Her constant provocateur, the avatar of Saint-Michel perched upon his white wispy cloud. “The trump of war cries out! Heed its holy call!”
Jehanne wept not for the trillion souls killed by the Great Holy War. She had long since shed a tear for each precious life lost; she had none left to cry.
“No human survives on this planet but you and he!” Saint-Michel urged, floating on wings of a dove, but speaking with a hawk’s voice. “Kill him, and good triumphs over evil!”
Jehanne turned her back, clutching the necklace that bore the cross of her tormentor. Bare rock chilled her feet. Nothing grew in ground saturated with millennia of blood and hatred.
“There has been too much death,” resolved Jehanne. “I choose life.”
“Then cursed are you among women!” screeched Saint-Michel, before vanishing in a whiff of sulphurous smoke.
Her former enemy approached Jehanne, and as they embraced, their newfound tears moistened the barren soil.