The One About TikTok Enemies To Lovers To Enemies Again (To Lovers Again?)

The Battle

The others were dead. The rest were dying.

Get up.

On their knees, palms pressed against the muddy ground, Wren could feel the rattling breath of their remaining comrades who lay strewn about the battlefield, bent at odd angles. Could feel their hearts–racing even as they grew faint.

Earth felt them, too, waiting. Reaching for their souls with muddy fingers stained red with blood. Eager.

Not dead, Wren thought, hoping Earth would heed them. Not all. Not yet.

Wait, please. I can fix this. I will fix this.

Get up.

Through the thick rain, the enemy awaited. A half moon of blue and black uniforms lay before them. In another battle, against another foe, those blue coats would have strolled from man to man, slashing the fallen's throats as they lay dying to ensure none made it out alive or uncaptured.

But this was no ordinary battle. And so they, too, waited.

Get up.

Wren took one hand from the earth and pressed a wet palm to their side, grazing steel. The rain washed the blood away as soon as it bloomed on their skin, soaking their armor. If not for the offending sword's presence still half-stuck in their gut, one could almost forget Wren had been hurt in the battle at all. But the edges of their vision were blurring, and Earth's thrum rang louder and louder in their ears. Beckoning.

Wait, they thought again. Not yet.

The sea of blue uniforms suddenly shifted, parting down the middle, and a figure stepped out. Even through the rain, Wren knew them. Knew the soft trod of their boots against the grass; knew that slight stutter in their step–the result of a childhood injury. Knew how the rain swelled around them whenever they were near. How water seemed to follow them like a gift.

Wren had known other things about them, once. The rhythm of their heartbeat. The cool stillness of their smile. The way their lips tasted.

Things best forgotten.

Amari. The rain seemed to sing the name. A god heralding their champion.

"It's over, love." Their voice was clear. Sharp. "Your men are dead and your god is hungry. Surrender, and this can end here."

Wren pressed harder on the wound in their side, jostling the sword. Swallowing a cry, they grit their teeth against the burst of pain.

"Don't martyr yourself," Amari continued. "We both know you're at your limit."

Jaw clenched, Wren curled their fingers into the mud, sending a parting word to Earth.

Be with me now. Wait. I'll bring you a feast.

Earth paused, considering.

It would have to be enough.

Get up.

With a grunt, Wren yanked the sword from their side.

Blinking away the darkness that pooled at the edges of their vision, Wren forced themself to their feet, drawing on all their strength to keep themself upright. Slowly, clumsily, they kicked off their boots, letting their bare toes curl into the earth.

The rain would not carry their voice the way it did Amari's, so Wren had to shout, but their voice was firm.

"You know nothing of my limits."

Planting their feet in the mud, Wren drew up every ounce of the earth they could reach. Earth answered, hesitantly at first and then–with a delighted purr–all at once.