight enough to bruise. Don’t do that again , she practically growls.
Maybe it is the hot tears streaming down Cereza’s face, or the shadows that seem to haunt the edges of their room. Maybe it is the sheer impossibility of this moment - the both of them, safe in their bed after killing a god (again).
Whatever it is, it’s like a flip is switched inside of Jeanne. Her mouth opens, and it all comes tumbling out. She tells Cereza everything, tripping over her own words.
She tells Cereza about the night she sealed her away - about Calliope, and Eveline, the fires and the screams, the blood. She tells Cereza of the aftermath - coming back to find everyone dead, years spent searching in vain only to find that even the memories of the Umbra were being turned to dust. She tells Cereza of Balder - her last stand against him, desperation giving way to hopelessness as he took control of her mind. She finally tells Cereza of her fear.
I am afraid you will hate me , she confesses. I am afraid to lose you.
The words hang between them. Jeanne is shaking - she tries to pull back, but Cereza’s hold on her is firm. When Jeanne finally stops struggling, she moves to hold Jeanne’s hands in hers. She presses them next to her heart. She offers her own confession, the words loud in the quiet room.
I can do anything - anything, but survive in a world without you, Jeanne.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
Jeanne wakes up first. She gets out of bed carefully, tries not to disturb the dark haired witch’s snores. She admires Cereza’s features in the early morning light, before making her way to the bathroom.
Her eyes in the mirror are still puffy from the night before. Her breaths are deep and even. She looks down at where her hands clutch the sides of the sink, slowly.
She needs a fresh coat of nail polish.
She heads back to bed, wraps her arm carefully around her lover’s waist. Smiles into Cereza’s shoulder when the dark haired witch mumbles I love you .
Cereza will wake her up eventually with slow kisses and wandering touches, and will keep them in bed until the sun hangs high in the sky. And later, when she passes Jeanne her afternoon tea, Jeanne will take Cereza’s hand in her own, and brush her lips against soft knuckles and tender heartlines.
But for now, Jeanne contents herself with snuggling deeper into Cereza’s side, and falling into a well deserved rest.
FIN