A shimmer of sunlight remains. Rippling water, stirred by an evening breeze, carries it away. The gathered clouds filter the setting sun; a pale disk descends behind an enshadowed ridge.
You may ask why I recant. Why I subject myself to the stake decreed by your English court, the machination of my enemy–who can’t fathom that an inspired woman defeated them. No, Lucifer had to have worked through me, as though I were some blasphemous derivative of the Blessed Virgin Mary, an uber-witch worthy of burning.
You may ask. But how can I answer? You will not understand a will that has surrendered to Will. You cannot comprehend the empowerment of one that yields one’s own power to a Higher Power. I inspired my French countrymen to resist you Anglais and your dreams of conquest. Lo, the Spirit moved through me, to give glad tidings to my own poor.
And how we defeated you! I lived to see my king crowned.
Take what satisfaction you can with my death. I followed my God’s call with my whole heart. Your flames cannot incinerate my empowerment. Even when the smoke of the stake marries the clouds of an overcast sky.
the last sparks rising