Her Name Is Joan

I laid on the table smelling the burning incense. Her warm hands touched my cold body. I shivered on the table as the temperature dropped around me. My late brother paced around the table watching this shaman woman work.

“She’s so stubborn,” I could hear him speaking. His voice was crystal clear as if ten years hadn’t passed. Tears leaked from my eyes as I felt his comforting presence. 

Stay…

I found myself begging for him not to leave me again. I feared the pain of loss as ice ran through my veins. My body began convulsing as visions raced through my mind. I could feel myself panicking as I tried to stop my spinning head. And then it stopped.

I stood on the riverbank, dressed in fighting leathers. I could feel the warm blood dripping down my face, but I could not find the strength to lift my hand. I looked across the river to see my brother standing across the bank. His warm blue eyes shined as he smiled at me. I let go of my heavy sword and it dropped with a loud clank. Silent tears fell from my eyes as I stared at him. 

I’ve had this dream before…

In my dream, I had tried to swim to him. But every time I got to the middle, I ran into an invisible wall. The harder I tried to swim, the harder it became to reach him. But there was something different about this vision. This time I did not race towards the water, and I did not beg to get across. This time I just stood there, staring. I had accepted our fates. He was there, and I was here. I gasped as the vision began to shift. 

I stood in a field. I looked around, confused. I could feel the energy of the animals nearby, but I couldn’t see any of them. A large tree stood in the distance. It swayed in the wind. My now blonde hair whipped across my face.

Blonde… 

I’m blonde…

The vision quickly warped.

Stained glass…

I could see the colors dancing around my face as the sun shone through the beautiful tinted glass. I was in a church, which confused me even more because God and I had never seen eye to eye. I looked at the stained window, staring at the image of the fallen Christ. Jesus carried his cross through the Via Dolorosa as his worshippers wept. “Will my worshippers weep for me, la Pucelle, as they did Christ?” 

La Pucelle…

Why do I know La Pucelle…

The defeated voice of a young man broke through the silence. My head snapped to his slumped form on the steps of the altar. My short, dark hair felt wrong for the time but necessary for my cause, whatever that cause may be. I stood in the plain clothes of a page, but I knew I was not a boy in this vision. I felt like an imposter as I stared at this helpless man.

The young King… 

But he is not the King yet…

“God weeps for you, my Lord. Is that not enough?” My mouth seemed to respond on its own accord. I could feel the tension that filled the room as frustration ran through me. I clench my jaw tightly.

I am trying to make him understand… 

He won’t understand… 

They never listen…

Before this King could respond, the vision changed. I was still la Pucelle, but my arms were heavy with chainmail. I was comforted by the feeling. The hilt of my sword was heavy in my hand as the stench of death flooded my sense. 

Battle… 

We’re at war…

I went to run, but the vision changed again. Torches, I could see burning torches. 

I’m scared… 

They’re coming… 

I can’t save them… 

I can’t save me…

Flames danced all around me, and I could smell the burning wood. I looked up to see bright white light. My feet were hot, but the rest of me was freezing.

I have accepted my fate…

I tried to scream as the flames engulfed me, but only a whisper escaped from my dying lips…

  Joan…

  Joan…

  Joan of Arc…