06-26-2016, 05:14 AM
Kindness, humility, honesty, purity, faith - The Maiden’s heart carried only these things, and nothing else. Jeanne had never received a proper education in the way of the pen and paper. Unable to read or write the girl didn’t know the proper prayers written in the prayer books, and wasn’t able to preach or pray in a way a regular priest would.
But did a prayer really have to be from a book, for it to be worthy of the Lord’s notice? Jeanne didn’t believe so, and so she offered Him her own, sincere words. Not a day passed by, where she did not seek out the solace of the chapel. To Jeanne d’Arc, praying, and offering Him her time, was as important as breathing or eating was to others.
In the chapel, the maiden would kneel before the altar, lowering her head as she folded her hands, and finally closed her eyes. It was then, that Jeanne felt like she was in His hands. When she disconnected from the world and lost herself in a prayer. This was her safe haven, her transcendence. In her heart there was no doubt, no fear. Only faith in that He was listening. Unlike many, whom asked the Lord for aid, she offered herself to Him. Enlisted herself in His cause, offered to act as His hand in saving this world.
And as such, not a day went by, where Jeanne d’Arc would not present Him her sincerest offering of gratitude. She was, and would always be, His champion.
It was but a sweet memory.
The rough road of cobblestone carried upon it a maiden dressed in simple clothing escorted by four knights. The group advanced without haste, pacing themselves along the maiden’s bare feet. Each step flared her nerves in pain, as the dirt and small stones bit into her soles, chewing through her skin and drawing blood. Each step more agonizing than the one before it. Yet the girl held a smile upon her visage. She had been promised no glory or prideful victory. She had always known, from the very first day she had picked up his banner, how it would end. That there would be no marriage or children, no happy ending for her. Yet even then, she had chosen to walk His path. She felt no regret over the path she had chosen to tread, even knowing how it would end.
So even as she approached her death, her faith held true. Reaching for her chest, where a cross had always been hanging from her neck, she found emptiness. Her cross had been taken from her, and for that, she felt sadness in her heart. But even then, the Lord answered her call for aid, as a scrawny man approached the convoy, unhindered by the knights as he reached to offer her a simple wooden cross, clearly fabricated right then and there. But Jeanne accepted it with a smile on her lips, thanking the man earnestly for his efforts. “Merci, mon ami.”
The woman held the cross close to her heart, as the company reached their final destination. The knights parted from before her, allowing her to ascend to the platform where the stake awaited her. Jeanne rose the steps devoid of hesitation, and settled herself against the pole. One of the knights climbed the steps in her wake, running a rope around her midsection, as he was tying the young woman to meet her doom. In his hands, there was only one evident emotion; hesitation. Standing there, in front of all the people to see, the holy woman reminisced her life.
A woman stood at the very bottom of the impressive battlements of her enemy, accompanied only by the dawning sun, and a small militia behind her. The woman was carrying a ladder, as she slowly raised it against the wall and dug its feet into the ground to solidify them. It was then, that the maiden cried out; "Tout est votre - et entrez-y!" - All is yours, - go in! And so, the first stone had been cast and the french militia roared forth, storming up the ladders, as more of them were brought to rest against the wall.
Alarmed by the sounds coming from below, the guards in their towers caught the attack upon their keep; “Alarm! Alarm! The French are coming!” echoed through the walls, as the clangs and clings of armoured units in motion sounded from within; the englishmen had awakened to the attack, their longbowmen storming the wall, raining arrows down upon the french warriors.
It was soon sighted that this attack was being led by the well known maiden, La Pucelle, whom had reached nearly a legendary status amongst the english ranks. Yet, as the God’s Chosen was ascending upwards on the ladder, an arrow howled its way across the air and bit into the flesh of the woman. Yet even as she plummeted down to the ground, the woman, Jeanne d’Arc, held her faith into the Lord. She had been told that upon this day blood would flow from her body, above her breast. No fear was present within the heart of the maiden, only complete and utter faith. As she’d been told, an arrow had struck into her shoulder.
Even as the impact upon the ground shook her body and her consciousness faded into the darkness, the girl held her faith close to her heart. The path she had chosen, had not promised either great glory nor reward, yet she had decided to walk upon it out of her own free will. She had embraced the laments of the Lord, where others chose to ignore them. She had picked up his banner, having decided to battle in his name to the end.
The unconscious maiden was then carried away by her comrades, taken back to the safety of Orléans.
As her eyes fluttered open, Jeanne drew the cross in her clutched hands closer to her heart. It was her time. She had faced trial for heresy and lost. Her prayers deemed a lie. Sentenced to be burned upon a stake, as a witch. Yet she herself knew, that He would always be with her. Even then as the flames licked her dress and the platform built of logs and tinder below her caught fire the girl smiled, raising her gaze to the skies and offered herself to Him. “O Seigneur, je confie ce corps a toi.”, her final words were not understood by the english, as her consciousness faded to black, and the she was released from her suffering. In the end, the maiden died without regrets, having chosen to not betray her faith.
It was the day where the Maiden’s dream ended, but a day, where another one began, the dream of La Pucelle.
But did a prayer really have to be from a book, for it to be worthy of the Lord’s notice? Jeanne didn’t believe so, and so she offered Him her own, sincere words. Not a day passed by, where she did not seek out the solace of the chapel. To Jeanne d’Arc, praying, and offering Him her time, was as important as breathing or eating was to others.
In the chapel, the maiden would kneel before the altar, lowering her head as she folded her hands, and finally closed her eyes. It was then, that Jeanne felt like she was in His hands. When she disconnected from the world and lost herself in a prayer. This was her safe haven, her transcendence. In her heart there was no doubt, no fear. Only faith in that He was listening. Unlike many, whom asked the Lord for aid, she offered herself to Him. Enlisted herself in His cause, offered to act as His hand in saving this world.
And as such, not a day went by, where Jeanne d’Arc would not present Him her sincerest offering of gratitude. She was, and would always be, His champion.
It was but a sweet memory.
The rough road of cobblestone carried upon it a maiden dressed in simple clothing escorted by four knights. The group advanced without haste, pacing themselves along the maiden’s bare feet. Each step flared her nerves in pain, as the dirt and small stones bit into her soles, chewing through her skin and drawing blood. Each step more agonizing than the one before it. Yet the girl held a smile upon her visage. She had been promised no glory or prideful victory. She had always known, from the very first day she had picked up his banner, how it would end. That there would be no marriage or children, no happy ending for her. Yet even then, she had chosen to walk His path. She felt no regret over the path she had chosen to tread, even knowing how it would end.
So even as she approached her death, her faith held true. Reaching for her chest, where a cross had always been hanging from her neck, she found emptiness. Her cross had been taken from her, and for that, she felt sadness in her heart. But even then, the Lord answered her call for aid, as a scrawny man approached the convoy, unhindered by the knights as he reached to offer her a simple wooden cross, clearly fabricated right then and there. But Jeanne accepted it with a smile on her lips, thanking the man earnestly for his efforts. “Merci, mon ami.”
The woman held the cross close to her heart, as the company reached their final destination. The knights parted from before her, allowing her to ascend to the platform where the stake awaited her. Jeanne rose the steps devoid of hesitation, and settled herself against the pole. One of the knights climbed the steps in her wake, running a rope around her midsection, as he was tying the young woman to meet her doom. In his hands, there was only one evident emotion; hesitation. Standing there, in front of all the people to see, the holy woman reminisced her life.
A woman stood at the very bottom of the impressive battlements of her enemy, accompanied only by the dawning sun, and a small militia behind her. The woman was carrying a ladder, as she slowly raised it against the wall and dug its feet into the ground to solidify them. It was then, that the maiden cried out; "Tout est votre - et entrez-y!" - All is yours, - go in! And so, the first stone had been cast and the french militia roared forth, storming up the ladders, as more of them were brought to rest against the wall.
Alarmed by the sounds coming from below, the guards in their towers caught the attack upon their keep; “Alarm! Alarm! The French are coming!” echoed through the walls, as the clangs and clings of armoured units in motion sounded from within; the englishmen had awakened to the attack, their longbowmen storming the wall, raining arrows down upon the french warriors.
It was soon sighted that this attack was being led by the well known maiden, La Pucelle, whom had reached nearly a legendary status amongst the english ranks. Yet, as the God’s Chosen was ascending upwards on the ladder, an arrow howled its way across the air and bit into the flesh of the woman. Yet even as she plummeted down to the ground, the woman, Jeanne d’Arc, held her faith into the Lord. She had been told that upon this day blood would flow from her body, above her breast. No fear was present within the heart of the maiden, only complete and utter faith. As she’d been told, an arrow had struck into her shoulder.
Even as the impact upon the ground shook her body and her consciousness faded into the darkness, the girl held her faith close to her heart. The path she had chosen, had not promised either great glory nor reward, yet she had decided to walk upon it out of her own free will. She had embraced the laments of the Lord, where others chose to ignore them. She had picked up his banner, having decided to battle in his name to the end.
The unconscious maiden was then carried away by her comrades, taken back to the safety of Orléans.
As her eyes fluttered open, Jeanne drew the cross in her clutched hands closer to her heart. It was her time. She had faced trial for heresy and lost. Her prayers deemed a lie. Sentenced to be burned upon a stake, as a witch. Yet she herself knew, that He would always be with her. Even then as the flames licked her dress and the platform built of logs and tinder below her caught fire the girl smiled, raising her gaze to the skies and offered herself to Him. “O Seigneur, je confie ce corps a toi.”, her final words were not understood by the english, as her consciousness faded to black, and the she was released from her suffering. In the end, the maiden died without regrets, having chosen to not betray her faith.
It was the day where the Maiden’s dream ended, but a day, where another one began, the dream of La Pucelle.
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