The Primordial Flame

Finding an understanding.

Vane doesn't speak right away. His fingers tighten on the cold stone of the ledge, his jaw working as he swallows down the thick knot in his throat. The wind howls around the high parapet, but the heavy, suffocating silence between us has finally begun to soften, leaving room for him to actually breathe again.

“Vane? So help me Evane if I catch you walk out those gates I will break both your knee caps.”

"I did," I say, a faint, wry curve touching my lips despite the chill biting into my cheeks. "And a hell of a lot more. I was harsh on him, but he needed to hear it. I love the man, but I refuse to be with a tyrant. I want the old Bram back. I told him straight out, if I could find myself after everything I endured in that hole, so can he."

Vane stares at me, genuine awe momentarily overriding the exhaustion carved into his features. The idea of anyone standing down the Commander, let alone threatening to walk out on him, is practically mythical in the sanctuary. But he knows me well enough to know every word of it is true.

I let the mountain wind rush between us for a beat, watching the jagged shadow of the peaks lengthen across the valley floor, before turning my head to look him dead in the eye.

"Oh, and what you said earlier? About me looking at every pathetic thing you try and hide?"

Vane freezes, the colour faintly rising beneath the dark bruises on his throat.

"Having feelings for me is not pathetic, Vane. Not at all," I say, my voice steady, stripped of pity, leaving only clean, honest warmth. "Do you want to talk about it?"

A sharp intake of breath rattles in his chest. His hands twitch on the stone ledge, his knuckles going pale before he slowly uncurls his fingers and lets them rest flat against the frost bitten granite. He looks out over the sheer drop into the gorge, his throat working hard against the knot lodged inside it.

For the first time since this whole mess began, there’s no defensive joke ready on his tongue. No reckless smirk. No frantic denial to hide behind.

"I don't even know what there is to say, Ame,"

he murmurs after a long, aching pause, his voice barely louder than the howling wind around the battlements.

"You're with Bram. And I. I never meant for my head to get twisted like this. It started because I was terrified for you, because seeing you on that Dias broke something in me that I couldn't put back together. And then we brought you back, and every time you laughed or stole food off my plate, it felt like the only clean thing in this whole rotten world."

He buries his face in his hands, scrubbing hard at his eyes with the rough heels of his palms.

"It makes me feel like a traitor every time I look at him," Vane rasps through his fingers, the raw, miserable honesty bleeding out into the cold. "And worse, it makes me feel like I’m poisoning the only real friendship I’ve ever had."

"You’re not poisoning our friendship, Vane," I say gently, the honesty steady and unhurried in my voice. "It’s easy to get feelings mixed up when we’ve all been through what we have. Especially when we’re so comfortable with each other."

He slowly lowers his hands from his face, turning to look at me through the fringe of dark hair whipping across his forehead, his grey eyes guarded and listening.

"I’d be lying if I said I didn't feel it too, Vane," I murmur, meeting his gaze squarely, letting him have the truth without any games.

His breath hitches, a sharp, arrested sound in the freezing air, his pupils widening slightly as the admission lands between us like a spark.

"But the difference is," I continue, keeping my tone grounded and clear, "I’m in love with Bram. Which has prevented me from falling in as deep as you have."

The flare of shock in his face settles into a quiet, solemn understanding. The reality of it doesn't sting the way a rejection might; it’s an anchor, defining the boundaries with total transparency instead of leaving him to rot in secret shame.

I give his arm a light, teasing nudge with my elbow, offering him a small, conspiratorial grin that braves the bitter wind.

"I don’t think it will last forever though. I think a few more tavern ladies and things getting back to normal around this place, and you’ll start seeing me as your annoying, exhausting friend again. What do you think?"

Vane stares at me for a beat, completely disarmed, before a genuine, breathless laugh breaks out of his chest. It's the first real, unburdened laugh he’s managed in days, and it crinkles the bruised corners of his eyes.

"Annoying and exhausting?" he echoes, shaking his head and leaning his shoulders back against the parapet stone, the suffocating tension finally washing out of his frame. "Ame, you’ve always been annoying and exhausting. That part never changed."

He rubs the back of his neck, a faint, rueful smirk touching his mouth, though the warmth in his silver gaze runs deep and quiet.

"A few more tavern ladies, huh?" he murmurs, looking down at his boots with a slow, grateful exhale.

"Maybe. Though I think I'll skip the alehouse for at least a month before Bram decides to use my ribs as target practice. But, thank you. For not treating me like a monster. And for telling me the truth."

"Anytime," I say, rolling my eyes with fond exasperation as a particularly vicious gust of mountain air whips around our ankles. "Now are you done perching yourself in the freezing wind like a bloody owl?"

Vane snorts, shaking his head as he pushes his numb hands against the frost-bitten stone.

"A bloody owl?" he mutters, though the teasing spark in his grey eyes is completely restored. "I'll have you know this was a brooding, tactical vantage point. Very dignified. Very brooding scout."

"You have frost forming on your eyebrows, Vane," I deadpan, standing up and brushing the grit from the seat of my trousers. "You look like a frozen gargoyle, not a tactical genius."

"That is wildly disrespectful to gargoyles," he grunts, swinging his long legs back over the ledge onto the solid safety of the ramparts.

His boots hit the flags with a dull clatter, and he immediately winces as the blood rushes back into his chilled feet, staggering half a step before catching himself against the battlement. He stretches his broad shoulders with a muffled groan, the leather of his jerkin creaking stiffly.

He rubs the back of his bruised neck, looking toward the narrow trapdoor that leads down into the warmth of the sanctuary's stone corridors.

"Alright," he sighs, blowing a cloud of white fog into the air. "Let's get out of this misery before my fingers snap off like dry twigs. Lead the way, Ame, before I lose my nerve and actually have to face the wrath of whatever stew the kitchen boys butchered today."

"You head to the hall so long," I tell him, nudging his shoulder toward the lower stairs as we reach the landing of the second floor.

"I’m going to wake up my giant and see if his mood has improved. Hopefully you two can kiss and make up over stew so things can go back to normal."

Vane groans, throwing his hands up in mock horror as he backs down the hallway toward the kitchen scents drifting from below.

"Kiss and make up?" he echoes, making a gagging face that wrinkles his bruised nose.

"I’d rather take my chances jumping off the north ledge, Ame. If the Commander tries to plant one on me, I’m stabbing him in the throat."

"A romantic to the end," I shoot back with a quiet chuckle.

"Always," he calls back with a faint, tired wink, though the relief lingering in his posture is undeniable as he turns the corner toward the grand hall, leaving me alone in the quiet corridor.