Burned, Not Broken

Her name survived the flames. Hers, not theirs.

Before the flames could devour her flesh, Joan of Arc already smelled the smoke — thick, acrid, and bitter. It stung her lungs and clawed at her throat. The pyre, hastily built with damp wood from the previous night’s rain, failed to burn cleanly. Instead, it smoldered, choking the air with a gray plume that dimmed the morning light and brought coughs to even the most hardened executioner.

Yet she stood bound, smiling at her accusers with a defiance only born from divine conviction. Inside, she was trembling. Not even twenty summers old, tied to the stake, her hope had faded — not because she lost faith, but because the world lost its soul. Her death sentence was never just about her. It was about power, fear, and the men who would never willingly give either up.

The fire refused to roar. Instead, it smoked and hissed. Her blistered feet stood not in flame, but over glowing embers that slowly cooked the flesh like meat. The crowd that had gathered for her demise grew restless. They wanted fire, not the slow, torturous demise of a girl who claimed to hear God’s voice. In their righteousness, they wanted spectacle without guilt — pain, without nightmares.

Then came the voice of Bishop Cauchon, sharp and nasal:

“Untie her, hold her while we build a new pyre.”

Joan was pulled from the smoke, dragged across the ground, and circled by soldiers. Ten of them — spears drawn — surrounding a girl who once led an army.

Among the crowd, she saw familiar eyes. Disguised as peasants, her loyal comrades — including the Duc d’Alençon — stood with concealed weapons. Ready, perhaps, to die trying. Her eyes pleaded with them: Don’t. Let me go.

They understood. Her mission was complete. The war was not hers to finish.

The sky darkened again. Rain threatened to fall. The Bishop urged haste. Joan was tied once more to the stake, rope biting her flesh. Fear returned. Still, she called for a crucifix. One kind soul — perhaps moved by conscience — crafted a cross from sticks. She kissed it. It was placed near her heart.

The fire was lit again.

The executioner — a man doing what duty demanded — met her eyes. His were red, wet with grief. He turned and fled before the screams began, praying and drinking his guilt away in a nearby tavern.

Joan did scream — for Jesus, for the saints — not in weakness but in strength. A light pierced the clouds, falling upon her not as judgment but as grace. It wasn’t fire that made her glow. It was something holy. Something eternal.

She raised her voice one last time. Not a cry, but a prophecy:

“Our father waits for me in Heaven and tells me, while my flesh may feed the flames for a moment, it shall be your soul that feeds the fires of hell for an eternity.”

The crowd fell into eerie silence. Bishop Cauchon’s face twisted in fear — not of death, but of truth.

With her final breath, Joan forgave the man who lit the fire. She forgave the king who betrayed her. She forgave the very people who cheered her death. And then, she passed — her name rising with the smoke into the heavens.

But her memory did not fade like the ashes that scattered in the wind.

Joan of Arc Was Never Just a Martyr. She Was a Force.

Though this account is historical fiction, it echoes truth:

Bishop Cauchon presided over her sham trial.

A stranger truly gave her a crucifix, tied from two sticks.

The executioner fled in regret, later asking for forgiveness.

She cried out to Jesus and the saints in her final moments.

She was betrayed by her fellow Frenchmen, the Burgundians, who sold her to the English.

King Charles VII, the very monarch she helped crown, abandoned her when her popularity threatened his fragile rule.

And despite it all — despite torture, interrogation, and the threat of death — Joan never once renounced her visions or her God.

She held her truth until the end. And history remembers her — not the judges, not the betrayers, not the fire.

Joan of Arc lives on.