Chapter 15: Wine and Whispers
The heavy oak door of the chamber whispered shut behind her, sealing out the distant murmur of the tavern below. Morrigan stood silhouetted against the firelight, a bottle of dark glass cradled in one hand like a sacred artifact. The room smelled of cedar polish, of the lavender sachet left in a drawer, of the cold night air clinging to her wool cloak.
“You clean up adequately,” she said, her voice cutting through the quiet. She set the bottle on the low table beside the bed with a deliberate click. “For a man who sleeps in dirt.”
Daylen, seated by the hearth where he’d been methodically cleaning his longswords, looked up. The fire etched the lines of his shoulders, the sinews of his forearms. He’d washed the road from his skin, and his shaved head gleamed in the low light. “I had incentive. The barkeep said he’d charge extra for stains on the sheets.”
A faint, almost imperceptible smirk touched her lips. She unpinned her cloak, letting it drape over a chair. Beneath, she wore a simple linen tunic and dark breeches, clothes for travel, but on her they looked like a queen’s casual wear. Her movements were fluid, unhurried, as she fetched two goblets from a sideboard. The pop of the cork was loud in the stillness.
“Orlesian,” she said, pouring a blood-dark wine. “Pinched from a particularly obnoxious chevalier who thought waving his coin purse was an invitation.”
“He invited theft,” Daylen said, setting a cleaned blade aside.
“Precisely.” She handed him a glass. Their fingers brushed. A current, simple and electric, passed between them. It was more than attraction. It was a recognition of coiled power held in check, a silent acknowledgment of the violence simmering under their skins, carefully sheathed for this moment.
He took the glass. She took the chair opposite, tucking her legs beneath her. For a minute, they just drank. The wine was rich, complex, tasting of black cherries and old wood and rebellion. It warmed a path down his throat, softening the residual edge from the confrontation downstairs.
“He would have soiled himself,” Morrigan said into the quiet, her eyes reflecting the flames. “That fool merchant. If you’d unleashed even a fraction of what you are. His kind fears magic because they understand force. They do not understand control. What you showed… that terrifies them more.”
“Control,” Daylen echoed, swirling the wine. “That’s the Circle’s first and last lesson. Control, precision, form. Every spell a structured verse. Every incantation a measured step.” He looked at her, at the wildness in her eyes that no polished Circle training could ever instill. “Your magic… it doesn’t walk the path. It tears through the undergrowth.”
She leaned back, a challenge in her posture. “And which is more honest, pray tell? Your pretty fires, shaped like candles or blades? Or the wildfire that consumes because it is its nature? You weave ropes of force to bind and push. I become the storm that scatters.”
It was an old debate between them, worn smooth like a river stone. He’d seen her shift, melt, reform into a wolf, a spider, a cloud of ravens. It was terrifying. It was beautiful. It broke every rule he’d been drilled to obey.
“Precision saves lives,” he said, not defensively, but stating a fact lived. “When a rage demon erupts, you need a wall of force exactly here,” he gestured with his free hand, “a cone of cold precisely there. Not a general unleashing of power that might freeze your own comrades.”
“A shapeless power is a wasted one,” she countered, her gaze intense. “My ‘unleashing’ is a choice, a becoming. When I am the bear, I do not worry about freezing allies. I am the weapon. Singular. Complete.”
He took another drink, letting the warmth spread. “And when you’re not? When you’re just Morrigan, with a goblet of stolen wine?”
Her expression softened, or seemed to, in the flickering light. “Then I am still complete. Just… differently arranged.” She studied him. “You speak of the Circle’s lessons. But you fight unlike any Circle mage I have ever seen or heard tale of. You wear steel like a second skin. You flow between sword and spell as if they are the same language. That… that is not a taught thing. That is something born in the blood.”
He was silent for a long moment, looking into the depths of his wine. The fire popped. “I was seven,” he said, his voice lower. “I lived in a shack in the Denerim alienage annex. Not even the alienage proper. The place for the unlucky and human poor. My mother… she tried. She laundered noblemen’s smalls until her hands bled. One day, I was being chased by bigger boys. They wanted the half-loaf I’d stolen. I was cornered. Terrified. And then… I wasn’t. I was angry. A crate beside me just… shattered. Into a thousand splinters. Sent them running, screaming ‘demon’.”
Morrigan didn’t move, her whole being focused on him.
“The Templars came within the hour. Polite. Grim. They gave my mother two silver sovereigns. She cried. She held me so tight I couldn’t breathe. Then they took me. The Circle was… clean. So clean. The air didn’t smell of piss and rot. It smelled of stone and lyrium and fear. They taught control because the alternative was being made tranquil. Or being made dead.” He looked up, met her eyes. “So I learned. I learned every verse, every step. I learned to make my power small, neat, acceptable. And then I learned to strap plate armor over my robes, to channel that neat power through a blade, to make my own body the acceptable weapon. Because even controlled, they still feared me. So I gave them something else to see. The warrior. It was… another kind of cage. But one with a longer leash.”
The room was quiet save for the crackle of the fire. Morrigan took a slow sip of her wine, her eyes never leaving his face.
“My cage was the Wilds,” she said finally, her tone matter-of-fact, yet her knuckles were pale on the goblet. “My teacher, my mother. Flemeth. You have met her. There were no verses. No steps. There was survival. A spell to purify water was less important than knowing which berries would kill you. Shapeshifting was not an academic pursuit. It was how you hunted, how you hid, how you escaped the things that hunted you. Magic was… the flavor of a leaf, the scent of a coming storm, the sharpness of a claw. It was not separate from life. It was life, raw and demanding. She taught me to be powerful. To rely on no one. To trust nothing but my own strength.” A bitter twist touched her lips. “Love was a vulnerability. Compassion, a death sentence. The great sin was to need.”
Daylen thought of the Morrigan who had healed a wounded hart they’d found, her touch surprisingly gentle. Of the Morrigan who shared her rations with a starving child on the road, then claimed it was to avoid the child’s irritating whimpers. “And do you? Need?”
Her gaze was unwavering, fathomless. “I am here, am I not?”
The air between them thickened, charged with more than just magical potential. The shared histories, the contrasting scars, lay bare between the chairs. He set his goblet down on the low table, next to the silver locket he’d found earlier. Its chain was a tangled silver snake.
Morrigan’s eyes flicked to it. “A sentimental trophy?”
“Left by the last guest, I suppose. It’s empty.” He didn’t touch it.
“As most lockets are,” she said, and finished her wine. She stood, a slow unfurling, and placed her empty glass beside his. She didn’t move away. She looked down at him, the firelight casting her face in shadow and gold. “Your control is formidable, Daylen Amell. Your precision… admirable.”
He stood to meet her, rising into her space. He could smell the wine on her breath, the faint, wild scent of damp earth and herbs that always clung to her. “And your wildfire?”
Her hand came up, not to push him away, but to lay flat against the center of his chest, over his heart. He could feel the heat of her palm through the linen of his shirt. “What does your precision tell you to do now?” she asked, her voice a low hum.
His hands found her hips, pulling her closer until their bodies aligned. She was all firm muscle and lean curves. “It tells me,” he said, his mouth inches from hers, “that sometimes the most precise thing… is to let go.”
The kiss was not gentle. It was a claiming, a collision. It tasted of Orlesian wine and decades of loneliness and a mutual, furious hunger. Her fingers tangled in the fabric of his shirt, pulling him tighter. His hands roamed her back, mapping the strength there.
When they broke apart, breathing ragged, she traced the line of his jaw with a fingertip. “The leash is off, then,” she whispered, a dark promise in her eyes.
He answered by lifting her, an effortless flex of his shoulders and back. She made a sound of surprise that melted into a low laugh against his neck. He carried her the few steps to the bed, its covers turned down, a sanctuary of soft linen in a world of hard ground.
He laid her down and followed, the frame groaning under their combined weight. There was no more talk of magic, of pasts, of cages. There was only the language of touch, of skin, of breath hitching in throats.
Her clothes fell away under his insistent hands, his under her clever ones. The firelight danced over the pale landscape of her body, over the scars he’d never asked about, over the powerful lines of her legs, the curve of her waist. He was above her, then, his own body a testament to a different kind of training—the hard muscle of a warrior layered over the lean frame of a mage.
She reached between them, her hand wrapping around him, guiding him to her entrance. Her eyes, wide and dark, held his. There was no vulnerability there, only a fierce, open want. “No control,” she commanded, her voice rough.
He obeyed.
He pushed into her, and it was like surrendering to a riptide. Her back arched, a sharp gasp torn from her lips. She was tight, impossibly so, and hot, and she took all of him with a desperate, yielding force. For a moment, he was still, buried to the hilt, feeling her pulse around him, watching the shock of sensation transform her face.
Then she moved, a roll of her hips that shattered his composure.
What followed was not love-making. It was a contest, a celebration, a punishment. It was the wildfire meeting the structured blaze. She matched him thrust for thrust, her nails scoring his back, her teeth finding the cord of his neck. He pinned her hands above her head once, and she snarled and twisted free with a shape-shifter’s unnatural strength, flipping them over until she straddled him, riding him with a savage, rolling rhythm that made him see stars.
She came the first time with a choked cry, her body clenching around him like a fist, her head thrown back. The second time was quieter, a series of shuddering tremors as he drove up into her, his hands gripping her hips hard enough to bruise. The third time, she collapsed forward against his chest, her breath hot and ragged against his skin, as he changed their angle and pace, finding a spot that made her whimper, her composure utterly gone.
After the third, she was pliant, boneless almost, her fierce energy spent. He rolled her onto her back again, slowing now, drawing it out. He watched her face, the flutter of her eyelids, the parted lips. He kissed her, deeply, swallowing her moans.
The fourth climax took her silently. Her eyes flew open, wide and unseeing, staring past him at some invisible point. Her body bowed off the bed, rigid, a silent scream locked in her throat. It held for an eternal second before she crashed back down, a wave of tremors wracking her from head to toe. A single tear traced a path through the sweat on her temple.
He followed her over that edge, his own release pulled from him by the sheer, overwhelming intensity of her surrender. He collapsed beside her, the world reduced to the drumbeat of his heart and the frantic gasp of their shared breath.
Minutes bled into the quiet. The fire burned lower. She was the first to move, turning onto her side to face him. Her eyes were clear now, lucid, but softer than he had ever seen them. She traced a lazy pattern on his damp chest.
“Four,” she said, her voice hoarse.
“I counted,” he replied, his own voice raw.
A ghost of her old smirk returned. “Such precision.”
He laughed, a short, breathless sound, and pulled her against him. She came willingly, her head fitting into the hollow of his shoulder. Her breathing evened out, deepened. The fierce tension that was her constant companion had finally, truly, unknotted.
He thought she was asleep when her voice came, muffled against his skin. “Your Circle would call this abomination.”
“They’re not here.”
“Hmm.” She was silent for so long he thought the conversation was over. Then, sleep thick in her voice, she whispered, “The leash is off, Daylen. Do not let them put it back on.”
Her breathing slowed, fell into the rhythm of true sleep. He lay there, her weight warm against him, the scent of their lovemaking and lavender and cedar filling the room. Outside, the world was cold and dark, full of Templars and darkspawn and merchants who saw him as a monster. Here, for now, in this borrowed room, with this complicated, wild woman trustingly asleep in his arms, he was just a man. One who had, for a moment, let go entirely.
He watched the shadows from the dying fire dance on the ceiling, and wondered if a leash, once truly off, could ever be borne again.
He watched the shadows from the dying fire dance on the ceiling, and wondered if a leash, once truly off, could ever be borne again. That thought followed him down into a heavy, dreamless sleep where the only sensation was the warm solidity of her body along his.
A blade of pale grey light sliced through a gap in the velvet drapes, landing directly across his eyes. He stirred. The warmth beside him was still there. Morrigan lay on her stomach, one arm flung over his chest, her face buried in the pillow. In sleep, the sharp, guarded angles of her expression smoothed into something younger. Vulnerable.
He watched her breathe, the slow rise and fall of her back, and didn’t move. Last night felt both impossibly vivid and distant, a storm that had passed through, leaving a strange, charged calm in its wake. The scent of their sweat and sex lingered in the sheets.
Her breathing changed. A slight hitch, then a deeper inhale. Her eyes opened, finding his immediately. No drowsy confusion. Just a swift, lucid assessment, as if she’d been awake the whole time. The vulnerability vanished, tucked away behind that familiar, cool gaze. But it didn’t feel like a wall now. It felt like a choice.
“You are staring,” she said, her voice morning-rough.
“You’re in my light.”
She made a soft hmph sound and closed her eyes again, but didn’t move her arm. For a few minutes, they just lay there in the silence of the inn, listening to the muffled sounds of the kitchen below awakening, the clatter of pots, a servant’s distant cough.
“This changes nothing,” she said finally, the words directed at the pillow. “Outside this room. The Warden’s duty remains. The blight festers.”
“I know.”
“Nor does it imply… attachment.” She opened her eyes again, turning her head to look at him fully. “It was an experience. A mutually agreeable diversion from impending doom. We are free to continue it as we wish, or not. The choice is entirely yours.”
He studied her face, the careful neutrality she’d plastered over it. It was the same speech she gave in the forest, a lifetime ago. Then, it had felt like a dismissal. Now, he heard the quiet thread of uncertainty she’d never admit to, the offering she camouflaged as indifference.
A smile touched his lips. Not a broad one. A small, private thing. He shifted onto his side to face her. “I can live with that.”
Her eyes searched his for a moment, looking for pity, for grand declarations. Finding neither, some of the tension left her shoulders. “Good.” She sat up in one fluid motion, the sheets pooling around her waist, her back to him. The fire had burned to ash. The room was chill. “Dawn approaches. The Tower awaits its prodigal mage, likely with drawn swords and fresh Templar vomit.”
“Your optimism is a beacon,” he said, throwing the covers back and swinging his legs out. The cold air bit his skin. He stood, stretching, feeling the pleasant ache in his muscles, the faint scratches on his back.
They dressed in silence, a comfortable, efficient quiet. He buckled his armored tunic; she laced her tunic and cloak. The intimate space of the night reverted to a practical staging ground. The empty wine bottle, the two goblets, the lonely silver locket on the table were the only witnesses.
He slipped the locket into his pack. A pointless token, but it felt like leaving a piece of the quiet behind was a mistake.
A fist hammered on the door, sudden and brutish. “Daylen! You alive in there? Or did the witch finally smother you in your sleep?” Alistair’s voice, cheerful and far too loud for the hour, boomed through the oak.
Morrigan’s expression curdled into magnificent disdain. “The other darkspawn beckons.”
Daylen opened the door. Alistair stood in the hallway, already in full plate, steaming mugs in both hands. He grinned, his eyes darting past Daylen to take in the room, the rumpled bed, Morrigan coolly adjusting her straps. “Ah. Good. You’re up. And not dead. I brought tea. Well, it’s hot water with a leaf someone sneezed on, but it’s warm.” He shoved a mug into Daylen’s hand.
“You’re disturbingly cheerful,” Daylen said, taking the mug.
“It’s the promise of a warm reception at the Tower. Nothing like a homecoming where everyone wants to kill you.” He peered past Daylen again. “Morning, Morrigan. You look… well-rested.”
She ignored him, walking past them both into the hall. “The bog where I was raised housed toads with more nuanced conversation. We depart within the quarter-hour. Rouse the others.”
Alistair watched her go, then leaned in, his voice dropping to a stage whisper. “So? Four times?”
Daylen took a sip of the terrible, weak tea. It was, at least, warm. He said nothing, just raised an eyebrow.
Alistair’s grin widened. “I’ll take that as a yes. Maker’s breath, no wonder you look half-dead. Worth it, though?”
Downstairs, the common room was empty save for a yawning scullery maid sweeping the hearth. Leliana was already at a table, meticulously checking each fletching on her new arrows. Sten stood by the door like a displeased statue, his massive arms crossed.
They gathered their packs, settled their bill with the sleepy barkeep who avoided Daylen’s eyes entirely, and stepped out into the damp, grey predawn.
The road south to Lake Calenhad was a misty ribbon of churned mud and gravel. The air smelled of cold water and pine. They walked in their usual order: Sten a solid bulwark in front, then Alistair and Daylen, with Leliana and Morrigan trailing, though Morrigan kept a deliberate distance from the bard’s cheerful attempts at a walking song.
“Do you think they’ll even let us in?” Alistair asked after an hour, the crunch of their boots the only sound for a long while. “The barkeep said locked down. Templars are notoriously twitchy about unexplained phenomena. And mages returning from the dead with a small army qualifies.”
“We are Wardens,” Daylen said. “That grants some right.”
“Some. Not much. Especially since we’re also officially outlawed for regicide. It’s a layered problem.” Alistair sighed, his breath fogging. “I just miss the days when my biggest concern was whether the morning gruel had lumps.”
The landscape grew more familiar to Daylen with each step. That bent pine marked a turn where apprentices would sneak out to try and catch fish. The overgrown cairn of stones was a marker for a forgotten footpath. A tightness began to coil in his chest, separate from the Calling’s drone. It was the anticipation of walking back into a place that was, and was not, home.
The mist began to burn away as the sun finally crested the hills. It revealed the vast, glacial blue expanse of Lake Calenhad ahead, and at its heart, rising from the water on a monolithic slab of rock, the Circle Tower.
It stood silent and imposing against the brightening sky. No boats moved on the water. No lights flickered in its high windows. From this distance, it looked less like a haven of learning and more like a fortress holding its breath.
Morrigan came up beside him, following his gaze. “The seat of your learned control.” Her tone was neutral, observational.
“It was,” he said.
“And now?”
He thought of the firelight on her skin, the feeling of a leash discarded on a tavern floor, the raw, unscripted power of the night. He adjusted the weight of the longswords crossed on his back. “Now it’s a place we need to get into.”
“A pragmatic view.” She paused. “When they challenge you, when they try to box you back into their verses… remember the wildfire.”
He glanced at her. She wasn’t looking at him, her profile sharp against the cold lake light. It wasn’t affection. It was a strategic reminder. From her, it meant the same thing.
“I remember,” he said.
Alistair clanked up to his other side. “No welcoming committee. That’s either very good or very, very bad.”
“Assume bad,” Sten rumbled from ahead. “It simplifies things.”
Daylen took a last, deep breath of free air, tasting the pine and the lake. Then he started walking down the slope towards the silent dock, where a single, empty boat rocked gently on the cold, dark water.