A man lies in a bed, his body pale and his eyes closed in a vain effort to sleep.
However, his lungs did not find any solace as they fought a losing battle against the illness that plagued him.
This man is Lazarus of Bethany.
My beloved older brother.
He, alongside my sister Mary, is all the family I have left.
I love him.
I would do anything to help him, for he is my family.
My family is important….
But I cannot help him.
No matter how long I sit by his bedside, nor how many herbal medicines I make for him, nor how much I wash him and feed him.
Lazarus continues to feel pain and suffering.
Desperate for help, I sent a message to our dear friend, Jesus of Nazareth, asking him to come to Bethany, to heal Lazarus as he had healed many others.
I pray he will arrive soon.
…
My brother is dead.
The letter I had sent to Jesus should have found him, but he never arrived.
And now, Lazarus is wrapped in a cloth drenched in nard. Its strong odor masked the smell of death with a sense of nostalgia.
The nostalgia of the good times they had with their friend, how we welcomed him into our home, fed him and his disciples by herself… and yet… he allowed my brother to die. For what reason, I am unsure, but I hold faith in Jesus and will await his answer when he arrives.
He will arrive, for I have known him for years.
For now, Mary and I must carry our brother Lazarus to his final resting place before the smell of rot overpowers the perfume.
It is our sworn obligation as his family to carry out this ceremony.
Lazarus… big brother… I do not know what I'll do without you…
…
Four days have passed since my big brother's death.
In that time, I have shed enough tears to fill the Nile, and now my eyes are as arid as the desert sands of my home.
On the fourth day, news came to me that Jesus had finally returned to Bethany.
My sister Mary could not bear to see Jesus after he abandoned Lazarus.
I am upset that the man before me, a man whom they had welcomed into their home, a man who she thought was her friend, had let her brother die.
And what does he say after he lets her brother die?
"Your brother will rise again."
It takes every fiber of my being to stop my fist from meeting his bearded face, but my glare alone was enough to convey how displeased I was with his answer.
Mary arrived shortly after, followed by the Jewish mourners.
Jesus asked to be taken to Lazarus's tomb, and they led him there.
He wept the entire way.
To show such sorrow after letting a man who he could have saved die, it was quite the spectacle.
After an awkward walk, they had arrived at her brother's tomb.
What he said next was not anything I would have been able to predict.
"Take away the stone," Jesus calmly told her.
I must not punch the messiah. I must not punch the messiah.
I must NOT PUNCH THE MESSIAH.
…
I am glad I did not punch the Messiah.
My restraint and my faith had returned what Mary and I had wanted more than anything in the world.
Our brother, Lazarus, is alive and well.
Resurrected from the dead, whole and without rot.
My heart filled with joy, for I have witnessed a miracle. A miracle that has reunited my family.
And thus, I shall devote my life to Jesus, for He is the Savior.
…
The savior has been arrested-
✦✧✦
Jeanne Alter POV
The chord of a string snaps.
Eyes open in shock.
The bright, hot sands of Bethany were abruptly replaced by the frigid darkness of a room barely illuminated by moonlight.
"Whuh? Lazarus? Where?"
The vividness of the dream combined with the grogginess in her brain had proven enough to create a dissonance that blurred the line between dreams and reality. The woman rubbed her tear-filled eyes, a warm sense of joy and familial love still clinging to her heart like muck.
Opening her eyes once more, she saw the luxurious sheet canopy looming over her. Still confused about where she was, she sat up from her bed to get a better view of her surroundings.
She was inside a giant bed with folded curtains tied to the masts at the corners of her bed.
Outside the bed, she could see a ray of moonlight shining from an open window to her left. The light was bright enough that she could tell she was in a large bedroom, one fit for a king. Many tapestries hung from the walls, all of them portraying battles of the past and religious figures, and some just had intricate designs woven into them.
To her right, a large chimney was built into the wall, close enough that it could give its warmth to the people sleeping in the bed but far enough away to prevent the fire from spreading and burning its occupants as they slept.
In the corner of her eye, she noticed a mirror reflecting her image. It was difficult to see her reflection due to the angle, but she could make out piercing yellow eyes.
She leaned in to get a better look, and as soon as she did, the silk bedsheets slid down her body, exposing her bare chest to the outside air. Goosebumps rose from under her skin in response to the sudden temperature change.
The chill hit her like a slap to the face, her grogginess gone as quick as a dragonfly beating its wings. She quickly covered her naked body with the warm blanket to prevent the heat from escaping. Now fully awake, she rubbed her head to rub off the last remnants of the confusion in her head.
Right. She was not in Bethany, and neither was she Saint Martha.
She is Jeanne D'Arc, the Dragon Witch, and she was summoned to France in the year 1431 so that she could take vengeance for her murder.
And what she just experienced was a servant's dream, one that was abruptly cut off before it could reach its conclusion.
Which could only mean one thing.
Saint Martha was dead… No, she had been killed.
By them.
The rogue master and the shielder servant who summoned an angel from heaven.
She told Saint Martha that she was only allowed to observe the group and to report back to her. And yet, she defied her orders and confronted them.
"Tch. Defiant till the very end."
And to think she had almost gained respect for her when she nearly punched the Messiah in the face for letting her brother die. Sadly, the dumb bitch was too overjoyed by her brother's resurrection to realize the Son of God had used her brother to elevate himself.
And they call her evil.
Jeanne raised one of her fingers and willed the inner heat from her body to coalesce at its tip. A warm glow illuminated her face as a flame the size of a candlelight had manifested before her eyes. She pointed the finger at the fireplace and shot the flame into its mouth.
The chimney came alive in a burst of flames, illuminating the dark room. It barely provided any warmth, but all Jeanne needed from it was its light. The warmth she needed all came from inside her.
A small burst of magical energy was enough to exile the cold from her body. She slid off of her bed; wisps of smoke wafted from her as her warm, naked body met the cold air.
Her bare feet touched the carpeted floor.
A normal human would have retracted their feet from the cold stone underneath the rug, but she was unbothered.
Jeanne made her way towards the mirror, stopping a few feet in front of it, and took a moment to reaffirm her existence.
Her golden eyes met her reflections, and she sneered at the redness around them. She ran her hand through her ash-white hair, her eyes inspecting each hair like a hawk surveying his hunting grounds for mice, and after a few minutes of inspecting herself, her smile returned.
No blue follicle in sight, neither upstairs nor downstairs.
Her pale skin was flawless, and while her thighs were thinner than the saint's, a surge of pride coursed through her veins when she noticed her cleavage was larger than Saint Martha's.
A sudden, stray memory hit her on the back of the head, pausing Jeanne's admiration of her body.
"Also… she said that she was going to bring you to your knees and make your body and heart hers."
Her cheeks flushed, a scowl on her face as she recalled D'Eon's report on what that pervert queen had said about what she wanted to do to her body. This memory led her mind to her remembering another relevant memory. A declaration from Berserk Archer that was equally as bold and shameless as Marie Antoinette's.
"Oh, Joanne! My master! Although you have placed my mind under madness enhancement, my heart has fallen madly in love with you!! Will you marry me?"
"Joanne," he says. The man couldn't even say her name right, and he had the audacity to not just confess his love for her, but also ask for her hand in marriage.
Jeanne scoffed at the thought.
She might be desperate to kill France, but she wasn't desperate enough to marry him. Regardless of his desires, he will follow her instructions because she is his master, but dangling the carrot of marriage in front of him was a powerful motivator.
She already had to deal with Martha defying her; she didn't need another headache to deal with. Although the idea of marrying a man was initially unpleasant to consider, after she met her other self, she realized it could have its merits.
How would that fake of hers react to her breaking her vow of chastity? To defile the image of the pure saint Jeanne D'Arc by lying with a man?
"You're not my Jeanette."
Those thoughts came to a screeching halt as the face of that woman surfaced.
Jeanne's good mood soured like milk left out in the sun, and her lips pursed as Isabelle Romee's words echoed inside her skull.
The memory was so vivid; she could still see the face of the aged woman glaring at her.
"You are not Jeanne La Pucelle!!"
What the fuck does she know? She was Jeanne D'Arc, and she wasn't going to let someone who let her burn tell her otherwise.
"Neither are you a saint!!"
Jeanne rolled her eyes at the woman's words.
That's the fucking point.
She wants the cowards who abandoned her to know she was not the saint who they had condemned to the pyre. She was the Dragon Witch who was unleashing justice on men who had killed her. Anyone who didn't help her was the enemy of Jeanne D'Arc.
"My daughter is dead!!"
"I have no mother." The Dragon Witch spat the statement at the mirror, like it was the one who uttered those words at her.
She would know if she had a mother, because she WAS and IS Jeanne D'Arc.
"You are an indecent imposter who has stolen her face."
The temperature in the room rose dramatically, her pride demanding that she affirm her existence to the one who dared decry her. Yet despite the anger burning in her chest, the foreign feeling of Martha's familial love toward Lazarus lingered in her heart, allowing doubt to creep into her mind.
Did she have a mother? A brother? A sister?
"Yes, Jeanne D'Arc was my daughter! If you were truly her, then you should have known that!"
Jeanne had been too angry at the time to truly reflect on the woman's words, but when she tried to think of her childhood, all she could remember were the words of the saints urging her to save France.
Everything else was a void.
Was Isabelle Romee speaking the truth? Was she her mother? A thought came to her.
Does it matter? What does acknowledging that woman as her mother do for her? What does it have to do with her vengeance?
She doesn't know. Isabelle Romee might be her mother, and it's possible she has siblings, but how does that have anything to do with her God given right for vengence?
Suddenly, the memory of an angel descending from the sky came to her mind, of the kiss that cut through Fafnir's defenses, of the spray of sand that blinded her, and of the kick to the back of her head that came from nowhere.
Her hand clenched into a fist, and without being able to stop herself, she lashed out.
A sharp, loud crack struck her ears as her fist smashed into the mirror, shattering the perfect image into countless fragments of individual mirrors.
She pulled her hand back, small pieces of glass falling to her feet.
Jeanne glared at the mirror, her face now reflected back to her in pieces.
Her mind was now a turmoil of emotions, with anger being the most prevalent.
She hated her other self for showing her face and refusing to let herself be killed by her hand.
She was furious that the woman who claimed to be her mother did not turn into a pile of ash.
And worst of all, she felt humiliated by the literal divine intervention that made her look like a weak fool.
She now understood that the divine intervention was connected to the rogue master and his servant, who had eliminated an annoying but strong pawn of hers.
Were they truly sent by God to end her righteous campaign?
Were her efforts to deliver justice to France now in vain due to the emergence of this divine intervention?
She hoped not.
✦✧✦
She pushed open the doors to the war room. Hearing the doors slam on the walls did not worry her. She was above caring for the well-being of such things. Instead, she turned her gaze to her friend, Gilles de Rais, who greeted her with a light bow.
"Good Morning Jeanne, I hope you-"
He met her eyes, and like a child being told Christmas was cancelled, all the joy he had drained from his face.
"Oh dear, Jeanne, did you not sleep well?" The Caster servant asked with sincere concern.
"I'm fine, Gilles. I just got woken up suddenly by Rider's death." She waved away his pity, as she didn't care for it either. Gilles still showed concern but chose not to speak further and instead, closed his eyes, as if he knew it was going to happen.
To anyone else, Gilles's frog eyes would have been creepy, but to her it was a trait she was fond of.
"Ah, so she perished. Truly a shame. She was a powerful and fun pawn to use against the pious bastards who inhabit this land." He opened his eyes again, "And I assume you wish to summon a replacement for her soon?"
Before she could answer his question, she paused as she felt one of her connections tug at her mind, like someone was pulling the sleeve of her dress to get her attention.
She knew who was calling her.
"Hold that thought, Gilles. Berserk Archer is calling me."
Her close companion pursed his lips into a visible frown. She knew Gilles well enough to know his foul mood wasn't because she cut him off, instead, it stemmed from the caller itself.
Gilles hated Berserk Archer, and he made no effort to hide it from her. And she won't lie, she finds Berserk Archer quite infuriating most of the time as well.
However, despite Berserk Archer's flaws, his tactical mind remained a valuable asset even when enhanced by madness.
Without wasting more time, Jeanne answers the man.
'Berserk Archer."
The proud, boisterous voice of a frenchman fell on her ears like a sledgehammer.
'Ah, Joanne, mon impératrice!! Mi Amore! How cold of you to refer to me by my class name. Even so, it always warms my heart to hear your beautiful voice!"
Jeanne rolled her eyes at Berserk Archer's flirtations. She was NOT in the mood to hear him sing her praises today, but he did have a point. Calling his servants by their class names was getting tiresome.
'Get to the point, Bonaparte. How is the Siege of Theirs going?'
Word of a powerful dragon slayer living in Theirs had reached her ears, and she had ordered the man to amass an army of undead to consume the town.
'Erm… about that… I regret to inform you that the town remains standing and unburnt.'
A tense silence fell between them, a silence which she could feel was making the man on the other side of the connection nervous. She gritted her teeth in anger at the news, she was so angry in fact, that she verbalized her displeasure vocally, which drew Gilles attention to her.
"What?!"
'I-I apologize, Mon Amour, but that is not all. Regrettably… I lost several thousand troops in my attempt to conquer the city for you. Unfortunately, I was driven back by the city's protectors and was forced to retreat.'
Jeanne rubs the bridge of her nose with her fingers.
It's just one thing after another.
First she loses connection to Phantom of the Opera, then she encounters an unknown who is capable of affecting Fafnir, and now this.
Although she shouldn't be surprised by the news, given how the saint in that town had been a thorn buried in her side for a while.
'Cheh, as expected of a saint.'
'About that, it wasn't the Saint alone who had managed to drive us back. There was a purple swordsman from Le Japon who stood alongside him.
One of her brows touched her hairline.
'Le Japon? What is a samurai doing in France?'
'Beats me. All I know is that smugbâtard reaped my undead soldiers like wheat and cut down wyverns as if they were pigeons!!!!'
She could hear the raw anger bleeding through the connection.
'Why didn't you just shoot him?'
"I tried!! I unleashed everything I had at him, but no matter how much I shot at him, he kept deflecting and cutting everything I sent at him!! It hurts my pride to admit the man's level of skill with a blade exceeds my shooting capabilities. Even when I had managed to overwhelm him with numbers, the saint stepped in, and it was too much for either myself or my troops to handle.
So I had to make a strategic retreat.'
A breath of frustration escapes her lips.
'Excuses. Nothing but excuses!'
She could feel the man's anger begin to bubble hotter due to her words, but she didn't care for them.
The odds were starting to turn against her.
So many roadblocks standing in her way.
And yet, she had to keep moving.
The saint and the swordsman are predictable, and she can deal with them at her leisure.
The rogue Master, on the other hand?
Unpredictable and dangerous.
However, he is weak.
If he goes down, then that is one less headache she has to worry about.
There's a danger in going after them due to unexpected divine intervention, but she cannot avoid him or his growing band of servants forever. She needs to take him out now before he gets any stronger, or worse, when he inevitably ends up stumbling into Theirs and making her life hell.
'Bonaparte, change of plans. Take whatever remains of your army, and head towards Jura Forest.'
'Hm?'
'That was the direction Saint Martha headed before she was killed by the ones I encountered in La Charite. Meet me there. We're going to find the human Master dressed in a gray hood and kill him.'
'So the rebellious saint has fallen. Very well. I will lead my troops in that direction. Will we have any other servants joining us in our hunt?'
She considered bringing Lancer and Assassin with her, but she shook her head. They had failed to kill them last time, so she had no hopes that they would do the same this time.
'You'll know who they are when they arrive.'
'I cannot say I like this secrecy, mi amore, but what is life without chaos? Fear not! I shall bring this boy's head to you, although I cannot promise it will be completely intact when I do.'
'One more thing… If you see an angel descend from the heavens to help them? Use your noble phantasm to shoot it out of the fucking sky."
'Understood.'
With that said and done, the connection ends, and Jeanne turns her attention back to Gilles, who looked more concerned than he did prior.
"Gilles, let's go summon some new recruits."
Gilles hesitated for a moment, clearly distressed at her well-being, but wisely did not say anything about it and silently bowed his head to her, "Then let us go to the summoning room."
Just as Gilles turned his back to her and was about to lead her there, the doubt she had tried to bury earlier had resurfaced. Before she could bury the feelings once more, her mouth rebelled against her, and words began to spill out.
"H-Hey Gilles?"
Gilles turned towards her, "yes, Jeanne? What can I do for you?"
"Um… am I the real Jeanne D'Arc?"
The concern in Gilles's face came back with a vengeance, "Why of course you are Jeanne, why wouldn't you be?"
Her eyes fell to the ground in thought, "I don't remember her."
"Who are you talking about, Jeanne?"
"Isabelle Romee." As soon as those words left her mouth, Gilles's concern turned to rage.
"Jeanne, do not worry about that woman. She is not your mother. Because what kind of mother would allow her daughter to be burned at the stake? What mother would sit by and allow you to be betrayed by everyone around you!!?" The more he spoke, the angrier Gilles got.
"If she were truly your mother, she would have jumped into the pyre with you, not watched from the crowd as you burned! This woman claims to be your mother, but she is nothing but a puppet for God to make a mockery of us!! That is why we deny him! Are you going to let him get to you, Jeanne?"
"Fuck no. "
He's right. Isabelle Romee is not her mother, she was just like the rest. A spectator who didn't help her.
"You're right, Gilles. I have no mother, no father, no siblings, or anyone!"
The emotions that had been clogging her heart and mind ignited, feeding the flame of fury in her soul as she spoke.
"So what if God is interfering?! Let him interfere!! For I AM JEANNE D'ARC!! If God wants to intervene in my vengeance, to smite me for my heresy and cast me to the deepest pit of hell, let him, but I'll be damn sure to kill as many of his sheep as I can before he does so!" Her body exploded in flames, flames that burned bright and hot enough that the stone under her feet glowed red hot.
Tears fell down Gilles's cheeks. "A beautiful speech! Truly only the real Jeanne could say such wonderful words! And rest assured, when the day comes for you to fall to hell, I'll be there by your side. To the very end."
The flames extinguished without a trace as she cut off the magical energy feeding her flames, "That's enough sappy bullshit. Come, we have some angel hunting to do." She flashed him a grin, one that he returned wholeheartedly.
"As you wish, Jeanne."