Commie - Prologue

"La Pucelle carried with her heart kindness and humility,
integrity and naiveté, and above all else, her faith.
That was all she had."
–Words of a Certain Theologian

Rouen, Place du Vieux-Marché

Like a dirge carried by the wind from lands far away, insulting words came into
earshot, but she paid them little mind. It would be lying to say they caused her no grief, but
to say they were agonizing would be an exaggeration.

Fear, on the other hand, was of a similar consideration. She let feelings of shame and
regret fall to the wayside when she decided she would fight, and even now they did not
return.

Being dragged around was beneath her. She walked straight and true, constantly and
unconsciously clawing at her breast, only to find her cross had been stolen. The very
foundation of her heart was gone, and sadness slowly crept in. An Englishman rushed up to
her in her moment of temporary mourning, making an effort to be as respectful as possible,
handing her a hastily-made wooden cross.

"Thank you," she whispered gratefully, gazing down upon him as he kneeled now
before her, tears streaming down his face. While some disparaged her, others cried openly
for her sake.

If insulting words were like foreign songs from distant lands, then grief, perhaps,
was a motherly lullaby.

Her keepers tied her hands behind both her back and a towering wooden stake. No
man could ever claim that she escaped. The bonds were tightened such that they could not
slacken, perhaps fruitlessly. I can't escape, especially after coming this far, she thought.

Immediately upon the cardinal reading her last rites, the torches were thrown in. The
flames slowly licked at her feet. To those around her, losing one's physical body in such a
way must have been the most frightening means of execution imaginable. The skin was
scorched, the flesh was broiled, the bones were charred. The words were chanted over and
over, the names of God and the Holy Mother invoked.

"Your prayers are a lie."

Many times she was accused, and many times she was insulted so. It was a mystery
she was helpless to solve. Prayer held no inherent truth and no inherent untruth; they
should remain unchanging regardless of whom one prays to.

She wanted to warn them of their error, but no voice came. Instead, she saw her life
laid out before her in an instant: A homely village, an ordinary family, and the fool who ran
away from it all. But was she really a fool? She certainly may have been. After all, she knew
this would happen from the very beginning. No one knew her end more than she.

If only she had looked away, perhaps she could have met a different end.

If only she had ignored the voices; if only she had abandoned the lamentations of the
soldiers on their death beds. Perhaps she could have led a life like any other woman,
perhaps she could have gotten married, living happily ever after as a wife and mother.

That future could have been hers. That was certain.

Regardless, she threw aside the happily ever after and sprinted off towards a
different end. She chose instead to take up the sword, don her armor, bear the flag of her
country, and lead the front lines from the back of a horse.

You knew it would end this way, didn't you?

She knew, she understood. Her continued struggle meant only that she would meet
her end one day. While others may have called her a fool, mocking herself was something
she never allowed.

Lives were saved. The path that I chose was the right path.

The visions of her past, the future that never came, and the ever-so-cruel present
burnt out like the embers surrounding her, vanishing into little more than ash as she
prayed.

This was her prayer, this was her sacrifice. Even if every other person on Earth
berated and betrayed her, she died knowing that she never once betrayed herself. There
were no regrets, there was no future wanting. There would only be rest at last.

Despite being at the center of such brutality, long after her life had ceased and the
fires died down, all that remained burning within her heart was selfless prayer, free of
regret to the end.

Dear Lord, I give my body unto Thee...

Her final thoughts faded, and in her last wake of consciousness she was released
from her suffering. Her dreamless sleep was over, and only reality remained. But it was not
over just yet. Where one girl's dream had ended, the legend of La Pucelle had begun.

- Commie's Translation of Jeanne's Prologue