My Enemy, My Love

ℭ𝔥𝔞𝔭𝔱𝔢𝔯 𝔖𝔦𝔵

Luka [Jimmy]

The candlelight burned low, the wax pooling in soft rivulets across the silver trays beside my bed. I lay sprawled across the silk sheets, one arm draped over my chest, staring up at the carved ceiling as if the patterns there might distract me from the chaos clawing at my mind.

The war had been dragging on for four months now, and with every passing week, the land grew darker. I'd heard the reports: villages emptied by disease, rivers choked with corpses, whole battalions swallowed by mud and steel. And now the west—God, the west was relentless. Their advance was a tide that refused to recede, breaking against us again and again until our own walls threatened to collapse.

Casualties blurred into numbers on parchment, but I could feel them pressing on my chest, each digit a weight of flesh and bone. Guilt. Thousands of names, faceless, nameless, swept away into death. And still the messengers came with fresh dispatches, each one heavier than the last.

I had never cared for the politics of kings, nor for the so-called nobility of war. But now it was inescapable. Every scream carried on the night wind, every stench of rot that drifted through the palace gates, every shadowed look exchanged in the council chambers—it was in my blood. Exhaustion seeped into me, dragging me down until I wanted to do nothing more than sink into this bed and never rise again.

But even worse was the silence. The silence between battles, when the memories had time to breathe, and my thoughts turned inward. To him. To Thyme.

The door creaked open.

I turned my head, expecting a servant. Instead, I saw him.

Thyme stood framed by the soft glow of the corridor lanterns, dressed in his evening gown—dark silk flowing loose over his frame, the fabric brushing the floor in gentle waves. His face was shadowed, his eyes rimmed red from too many sleepless nights.

"You're still awake," he said quietly, almost accusingly.

"As if anyone could sleep through this madness," I muttered. I shifted upright against the pillows, studying him. "And you? Shouldn't you be buried under correspondence still?"

His lips twitched faintly, though not into a smile. "I needed air. And... I thought perhaps you might still be awake."

There was tension in his voice, as taut as the string of a bow. We had shared too many moments recently—kisses stolen in corners, embraces that left my head spinning, heat that neither of us could deny. And yet the hatred lingered, stubborn and sharp, woven into the fabric of our every exchange since the day we met.

I let the silence stretch, then said, "You look exhausted."

"So do you," he retorted, though his voice lacked bite. He moved further into the room, closing the door softly behind him.

His gown caught the candlelight, the silk shimmering like water, and for a moment I forgot to breathe. This man—this boy who was now a king—looked like he had aged years in mere weeks. The death of his father had hollowed him out, and the crown sat on him like an anchor pulling him under water. 

I sighed, running a hand through my hair. "Come to bed, Thyme. Just for a while. You need rest."

He shook his head immediately, the movement static. "I can't. I have piles of letters from lords and earls demanding to know if their lands will be spared, if their people will starve. They expect answers. And if I delay—"

"Then they can wait until morning," I cut in sharply. "You'll be no use to anyone if you collapse at your desk."

His jaw tightened. "You don't understand. I don't have the luxury of waiting. I am their king now. I...we are all they have left."

The pressure in his voice cracked, and suddenly his eyes were wet. His breath hitched, the first sharp intake before he shattered. 

"Thyme—" I started, but before I could move, he staggered, one hand clutching the side of the table as his shoulders shook.

I was out of bed in an instant, crossing the room just as his knees buckled. I caught him in my arms before he hit the floor. His body trembled violently against mine, his face burying itself into my shoulder as the sobs finally tore free.

"I can't do this," he choked, voice raw, muffled in my robe. "I'm not him—I'll never be my father—I can't—"

"Hush," I whispered, holding him tighter. My heart leapt painfully in my chest, a mixture of sympathy and shame twisting inside me. How had I not seen how bad it had become? I should have known. I should have been there sooner.

I cupped his face in both hands, pulling him back just enough to see him. Tears streaked his cheeks, his lips trembling. I wiped them away with my thumbs, speaking softly, urgently.

"You don't need to be him, Thyme. You're not your father—you're yourself. And that's enough. More than enough. Let them howl and panic—you'll still be here tomorrow, still standing. And that's what matters. Do you hear me?"

He blinked rapidly, tears spilling faster, and then he leaned forward, closing the space between us. His lips brushed mine in a fleeting kiss—soft, trembling, broken.

Almost immediately he jerked back, eyes wide with embarrassment, his breath ragged. "I—I'm sorry. I shouldn't—"

But I didn't let him retreat. I caught his wrist, pulled him back to me, and pressed my mouth against his again. This time deeper, hungrier, every ounce of my longing and rage poured into the kiss. His hands clutched at my robe, his sobs mingling with our breaths as he melted against me.

When we finally broke apart, his forehead pressed against mine, his voice came in a whisper, hoarse with emotion.

"I think... I think I might be falling in love with you."

My heart lurched. For a moment, I forgot the war, the death, the hatred that had defined us. I opened my mouth, desperate to answer, to confess that I think I felt it too—

But he tore himself away.

In a flurry of silk and tears, he wrenched free from my grasp, stumbling toward the door. He didn't look back as he fled, his gown trailing like shadows behind him. The door slammed shut, and the echo rattled through the chamber.

I remained kneeling on the floor, stunned, my lips still tingling with his kiss, my chest aching with the weight of words I hadn't spoken.

<<<<>>>>