The old man said nothing. He merely blinked hard, forcing down the sting in his eyes.
He turned around and, with his uninjured arm, began clearing the rubble before him with even greater effort. His movements were a little too forceful, kicking up dust that made him cough several times.
More people joined the silent work.
Yes, the Jeanne in the History Book had died, perishing in the flames of betrayal.
But now, in Arles, in countless Gaulish towns ravaged by Mutant Creatures and shrouded in despair, in the eyes of every Survivor rescued from the claws of monsters...
She was Jeanne.
She was the Maiden of Orleans who had crossed time, crossed betrayal and flames, and once again fought for the land she loved.
She was the light of legend shining into reality, the most tangible hand reaching out from the Abyss of despair.
They might not have been able to explain it. They did not need to explain it, nor did they wish to.
They only needed to know that wherever she stood, wherever her banner pointed, hope followed.
As dusk deepened, bonfires were lit among the ruins.
Jeanne sat on a relatively clean stone, accepting the hot water handed to her by an old woman. She thanked her softly and took small sips.
The firelight illuminated her dust-covered yet still radiant profile, as well as the people gradually gathering around her.
Exhaustion, grief, relief, and uncertainty about the future all flickered uncertainly in the leaping flames.
Yet when their eyes fell upon the silver-armored girl quietly drinking water, those chaotic emotions seemed to settle, becoming a silent trust.
History and reality completed their handover across time and space amid the ruins of Arles and in the gazes of the Survivors.
At the same time, within Gaul, in