Fallen Angel

Chapter 10.1

Joan awoke to a pair of whispering voices nearby. Her nose picked up on a faint smell of incense. Lord, Raphael and her mother really needed to find something else to fragrance the Hospitium. It was positively nauseating. She groaned as she tried to sit up. Her body protested loudly against her movements, forcing her to sink back against the pillows, having raised herself but a few inches. She opened her mouth to call for her mother, but choked when she noted her surroundings.
There were no windows, yet somehow, warm sunlight illuminated the room. Other beds were neatly made up on either side of her. Medical equipment was displayed in glass cases at the far end of the room, opposite the door. Further ahead was what she could only perceive as an operating area. The instruments appeared modern, while the poultices and concoctions in the vitrines resembled those of old-time apothecaries.

Where am I? I've never been to this ward in the Hospitium. Is it a new wing or -?

Joan stiffened. Wing... Michael had cut off her wings. This wasn't the Hospitium. Hell, this wasn't even the Vale! Wait - Hell... Borgia and his cronies! Did they take her? Was she in the Circles? No, she never took his hand. Something had prevented her from doing so. 

The falcon! It swooped in, and... there was an archer. Who was -?

"Thank God you're finally awake." A woman suddenly appeared at Joan's bedside. "You've been sleeping for two days straight. We were getting worried. Here, let me help you."

She helped Joan sit up and handed her a cup of water. Joan tilted her head curiously. She seemed so familiar. Long brown hair, almost black, hung loosely around her shoulders. Her face was sharp yet soft, her eyes dark as night, yet inviting and kind, too. The woman wore a white linen blouse, a dark green bodice, brown skirt, and laced boots. A brown glove covered her left hand.
And then Joan spotted the pearl necklace with a golden letter B. And right above it, a thin red line at the woman's throat as if a blade had cut through the woman's pale alabaster skin - cutting her head off.

"Anne Boleyn," Joan whispered.

"Je suis contente de te revoir," the former Queen of England spoke in flawless French. "Though I'll admit, I had wished it were under better circumstances."

"How are you feeling, Joan?"

A man came behind Anne. He'd been in the woods with her. Though he seemed nothing like the great magician that had dared to attack the Blood Countess, yet it was him. He had messy brown curls and soft brown eyes. His trimmed beard failed to hide a scar just above his lips and the charming smirk on them. The ink on the sleeve of his shirt and the knee-torn trousers showed him to be more aloof than one would make him to be. 

"You look as though you hardly recognise Thomas anymore, Joan." Anne chuckled at her stunned silence.

But Joan did remember him. Thomas Wyatt had fallen in love with Anne in their youth. He had always believed her family pushed her into 'presenting herself' to Henry Tudor VIII of England. She was made to attract his attention while avoiding the same mistakes her sister Mary had made. Anne eventually married Henry after some years, but had always kept Thomas close as a dear friend.
He had never admitted openly to loving her and hid his feelings in his poems. These little hints and his constant presence around her had resulted in false charges of adultery with Anne. But unlike the others who had been taken (Anne's brother George amongst them), he had left the Tower with his head still attached to his body. He'd witness the French executioner of Calais behead the only woman he had ever loved, mourning and praying they would be reunited in Heaven. And so they were.
Not wanting to risk another separation, they went to Michael together, asking for clemency and understanding. It had surprised all he had agreed to their request. He'd even allowed them to regain their youth before they descended to Earth, reverting them back to their mid-twenties.