The Primordial Flame

Seeing scars.

"That would involve me taking off this jacket and the tunic, Bram," I say, stepping back half a pace and resting my uninjured hand lightly against the cool stone wall. "And I really don’t think that’s a good idea, considering where we left things in the carriage."

My voice is steady, but my chest tightens as I pull the leather vest a little closer around myself. It isn't just the lingering heat of the carriage making me hesitate. Beneath that tunic lie the jagged, pale lines etched into the skin of my back, scarring I have guarded fiercely for years.

"My shoulder will survive," I add softly, forcing a slight, reassuring smile to my lips. "It's probably just bruised."

Bram doesn't take the step back. Instead, he closes the small gap between us, his massive frame blocking out the draft from the cave mouth. The fierce warrior is gone, replaced by a man consumed by raw, agonized concern.

"Ame, please," Bram pleads, his deep voice cracking slightly, a rare, vulnerable sound that shatters his usual impenetrable steel. He reaches out, his large, calloused hands hovering near my arms, trembling as he looks down at me.

"You tumbled over hard gravel at a full gallop. A bad shoulder impact can throw a joint out or bleed internally under the muscle. I don't care about the carriage, and I don't care about my own pride, I just need to know you're alright."

His dark eyes search mine, completely devoid of pretense, practically begging me to let him help.

"Please," he whispers again, his fingers lightly brushing the leather strap over my collarbone, warm and gentle against the chill of the cavern.

"Just let me check. I couldn't bear it if I sat here while you were in pain."

"Bram, there are things I don’t want you to see," I say quietly, my voice barely carrying over the steady patter of rain outside. I shake my head, looking down at the worn stone floor between us. "Things I’m ashamed of. And if you look at my shoulder."

I swallow down the sudden tightness in my throat, wrapping my uninjured arm across my chest in an instinctive gesture of defense.

"It’s not easy to look at."

Bram freezes. His hands, still hovering inches from my collarbone, go completely still. The frantic urgency in his face softens into something profound, heavy, and infinitely gentle. For a man who moves through the world like a storm, the sheer care in his posture as he slowly lowers his hands is heart-wrenching.

"Ame." he whispers, his deep voice carrying a quiet, ache filled reverie. He doesn't press forward, nor does he demand an explanation. Instead, he drops down to one knee in front of me, bringing his height below mine so he has to look up into my eyes.

"There is nothing on you, nothing you carry, nothing done to you, and nothing you bear, that could ever make me look at you with anything less than absolute reverence," Bram rumbles softly, his dark eyes shining in the cavern twilight with unwavering, fierce devotion.

He slowly reaches out, placing his palm flat against the stone floor right beside my boot, giving me complete control of the space between us.

I look down at him kneeling on the cool stone, the raw sincerity in his dark eyes breaking down the last of my defenses. Taking a slow, steadying breath, I unbuckle the leather vest and let it slide off my shoulders to the cavern floor.

"Close your eyes, Bram," I say softly, my voice quiet in the dim space.

He obeys instantly, shutting his eyes tight and bowing his head slightly, his broad hands resting flat against his knees.

I reach down and carefully gather the hem of my linen tunic, lifting it up and pulling it over my head. Moving quickly, I wrap the folded fabric snugly across my front, clutching it tightly against my chest to keep myself covered, leaving my left shoulder exposed, along with the upper curve of my spine and back.

"You can open them," I whisper.

Bram opens his eyes, his dark gaze landing immediately on my shoulder. His calloused fingers reach out, hovering with delicate precision as he gently presses along the bone of my collar, checking for dislocations or fractures.

His touch is astonishingly light for a man of his size, every movement deliberate and feather soft against my bruised skin.

"The joint is in place," he murmurs, his voice barely a breath. "It's a deep bruise, but nothing is broken."

He cuts himself off. As his hands slip away, his eyes naturally drift past the line of my shoulder, catching the dim cavern light reflecting off my skin.

Bram completely freezes.

His breath hitches in his throat with a sharp, ragged sound. The pale, jagged lines etched into the skin of my back catch the faint twilight, scars from a dark past I have fought so hard to bury.

His dark eyes widen in a mixture of profound shock, horror, and a devastating, overwhelming grief. His jaw drops slightly, his chest rising and falling in shallow, heavy hitches. A muscle twitches violently in his cheek as his gaze traces every line, every mark, as if the sight of them is physically tearing through his own heart.

Slowly, almost reverently, his large hand lifts into the air between us. He doesn't touch the scars, he doesn't dare press against the tender skin, but his trembling fingers hover mere centimeters away from the pale marks, his entire massive frame shaking with a silent, agonising rage directed at whoever dared to harm me.

"Ame." he rasps, his voice breaking completely, thick with unshed tears and a terrifying, dark fury. "Who did this to you?"

"My father," I say, my voice steady and quiet as I stare down at the cool cavern floor. "This is how he disciplined me if I spoke out of turn, was not poised enough, ate too much, or if I didn’t strive for absolute excellence. But really, I think King Magnus just looked for any excuse to do it."

The silence that follows my words is so heavy it feels like the air itself has turned to lead.

Bram doesn't move. He doesn't roar, he doesn't curse, and he doesn't lash out,

but the stillness that takes over him is infinitely more terrifying. His dark eyes fixate on the pale lines on my skin, his face draining of all color until his skin is as gray as the granite around us.

A low, subterranean rumble builds deep in his chest, a sound of pure, unadulterated devastation and a murderous, dark hatred so absolute it makes the very walls of the cave seem to shudder. His large hands, hovering near my skin, clench into tight, trembling fists so hard his knuckles turn white and the tendons in his forearms strain against his leather braces.

"King Magnus," Bram whispers. The name bleeds out of his mouth like liquid ice, devoid of any warmth, dripping with a terrifying, quiet promise of bloodshed.

Slowly, carefully, as if handling the most fragile treasure in existence, Bram leans forward.

He doesn't touch the scars with his hands. Instead, he gently rests his forehead against the clean skin of my uninjured shoulder, bowing his head completely before me in a gesture of agonizing, heart wrenching reverence.

His massive shoulders heave once with a ragged, silent breath against my collarbone.

"I have spent my life in the Blackhand Guild fighting other men's wars," Bram rasps against my skin, his deep voice trembling with raw, unfiltered emotion that shatters every wall he has ever built between us.

"But I swear to you right now, Ame, on my life, on my soul, on every drop of blood in my body, I will help you tear Magnus's kingdom down to the ash. I will make that monster pay for every single mark he left on you."

"That won’t do me any good, Bram," I say softly, reaching down to gently rest my uninjured hand against the side of his neck, feeling the rigid tension in his broad jaw. "It won’t take the scars away. If I could just move on with my life and never hear or see him again, that’s good enough for me."

Bram doesn't pull away from my touch, but the deep, ragged breath he exhales against my shoulder is heavy with unspoken pain.

"Don’t burden yourself with treason for me, please," I whisper, my thumb lightly stroking the coarse stubble along his jawline.

"My father is a powerful man. He has the entire kingdom's guard at his back, and I don’t want him to come after you. I couldn't bear being the reason you end up in a gibbet."

Slowly, Bram lifts his head from my shoulder. His dark eyes meet mine, burning with a fierce, unwavering intensity that makes my breath catch. He reaches up, his large, warm hand covering mine where it rests against his jaw, squeezing gently, never demanding, only grounding.

"It isn't a burden, Ame," Bram rumbles softly, his deep voice carrying a quiet, rock-solid certainty. "And I don't care how powerful Magnus thinks he is. No man, king or beggar gets to mark you like this and walk away untouched while I still breathe."

He lowers his hand slowly, giving me space as he steps back just enough to let me move.

"I won't rush you into a war you don't want. If your peace means slipping into the shadows and never looking back, then I will stand guard over that peace until my last day. But don't ever ask me not to care, Ame. I am already in this. Whatever comes for you has to go through me first."

He turns his back slightly, giving me privacy as I pull the linen tunic back over my shoulders and smooth it down before slipping back into my fitted leather vest.

I pause as I finish buckling the leather straps of my vest, the soft click of the iron tongue echoing in the small stone chamber. I sit back against the dry granite wall, pulling my knees slightly toward my chest and resting my arms across them as I look at his broad, dark silhouette.