(NOTE: This story features the character Joan of Arc, as portrayed in Bill and Ted's Excellent Adventure.)

They hadn't been visions. They hadn't been voices in her head, whispers from the shadows of Michael and Catherine. She'd touched them, with her own hands, felt the fabric of their cloth on her fingers. She'd ridden in their silver door, the one that glowed like the corneal edges of the moon and the sun.

The others, too- she'd touched them, as well- but none of them had touched her back in the way those two young men had. They'd reached out to her, spirited her away from the roaring smoke of Orleans, away from the trial and the judgement of man.

She'd learned that she wasn't alone, not completely, that there were other women like herself; leaders and teachers and commanders. And for a moment, too short and too vivid, she'd lead them as well. Even as the men took her from her parapet, she could feel the hopeful and trusting eyes of other women on her, and knew that she could belong there.

Then into the cage with the others, and then out of it to the platform lit by giant stars, the shouting voices of hundreds of followers calling her name in the dark. They'd known her, they'd respected her. They even allowed her a demonstration of her swordsmanship while the masses cheered her on.

Their time was too short and too vivid, and then she was back- in that dusty church hall, sword and helmet sitting where they'd been left. She did not want to pick them back up. But she did.

And it happened, just as she felt it would: the trial, the declaration of guilt, and the stake. She'd heard whispers from the others, during her short and vivid time with them. They were words she didn't want to listen to, ones she could barely understand, and she had cast them aside then.

The wood felt strangely cold underneath her hands, and she knew it wouldn't be that way for much longer.

Perhaps, she thought, they would come back for her. That the silver door would appear once more and that gentle hand would reach for her again.

Perhaps, she thought, this was a dream, another vision, and it would pass.

Perhaps, she thought, she could pray, and be spirited from the smoke and flames that began to spread at her feet.

No. The heat came, and the pain shortly afterward. In all of her nineteen years, in all of the battles she had fought and won, the people she'd bled for and the country she'd killed for, she had never experienced such pain. It didn't take long before she began to fade, and she knew it was over.

What had they said? Be excellent to each other.

Short and vivid. And then it was over.