Historical RPF short short: "February, 1431" (PG-13)

[hsavinien]

Title: February, 1431

Author: H. Savinien
Rating: PG-13
Wordcount: 500
Disclaimer: Jeanne, called the Maid of Orleans, was a historical personage and this fic comes purely from my own head. No connection IRL should be drawn between the two.
Warnings: Sex, of the angelic and mystical variety, Christian mysticism.
Summary: She is imprisoned and asks for aid. Her angels do not fail her.
Author's note: Written for yuri_shoujo for a much belated fill to her charity auction donation. Mea culpa, love.

***

She is cold. She can not still her shivers and it is damp and she is so cold. My god, she prays, my angels, please. She shudders and coughs so hard she tastes blood in the back of her throat and huddles into herself and then, oh! she is warm. She hears a low, sad, grateful noise; it is herself. She struggles to her knees and offers her thanks and they are with her.

Who are you? The men had asked when they took her, imprisoned her. She thinks they meant, Who are you, that princes and knights heed you, that men love you? but all she could answer was,

Jeanne.

and think, A child of God. For love of God, a voice, a messenger. That is all I am and have ever been and ever will be.

And it was so cold.

And now... Arms which are not arms enfold her and she closes her streaming eyes at their brilliance. Hands which are not hands stroke her hair back from her face and lips which are not lips press soft benediction to her forehead, her eyelids, and her mouth. Heat uncurls through her, sweetness fills her mouth, and she sighs blissful surrender.

There are no stone walls, nor filthy straw, nor iron bars. She is couched in summer-smelling grasses beside a stream she knows from her childhood.

The arms-not-arms are there, surrounding her and they pet her as soft and delicate as if she were a days-old kitten. Their touch sends heat through her, she feels her cheeks and mouth redden with it and begging without words for the sweetness of the angels' kisses. It melts into her like warm honey, wells up in every place they touch her, blooming here from her throat, here her hip, from the curve of bone at her ankle to the bareness of her neck where her hair is shorn.

Her own hands trace upon her body the fiery paths that her angels draw upon her soul and she glories in it, rejoices in the manifest adoration she reflects back upon them, uses them as they use her to sing their love. She offers herself in joy to them as their signpost, their messenger, as she has done and has done and has done from her childhood. Her head tips back to bare her throat to them and she is open to anything they offer, giving herself to their care. Lips-not-lips breathe upon her the sweet golden light of God and she is drowning in it. She takes it in and there was never such a sweet death as this. The warmth centers itself, humming a pure note in her stomach and heart and spreading rapture through her whole self as she shakes apart from the moment of it.

No stone can tether her to earthly sin, no walls can keep her from God and Heaven. Her mouth opens in a quiet, sharp breath and all that is left to her is love.

Comments

[yuri-shoujo.livejournal.com]

So much yay. ^_^ Thank you pretty one, that was gorgeous. Love the way you made it work. <3!

[hsavinien.livejournal.com]

I'm glad you like it. <3