Fallen Angel

Prologue

A/N Please read the general Author's Note before starting the story for trigger warnings. Thank you.

May 30, 1431 - Rouen

She heard the people shouting her name. Some called out for her salvation, others for damnation. It didn't matter who said what, though. In the end, it was up to God and His angels. All her life, she had heard them and felt them near. They would not abandon her now.
If it were His wish that she be safely delivered, then so it would be. Yet if it was His judgment that she had failed Him and should burn for it, then she was confident the saints and angels would be there one last time to ease her suffering.

She looked up through the bars of her cell window one last time. The sun did not grace the sky with its presence today. Good. She would have hated for there to be sunshine on such a day, for that represented happiness and joy, whilst clouds and rain invoked sorrow. That is what her mother used to say. And she had been right.
The sun had not witnessed her arrest, nor had it been there during the long days of her trial. The coronation of the Dauphin, the heir apparent to the throne of France, however, had been a glorious day. Everyone had praised and blessed her ten times over, if not a hundred times. She had won it all for him and her country. And where was her King now? He had not even tried to save her from the English.

Suddenly, she felt a pinch of fear in her heart. Her hands gripped at the rough fabric of the chemise she had been given. She had been forced to dispose of her shirt and trousers a second time, as these so-called men of God would not have her wearing men's clothing in public again. The first time, she discarded them as a sign of goodwill. Yet her guards had taken advantage of that. Her virtue, which had been so precious to her, so valuable, was seized. Both clergy and lawyers were aghast at seeing her in men's clothing once more after this — it was an irrevocable act of defiance in their eyes. None cared what had prompted her to recant. 

Footsteps sounded outside the cell door. It opened, and then the priest's voice, "Come, child. It is time."
She turned and followed, surrounded by guards, her head bowed in prayer, uttering soundless words that only the angels would hear.

***

The square was crowded with peasants, soldiers, nobility, clergy... All had come to see the woman who had dared to say she was God's Messenger on Earth. To watch her burn. But as she appeared on the Vieux-Marche, everyone went silent. Then voices surged from the crowd.

"Surely not her?" questioned the recovering general.

"Only a girl," lamented the lady to her servant.

"A mistake, no doubt!" exclaimed the baker.

Whispers grew into shouts, and soon the entire square was in an uproar at what they believed was to be a charade. And with every step the convicted girl took to the pyre, her fear grew. And the hope for salvation dwindled.
Once at the top, she was bound to the wooden pillar. Gathering her courage, she finally looked up, meeting the indignant eyes of the crowd before her and the stern expressions of the bishops on the platform. The one village priest who had volunteered to give a final blessing for her immortal soul tried to shout over the many loud voices. All the while, the clouds grew darker, taking all hope out of her heart.

She cried out one last plea, "May I see a crucifix before me? A crucifix before me, please!"

A group of men moved toward the clergy and snatched the crucifix from one of the altar boys. The Holy Cross moved closer towards her until it was levelled with her face. She let out a breathless sob as the executioner lit the fire at her feet. A faint smile crept up in the corner of her mouth. The women could no longer contain their tears at her bravery while some men attempted to reach and save her, only to be halted by the guards. They screamed for mercy and a quick death, but she would not falter and beg for it herself. Instead, she prayed.
The flames spread and licked her body. The air began to smell of burned flesh. Pain shot through her. She wanted to cry out, yet bit her lips to keep from doing so. The strident roar of the crowd made sure none could hear her struggling moans. Her eyes fixed on the crucifix, the mere sight a relieving balm for her harrowing anguish. She beseeched God and His angels, her precious voices, to hear and feel her. Tears came to her eyes when they remained silent. Still, she would not scream. She looked up at the sky and the dark clouds.

Why would You leave me now? Have I failed You thus that I would deserve this cruelty? Did I not do all You commanded? Please, God, I ask not for mercy but merely to know You are there.

But as the silence remained, her heart could take no more pain, nor could her body. She hung her head and allowed the fire to take her.

***

When the flames died out, the clergy raked through the burned wood and what little remained of her body to show there was no divine intervention. She was a girl like any other who had dared to use the Lord's name and claim she was His Messenger. The order was given to set the pyre aflame once more until all that remained were ashes. Of course, they could not let the commoners take something of this girl with them.
As the executioner carried out his last instruction and threw the ashes of 'God's Messenger' over the river, he prayed for forgiveness. He had never craved more for absolution of his sins. The girl was no criminal, as the English would have her be. He knew the difference.
And though she had been brave, he was confident that he alone had witnessed the moment she had lost her faith. Having seen her drop her head in defeat, he had understood. The voices, and perhaps God, had left her.

But it no longer mattered - Joan of Arc, the Maiden of Orléans, had fought her war. And lost.