The Lover's Knot
When Faith Turns To Darkness, Every Choice Becomes Life or Death.
The Lover’s Knot
Paris, August 24th 1572 – Early hours of St. Bartholomew’s Day
The city held its breath. Behind the high walls and narrow streets of Paris, silence was alive, broken only by the bells that tolled in the distance. Each strike a warning, each echo a summons to death.
Within the shadows of the walled garden, whispers grew into prayers. In that charged silence, the two lovers stood entwined, clinging as if touch alone could defy the storm about to break.
Her fingers trembled as she tried to tie the strip of white linen around his arm. “Please take it, Raoul. Wear it for me,” she pleaded, her voice barely more than a breath. “When the doors open, when the blood runs… This will save you. Just one strip of cloth, and they will pass you by.”
His eyes, dark with resolve, faced hers. He held the linen but did not let her tie the knot. “To wear it would be to deny what I am, Valentine” he said with his voice steady, though his chest ached with the weight of her fear. “If I betray this, then even in your arms I would be lost.”
Tears welled in her eyes, desperate enough to bargain with fate itself. She pressed closer, her lips nearing his ear: “Then let me lose everything with you.” Her words cut him deeper than any blade could. In the fragile embrace the lovers stayed unmoved. The linen fell, and with it any hope of disguise. His kiss lingered on her hair as a final silent sacrament.
The bell tolled again, closer, heavier. From the distance came the sound of locks sliding, boots gathering, and torches flaring against the dark sky. Around them, Paris was awakening to slaughter.
