My Enemy, My Love

ℭ𝔥𝔞𝔭𝔱𝔢𝔯 𝔗𝔴𝔢𝔩𝔳𝔢

King Thyme [Sea]

When Luka's lips left mine, I could still feel him. The taste of him lingered, salt and fire, the warmth pressed into me like a brand.

So, this was it. After all those years of hatred.

I should have pulled away. But I didn't. I couldn't. Because in that moment, with the map still spread out between us, I realised something that terrified me more than the enemy waiting beyond the horizon.

I really loved him too.

I didn't say it then. The words lodged in my throat, dangerous, unsteady. What I had told him that night in our room was enough. But I let the silence stretch between us, and for once, it wasn't hostile. It was something new. Something fragile.

That night I didn't sleep. I listened to the shifting of soldiers outside the tent, the creak of leather, the murmur of men waiting for dawn. Luka lay only a breath away, his back turned, but his presence was a comfort. But that moment of peace was soon interrupted. 

Our messenger came to tell us that the Western army was approaching. 

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At dawn, the camp stirred. The men strapped on armor, tightened girths, sharpened blades that had already tasted blood. The air smelled of ash and fear, though no one spoke of it. Luka and I dressed in silence. I fastened my breastplate, the weight familiar, the cold metal pressing into my ribs. He adjusted his gauntlets, his expression carved from stone. 

But when our eyes met, briefly, there was something else — a flicker of the night before, a tether pulling tight between us. We mounted our horses as the horns sounded. The army unfurled behind us, a living sea of steel and banners. The morning sun caught on their helmets, their spears, their eyes.

We rode to war.

By midday, the fields of Suphanburi rolled out before us, vast and open. The enemy was already there. The Western banners — black and red — cut across the horizon, their numbers sprawling, their drums echoing like thunder.

I had never seen so many men gathered in one place. The sight of them turned my stomach. Yet I forced my horse forward, Luka at my side, our men rallying behind us.

"Hold!" Luka's voice rose above the chaos, sharp as a blade. He raised his sword, and the soldiers stilled. I followed, drawing mine, the steel catching the sun.

The Western cavalry surged first, hooves pounding, a tidal wave of flesh and iron. Our archers loosed volleys that darkened the sky, cutting swathes through their front line, but still they came.

And then we met them.

The clash was deafening. Steel against steel, screams torn from throats, the earth trembling with the weight of men and horses. I swung my blade, cutting through the first rider who came at me, his axe raised high. The shock of it rattled my bones, but I kept moving.

Beside me, Luka fought like a man possessed. His strikes were brutal, efficient — not reckless, but burning. Every movement was a statement: I will not yield.

We carved through them together, our horses shoulder to shoulder, our blades red. I could hear him shouting orders, steadying the men even as the enemy pressed harder. And I found myself shouting too, my voice raw, urging our soldiers forward.

Time blurred. I lost count of the men I struck down, the wounds that narrowly missed me, the arrows that hissed past. All I knew was that Luka was there, always within reach. 

For Luka. For Anurak. 

At one point, I saw him fall from his horse — an enemy spear grazing too close, unseating him. My heart lurched, and before I knew it I was wheeling my horse around, cutting down the men that swarmed him. He staggered to his feet, blood on his cheek, fury in his eyes.

"Go!" he shouted, but I didn't. I reached down, grabbed his arm, and hauled him back onto my horse. I refused to let him die. 

We rode as one, my chest pressed to his back, my arm still swinging the sword as if nothing had changed. But everything had changed. Because for those moments, with him against me, I knew I would not — could not — lose him. Once it was safer, Luka jumped down from my horse, but before he turned to fight on, he kissed my hand and pressed it to his face. "Don't die, my love," was all he said. 

Then he was gone.

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By the time the sun began to set, the field was carnage. Bodies littered the grass, blood turned the soil to mud, smoke stung the sky. Our men still held, barely, though the enemy's numbers were not yet broken.

We rallied one last time, Luka and I riding to the front, raising our swords together. Our voices rose as one, a roar that carried across the battlefield, pulling strength from the marrow of men who should have been too tired to lift their blades.

And we charged.

I don't remember the faces, only the heat, the madness, the way every strike was life or death. I remember Luka's voice through the din, calling my name once when I strayed too far, the sound cutting through the chaos like a beacon.

When the Western general finally fell — an arrow through his throat, loosed by one of our archers — the tide shifted. Their lines wavered, their men broke, and at last, they began to scatter.

Victory.

The word felt hollow in my mouth as the cries of the dying echoed in my ears.

That night, when campfires burned and the moans of the wounded carried through the dark, Luka and I sat together again. No map this time, no strategy, only silence heavy between us. His armor was dented, his lip split, my own body aching with wounds I hadn't yet counted.

I turned to him. His face was shadowed by the firelight, but his eyes found mine.

"We survived," I whispered.

"For now," he said, his voice low.

And without thinking, I reached for his hand. Not as a prince, not as a commander, but as a man who had nearly lost him a dozen times in a single day. His fingers curled around mine, steady, unyielding.

The war was not over. But in that moment, I knew we would face whatever came — together.

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