Jeanne looked around, confused as to where she was now. As Claire had instructed she pressed the button on the back of the watch. The watch had brought her to a room made of steel walls and a white bed. Jeanne was sitting on this white clothed bed.
Suddenly a hole in the wall the size of an average door slid away, revealing a woman in odd clothes. The pants she wore were made of an odd blue material and the black shirt under an open coat of white clung to the woman's skinny frame as a second skin would. The woman walked in, shoes unlike that of felt slippers or leather boots, clicking on the white tiled flooring.
"Claire, I'm so glad you're back!" The woman spoke in English, a language Jeanne did not know. The dark haired woman stared at the blonde and the older lady's look went from happiness to delight. "You're Joan!"
Jeanne stared, still unsure. Standing slowly, she held up the watch, out to the woman who was glowing in giddiness. "Ange."
Somehow, the woman realized Joanne did not know English and she silently cursed that her daughter had never taught it to the woman. Irene Juilliard began speaking in French to the saint.
"Oh, dear, no. Claire wasn't an angel." She took the watch, looking it over before snapping the front off, disabling the time mechanism inside. "Claire was what we call a 'time jumper,' more specifically a 'time replacement.' A time replacement is a person who takes the place of an important historical figure needed here in present time. Of course, the poor girl didn't know this, and neither does her father."
"What do you mean by this?" Jeanne asked, not fully comprehending everything being told. She was from far in the past. "A 'time jumper' and 'replacement'? How do you even do such things?"
"Oh, that's easy!" Irene laughed, waving a hand. "Follow me!"
~*~
Several months after Jeanne come to the far, far future, both far to when she lived and when we, you the reader and I, lived, she was learning the history she had no clue about. Sat in a classroom after school hours had ended, Jeanne listened to the tutor explain the history of France after the Hundred Years War and of other countries. The saint was fascinated to hear of everything, of the times changing over the years, something she had never thought of.
Something did tug at her heart however as she sat in the classroom. It was the young woman named Claire she had befriended and the same woman who had given up her life so Jeanne could come here. From what she understood of the history the Frenchwoman learned about, no one willingly gave up their lives for anything or one, and that only things such as self-sacrifice happened in stories.
Why do such a thing for her then?
“Miss d’Arc,” the instructor, an old, round bellied man with a sour espression most times and a thick British accent, “are you paying any attention?”
Jeanne shook her head, “Non, sir.” Before he could ask for a reason why, she gave one. “I was wondering why Miss Juilliard would give up her life for mine.”
“Because she was only born to do so,” the instructor huffed. “Now pay attention! I must now explain to you why we live as we do today!”
He meant about how they lived in high, cancrete walls with metal foundations sinking over twenty feet into the ground and how houses had silver mixed foudations and salt inside the walls. By now she already knew about the Final War, the one caused by a virus and someone setting free creatures only heard of in the darkest resesses of the human mind. When she was a child, the worst Jeanne had to fear was witchcraft and being burned at the stake for accusations of using it, now it was more of being eaten by the walking dead or drained of her blood to sustain a vampire.
Really, she sometimes prefered going back to being burned at the stake for heresy, something she never really committed.
“Sir, I already know about the Final War.” Jeanne explained, struggling to remember the English she had learned so far. “Madam Juilliard already told me.”
The tutor snorted. “Fine. Then we are done for today.” Turning, he began to pack up his bag and Jeanne sat there, quiet, for a moment.
She wanted to ask about Claire. Jeanne was told Claire gave up her life because she was born to do so, everyone told the saint this, but for some reason Jeanne felt this wasn’t true. That Claire did what she did for another reason. And it wasn’t because of duty or being born to do it.
Standing, Jeanne fixed the collar of her shirt. Time may have progressed, but the style of clothing had degressed. The remaining population of this future dressed either in old, ruined clothes from the past or sewn together remakes of poet shirt and breeches from her era. Walking up to her tutor, she tapped him on the shoulder. He turned to glare at her.
“Sir... I know Claire would not do what she did just for being told or born to do so. Something else played part that day, and it was not duty or selfobligation.”
Usually, Jeanne would shy from using another person’s name, but back when she had spoken with Claire on a daily basis, the girl repeatedly told Jeanne to call her Claire. She would start honoring that wish now.
He glared for a moment, before registering the desperate look in the hardened brown eyes. He sighed and pushed his glasses up his nose.
“I know I am going to be in trouble with this...” He muttered to himself, before speaking directly to the Frenchwoman. “Claire Juilliard requested she have the mission, knowing it was helpless. She was originally born to take your place to begin with, but only Claire’s mother and several other time jumpers knew this. Over time Claire’s mother decided she couldn’t send her daughter to her death, but by the time Claire had turned fourteen and was elligable to become a time jumper, it was too late.”
He continued to pack up his things, green eyes sad. “Claire had chosen to follow her father’s career path and it had led her to fullfilling what she was originally meant to do. Why she chose to save your life, Joan of Arc, the Maid of Orleans, I will never know. And I do not think anyone else will either.”
The tutor looked at her again, wrinkling his upper lip, making his mustache shiver. “Maybe it was devotion? She had always loved your part in history. Or maybe even love. She easily fell in love with those she truly cared about.”
Heading to the door while Jeanne stood there, thinking quietly over what she had been told, the tutor finally left, adding in a soft voice.
“All I know is, I miss my daughter.”
Suddenly a hole in the wall the size of an average door slid away, revealing a woman in odd clothes. The pants she wore were made of an odd blue material and the black shirt under an open coat of white clung to the woman's skinny frame as a second skin would. The woman walked in, shoes unlike that of felt slippers or leather boots, clicking on the white tiled flooring.
"Claire, I'm so glad you're back!" The woman spoke in English, a language Jeanne did not know. The dark haired woman stared at the blonde and the older lady's look went from happiness to delight. "You're Joan!"
Jeanne stared, still unsure. Standing slowly, she held up the watch, out to the woman who was glowing in giddiness. "Ange."
Somehow, the woman realized Joanne did not know English and she silently cursed that her daughter had never taught it to the woman. Irene Juilliard began speaking in French to the saint.
"Oh, dear, no. Claire wasn't an angel." She took the watch, looking it over before snapping the front off, disabling the time mechanism inside. "Claire was what we call a 'time jumper,' more specifically a 'time replacement.' A time replacement is a person who takes the place of an important historical figure needed here in present time. Of course, the poor girl didn't know this, and neither does her father."
"What do you mean by this?" Jeanne asked, not fully comprehending everything being told. She was from far in the past. "A 'time jumper' and 'replacement'? How do you even do such things?"
"Oh, that's easy!" Irene laughed, waving a hand. "Follow me!"
~*~
Several months after Jeanne come to the far, far future, both far to when she lived and when we, you the reader and I, lived, she was learning the history she had no clue about. Sat in a classroom after school hours had ended, Jeanne listened to the tutor explain the history of France after the Hundred Years War and of other countries. The saint was fascinated to hear of everything, of the times changing over the years, something she had never thought of.
Something did tug at her heart however as she sat in the classroom. It was the young woman named Claire she had befriended and the same woman who had given up her life so Jeanne could come here. From what she understood of the history the Frenchwoman learned about, no one willingly gave up their lives for anything or one, and that only things such as self-sacrifice happened in stories.
Why do such a thing for her then?
“Miss d’Arc,” the instructor, an old, round bellied man with a sour espression most times and a thick British accent, “are you paying any attention?”
Jeanne shook her head, “Non, sir.” Before he could ask for a reason why, she gave one. “I was wondering why Miss Juilliard would give up her life for mine.”
“Because she was only born to do so,” the instructor huffed. “Now pay attention! I must now explain to you why we live as we do today!”
He meant about how they lived in high, cancrete walls with metal foundations sinking over twenty feet into the ground and how houses had silver mixed foudations and salt inside the walls. By now she already knew about the Final War, the one caused by a virus and someone setting free creatures only heard of in the darkest resesses of the human mind. When she was a child, the worst Jeanne had to fear was witchcraft and being burned at the stake for accusations of using it, now it was more of being eaten by the walking dead or drained of her blood to sustain a vampire.
Really, she sometimes prefered going back to being burned at the stake for heresy, something she never really committed.
“Sir, I already know about the Final War.” Jeanne explained, struggling to remember the English she had learned so far. “Madam Juilliard already told me.”
The tutor snorted. “Fine. Then we are done for today.” Turning, he began to pack up his bag and Jeanne sat there, quiet, for a moment.
She wanted to ask about Claire. Jeanne was told Claire gave up her life because she was born to do so, everyone told the saint this, but for some reason Jeanne felt this wasn’t true. That Claire did what she did for another reason. And it wasn’t because of duty or being born to do it.
Standing, Jeanne fixed the collar of her shirt. Time may have progressed, but the style of clothing had degressed. The remaining population of this future dressed either in old, ruined clothes from the past or sewn together remakes of poet shirt and breeches from her era. Walking up to her tutor, she tapped him on the shoulder. He turned to glare at her.
“Sir... I know Claire would not do what she did just for being told or born to do so. Something else played part that day, and it was not duty or selfobligation.”
Usually, Jeanne would shy from using another person’s name, but back when she had spoken with Claire on a daily basis, the girl repeatedly told Jeanne to call her Claire. She would start honoring that wish now.
He glared for a moment, before registering the desperate look in the hardened brown eyes. He sighed and pushed his glasses up his nose.
“I know I am going to be in trouble with this...” He muttered to himself, before speaking directly to the Frenchwoman. “Claire Juilliard requested she have the mission, knowing it was helpless. She was originally born to take your place to begin with, but only Claire’s mother and several other time jumpers knew this. Over time Claire’s mother decided she couldn’t send her daughter to her death, but by the time Claire had turned fourteen and was elligable to become a time jumper, it was too late.”
He continued to pack up his things, green eyes sad. “Claire had chosen to follow her father’s career path and it had led her to fullfilling what she was originally meant to do. Why she chose to save your life, Joan of Arc, the Maid of Orleans, I will never know. And I do not think anyone else will either.”
The tutor looked at her again, wrinkling his upper lip, making his mustache shiver. “Maybe it was devotion? She had always loved your part in history. Or maybe even love. She easily fell in love with those she truly cared about.”
Heading to the door while Jeanne stood there, thinking quietly over what she had been told, the tutor finally left, adding in a soft voice.
“All I know is, I miss my daughter.”