Post by joanofarc on Nov 3, 2012 16:10:27 GMT -5
Saber Class
"I am not afraid... I was born to do this."
"I am not afraid... I was born to do this."
OTHER ALIAS[/color]: // Holy Maiden, Saint, Maid of Orleans, La pucelle.
CURRENT AGE[/color]: // 19 (Age of death)
YEAR OF BIRTH[/color]: // January 6 1412
GENDER[/color]: // Female
ALIGNMENT[/color]: // Neutral Good
OCCUPATION[/color]: // French soldier.
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HEIGHT[/color]: // 159cm
WEIGHT[/color]: // 44kg
EYE COLOR[/color]: // blue
HAIR COLOR[/color]: // Blonde
PIERCINGS[/color]: // None
TATTOOS[/color]: // None
DISTINGUISHING FEATURES[/color]: // Her ragged cut blonde hair, with it's long braid.
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And yet a spirit still, and bright with something of an angel light."
- Faithful
- Somewhat self-explanatory, Jeanne is faithful to God, and even her summoning as a Servant will not shake her will. All things have a purpose in His plan, and sinners, even heretics are regularly used to further His will. Although she is more likely to be convinced that she is not a spirit recorded by the throne, and will more likely be convinced this is either a last vision, or some other thing that has not yet been revealed.
- Quick to Act
- Nothing gets in her way if she has made up her mind to act. Should her visions tell her to do something, she will do so without second guessing. While normally patient and calm, this can create in her fervour and excitement. In combat she makes decisions without consulting others, and it can get irritating, but her visions have pulled her through enough times for most in her life to accept her sometimes rapid movements.
- Patient
- In almost of a contradiction to the last trait, Jeanne is patient where patience is required. Should she see a need for waiting, she will be willing to wait. If her visions do not dictate a path, she will not seek to make one of her own unless it is required. If the vision she receives suggests waiting, then she sees no problem with waiting either. At heart, she is a patient person, despite her brief and action-full life.
- Slightly Confused
- Still haunted and seeking answers for the one vision she could never explain, she occasionally has minor bits of doubts as to what it means (Not her faith in general), and even after death and never receiving an answer, she is still conflicted as to what said vision showed her. Since it never came to pass (she thinks) and her visions were all of her future and France’s future she worries that it might happen here, where she is forced to kill innocents, and fight demons as those she saw in her dreams. A personality quirk that she tends to keep to herself, although it is obvious she is thinking about something when she meditates on it.
- Bearer of Burdens
- Jeanne's problems are her problems. She tries her best not to trouble others with what she sees as her duty to carry. And she sees everything as her duty, she was willing to shoulder the burdens of an entire people, of an entire country, and tell no one, being the woman, the leader they needed her to be. Then again, she has never had anyone other than priests to confide in, and even then that was only for confessionals. She may be encouraged to speak with others about them, but she will be hesitant about personal problems, while her views will be easily shared. Expect deflection.
LIKES[/color]: //
DISLIKES[/color]: //
STRENGTHS[/color]: //
WEAKNESSES[/color]: //
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MY LEGEND: //[/color] en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Joan_of_Arc
MY HISTORY[/color]: // Trees, The smell of pollen, and drifting leaves, is my first memory of childhood. Autumn leaves falling, and freshly picked chestnuts. One specific tree spurs my memory forward, the old hollowed out oak down by a gentle stream that now only exists in echoed words.
They called it a fairy’s tree, a gateway into something other than God’s blessing. Fear of a tree that was planted, as all things, by the divine. I spent my days amongst it, by it, and even braiding wreaths of blossoms for the saints from it. We raced and danced near it, cavorted as young children would.
It is my last memory as well, the comforting embrace before I died to unrighteous flames. Oak was chopped for my stake, and it was still fresh as they covered it in pitch and oil. I could still smell it, still remember it, even when it was doused in that foul smell. Even when I could bare breath and the smoke forced my eyes closed.
But that early end is not what I seek to speak of. No, focusing on my death would be ignoring the gift of a life I had. A short, three year span in which I, by the grace of God, changed history.
It started one day, in the humble chapel at Domremy, as I was praying for our victory, our ability to repel the ungodly forces of England that sought to subjugate us, that I heard St Michel’s voice in my mind, a voice and presence that echoed and reverberated on me alone, driving me to my hands and knees with its strength and forcefulness.
“What do you seek?”
My head swam, burning with the light of the saint, and it took every shred of me to keep from fainting away.
“God’s will for the French. Victory if He sees fit, and I pray it is so, or defeat if He sees it in His Plan.”
“What do you seek?”
I paused, all of me paused. My heart yearned to beat, but remained still for the moment. What was it that I sought?
“Victory, freedom. I pray it every day, have prayed for it every day since I could understand it.”
“What would you be willing to give?”
“Anything required of me, Holy Saint.”
There were no more answers after that, I merely blacked out. No more sheer words, I swore I felt a gentle smile.
I woke up leaning against the oak, a single blossom touched my cheek to stir me from my slumber. I felt… stronger. Powerful, blessed by God. My eyes seemed to see the world in two forms, as if one painting was laid over another, but both remained clear.
A path was set out for me, a trail. Michel had granted me a vision, a split second glimpse of tens of years of the future of France. A future that remained only if I took action. He too showed me the other side, the ruin and subjugation after the Hundred Years War, should I not stand and take action.
He did not show me my death, and for that I thank him. Had I seen it, so young, so weak, I may have not had the conviction at the time to stick to it. The Lord is great with His providence, and understands our weaknesses.
My hair was cut by my own hand; none would remove it for me. I wore my father’s clothes, and made my way along the golden path, and followed the whispers of Michel. A few tried to stop me, but in the light of my Revelation their accusations and bindings fell seared at the wayside.
I was going to meet a man I had never heard of before then. A knight, the knight of Vaucouleurs, Robert de Baudricourt. Garbed in scarred armour, only some remnants of its once glorious shimmer visible beyond the surface of use.
The man had some credit, and he listened to my speaking of the fragmentary vision I had received. My destiny, the date I would accomplish it, and the crowning of the king at Rheims, before he showed me derision. Those who I had spoken to before would treat me worse than he did before I had even opened my mouth.
He dismissed me, and I sought his petition every day thereafter for six months. Each day a messenger arrived with dark tidings, and tales of the brutality and burnings that the English lashed at us with. For six months I waited, for six months he refused to see me. Until finally, Jean De Metz asked him who I was, and inspired by my faith, convinced Baudricourt to grant me another audience.
“I alone, and no other person, whether he be King, or Duke, or daughter of the King of the Scots can recover the kingdom of France. I was not made to follow this career of a soldier, but I was called by my Lord, and where he speaks, I will go.” God granted me conviction, and Michel reinforced my words. Neither of them could bring themselves to disbelieve me.
Metz was inspired, and Baudricourt swore to bring me before the king as soon as I was blessed by the priests.
He granted me my first blade, Rose, a lance and a horse with which to ride, and seven strong men to accompany me on the journey. I had no fear, and would have ventured alone, for I knew, I saw that no harm would befall me on the way.
But there was an important step on the way. Fierbois, where all paths pointed, and St. Catherine’s hand pushed me to. A sword, buried deep within the catacombs of the chapel, under a stone and in a stone, an altar long since covered in dust.
I alone went into the chapel to retrieve it; the great blade promised to me, the sword that God had ordained would be mine when the world was formed. It was little matter to reach it… but as my hand grasped the hilt-
“EAAAAAAAAAAAAUGH!”
A scream, as I found myself in a plain of fire. A man’s scream; a monster’s scream. I couldn’t breathe. The air was burning, my body was burning, and a demon stood in front of me, shapeless yet still bound, with a thousand limbs, and blood dripping from every one of them. One limb pierced me, and I cut another off. Another struck, and I forced myself to bring the blade, adorned with five crosses, up as I was pierced through, felt my lifesblood drip and hiss on the ground. I forced the blade through the being’s chest.
Flickering.
I danced among a thousand things of thorny bone, screaming for relief. My very touch purged them like a puppet cut of its strings.
Flickering.
Darkness surrounded me, gripped every part of me, until my faith radiated a light from within me.
Flickering. Another demon. Flickering. A man, holding a book that oozed pure death. Flickering. More bodies than I could count lay at my feet. Flickering. I ended a turbulent dream. Flickering. I stood beside a few others on a field covered in blood. Flickering. Tall buildings threatened the sky like Babel. Flickering. A world covered with ice and bitter snow, I walked free in it. Flickering. I first noticed that I held six swords bound three on each side of my waist. Flickering. An entire castle was a woman’s body, and sought to consume all. Flickering. A spiral of empty air. Flickering. Pain. Flickering. Flickering. Flickering. Flickering. Flickering. Flickering. Flickering. Flickering. Flickering. Flickering.
“Jeanne! Jeanne!”
I was being shaken? I was… I had been… I blinked. My hand clutched the blade of Fierbois. I wasn’t bleeding… I was… I was…
“Oh thank the Lord, she is alive.”
How long had it been… where was I? A thousand lifetimes of battle, who was staring at me, who was concerned about me? Was I free from hell yet? Was this another…
Memories long forgotten after a thousand battles flooded into my head. It was… it was…
“Jeanne, can you hear me!? It’s Jean De Metz! Can you hear me!?”
That was my name… that was his name… right?
I faded out again.
…
Once more I woke, laid on the ground before the alter.
“She stirs.”, “She’s awake!”, “…”, “Jeanne! What-“
What had happened?
“I… I saw a vision.” Did I fight, did I watch myself fight, was that my future, was that a possible future, was that hell, was that what awaited if I failed, was that what had been asked of me, was that what I had given, was that a dream?
It… felt real. Hadn’t it?
“What did you see?” An urgent clamour.
“What would happen to France should we fail.” I answered, shortly. God did not see fit to provide a meaning to my sight, to my thousand years, truly He must have had faith that I could come to an answer.
The mood on the rest of the journey was somber, as we made our way to the king. Two days there I was waiting, in constant prayer, and seeking an answer to the vision I had been given, but none was. Finally, finally, the king granted us an audience.
But he hid to test me, to test God, and was easily revealed, his blood shining with his true nature as I knelt before him.
After that he believed. I was still troubled, and shaken, but he believed.
He did not send me into battle as I had asked right away, and so I trained, grasping skills quickly that had been in my hand for those endless battles, those fighting of demons. Each thing came easily to me, honed by the vision’s gift amongst its thorns. I tilted and won against the best of France, and crossed blades with those who had more than ten times my supposed experience, but I remained above them a hundred times.
Then, one day as I progressed towards the training field, garbed in armour tailored for me and gifted by the king, a priest came to me, and bowed. He called me to be tested by the Court Bishops, Judges, Lawyers, and the king himself. France had need of me.
The process was three days long, with little sleep, but a fire burned within me, and sleep was barely necessary for my body at that point. They approved me after finding no flaw in my testimony or visions, and gave me lead of soldiers.
The visions hit me hard again. I dreamed of them thereafter, and finally, convinced a message was to be found in them, decided that I would not kill a single person. My visions had shown me more death, more killing, than I could ever fear to see in all my life, even if I fought without rest, without sleep, for all of my remaining life.
“My banner,” I said to the King, “I love forty times as much as my sword.”
The Jesu Maria. My banner, sewn by me and a fellow seamstress. It was my cause and the blade… it had never been drawn, yet I had felt it’s blessed steel strike a man down, strike a child down. With it, I would never again end a life of a human.
That was not to say I did not brandish any weapon I received against those inhuman, or dead, or demons, for I did. I also wielded my weapon in self defense, but for the rest of my life I never again killed a single human. I disarmed, I disabled, but never again killed. If I had ever killed. I was unsure, perhaps the visions were speaking to me, to tell me to never strike down a living being, or that should happen.
Of all my life, this vision has troubled me the most. I can provide no explanation, nor reason for it. No portent, but it never happened as I know. But it felt real… but I prevented it. I… do not know, and cannot truly tell you.
April was when I arrived at Orleans. Where I received my name.
Before the battle I laid Rose at an altar, a sword sacrificed for future victory. It was with me a short time, and I loved it, but God had ordained the sword of Fierbois, Lis, for me.
The plains of Orleans were plains like any war, filled with burning and death, burning that seemed so strong, yet so weak in comparison to what I had seen in my visions in St. Catherine’s church.
We triumphed that day. I prefer not to go into detail of the death of men and women, and will simply say that we won my greatest victory, and turned the tides of France for the first time in decades. I was heralded a savior of the town, and each person sought to thank me, to touch me, weeping.
I was… overwhelmed.
I could scarce believe it when I thought upon it myself. To these people, I was a living miracle. The first evidence of God they had seen in a hundred years blighted by misery, death, and war.
It was there I met La Hire, a rather… unique man. A freebooting pirate who called himself a soldier, and blasphemed fairly regularly. But there was something in him, a flash of warning and light from the heavens. God told me I needed this man, and He granted him the humility and understanding to accept my strictures. Within a day La Hire had become a godly man, and pledged himself and his soldiers to my cause. He had tried to kneel, but I had kept him standing. I was neither royalty nor divine. A salute was the most I expected.
But I hoped we would have no more needs of soldiers, as in my naivety I sent a message to the self-proclaimed English Regent of France, asking for some sort of talk, after all the English should surely be able to understand a miraculous victory? And I was already long weary of seeing the dead; I was long weary of that before Orleans…
One of my greatest fears came to me that day. That I would grow inured to the presence of death all around me, that I would walk past fallen friends without the threat of falling tears. That I would simply look blankly forward. I never did, but this worry assaulted me each night after Orleans, all too often robbing much of a night’s sleep from me.
But, to return to my story, the English regent had none of it, and stripped my messenger, beating him and setting fire to my letter without even reading it.
I was incensed, to say the least. Upon hearing the treatment of the messenger I immediately had to go to the Church to meditate in prayer. Alone, despite the throng that wanted to accompany me. It was to calm me, to purge me of the hate that was threatening to consume me. I needed guidance, as I always did in my short life.
And guidance I received. I received an urgent messenger upon asking for a sign, some ray of guidance, who bravely stumbled into the church. After gently rebuking him, he told me England’s greatest general was coming, to turn the tides on us, to defeat me personally. All that attention for only lifting one siege~
Sir John Fastolfe. I was nervous, I admit, but I trusted in God, and the sign he had just given me. But I waited too long. I sat for another day, seeking guidance of whether I should attack him directly, or maneuver around him. There was no thought in my head of how long it had taken the messenger to get to me.
Fastolfe was spotted at a nearby village, barely garrisoned, the next day. No soldier survived, and the threat of tears as I stood amongst the dead became a reality. Others had been punished for my mistake. Immediately I strapped my helmet, on, grabbed my standard, and led my knights in pursuit.
We only caught the rearguard of the enemy, and they successfully retreated to Saint Loup. I sent a message by arrow to them, asking for a bloodless surrender once again, but my only reply was a crossbow bolt that I narrowly avoided.
Five days later Saint Loup fell to me, and once again I walked amongst the dead and dying. Fastolfe was not there, he had fled in a daring charge two days previous. In the fury at not finding him amongst the command of the garrison my soldiers did not take many prisoners… unarmed men and servants lay with their throats cut seemingly everywhere I looked.
One more of my swords vanished that day, as I chastised my own soldiers with it, striking each warrior with the flat of my weapon, and on the last soldier, a boy no more than sixteen whose eyes showed loss, it broke. The blade Poinsettia shattered into three pieces, and I left it where it fell. It was a price I had to pay, and paid willingly.
We tracked Fastolfe through many forts, at each one death seemed to reign, and his servants buzzed perpetually amongst the slaughter. I was still moved each time… but it was becoming less and less. My nightmares continued to plague me, despite my prayers. It must have been my Thorn, as Paul would have said.
In fifteen days I took six forts. I lost three hundred soldiers, and my enemies ten times that much. Each night now people came to me, asking me to heal them, to intercede with God for them, to pray for them. They sought to take my possessions as relics. Pieces of my armour would vanish overnight, but be replaced by some armoursmith in the city who would not let me pay him for his work…
What favour I did for him I do not know… for now I can’t even remember his name. I remember his stark red hair, and burnt from the forge skin, and the perpetual smell of soot he had about him, even his laugh, but not his name.
We had one more fort left to go before Orleans was truly safe. Tournelles. The greatest of them, and the most well defended by far.
The night before, my dreams showed me my own death. Repeatedly, and a hundred different ways. I… woke many times that night, covered in sweat, and my breath coming sharp and painfully. Thankfully no one else noticed, and so my burden did not affect morale. However one thing was guaranteed, I was going to at least be injured today, in the storming of the fort.
So I said I was, I told the soldiers that, and I prepared for it. It would be grievous, and the line of command would fall, so I drilled everyone in what would happen in case I fell on the field of battle.
…What a painful premonition. In my visions in the church, pain felt… distant, something like an echo. This… perhaps I should explain what happened.
I was climbing a ladder up the walls of Tournelles, we were winning the fort, when I came across a group of crossbowmen, who easily shot down those fighting alongside me, while I managed to parry a bolt or two. I rushed towards them as they reloaded, and then the second line fired.
I should have died right there, but God protected me. I deflected three of the twelve bolts, and there were only two more dangerous ones, but I had no time to intercept them. However, a divinely guided gust of wind blew one off course, and the second one right into the bottom curve of Romarin.
It shattered, and my eyes widened as the crossbow bolt was deflected from my neck into my shoulder. A flesh wound, rather than certain death. Gritting my teeth at the sudden pain, I pulled the crossbow bolt out, and with the broken blade of Romarin cut the drawstrings of all the crossbows before the enemy could even react at the miracle that had just happened in front of them
At that point the world swayed, as distorted. I fell to the ground hearing the voice of La Hire and De Rais rushing towards me.
A week would pass before I saw light again. I did not even dream, not that I can remember at least. At my fall, the clouds parted and a light shone on my bleeding form, and my soldiers had rallied, taking the fort to save my life.
The doctors told me I shouldn’t walk, but I had to. I had to force myself, to show my soldiers, to show the citizens of Orleans that I was well. It was painful to move my arm, but I bore it as I would all burdens that came my way. I was there to carry them so that everyone else did not have to.
I learned the English called me a witch, a magician, a sorcerer out to ensnare the hearts of Godly people. Occasionally I would find those who believed them, and they would spit at me. For such a crime the citizens of Orleans would hang them… just for doubting me…
It… I bore that too, and tried to stop atrocities that were being committed in my name, but it seemed impossible. Gilles called the hangings rightful, and even La Hire wanted to agree with him. No one understood.
They thought I was soft, too soft, and it was for that reason they did not tell me about the English retreat that day. Our forces were harrying running people and they did not tell me! As painful as it was to don armour that day, and ride a horse, my visions told me to go to the river outside Le Blanche, and I went, outriding any pursuers, and falling upon my own army, shouting at them and rebuking them, forcing them with the flat of my blade to let the English retreat. None chose to fight me that day, and the English were free to retreat unmolested.
…They still called me a witch after that.
The next day, still weak, I received a letter from the King. He was to be crowned at Reims, and I was to be his escort, to ‘purge’ the English from his path…
At each fort along the Loire I offered the chance to surrender. None took it, and each Englishman fought against the ‘witch of Orleans’ to the last man. Boys would scream and charge at me, intent on killing me before they would be laid low by my archers. A twelve year old screaming over the death of his father tried to strike my side with a knife, and one of my spearmen ended his life before he even fully raised his arm.
His face haunted my dreams all the way to Reims.
The burden was becoming great, and felt like an anchor strung to my soul. My only reprieves were the solitary moments in various churches, praying, eyes full of tears, for help, to just relieve the smallest portion of my burden, but not a single ounce was relieved. God had destined me to hold a country on my small shoulders, and my shoulders alone.
I was sick, and weak standing at the Coronation, but I was there. I was there when Charles’ first act as king while I kneeled at his feet was to demand the taking of Troyes. I swore to him, in my fevered state, that he would walk through its gate in three days.
La Hire had to help me walk out of the Coronation chamber, and it took two days of marching that I don’t remember to get to Troyes. All I remember is knowing I had to take the fort in a day, because my sanity had been gone that one moment.
… I do not know at this time, even with hindsight, if that was my body acting as a channel for a divine message, or just me in a fever-dream. Either way, Troyes fell within a day, by ‘witchcraft’ as the soldiers put it, when they burned our ladders, I ordered everything made of wood, from chairs to training swords to spears to be recrafted into ladders to take the walls. De Rais thought I was insane, and bade me to change my mind, but I had seen my vision, I had climbed a ladder of blades to the tallest tower in Troyes.
That day, just as the sun set, I rode beside Charles into the gate of Troyes. The blood and death was long gone, cleaned in only two hours… at least from the street we rode through. I could still smell it, and my mind seemed to superimpose the sight of this street when I had taken it on the clean cheering crowds here. One little girl came to me, with tears in her eyes, and seemingly covered in blood even though I knew she was not. She tugged on my leg, and I remember wondering why I couldn’t hear her, as I saw her mouth move.
The world spun, and I collapsed off the horse, clattered to the ground, and my world went black.
Three days later I woke, to find the young King smiling at my bedside. I tried to start up, but used my injured arm, which caused the world to whirl with pain again. Thankfully I did not pass out, but I came close.
He told me that stories of my miraculous victories were spreading everywhere, and the French were no longer afraid, they fought the English on the open fields now, instead of hiding behind walls, and were winning! My courage had inspired others, he told me, but all I heard from him was that my courage was causing the deaths of many.
The next morning my father came to me, he had come to see me, to see his daughter, and tell her how proud of her he was. How he couldn’t have been prouder had I been a son. How those living in Domremy were arming themselves and going to the army.
How people were willing to die because of me.
A noble told me they were minting medals of me, which were becoming charms, and almost superstitious objects. People loved me; saw me as God and his Saints, rather than seeing God.
The English used this as part of the reason to accuse me of heresy, to kill me at a mock trial.
I fought many more battles, my King asked for me to fight again as soon as I was ready, and I stood up right then, that day after my father had asked to visit. My legs felt like they would buckle beneath me, and the pain in my shoulder seemed to worsen with each passing moment. But I could not stop. The more I fought, the more I lead, the higher I held my banner, the less people who died. Surrender was rare, and people would prefer to spit at the witch and die it seemed, but it still happened. I was saving lives, although my visions were coming slower, and my mind felt clouded with pain each day I had to swing a sword.
I won eight more sieges before I came to Paris, the site of my first defeat.
We breached the walls, and I ran forward with my standard, and as I led, a crossbow bolt slammed into my thigh, piercing it straight through. It did not knock me to the ground, but I found it almost impossible to walk. Still though, I staggered forward. I could not fall! I couldn’t! It would be disastrous. But my sword seemed so heavy…
I dropped my last blade, and fumbled awkwardly for Lis, but could not manage to make my hand grasp the hilt.
Dragging my foot I continued forwards towards the rain of bolts, still holding my banner high. We were advancing!
The English looked at me, and a nobleman stepped forward, and challenged me there, on the field of battle. Duke Alencon apparently thought himself a match for a young crippled girl. I accepted, and didn’t even draw my sword. He swung his at my face, with the confidence of a saint facing judgement. I caught the blade with my hand, and snapped the pathetic sword even as it dug through my gauntlet and into the flesh of my hand.
His eyes were shocked, I remember that. I remember the blood drained from his face and then he fell when my other hand, the injured one, slammed into his face.
Moments later I too fell, this time though I was awake, and felt all the agony of being dragged back to camp. I just couldn’t move, no matter how much I forced myself. I could scream, but I bit my tongue and only let the occasional tear of pain out, rather than howl. I did shout for them to continue the attack while I was gone, if they did, they would take the city.
I had received that vision, that it would fall had the attack continued. But no one listened, and they retreated because I was hurt. Even though hundreds groaned in death around them, my injuries superseded all that to them. I was more important than their lives, than their victory.
The next day, I had to bind one of the sheaths of my fallen swords to my leg under my armour, so I would keep it straight when walking. Bending it caused me to collapse and I refused to fall again. I would lead the attack into Paris.
But Charles disagreed, and told me to withdraw from Paris. I knew France could have reclaimed it, but now of all times he refused to believe me. I prayed that he would change his mind, but he did not. He did the worst possible thing. I was brought to court, where everyone took this chance to reveal their veiled hate for me, calling me weak, pathetic, unfit, too womanly to succeed. Gilles killed three men in duels that day, which only spawned more hate for me, as I wouldn’t challenge them myself.
One noble assaulted me, slamming me against a wall as I tried to stagger my way to my quarters. He grabbed me by the throat, and punched me in my wounds multiple times, telling me I had gotten his son killed for nothing. Then he pulled a knife, and stabbed me in the stomach, finishing by saying he would have had his way with me too, to remove any pretense of my being a holy woman were he not sickened by my presence. I only clutched at the blade, my hands becoming stained with blood. He wanted to hear me scream in pain, but I did not oblige him. Frustrated, he pushed the knife deeper into me and then turned to leave, only to find Gilles there, who killed him with what appeared to be great enjoyment. I could not say anything, only lie there, watching. I was in too much pain.
But God once again decreed I would not die. I staggered to my feet again within the week, and went to thank the Lord for my pained survival, and laid the last of my swords, Lis, on the altarstone of an abandoned church. I could hardly stand, but I need not stand if I rode a horse, so I served the king on horseback, with only my standard.
And yet, two days past the giving up of my last sword, I found myself in combat again, unarmed. My horse was killed, and I supported myself with the standard, but I could not look like I was leaning on it, or my men would worry. I stood where my mount had fallen, taking the occasional halting step, always forward. Even when we were outnumbered. And they did not leave my side, they died for me, because I could not retreat.
We took more fortresses, we kept going, despite more and more of my soldiers being taken away from me by death and other generals. Even the King stopped aiding me, despite only having the one failure at Paris to my name.
My wounds almost incapacitated me regularly, and each time they came near to healing I once again ripped them open leading, walking, riding. They called me a witch more often, even my own people, and a nobleman slapped me across the face for daring to take the victory at La Charite, and spat on me as he left.
It was starting to hurt. Hurt far more than the dreams that seemed so long ago, where I had taken far worse wounds. But I kept going. And some still believed in me, but they seemed to believe too much, thinking me supernatural. Asking me to revive the dead, and I could not do anything but cry over the child’s corpse they brought me, stabbed through the heart.
Both the hate and belief both began to weigh on me too much, and the pain never seemed to leave. But I withstood it. Even when I failed for the second time, I withstood the criticisms, the hate, the once again assassination attempts. Gilles and La Hire, ever faithful, formed a bodyguard for me, since I no longer used a weapon. One of my hands was almost useless anyways, the wound from the crossbow bolt that had struck me in the shoulder so long ago had worsened, and I could barely clutch my palms together for prayer.
Still though, I won more victories than the rest of the generals combined, and while some of them admired me, most of them hated me and ever advised the King to do the opposite of what I said. Even at my last battle, Compiegne, I was victorious. I rode back in time to save it from the forces of the English but…
It had been warm. No the weather was cold, but the wound in my thigh had opened again as we lured the English knights away from the city while the refugees fled within the wall. I remember the warmth of my blood as I finally called for the retreat, and we went full speed back to Compiegne, minutes ahead of the English. But the drawbridge was up. All my soldiers were outside, but the drawbridge was up. The English knights were coming, they outnumbered us, and the drawbridge was up.
I pleaded with the city to open the drawbridge to let us in, so that we would not die. But there was no answer. I had two-hundred soldiers, who were all now condemned to death with me because someone inside the walls hated me. I never found out whom, nor do I want to, but I felt that none should suffer when they only hated me. I begged them to lower the drawbridge for only my soldiers, but it did not.
I prayed for an instant, prayed for a vision, prayed for something. Our horses were exhausted, the English would catch us if we tried to run.
I receive nothing. No answer.
What had seemed like decades before at the time, I did not scream even when injured, and almost killed. But now, now I screamed, screamed with inarticulate rage, and hurled my helmet with my good arm at the drawbridge.
It did not respond.
La Hire calmed me, and Gilles counselled leaving everyone behind so that I alone could escape. I shook my head at that. I was tired of having people die for me! Tired of seeing the blood flow on streets, tired of watching people die around me, tired of everything.
So I told him the opposite. I alone would stay, everyone else would run. Gilles objected immediately, and I hit him, hard, with my good arm. He objected again, and I hit him again. We repeated this three more times until finally I smashed him over the head, and watched his eyes roll back in unconsciousness. La Hire looked at me; he was such a big man, and there were tears in his eyes, and his bushy beard was already wet, showing it was not just recent.
He hugged me, crushing my injured shoulder, but I smiled. I was happy for one second, for the first time since Paris. Slinging Gilles over his shoulder, he bid me farewell, and I found that I too was crying.
I was alone when the English came. Using my standard alone I dismounted over a dozen knights before my own mount was brought down by an arrow. At that point I fell flat to the ground, and immediately pushed myself up, dodging another knight’s lance. The movement made my injured leg collapse again, and I pulled myself up once more.
For a few minutes I fought with the broken half of my standard, and then when they disarmed that, my bare hands. I killed no one, I never would, and eventually that came back to haunt me, when the wounded men all charged me at once, attempting to subdue me. I fell under the combined weight of them, a crippled girl who had felled dozens of men before finally being subdued, and they bragged about that as they bound me, and ripped apart my clothes, leaving me only a loose shift.
It was a long and terrible journey, filled with beatings, and hatred. I could barely see at the end of it, and I knew numerous bones in my body were broken, but I did not give them the satisfaction of seeing my pain. As we finally approached Paris, I was almost looking forward to my trial.
I was quickly disabused of that notion, as I was handed over to the church as a heretic, blasphemer, and sorceress. I was framed multiple times, they had me sign a paper saying I would not wear men’s clothes any longer, and then removed all my women’s clothes, leaving me to attend trial naked or in a set of men’s robes. I chose the robes, and was deemed a heretic against my own words.
After trying to escape twice they locked me in a tower, and attached to each of my feet weights heavier than me so I could not move even if I wanted to, as well as chaining my arms into the air at random, aggravating the old wounds they refused to tend to.
My trial was a sham, and that is all I will say of it. Englishmen, mad at their losses, declared me guilty of crimes I never committed, and sentenced me to death. Anyone who spoke to my defense was removed or killed.
For fifty days before the execution I was tortured, and at the end of it they were so afraid I would die that they actually let a doctor tend to me until I could remain conscious again. I do not want to reflect on these dark moments, so I will pass over them.
They didn’t believe my visions, or the voices I heard, didn’t understand, and hated what I did in the material world. I was not a heretic, but that is why I was tied to the stake and oil was poured around me. They dressed me like a criminal, bound a rod to my back, and wrote their lies upon me.
The fire… the fire was what finally beat me. I had never before screamed my pain until those oil fed fires burnt away my feet, burnt them to ashes. I screamed, and they smiled, they laughed.
My eyes had been clutched closed, until, for some reason, the drifting smoke lost its cloy, and every breath in smelled as the blossoms on an oak tree. I opened my eyes, wondering if I was in Heaven, and my eyes caught an old oak cross, held high by a French Priest and untouched by fire, beautiful in those last moments.
I had done what was asked, and in that last moment, staring at that cross I felt my burdens fall away with the pains, and saw my last vision as fire flicked at my eyes. A dream of a free France.
Moments from that I was consumed. My body was ashes, but my soul was returning to paradise.
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