Snow fell over Domrémy like a soft shroud of silence.
It was spring, the year 1412, may 7th, when the bells of Saint-Rémy rang for two newborn cries — one soft and pure, the other sharp and defiant. Jeanne and John, twins bound by the same breath of destiny. Their mother, Isabelle Romée, swore that even as infants, Jeanne reached toward the church's cross… and John, toward the open sky.
Time passed, the twins grew up, with some differences, but their bond was stronger than anything.
While Jeanne prayed, John dreamed. And though their hands often clasped in childhood prayer, one trembled with faith — the other with longing.
"I'm telling you, Jeanne" John said once, looking at the sky at nighttime "I'll join our people in the war and keep our people save"
Jeanne would agree with him and his goal.
"Someday," Jeanne would whisper, "we'll fight for France together."
John only smiled. "You'll pray for France, Jeanne. I'll fight for it."
Years passed like ripples in the Meuse River.
By sixteen, Jeanne spoke of voices — Michael, Catherine, Margaret — celestial guidance. The village called her blessed. But John… he was forged in steel and mud. He became a soldier — a lancer under Charles VII's banner, his spear as sharp as his resolve.
He hid his surname, d'Arc, knowing that to reveal it could curse Jeanne's mission. She was "The Maid of Orléans." He was "the Lord of Orléans."
Both carried the same blood, yet their paths diverged like faith and fury.
When word came that Jeanne had lifted the siege of Orléans, John was deep in Burgundy, holding a broken front with a handful of starving men.
He laughed through blood and sweat when he heard the news.
"She really did it," he murmured. "My little sister did what kings could not."
But miracles are fragile things.
Then, everything fell down.
Rouen, 1431.
When the pyres burned, France's heart did too.
John arrived too late. His horse staggered into the city after days of travel, his armor cracked, one arm gone from an ambush weeks prior, his left eye blinded by shrapnel.
The square was still black with ash.
"Where is she?" he demanded of a trembling merchant.
"They… they burned her. Yesterday morning."
John stepped forward. His gauntlet sank into soot.
Beneath it lay a small silver cross, warped by fire.
He fell to his knees.
"They called her heretic," someone whispered behind him.
"She was no heretic," John growled, voice trembling with wrath. "She was a Saint."
That night, he prayed until dawn, whispering her name like a rosary:
"Forgive me… I wasn't there."
But grief in war is not a wound — it's a weapon.
Months later, John's name spread through camps and courts. Whispers turned into accusations.
"Brother of the witch."
"Traitor by blood."
"Tyrant of Orléans"
"Murderer"
They stripped his rank, then sentenced him to an impossible mission: lead three condemned knights to fight two hundred English rebels in the borderlands.
If they lived — absolution.
If they died — forgotten.
And so, the Four Horsemen of War were born.
They met in the shadow of a burned monastery.
Michael von Einzbern — tall, silver-haired, eyes green as frost. Once noble, now cursed. Wherever he stayed, famine followed. "Knight of Famine," they called him.
Julian — broad, proud, carrying a battle axe as tall as himself. "Knight of Pride." Once a champion knight, now accused of murdering a noble's daughter.
San Luis de Luque — elegant, sharp-eyed, with a Spanish accent and a merchant's smirk. "Knight of Greed." A former noble who sold justice for gold.
And John d'Arc — "Knight of Death."
Not because he sought death, but because it followed him.
They sat by a dying fire, surrounded by trees whispering in the wind.
"So," Luis muttered, polishing his sword. "This is what France does to its heroes."
Michael chuckled dryly. "Heroes? We're ghosts wearing armor."
"Ghosts can still kill", Julian spat into the dirt "So we can."
John said nothing. His good hand held a small, worn Bible. Jeanne's Bible.
"You read that thing every night," Julian remarked. "Still think God listens to men like us?"
John lifted his gaze. "God listens to all who still have a soul."
Michael's expression softened. "Tell me then… why does He let us suffer?"
John smiled faintly. "Because suffering is the only road to salvation."
Luis leaned back. "I don't need salvation. I need gold."
John's voice stayed calm. "And yet, you're still here."
The forest wind hissed. For a moment, they just sat — four men damned by different sins, united by exile.
Dawn bled through the trees when the sound came — steel brushing steel, the tread of boots.
Michael raised his bow first. "We've been found."
Julian stood, axe over his shoulder. "Finally."
The enemy came in dozens. Then hundreds.
Among them rode a knight in black armor streaked with crimson — Mordred of Madness, the Butcher of Rouen. Rumor said he'd laughed during Jeanne's execution.
John's fingers tightened on his spear. His one good eye flared with rage.
"So the rumors were true," Mordred called, removing his helmet, revealing a face carved in scars and cruelty. "The witch had a twin."
He grinned. "Let's see if your blood screams like hers did."
Julian roared and charged first. His axe cleaved through three men before Mordred's sword split his chest in half.
Michael's arrows rained like divine wrath — until a stray lance pierced his neck.
Luis lunged, screaming prayers and curses, only to be impaled through the gut and thrown aside like a broken doll.
John stood alone.
Blood soaked his armor. His heart hammered like war drums.
"I… I haven't lost yet!" he roared, voice breaking with grief and fury.
Mordred laughed, advancing with sword drawn. "You'll join your sister in the flames."
John's spear flashed — divine speed. The clash of steel and fire echoed through the trees. Sparks flew as their weapons met again and again.
"You fight like her," Mordred mocked. "Blind faith and foolish dreams!"
John's breath rasped. "Faith… isn't foolish when it's all you have left."
A sword slash cut deep into John's side — blood splattered across his face.
He fell to one knee. Mordred raised his blade for the killing blow—
—but John dropped his spear and caught it with his bare hand.
"Jeanne…" he whispered, pushing back with all his strength, his arm shaking, his veins bursting under the pressure. "I will not die until I've avenged you!"
With a savage roar, he headbutted Mordred once.
Then again.
Then again — until bone cracked, until the forest went silent except for his screams.
He collapsed beside the corpse, the blood of both mingling in the mud.
When the soldiers of France found the battlefield days later, all they discovered were corpses — and a single book lying open on the grass.
A Bible, its pages torn and stained red, open on the verse:
"Greater love hath no man than this, that a man lay down his life for his friends." — John 15:13
They buried the bodies where they fell.
No one knew if John d'Arc was among them. Some said his body vanished. Others whispered that angels carried him away, like his sister before him.
Years later, when France reclaimed its freedom, villagers spoke of a knight in tattered armor who appeared at dawn, praying before burnt churches, whispering the same words again and again:
"Freedom… through faith."
...
Centuries passed. Jeanne became a Saint.
John became a legend.
Two twins — one who rose through fire, one who vanished in blood.
But in the old churches of Lorraine, when the bells toll and the wind rustles the fields, the villagers still say:
"You can hear them both.
The Maid praying for France…
and her brother, still fighting for her."
...
To be continue....