Jeanne Alter, seated upon her throne, watched the two new Servants she had summoned. Her eyes roved over the white-haired Servant holding an imposing sword, and the other, clad in black armor. Yet, contrary to what she expected, she felt no satisfaction at all.
Gilles, standing at her side, noticed the lack of expression on her face. Tilting his head slightly, he gazed at her with curiosity.
"Is something wrong, Jeanne? Did something upset you?" he asked, his voice soft, almost like that of an older brother consoling a younger sister — though his face, capable of haunting anyone's nightmares, sharply contrasted with his gentle tone.
Gilles's words echoed in her ears, but Jeanne Alter barely registered them. In that moment, she was lost in her own thoughts, captive to memories that refused to be silenced.
"I agree with you."
"If I were betrayed as you were, I'd definitely seek revenge. And I wouldn't doubt for a second that I'd be merciless."
"That said, I can only understand you up to a certain point."
"Children who know nothing, defenseless elderly people, women merely living their lives… That's not revenge. That's pure, petty resentment."
"So I'll have to beat you up. It seems like the only way to knock some sense into that thick skull of yours."
Those words kept echoing relentlessly in her mind, especially one that seemed to stand out above all the others.
"That was perfect… I think I might end up falling in love with you."
The phrase reverberated like a broken record, insistent and maddening.
Jeanne clicked her tongue in irritation, rising abruptly from the throne. "Damn it! Damn it!" she shouted, kicking the seat forcefully. The throne shattered into pieces, fragments clattering noisily to the ground.
Everyone stared at her with a look that screamed, "This is not the real Jeanne d'Arc," but that irritating monkey was different. He didn't bear that judgment in his eyes; instead, he looked at her as if she were a unique and special individual who merely harbored a touch of madness. For some reason, that infuriated her on a level so deep that she could barely explain it. It was as if there was an itch inside her that she couldn't scratch no matter how hard she tried.
Gilles, observing his Jeanne amid a furious outburst, couldn't suppress a faint smile that formed on his lips. He was obviously not the least bit disturbed — in fact, he relished the sight.. The more hatred and anger she displayed, the clearer it became that this Jeanne was driven by those very emotions. She was living proof of what he desired from her.
Too bad she didn't realize this storm of emotions was aimed at one person: a certain black-haired boy. And to make matters worse, it wasn't merely hatred.
"Sorry about that, Gilles," she said, finishing off the remnants of the throne with another kick. With a sigh, she sat back down on what was left, her eyes fixed forward, brimming with irritation.
"There's no need to apologize. Just tell me what's bothering you," he replied, the smile still etched firmly on his face, serene and unwavering.
Jeanne turned toward Gilles. She opened her mouth, hesitated, and closed it again. For a few moments, she remained silent, thoughts spinning wildly in her mind. "Rider is dead," she finally said, concealing what was truly consuming her. "It was definitely that little group who killed her. Even though she managed to retain a good portion of her sanity, I can't believe she would have killed herself… That would be an unforgivable sin." At that last sentence, a sarcastic smile twisted her lips, yet in her mind, the annoying image of that boy remained embedded. His voice echoed incessantly, a torment she couldn't silence.
Jeanne raised her hand, massaging her temple with an expression of weariness. "I'll have to return to the battlefield with the new Servants we summoned," she declared, her voice laden with dark determination. Deep inside, a burning desire flared: to find that boy, tear off his head, and scatter his limbs into pieces.
"Oh, Jeanne, that's wonderful! I can't wait to see you trampling this country alongside that worthless little group!" Gilles de Rais dropped to his knees before the throne, his voice charged with an almost feverish glee as he exclaimed to Jeanne.
Jeanne looked at the being who had brought her back to life. His eyes sparkled with a joy so intense it bordered on pure madness. Yet, unlike in the past, for some reason, she felt not even the slightest hint of satisfaction at the sight.
Her fingers, encased in armored gloves, drummed against what remained of the throne, the metallic tapping echoing through the air as she stared at him.
That look… though different, doesn't seem to see me as the true Jeanne, nor even as an individual…
The thought shot through her mind, but she quickly shook her head, forcefully pushing it away.
Shaking her head, Jeanne straightened and finally gave voice to the question that had tormented her for so long. "Gilles," she began, her gaze fixed ahead, avoiding his eyes. "Am I really the true Jeanne d'Arc?"
The instant the words left her mouth, Gilles practically sprang to his feet, his face contorted in a mixture of shock and horror.
"Jeanne! How could you ask such a thing?!" he exclaimed. Gesturing wildly with his free hand, he stepped away from the throne and began pacing back and forth before her. "Of course you're the real one! Think about it! You were burned alive for your efforts to free this country from tyranny! Anyone would be outraged by that! Anyone would seek revenge, just like you!" He flung his hands in every direction, his eyes fixed on hers, as if trying to carve every word into her soul.
Jeanne Alter merely gazed at her most faithful Servant as he continued to spill more words fueled by hatred.
"Only the true Jeanne would have the intention to burn this worthless country that's not even fit to be manure."
Jeanne Alter parted her pink lips slightly as she heard his response. "You're right…" she murmured, yet even so, that boy's voice persisted in her mind — a relentless echo she couldn't silence. "I'll take revenge on every soul in this country. I'll make sure not a single existence in this filthy place remains standing." Her voice dripped with fury, a desperate attempt to drown out the thoughts that haunted her. "I will spread destruction across all of France, starting with that annoying boy." With those scornful words, she turned toward the newly summoned Servants. "Are you two ready?"
The Servant on the right wore a white shirt and black pants, though they were barely visible beneath the heavy black coat draped around him. His white hair and blue eyes contrasted starkly with his pale, almost sickly skin, while a wide grin stretched across his lips.
"Of course, my lady," said the white-haired Servant, unable to suppress the excitement bubbling in his voice. "I'll get to chop off the head of the Queen of France once again. It's almost… orgasmic." His body quivered with anticipation, his eyes shining with a disturbing delight. "Only I have that right."
"That little slut in all her glory… is yours, Charles-Henri Sanson," murmured Jeanne, turning her gaze from the assassin to the Berserker at his side. "And you, Lancelot, Knight of the Lake?"
The Servant standing to Charles's left was clad head-to-toe in armor of such a deep purple it bordered on black. Atop his helmet, a lock of blue hair trailed backward, while a crimson line ran across his visor, obscuring his eyes.
Instead of words, a guttural growl rumbled from Lancelot. "Grrhhhhrrrhhgg!"
"I suppose that answer will do," said Jeanne, descending the steps with firm strides. "Mount your wyverns. Soon, I'll join you in the destruction of France."
••• ••• •••
(Charles-Henri Sanson - Character image)
(Lancelot Berserker - Character image)
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