Chapter 10: The Morning After
Kerr lay on his back, staring at the canopy’s intricate embroidery. Dawn had properly broken, turning the room from grey to gold, dust motes dancing in the slanted light. The Queen was curled against his side, her head on his shoulder, one leg thrown over his. Her breathing had evened into the deep, slow rhythm of spent sleep. He could feel the damp heat of her skin against his, the smell of them both—sweat, sex, and the faint, crushed-herb scent of the sheets—thick in the air.
He didn’t move. He cataloged the aches in his body, a pleasant fatigue deep in his muscles. He listened to the palace wake up: the distant clang of a kitchen pot, the muffled tread of boots somewhere in a stone corridor, a solitary bird trilling outside the window. A world resuming its normal orbit, oblivious to the seismic shift that had occurred in this room.
Her eyelids fluttered. She didn’t open them, just breathed in deeply, and then let out a long, shuddering sigh that seemed to come from the very core of her. She shifted, wincing slightly as she untangled her limbs from his. Moving slowly, as if every muscle protested, she pushed herself up on one elbow to look down at him. Her dark hair was a wild cloud around her face, her lips slightly swollen, her skin flushed. The perfect, untouchable Queen of Antiva was gone. In her place was a woman utterly dismantled, her expressive eyes heavy-lidded and soft.
“Maker’s breath,” she whispered, her voice hoarse. “I can barely keep my eyes open.”
He turned his head on the pillow to look at her. A faint, smug smile touched his lips. “A late night.”
She gave a weak laugh, more an exhale than a sound. “You have a talent for understatement, Ser Cousland.” She traced a finger along the line of his collarbone, her touch light, almost wondering. “Do you ruin all the women at Castle Cousland in this manner?”
He caught her hand, brought her knuckles to his lips. “I only give my best.”
She held his gaze for a moment, then her eyes drifted shut again as if the effort was too much. She sank back down beside him, her face turned into his neck. “I will likely sleep the rest of the day,” she murmured against his skin. “The carriage will take you home. No discussion. It’s waiting in the south courtyard.”
He nodded, though she couldn’t see it. The ‘home’ hung between them. Not her home. His. The reality of distance reasserting itself.
“The King,” she said, her words slightly slurred with exhaustion, “will thank you. For what you did.” She didn’t specify if she meant the duel, the night, or the seamless, wordless understanding that had bound them both. Probably all of it.
She lifted her head again, with obvious effort. Her dark eyes searched his face, the wit and calculation burned away, leaving something startlingly raw. “No one,” she said, each word deliberate, “has ever taken such exquisite care of me.”
The honesty of it, stripped of all Antivan subtlety, hit him in the chest. It wasn’t flattery. It was a confession. He reached up, his large hand cradling the back of her head, and pulled her mouth to his. It wasn’t the hungry, devouring kiss from hours before. This was deep, languid, a slow exploration of shared memory. A final taste. He could feel the fatigue in the way she yielded to him, pliant and soft.
He released her. She stayed there, her forehead resting against his, her breath mingling with his.
In Antivan, her voice a sleep-rough whisper against his lips, she said, “Goodbye for now, you gorgeous boy.”
He smiled, a real one, warm and unguarded. He shifted then, rolling from the bed with a quiet groan. The cool morning air hit his skin, raising goosebumps. He dressed in silence, pulling on the clothes from the night before, feeling the grit of the journey still in the fibers. She watched him from the tumble of linens, her eyes barely open, a silent portrait of satiated ruin.
When he was done, he turned to her one last time. He didn’t speak. He simply placed his right fist over his heart and gave a slow, deep bow—not the nod of a courtier, but the full, formal bow of a Ferelden knight to his sovereign. A mark of respect. A farewell.
Then he turned and walked to the oak doors. He pulled one open just wide enough to slip through, not looking back. The sound of the latch clicking shut behind him was as final as a falling stone.
The south courtyard was bright and cold. Frost still sparkled in the shadows of the colonnade. His own horse, a sturdy Ferelden Fereldan Forder, was hitched beside a sleek Antivan carriage, its brass fittings gleaming. One of his own guards, a man named Pate, stood waiting, holding the reins of Kerr’s mount. Pate’s face was carefully blank, but his eyes flickered with relief at the sight of his lord.
“All’s well, my lord?” Pate asked, handing over the reins.
“All’s well,” Kerr said, swinging up into the saddle. His body protested, a chorus of pleasant soreness. He glanced at the carriage. “We’re escorting that?”
“Aye. They said it’s for you. Contains your… things.” Pate’s tone suggested the ‘things’ were likely gifts—wine, silks, the trinkets of diplomacy.
Kerr nodded. “Let’s go home.”
They rode out through the palace gates, the carriage wheels rattling on the cobbles behind them. The city passed in a blur of washed-out color and early-morning smells: baking bread, sewage, the salty tang of the harbor. He didn’t look back at the spires. His work here was done. Oren and Oriana were safe, already halfway to Highever. The contract was void, its broker dead. A queen was sleeping, and a king, in his own way, was satisfied.
As they cleared the city walls and the open road stretched before them, dirt and gravel underfoot, Kerr took a deep breath. The air was colder, cleaner. It smelled of pine and damp earth. Home.
He nudged his horse into a trot, then a canter, feeling the familiar rhythm of the saddle, the powerful movement of the animal beneath him. The carriage and his guard fell in behind. The distance to Antiva grew, step by step, the events of the night already settling into his bones like a strange, powerful dream. He was just Kerr Cousland again, the Teryn’s younger son, riding back to the cows and the carrots and the quiet, heavy weight of duty. He focused on the road ahead, on the leaning trees and the grey sky, and tried to forget the taste of rosewater and regret.
He focused on the road ahead, on the leaning trees and the grey sky, and tried to forget the taste of rosewater and regret. The rhythmic clop of hooves and the carriage’s creak behind him became a mantra, numbing the memory of her whispered Antivan farewell. Highever’s familiar, rain-scoured towers breaking the horizon three days later felt like waking from a fever dream.
The courtyard of his home was all barking dogs and stablehands taking reins. His father’s steward, an anxious man with ink-stained fingers, immediately launched into a report about missing sheep and a disputed millwright’s bill. Kerr listened, nodding, his body screaming for a bed that didn’t feel like moving.
“My lord, your brother’s wife and son?” the steward finally asked, his voice tentative.
“Safe. With my father by now,” Kerr said, cutting off the rest of the questions with a raised hand. “Tomorrow.”
He quickly went up to his chambers to have a bath drawn. Nan was waiting.
The old copper tub was already steaming, the smell of lavender and pine sap cutting through the travel grime on his skin. She stood with her back to him, testing the water with her elbow like she had when he was a boy. “Took your time,” she said, not turning around.
“Roads were mud,” he grunted, fumbling with the clasp of his cloak.
“Strip,” she said, turning now. Her eyes, warm and knowing, scanned him from boots to brow. “Maker’s breath, you’re likely knackered from the trip. Don’t look like you slept much, either.”
He was too tired to protest. He peeled off the filthy travel clothes, letting them drop to the flagstones in a heap. The air chilled his skin until he sank into the scalding water with a groan that was almost a prayer.
She knelt behind the tub, her strong hands already on his shoulders. Her fingers dug into the knotted cables of muscle along his spine, finding the tension and working it loose with a brutal, expert grace. He let his head loll forward, his eyes closed.
“You always were a worried boy,” she murmured, her voice a soft rasp against the stone walls. “Even when you shouldn’t have been. Always cares so much for others.” Her thumbs pressed deep below his shoulder blades, making him hiss. “First time you scrambled my brains with that monstrous thing between your legs was because you were sensitive. Wanted an old widow to know she was still pretty.”
A weak, hoarse laugh escaped him. The memory was a vague, warm haze from three summers ago, a different kind of exhaustion and a different kind of comfort.
“Out,” she ordered, after the water had gone tepid and his muscles felt like pudding. “Dry off.”
He obeyed, stepping out onto the rough mat. She wrapped a thick linen sheet around him, rubbing his back and arms with a brisk, practical efficiency. He weakly walked to the bed, his legs feeling disconnected.
She moved the covers aside. With a simple, unceremonious motion, she pulled her woolen underclothes down and let them puddle at her ankles. She climbed onto the bed beside him, her body softer than the Antivan queen’s, warmer, familiar as his own breath.
She reached for him beneath the sheet, finding him soft and spent. She rubbed his cock to stiffness with an experienced mastery, her hand knowing every ridge and vein. There was no flirtation in it, only a deep, practical affection.
“I have to take advantage of opportunities like these,” she said softly, her face close to his. Her other hand stroked his damp hair. “Never know when you’ll stop knocking on my door. Get yourself a proper lady.”
He turned his head, opening his eyes to look at her. The laugh was stronger this time. “I don’t see that happening.”
“Good.” She bent and kissed his forehead. “Now relax. Let Nan have this.”
She straddled him, guiding him into her, and sank down until he was buried to the hilt. She was warm and slick and knowing. She rolled her hips once, a slow, deep grind that pressed the head of him against the deepest part of her, and he was coming within seconds. It wasn’t the drawn-out siege of the night before; this was a sudden, total surrender.
“Let it out,” she coaxed, still moving in slow, encompassing circles, milking him. “Give it to Nan. Give me all of it. I want all of it.”
He never could disobey her. His hands came up, gripping her hips not with lust but with a profound, aching release. He grabbed her as firmly as he could and exploded inside her, each pulse a hollowing out of the tension, the dread, the layered performances of the last week. She shuddered at the internal impact, a full-body shiver, and held him there until he was spent.
Once he stopped pulsing, she stepped off him with a quiet sigh. She fetched a damp cloth and cleaned him with the same tender thoroughness she’d bathed him with. Then she cleaned herself.
She pulled the covers over him, tucking them around his shoulders. “Get some sleep, my boy,” she whispered, her hand resting on his cheek.
He was already half-gone. The clean sheets, the familiar scent of her skin on the linen, the absolute, uncomplicated silence of the room, pulled him under. He drifted off without struggle, into a dreamless, anchorless sleep.
He drifted off without struggle, into a dreamless, anchorless sleep.
It didn’t last.
He jerked awake hours later in the absolute dark, the deep quiet of the keep pressing down on him. The fatigue was gone, burned away, replaced by a wiry, restless energy that crackled under his skin. The silence was wrong. In Antiva, even the nights had hummed. Here, it was a vacuum.
He threw off the covers. The cool air raised goosebumps on his bare skin. He didn’t light a candle. He pulled on just his smallclothes, the linen soft and worn, and padded out into the corridor.
The castle was a tomb of shadow and moonlight. His bare feet were soundless on the cold stone flags. Past the silent Great Hall, down the narrow servants’ stair, the familiar path was instinctive. A sliver of amber light bled from under a familiar, heavy door.
He knocked, three soft raps.
A moment passed. Then the door opened inward, revealing Nan holding a small oil lamp. She wore a thick, knitted shawl over her nightdress. Her hair was down, a silver cloud around her shoulders. She blinked at him, then her eyes narrowed with amused recognition.
“By the Maker’s left toe, boy,” she whispered, her voice scratchy with sleep. “It’s the dead of night. The sun’s not even thinking about rising.”
“I know what time it is,” he said, leaning a shoulder against the doorframe. The restless ache was a physical thrum in his bones. He looked past her, into the cozy clutter of her room. “I’ve got an ache. I think you share it.”
She gave a soft, incredulous puff of laughter. “There’s nobody else in this whole drafty pile, is there?”
“Not a soul.”
She shook her head, but a smile played on her lips. She stepped back, opening the door wider in clear invitation. “You filled me with your seed not forty-five minutes ago, you insatiable creature.”
“That’s true,” he said, stepping inside and closing the door behind him. The room was warm, smelling of herbs and the faint, clean scent of her. “But I only did it once.”
“You’ll be the death of me, Kerr Cousland,” she sighed, setting the lamp on a small table. She turned to face him, her hands on her hips. “A slow, pleasant death, but a death all the same.”
“You’re the one who consistently drains me,” he retorted, a smirk tugging at his mouth. He hooked his thumbs in the waistband of his smallclothes and pushed them down, stepping out of them. He stood naked before her in the lamplight, all hard lines and restless tension.
Her gaze traveled over him, not with lust, but with a profound, familiar appreciation. “Look at you,” she murmured, warmth flooding her voice. “My good lad. Have you come to give old Nan another round, then?”
“I always have another round for you.”
He closed the distance between them. His hands found her hips through the nightdress, pulling her firmly against him. He kissed her then, deep and consuming, his tongue sweeping into her mouth. It was different from the kiss in Antiva—this was claiming a known harbor, not exploring a strange shore.
He walked her backward until her legs hit the edge of her narrow bed. He laid her down, pushing the fabric of her nightdress up to her waist. He didn’t wait. He slid into her in one smooth, solid push, sheathing himself completely in her welcoming, slick heat.
She gasped into his mouth, her hands flying to his back. He set a rhythm immediately—not the relentless, enduring pace of the palace, but something fervent and gentle, deep strokes that spoke of a specific, shared need. He kissed her deeply throughout, swallowing her soft sounds.
The effect was instantaneous. Her body arched under his, a sharp, surprised cry catching in her throat. “Oh, there—Kerr, I’m coming already,” she gasped, her words breaking into an unintentional grunt.
He didn’t slow. Each powerful thrust visibly shifted her body, the formidable length and girth of him forcing a subtle protrusion just below her navel with every deep drive. Her abdominal muscles clenched and fluttered wildly, seized by ongoing, rolling convulsions that had her grasping at the sheets.
“Again,” she groaned, her head thrashing side to side. “Oh, you beast, again.”
She came audibly five distinct times, each crest a shuddering, vocal release that echoed in the small room—sharp cries, guttural moans, a whispered chant of his name. Only then, feeling her clamped around him in a final, prolonged vice of pleasure, did he allow his own end to approach.
He plunged into her one last time, burying himself as deeply as her body would allow, and released. He filled her, deep and full, a hot, claiming rush that made her whimper as her overstimulated nerves sparked anew. He collapsed slightly, his weight settling on his forearms, his face buried in the crook of her neck as he pulsed inside her.
For a long minute, there was only the sound of their ragged breathing mingling in the dark. Then, slowly, her hand came to rest on her own lower belly, rubbing gently in a small, circular motion where his seed lay deep within her. A contented, utterly spent sigh whispered from her lips.
He rolled to the side, gathering her against him, her back to his chest. The restless energy was gone, bled away into the quiet dark. The castle silence felt like peace now, not absence. Her hand stayed resting on her stomach, and within minutes, her breathing evened out into the soft, regular pattern of true sleep.
Kerr stared at the shadows dancing on the low ceiling, the ghost of rosewater finally, fully banished by the scent of wool, herbs, and home.