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Jeanne D'arc is the reason I work out. I have this fantasy where we start talking after she gets paraded into town after a decisive victory. We exchange a few pleasantries. She asks how long I've been fighting. I say I joined when she inspired me in her defense of Orléans. She laughs. I get my horse.
"Farewell milady," I say and ride away. I've got her attention now. How many guys voluntarily leave a conversation with the Holy Jeanne? She touches her neck as she watches me leave.
Later, as the night's dragged on and the coterie of gorgeous narcissists grows increasingly loose, she finds me on the town's chapel, my weapons and armor removed, sitting on a pew.
"Mind if I kneel beside you" she asks.
"What's in it for me?" I say as I wipe the dust off the kneeler. She smiles.
"Conversation with me, duh."
I laugh.
"What's so funny?" she protests.
"Nothing, nothing... It's just... don't you grow tired of the bloodshed and the politics?"
"You get used to it," she says, kneeling and making the sign of the cross.
"What would you do if you weren't a war hero?" I ask.
"Working on a farm, I think."
"And if I was your farmhand, what would I be ordered to do?"
"Discipline," she says quickly, looking up into my eyes, before changing the subject. "Where are you from?"
"Almeria," I say.
"Oh wow. That's lovely."
"It's OK," I admit. "Not everything is to my liking."
"What could possibly be not to your liking in Almeria?" she inquires.
"I don't like sand," I tell her. "It's coarse and rough and irritating and it gets everywhere."
