Diary of Joan of Arc
(Year: 1429)
Entry 1: January 1, 1429
Today marks the start of a new year, filled with both hope and uncertainty. I awoke to the sound of the villagers preparing for the feast to honor the New Year. The air was thick with the aroma of freshly baked bread and the laughter of children playing outside. Yet, amid the celebration, a heaviness weighs upon my heart. France is torn apart by war, and our beloved king, Charles, has been stripped of his birthright, his crown lost to the English. I often hear my father speak of the hardships our people face. The coughs and sobs of the poor resonate throughout our village, and it pains me deeply.
Yet, last night, I heard the voice of Saint Michael calling to me. I felt an overwhelming sense of purpose wash over me. I am just a simple peasant girl from Domrémy, but the message was clear: I must help raise Charles and lead our nation to reclaim the throne. It feels absurd to even think that I could play a role in such grand affairs, but the fire within me cannot be extinguished. I must speak to the king; I must fulfill this calling, whatever the cost.
Entry 2: February 15, 1429
I have gathered the courage to seek out Charles's court. After a long and tiresome journey to Chinon, I finally stood in the presence of the man who wears the crown of France—though, I see so much hesitance in his eyes. I felt small, a mere shepherdess standing amidst nobles who are polished and formidable, yet I began to speak with conviction. As I recounted the voices that guide me, I witnessed uncertainty transform into curiosity among the courtiers. They listened intently as I shared my divine mission, almost as if hoping to believe in the impossible.
Yet, in the quiet moments when Charles met my gaze, I saw doubt flicker behind the veneer of royalty. I understand the weight resting heavily upon his shoulders, and I feel a strange kinship with him. If he feels lost, I too carry the weight of my calling. I cannot help but wonder if the very same spirits that guide me could help lead him to reclaim his throne. I left the court today feeling both exhilarated and terrified. Could I, a simple girl, truly change the course of history?
Entry 3: March 28, 1429
Today, the news traveled swiftly through the court: my presence has stirred a mix of hope and skepticism. I have been granted permission to lead an army to lift the siege of Orléans, a critical stronghold for our forces. When I was informed, joy surged through my veins, but it was intertwined with fear. To lead men into battle is not the dream of a maiden; it is reserved for warriors! Yet, how can I turn away when I feel the weight of divine intervention pressing upon my shoulders? I must set aside my fears; my role has been chosen for me.
As I prepared to leave with the troops, I felt a wave of support from the people around me. They believe in me, and I desperately want to live up to their expectations. My heart races at the thought of battle, but I find strength in the realization that I am not alone. My horse, Nom de Dieu, seems to sense my trepidation as I pat her mane, and I lean close to whisper my prayers for courage and clarity. I have seen the devastation of war firsthand, and I intend to end it at any cost.
Entry 4: April 12, 1429
We are now encamped just outside the city of Orléans. The cries of battle are a constant reminder of the urgency of our mission. I can sense the tension in the air; the soldiers are a mix of bravado and fear. I gather them each morning, sharing my visions and urging them to find their faith. Today, as we prepared for the first skirmish, I could feel their hesitation. My own heart trembled, but I reminded myself of the voices that guide me. I told them we fight not just for ourselves, but for the very soul of France.
When the first clash came, it was more chaotic than I had ever imagined. The clamor of swords, the shouts of men, the clash of metal filled the air. My heart raced with every swing of my sword, driven by a fiery determination. But as I witnessed the bloodshed, a deep sorrow welled within me. This is war, not the noble pursuit I envisioned. I could see my comrades falling, and I felt their pain as if it were my own. Still, I pressed forward, shouting encouragement to my men, urging them not to yield. The battle ended in a fragile victory today, but at what cost?
Entry 5: May 4, 1429
The siege of Orléans has been lifted at last! I can scarcely believe it. The sounds of celebration echo through the streets of the city, a song of hope and victory that feels so far removed from the chaos of mere weeks ago. I stand amidst the jubilant crowd, faces illuminated by torchlight, and my heart swells with pride. It is a strange feeling to be hailed as a heroine. I am still a peasant girl at heart, and yet I feel the weight of this new title pressing upon my shoulders. The cheers of my name resonate in my ears, igniting a warmth I cannot describe.
But with every triumph, there lurks the shadow of doubt. I wonder if this victory is merely a fleeting moment of glory in a long and painful saga. The English are formidable, and I know our fight is far from over. I feel a great responsibility to inspire the faith of the people—to lead them not just with my sword, but with my spirit. I pray each night to the saints, thanking them for their guidance and seeking protection for my fellow soldiers. I may be fighting for a crown, but deep down, my heart beats for the countless souls who have suffered and lost their way.
Entry 6: June 18, 1429
Today we marched onto Reims, the sacred city where Charles would be crowned king—a moment I have long yearned for. My heart raced with anticipation as we entered the city; the air was thick with incense and the soft sound of church bells. Yet, beneath the surface of joy, I could feel tension brewing within me. The journey had been grueling, and many men had fallen in our wake. I am honored to stand beside my king, but a part of me cannot shake the feeling that each act of faith carries its burden. What if our victory is fleeting?
During the coronation ceremony, my heart soared as I watched Charles don the crown of France. The sight was majestic, and the cheers of the assembled throngs filled the air with a fervor I had never experienced. I felt as though my presence had truly made a difference—like I was part of something greater than myself. However, as I knelt before him, my mind flickered with doubt. What do I, a humble girl, know of heartaches and kingdoms? Yet, once again, the voices reassured me that I am indeed part of this divine plan. I will bear my cross, and I will trust that I am meant to see this through to the end.
Entry 7: July 16, 1429
After the joyous moments of Reims, the tide of war shifted dramatically. We waged battle at contested fields, the English forces regrouping, and I found myself filled with dark foreboding. I can sense that the enemies are wary of me. They know I am a vital cog in this fight for our country, and desperate times call for desperate measures. Today, we fought fiercely, but our losses mounted as the enemy's numbers swelled. Fear gripped the air, and it infected my own heart. How strange it is to feel like a beacon and yet carry such heaviness inside.
In the midst of chaos, I doubt. Am I truly meant to lead? I crumpled to my knees today as fate dealt us a harsh blow. The bravest among us fell, and in that moment, I felt stripped of my power. I cried out for clarity, for guidance, but the voices seemed distant. I could only reflect on the path that led me here, from a humble girl to a figure known throughout the land. I know I cannot falter now. I must gather strength not just for myself, but for those whose faith is wavering. If I am to guide them, I must believe as fiercely as I once did.
Entry 8: November 22, 1430
Captured. The word lingers like a nightmare that would not fade. I write from my prison cell, my heart frayed and heavy. The betrayal of those I thought were allies pierces me like the sharpest spear. I was led into a trap, and when I realized the dangers I faced, it was far too late. The guards parade before me, their eyes filled with suspicion and disdain. I can still hear the laughter of the people fading into echoes, the warmth of shared triumph dissipating into cold calculations.
I am overwhelmed by despair, yet I refuse to let it consume me completely. I think of my mission, and recall the promises made to the saints. Perhaps I was never meant to lead with trust or to remain unscathed. Instead, I may be called to bear witness to something larger than my life, even in this shadowed prison of mine. I pray fervently, seeking resolve and standing firm in my beliefs. I am still Joan, the girl who heard the voices, who led armies, and who fought for a France reborn. This may not be the end I envisioned, but somehow, I still hold onto the hope that my story is woven into the fabric of a greater destiny.
End of Diary
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