Joan of Arc felt everyone's eyes on her.
No matter what they were doing, there were always gazes, overt or covert, direct or evasive, eventually converging on her.
Those gazes were incredibly complicated.
There was the purest gratitude, almost overflowing, as though she were the only light in the darkness; there was the ecstasy and dependence of surviving disaster, as though her presence guaranteed safety; there was near-blind worship, as though she truly were a messenger descended from myth.
And there was something deeper still, a reliance that seemed determined to carve her image into their souls.
They seemed to have placed all their hopes, all their futures, all the meaning of their survival heavily upon her seemingly slender yet upright shoulders.
"Saintess! The Saintess saved us!"
"Thank you, Lady Jeanne! Without you, we would all be finished."
"May The Lord protect you forever! You are our guardian deity!"
"..."
Scattered cries rose again, quickly gathering into a noisy yet fervent wave of sound.
People stopped what they were doing. Wounded or not, they struggled to look toward her, tears in their eyes and the excitement of surviving disaster, along with unreserved Faith, written all over their faces.
Several children held in their parents' arms also copied the adults, calling out in their childish voices, "Lady Saintess!"
Jeanne's gaze slowly swept over those dirty yet hopeful faces, over the burning eagerness in their eyes that nearly scorched her.
She heard those cries, those thanks, those praises that exalted her as a Deity.
Once upon a time, in another era, she too had been watched by such eyes and surrounded by such cheers.
Back then, she had been devout, firmly believing that it was The Lord's will and that she was fulfilling her mission.
But now...
She felt little joy at