Wattys 2022 Boot Camp

Fallen Angel - @MermaidAriel13

Logline

What happens when Joan of Arc and the Archangel Gabriël break the most important law of the Heavens and declare their love for each other? The divine plan set in motion hundreds of years ago has at long last reached the endgame. 

Blurb

There is one absolute law all angels must abide by - never fall in love.

After she is burned to death, Joan of Arc becomes an angel of the Vale to fight for God. But even after 600 years, Joan continues to rebel against the Lord Protector, Michael, unwilling to forgive or forget that her mortal life ended in flames. The only one she still listens to is the Archangel Gabriël, who does all he can to protect Joan from Michael's judgment. When an old enemy gravely wounds Gabriël, he and Joan are confronted with their feelings for each other - and the risks of banishment if they dare to cross this line. Yet, with a demon slowly taking hold of Gabriël's mind for the sake of personal vengeance and Michael's growing suspicion of their closeness and his own deep, unanswered affection for Gabriël, how long can their secret possibly last?

As Joan and Gabriël are threatened by both friend and foe, they learn that everything they believed and fought for, everything that they thought they were, was a lie.

First 1,000 Words

Prologue

(May 30, 1431 - Rouen)

She could hear the people shouting. They screamed her name. Some called out for her salvation, others for her damnation. It didn't matter who said what. 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. If, for some reason, 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 final 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 it to be sunny on such a day. The sun 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, 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 France. 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 for her final day. She had been obligated to discard her shirt and trousers a second time as they 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 a final act of defiance in their eyes.
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.

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. All had come to watch her burn. But as she appeared on the Vieux-Marche, everyone went silent. Then voices surged from the crowd.

"Surely not her?"

"Only a girl, not even a full-grown woman..."

"A mistake, no doubt!"

Whispers grew into shouts, and soon the entire square was in an uproar. And with every step she took to the pyre, fear grew. And hope for salvation dwindled.

Once at the top, she was bound to the wooden pillar and only then did she dare to look up, confronting the eyes of indignation, of what people called a charade; the stern looks of the clergy on the dais. The one village priest who had volunteered to give a final blessing for her immortal soul tried to shout over the voices. All the while, the clouds grew darker, taking all hope out of her heart.

She cried out one final plea.

"May I see a crucifix before me? A crucifix before me, please!"

As the executioner lit the fire at her feet, a group of men moved toward the clergy and gripped the crucifix, bringing it to her. she saw the Holy Cross move closer towards her until it was levelled with her face. She let out a breathless sob. A faint smile crept up in the corner of her mouth. The women could no longer contain their tears at her bravery. They screamed for mercy and a quick death, but not she would not. She prayed.

The flames spread and licked her body. The air began to smell of burnt flesh. When the pain shot through her, she wanted to cry out. She bit her lips to keep herself from doing so. The loud 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 previous voices, to hear her, to feel her. Tears came to her eyes. Still, she would not scream. She looked up to the sky and the dark clouds, shaking her head.

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 seen that moment in the end when she had lost faith. Having hung her head in defeat, he understood. The voices, and perhaps God, had left her.

But it no longer mattered - Joan of Arc, the Maiden of Orléans and self-proclaimed Messenger of God, had fought her war. And she had lost.

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