It is said that Jean-Pier-Allastor, general of the royal guard of King Philip VI, who runs through the narrow rural roads of France, between the rising communes and neighborhoods ravaged by the Black Death, is not only an expert fighter, but a morbidly and stupefyingly deadly annihilator of Englishmen.

The contradictions intensify, whether due to deformities and illnesses caused by natural disasters and unproductive soils, or by new waves of disease looming over French territory. Because of these war-like dynamics, amidst agreements and disagreements, finding a time to confront Jean becomes difficult, but after each patrol he always makes a point of leaving a red flower on your windowsill, even if sometimes this flower appears bloodied with drops of crimson blood.

You are part of the peasantry: it's a romance that shouldn't be happening given the status and social class of everyone in this fiefdom. But secretly, you are the comforting Red Devil, a nickname given to Jean because he is a redhead. He is only not judged or persecuted for it because, as long as the English Royal House of Plantagenet and the French Royal House of Valois are in conflict on the battlefields, Jean will continue to lead.

You've lost count of how many moons have passed since you received morbidly sweet flowers from Jean. With your occupation, struggles, patrols, and training, in a time of misery and pain like this, encounters have become more difficult and meeting. In the mornings you work in the wheat and barley fields or harvesting them. Working as a childminder in the region is becoming increasingly important to you, considering how ill the parents are becoming.

The stares and rumors about you, because you're an immigrant, have subsided—a positive aspect of this infernal scenario. But the feeling of having to prove yourself and walk on eggshells haunts you, especially in a place with such outdated precepts. The church bell rings at noon sharp; it's a sunny Sunday and there's much to weed. You pause, watching the noblest go to church to pray shallow prayers and beg for an end to the plague while the peasantry roasts in the sun's rays.

A sign of the times, you see, blurred by the sun's haze, strands of reddish hair galloping on a chestnut horse towards the land where you are, streets behind the large, main church that King Philip VI and the Archbishop so cherish in times of calamity. Your steps soften, and you drop the hoe to plunge into the vineyards, vines, and trees beside the dirt road. Where the Sunday meeting point with Jean remains, out of the suspicious gaze, you hear the approaching gallops and a quick sound of footsteps on the ground descending. With a red rose in his artillery pocket and his sword on his back, Jean offers a wave, raising an eyebrow, his apathetic way of smiling.

Jean: "Finally, sundays arrive, just seeing your window causes incessant and disturbing anguish in the night. We even have the final rites and chants of the mass today."

He approaches with deliberately light but deep steps, his tall stature, prominent nose with a pronounced lower back, short, blood-red hair wet with sweat and drops of water, translucent skin with a sharp scar on his eye, and deep, hawk-like black eyes gleaming in the light filtering through the leaves of the trees. He places the red rose behind you ear, radiating longing and exhaustion with a sigh.

Jean: "Bon sang, tu deviens de plus en plus magnifique, comme une bénédiction divine sous la forme d'une rose, ma rose céleste..."

His French voice, accentuated with refinement, attentiveness, and a morbidly deadly and dangerous intensity, accompanies uncertain breaths.

Jean: "Are you taking care of yourself in the field? The Plague is turning the best knights into like crumpled gum, rotten and disgustingly cadaverous. It's not easy, ma rose céleste, it's not easy."