Chapter 24: Morning After
Daylen woke to the deep, granular ache of spent muscles and the sharp, pleasant sting of scratches across his back. The smell of cold ash and old blood was gone, replaced by the familiar, wild scent of herbs and ozone that clung to Morrigan’s skin. Her head was on his chest, a curtain of dark hair fanned out, her breathing slow and deep. One of her legs was thrown over his, possessive even in sleep.
Last night had been a different kind of battle. After the speeches, after the weak ale and the hollow cheers, after they’d stumbled into this borrowed room above the tavern, the silence had been too loud. It was filled with the echoes of moans and the crackle of burning flesh. He’d reached for her, not with lust, but with a need to feel something real, something aggressively, triumphantly alive.
She’d understood. There had been no sharp words, no cynical remarks. Just a silent, fierce meeting of bodies. It was teeth and nails and desperate, driving rhythm. A physical scream against the death they’d waded through. He remembered the feel of her thighs locking around his hips, the raw sound she made muffled against his shoulder, the way her back arched off the straw mattress as she came the first time, then the second, her magic flickering around them like heat lightning. It had been punishing and perfect, a mutual claiming that left them both sweat-slicked and shattered, her consciousness finally slipping away in his arms as a fourth, shuddering climax rolled through her.
Now, in the grey morning light, the urgency was gone. The soreness remained. He carefully extricated his arm, which had gone numb under her. She muttered something indistinct, a frown touching her lips before she burrowed deeper into the thin blanket.
He sat on the edge of the bed, his body protesting every movement. Bruises bloomed across his ribs where a skeleton’s shield had caught him. His mana wells felt shallow, scoured clean. He was a collection of hurts, but beneath it thrummed a low, steady current of satisfaction. They’d held the line. People who would have spat at him a week ago had clasped his arm like a brother.
Morrigan stirred behind him. He felt her gaze before he turned. Her gold eyes were awake, watching him, unreadable.
“You are thinking too loudly,” she said, her voice sleep-roughened.
“Just cataloging the damages.”
“A futile exercise. The body keeps its own tally.” She sat up, the blanket pooling around her waist. The scratches he’d left on her pale shoulders were already fading, her innate magic speeding the healing. She studied his bare back in the dim light. “You will have scars from last night. The deeper ones, at least.”
“Part of the uniform,” he said, standing with a wince. He found his trousers and began pulling them on.
“The mage who is also a pincushion. A novel look.” She rose, stretching with a feline grace that made his sore muscles ache with a different kind of memory. She dressed quickly, efficiently, her earlier vulnerability sealed away behind a wall of sharp angles and dark leather. “The venerable Bann awaits his parade, does he not? Best not to keep the nobility waiting while they perform their gratitude.”
The square was transformed. The bodies were gone, hauled away in the night. The blood had been scrubbed or covered with fresh straw. Children darted between the legs of carpenters already repairing the main gate. The smell of baking bread had overpowered the lingering stench of death. It was a pantomime of normalcy, hastily assembled.
Alistair found them near the chantry steps. He looked tired, but clean, having obviously commandeered a bucket and soap somewhere. “There you are. I was starting to think a particularly aggressive corpse had dragged you off. Or, you know. Something else.”
Daylen ignored the implication. “What’s the word?”
“The word is ‘parade.’ A small one. More of a solemn walk, really. With pomposity.” Alistair nodded towards the gathering crowd. Survivors, militia, merchants—all filtering into the square. Their faces were a mix of exhaustion, relief, and a dawning anxiety about what came next. “Teagan wants to say something. Hopefully it’s ‘thank you’ and ‘here’s a chest of gold.’ I’d settle for just the gold.”
Morrigan’s lip curled. “He will say what men in his position always say. That courage prevailed. That the Maker watched over us. That the difficult work is still to come. It is a script.”
They moved to the edges of the crowd as Bann Teagan emerged from the chantry. He looked older than he had the day before, the lines on his face etched deeper by worry and lack of sleep. He climbed onto a overturned crate, a makeshift podium.
A hush fell, brittle and expectant.
“People of Redcliffe!” Teagan’s voice, usually so smooth and diplomatic, was gravelly with fatigue. It carried nonetheless. “Last night, darkness tested our walls. It tested our hearts. And you stood firm.”
A soft murmur of agreement rippled through the crowd.
“Because of your bravery, and because of the extraordinary efforts of our… guests,” he said, with a nod towards Daylen’s group, “the village stands. Our homes are safe. Our children sleep without fear of the night.” He paused, letting the weight of that statement settle. “I have just come from the castle. The news there is… complex. But the first, most important news is this: everyone within the castle walls survived the night.”
A genuine cheer went up this time, louder than the ragged one from the previous evening. Shoulders sagged in relief. Families hugged.
Families hugged. The tension in the square loosened, a collective exhale that made the air itself feel lighter. Teagan stepped down, immediately surrounded by a cluster of villagers with questions he clearly wasn't ready to answer.
Alistair nudged Daylen. “See? ‘Complex.’ Politician-speak for ‘a giant bloody mess we’re not dealing with right now.’” He stretched, wincing. “I don’t know about you, but my entire body is arguing with me. Loudly. I require bacon. A lot of it.”
The mention of food was a trigger. Daylen’s stomach cramped, a hollow reminder they’d fought all night on empty tanks. The idea of hardtack from his pack was suddenly depressing. “The tavern,” he said. “They might have something actual.”
Morrigan fell in beside them as they peeled away from the dispersing crowd. “Indeed. Sustenance is required before whatever ‘complex’ situation the Bann alluded to consumes the remainder of the day.” Her expression was unreadable, but her pace was purposeful.
The tavern, The Spoiled Princess, was quieter than the square. The morning light cut through the dusty air, illuminating motes of straw and the lingering smell of spilled ale and old smoke. A few patrons sat hunched over bowls, their conversations low and shell-shocked.
Bella was behind the bar, arranging tankards. She moved with a deliberate carefulness, a slight stiffness in her posture. The wild, flushed woman from two nights before was gone, replaced by someone piecing herself back together. She looked up as they entered, her eyes finding Daylen first, then flicking to Morrigan.
A faint, knowing smile touched Morrigan’s lips. It wasn't mockery. It was recognition.
They found a table in the corner, its wood scarred and sticky. Alistair all but collapsed onto a bench, sighing as he leaned his back against the wall. “Andraste’s knickers, that feels better. I might fuse to this spot.”
Daylen sat opposite, the simple act of bending his knees a minor ordeal. Every bruise announced itself. Morrigan took the remaining seat, her movements still fluid, though she favored her scratched shoulder slightly.
Bella approached, a ledger in her hands. Her usual boldness was tempered by a deep weariness around her eyes. “Survivors’ breakfast is porridge, day-old bread, and what’s left of the sausage,” she said, her voice a little rough. “Ale’s warm. Water’s from the well.”
“All of it,” Alistair said, resting his head on the wall behind him. “Just bring a cauldron of the porridge. I’m not moving.”
Bella nodded, making a note. Her eyes drifted to Morrigan, then away quickly, a faint blush rising on her neck.
“How are your legs today, Bella?” Morrigan asked, her tone conversational, almost gentle.
Bella stopped writing. She looked at Morrigan fully now, a complex dance of embarrassment, pride, and shared secret in her gaze. She swallowed. “They’re… present. They remember their instructions.”
A soft, genuine laugh escaped Morrigan. It was a rare sound, low and private. “They would. The body keeps a particularly vivid ledger of such lessons.” She leaned forward slightly, her voice dropping though Alistair was already half-dozing. “The soreness fades. The memory does not. It becomes a strength.”
Bella held her gaze for a long moment, the blush deepening but a new steadiness coming into her stance. She gave a single, firm nod. “I’ll get your food.”
As she walked back toward the kitchen, the stiffness in her gait was unmistakable. Alistair cracked one eye open. “What was that about? ‘Instructions?’”
“A private matter,” Morrigan said smoothly, watching Bella go. “Pertaining to resilience.”
Daylen said nothing, sipping the lukewarm water Bella had brought over. The exchange had been a quiet knot of intimacy in the battered tavern. It acknowledged the other, brutal fight they’d waged upstairs—a fight for feeling, for oblivion, for life. Bella had been a fellow soldier in that. Morrigan was simply checking on a comrade.
The food arrived, simple and steaming. They ate in a silence that was comfortable, a mutual truce with their own fatigue. The porridge was bland, the sausage greasy, the bread tough. It was the best meal Daylen could remember.