The Primordial Flame

Speaking without boundaries.

He leans slightly closer, his breath brushing warm against my temple, his grey eyes searching mine with a fierce, quiet devotion that asks for nothing in return.

"You don't have to finish that sentence if you're not ready to," he whispers softly, his crooked smile returning, faint and infinitely patient. "And you don't ever have to apologise to me for feeling safe. I'll take complicated, Ame. I'll take whatever pieces of your trust you're willing to give me, for as long as you'll let me stay."

He tugs gently at my hand, pulling the wool blanket higher over our shoulders against the draft of the empty hall, settling in beside me as if he has nowhere else in the world he'd rather be.

“I still fully expect you to have your dalliances with the tavern ladies Vane, that hasn’t changed. You need to blow off steam every now and then.”

Vane lets out a quiet, raspy sound that is part chuckle, part surrender.

He doesn’t pull his hand away, but his thumb stills against my knuckles. In the orange wash of the hearth, a faint, rueful smirk pulls at the corner of his mouth, though the storm in his eyes doesn't clear.

"You really don't get it, do you, Ame?" he murmurs, his voice dropping into a dry, self deprecating hush. "You think those tavern nights were about blowing off steam?"

He shakes his head, looking down at our joined hands for a long moment before lifting his eyes back to mine.

"They were cheap distractions. A mug of bitter ale, an hour of pretending I didn't give a damn, anything to keep my head from drifting back to this safe house, to watching you laugh across the armoury, or sharpen daggers with Bram, or stand by the parapet at twilight."

He leans back against the stone hearth, his shoulder resting inches from mine beneath the shared wool blanket, his jaw set in a quiet, stubborn line.

"I won't promise to become a monk overnight," Vane whispers, a ghost of his usual wicked humour flickering back into his grin, "if only to keep Arden from asking too many i***t questions. But don't sit here on this fleece and pretend those women ever meant a single thing to me. Not when the only person who can actually dismantle me is sitting right next to the fire, telling me to go find someone else."

He gives my hand a gentle, lingering squeeze, then lets his fingers lace lightly with mine, resting them against the warmth of the sheepskin.

“Call it a distraction then, I’m not asking you to be a monk. I have no right to do that, and would never expect that of you.”

Vane turns his head slowly against the rough stone of the hearth, watching me in the amber glow of the dying cedar logs.

A quiet, pained exasperation flits across his bruised features, softening almost immediately into something endlessly fond.

His fingers remain loosely laced through mine on the fleece, warm and calloused, refusing to let the distance creep back in.

"You talk about rights like this is a guild contract, Ame," he says, his voice a low, gravelly rasp that barely skims the heat of the embers. "Like we're negotiating kill shares or horse rations."

He shifts his weight, turning slightly onto his side so he can face me fully. The blanket rustles between us, trapping the scent of pine smoke and wool.

"I don't stay awake thinking about you because you demanded it," Vane murmurs, his eyes searching mine with a devastating, unhurried calm. "You didn't ask for a single piece of this. I handed it over entirely on my own, knowing full well you were looking at the Commander. So stop trying to absolve me of choices I'm making with both eyes wide open."

A crooked, faint half smile touches his lips, though it carries none of his usual mocking bravado, just the quiet resolve of an assassin who has made up his mind and has no intention of retreating.

"You don't have to carry the guilt of keeping me honest," he whispers, his thumb brushing a slow, grounding arc across the back of my hand. "If I walk past a tavern door from now on, it's not because you held a leash. It's because once you've had a taste of something real, even just sitting beside you in the dark like this, the cheap counterfeits stop working altogether."

He lets his head rest back against the hearthstone, exhaling a long, slow breath into the quiet hall, his thumb continuing its gentle, rhythmic stroke over my skin.

"Now close your eyes, Ame," he adds softly, his tone turning into an easy, protective murmur. "Let the fire do its work. I've got the watch."

“I’m not very tired. Forgive me if I sound analytical about this, you must remember, growing up as a princess, romance wasn’t an option. I might have lost my memories but the lifestyle was indoctrinated into my core. Marriage was a political and financial agreement. There was no talk of love, passion or romance. And the only two relationships I’ve had, has been with Arden, which ended abysmally, and Bram. And while Bram used to have a very sweet playful side with me when we were alone, he’s changed since you two brought me back. But the tender moments are always behind closed doors where no one can see. So that is why when i speak it might sound cold, or contract like, because I don’t know better.”

Vane goes completely still.

The low snap of an ember in the grate is the only sound in the cavernous hall as my confession settles between us. His fingers, still loosely woven through mine on the sheepskin, don't tighten, they simply hold fast, a solid, unwavering anchor against the chill of the stones.

He studies me in the flickering amber light, not with pity, but with a profound, aching realisation that wipes every trace of his usual roguish smirk away. The grey in his eyes deepens, reflecting the flames and something far more tender.

"Hey," he murmurs, his voice dropping into a quiet, gravelly rasp that feels intimate enough to brush against bare skin. "Look at me, Ame."

He waits until my gaze meets his before he gently lifts his free hand, his knuckles lightly grazing the line of my jaw, careful and reverent, as if touching spun glass.

"You don't ever have to apologise for how you survive," Vane says softly, his thumb tracing a slow, grounding arc beneath my cheekbone. "Not for the courtly cages they built around you before, and certainly not for how you protect yourself now. You learned to see affection as a ledger because the people who raised you used people like currency."

His jaw tightens, a brief, dark storm flickering through his features before it melts back into quiet warmth.

"And Arden, well, you both were trying to figure out how to exist," he continues gently. "As for Bram." He exhales a slow, rough breath, shaking his head. "Bram loves with iron and silence. He thinks keeping you tucked behind heavy oak doors protects you from the world, and maybe protects his own terrifying pride. But you deserve more than a love that only exists in the dark, Ame. You deserve someone who isn't ashamed or afraid to stand in the light and let the whole damn realm know you hold their heart in your hands."

He lets his hand drop slowly back to mine, his fingers tangling through mine again, resting together on the warm fleece.

"You don't sound cold to me," Vane whispers, his lips curving into a soft, crooked smile that holds no mockery at all. "You sound like someone who's never been given the space to figure out what warmth actually feels like without a price tag attached to it. So don't worry about contracts, or what you think you 'ought' to know. We can take it as slow as you want. Line by line. No debts, no terms. Just this."

“But what is this? Because I need you to know that no part of me wants to hurt you or loose you. But I do love him Vane, it’s incredibly selfish of me but I can’t help it. The man couldn’t even bring himself to spend five minutes saying sweet things to me in front of friends, but I still love him. Gods I’m a fool.”

A quiet, sharp breath catches in Vane’s chest. For a moment, the amber light from the hearth seems to freeze across the sharp planes of his face, the bruised cut beneath his eye stark against the pale line of his jaw.

He doesn’t pull his hand away. If anything, his fingers tighten over mine by a fraction, holding steady even as the raw cut of my confession lands straight between his ribs.

"You're not a fool, Ame," he says, his voice a low, rough gravel that barely skims the heat rising off the fleece. "Don't ever call yourself that. Loving someone who doesn't know how to carry it properly doesn't make you weak. It just makes you human. And gods know this guild has tried hard enough to strip every last piece of that away from us."

He turns his head toward the fire, watching a cedar log collapse into a shower of quiet, glowing sparks. The rueful, crooked smile that touches his lips is faint and bruised, carrying all the ache of a scout who knew the territory was lethal before he ever stepped foot across the border.

"What is this?" Vane echoes softly, tasting the question. He turns back to look at me, his grey eyes clear, steady, and devastatingly open. "It’s whatever keeps you whole tonight. It's me being right here on this floor so you don't have to sit alone in the dark feeling humiliated by a man who was too proud to give you what you deserved. That’s all it has to be."

He reaches up with his free hand, catching a stray strand of dark hair that has fallen across my cheek and tucking it gently behind my ear. His fingers linger for a second against my skin, warm and calloused, completely devoid of demand or expectation.

"You're not going to lose me, Ame. And you're not hurting me any more than I chose to let myself hurt when I opened my mouth tonight," he murmurs, his gaze searching mine with fierce, unyielding patience. "I know who holds your heart. I've watched you look at Bram for months; I'm not blind, and I'm not delusional enough to think one slow dance on the hearthstones wipes that clean."