WAR | Timothée Chalamet

3 | A Balance of Power

Y/N

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"I want him out of this house as soon as possible," my mother snapped, "he has no business starting trouble here."

My knife hit rapidly against the cutting board, chopping up celery I had picked from the garden. We were making chicken soup, mainly to provide for the unwanted guest sleeping in my bed.

"He means no trouble," I sighed, scooping the vegetables into my hand, "if he did, he would have made his presence known."

I tossed the chopped goods into the boiling broth, the liquid splashing around the sides. I understood where my mother was coming from, but I didn't wish to agree with it. Timothée's presence was undoubtedly dangerous, considering the border law, but there had to be a reason. Over 100 years of the divide, and only now did someone dare to break it.

"I'm going into town to meet Helena," she said, "bring him the soup, and don't cause a fuss."

"Why are you meeting Helena?"

"She needs help selling radishes at the market, I won't be back until supper."

"Shall I prepare something when you come back?"

"Pick the tomatoes," she directed, exiting the kitchen, "and make bread. We'll be having caprese bruschetta."

"Journey safe," I wished, as she disappeared from view.

Ladling the burning hot soup into a bowl, I blew away to steam to cool it. I set it down on a tray, rearranging the glass of water and the jar of Bellis Perennis beside it. Gently picking it up, I slipped through the door and made my way to my room. Timothée's eyes were closed when I walked in, but they flew open when he heard my footsteps.

"I brought you food," I said softly, nodding towards the bed, "may I sit there?"

He nodded, and I slowly lowered myself onto an open space on the mattress. Setting down the tray on his lap, I held out a spoon for him to take. The boy's face lit up when he smelled the soup, the faintest trace of a smile on his lips.

"I haven't had soup in ages," he mentioned, "thank you."

He started to scoop up the fresh broth, but I stopped him, picking up the medicine jar instead. Bellis Perennis was a homeopathic medicine my mother made for cuts and wounds.

"You need to drink a spoonful of this first," I explained, unscrewing the lid, "it will help with your wounds."

I spilled the lumpy grey liquid onto a smaller spoon, a whiff of distasteful aroma filtering off of it. Timothée wrinkled his nose, shaking his head.

"I am in no need of your remedies," he said, "I'm perfectly well."

"Your bruised rib says differently."

"I won't die from it."

"But you won't heal from it either, if you don't take this," I urged, pressing the spoon towards him, "trust me."

He bat his eyelashes, hesitant at first, but opened his mouth voluntarily. I pushed it into his mouth, watching as he swallowed the medicine with a little restraint. I could see his stomach contract with disgust, but he cleared his throat and narrowed his eyes.

"I would like to eat my soup now," he said, "before that horrible taste lingers any longer on my tongue."

"Very well, you may eat."

He lifted his spoon up to his mouth, sipping it like it was water. I had never seen anyone drink soup in such a manner, since none of us here in Lourdes really cared about manners.

"Is it common for your people to stare?" He said, setting down his spoon.

It was only then that I realized I had been staring. I snapped my head away, my cheeks flushed with embarrassment. I often let myself get too carried away.

"You wished to speak with me," I continued, changing the subject, "what is it you want?"

"To end the war."

"I admire your wishes, but I'm afraid that isn't possible," I sighed, "I cannot help you."

He sat up, almost knocking the bowl of soup over. Thankfully, it managed to tilt right back into place.

"You can," he pleaded, before stopping to think. He blinked for a moment, before looking back up solemnly, "tell me, what do you think of the king?"

"Which one? There is the King of the Frey, and the King of Valor."

"Both."

"I think they abuse their power," I said bluntly, sitting up from the bed, "because of their fight, they left people stranded against their will."

Timothée seemed intrigued by my response. "What people?"

"My people," I said, "see? Not even you know what my town has gone through, and you live just over the eastern hills."

"I hope to change that," he said, "to bring back the past kingdom."

"It's impossible."

"It's not," he stated, "The King of Valor is sick. Because of this, his son must take the place as ruler in a few months at his coronation."

"You're getting ahead of yourself. You do not know the new heir, and you don't know what his plans are for your kingdom."

"I do know him," Timothée said, "we fought together."

I raised an eyebrow, "so you are a knight?"

He nodded, taking another sip of his soup. Even though they didn't retain their status in Lourdes, I felt the slightest bit honored that a survivor of battles was sitting in my room.

"So what do you plan to do?" I asked, "what will you tell this king's son?"

He froze, his eyes traveling up and down my body. I felt exposed and offended by his sudden forwardness, so I crossed my arms in front of my chest. When he saw my reaction, he smirked turning back to his soup.

"Well?" I followed up, "answer my question!"

"I don't need to," he said, "I've already figured it out."