Chapter 29: The Dark Bargain
The air in the Grey Warden tent was thick with the scent of aged parchment, cold iron, and the coppery tang of the darkspawn blood now sitting in a worn silver chalice on the rough-hewn table. Torchlight guttered, making the shadows of Duncan, Alistair, and the two other recruits—Daveth, a wiry poacher with nervous eyes, and Jory, a bullish knight from Redcliffe—dance like giants on the canvas walls.
Kerr’s own heart thumped a heavy, slow rhythm against his ribs. The vial from the Wilds felt like a lead weight in his pouch.
“This is the Joining,” Duncan’s voice was a low, solemn rumble, devoid of its usual undercurrent of command. Now, it was just fact. “The Grey Wardens drink a mixture of blood—darkspawn blood—and a few drops of the blood of an Archdemon. The joining grants us the power to sense the darkspawn, to fight them on their own terms. And it lets us slay the Archdemon, permanently.”
Jory shifted, his plate armor creaking. “And if we don’t drink?”
“Then you walk away. You return to your life, and you forget you ever heard of us.” Duncan’s gaze swept over them, lingering on each face. “But Ferelden needs Grey Wardens. Now.”
There was no choice. Not really. Kerr thought of Highever, of his father’s stern pride, his brother’s easy confidence. He thought of the black blood on his hands in the ruins, the way it had clung to his skin like a stain. Walking away felt like a betrayal of something deeper than an oath.
Daveth went first, his poacher’s bravado stripped away, leaving only a raw, young fear. He took the chalice, muttered something that sounded like a prayer, and drank. His swallow was audible. For a moment, nothing. Then his eyes went wide, his breath catching in a wet rasp. He clutched his throat, his body seizing in a violent, arching spasm. He collapsed to the dirt floor, twitched once, and was still. A thin trickle of black-tinged blood leaked from his nose.
The silence was absolute, broken only by the pop of the torch.
Jory took a step back, his hand going to his sword hilt. “What did you do to him?”
“The Joining claims many,” Duncan said, his voice flat. “It is the price.”
“You never said it would kill us!” Jory’s voice rose, edged with panic. “I have a wife! A child on the way! This is madness!” He drew his blade, the steel ringing in the confined space. “I will not die here for your secrets!”
Alistair moved, but Duncan was faster. In a blur of grey leather and sudden, shocking motion, Duncan’s dagger flashed. Jory gasped, looking down at the hilt now protruding from a seam in his armor, just below his ribs. He coughed, a bubble of red forming on his lips, and slumped to his knees, then onto his side. His eyes, wide with shock and betrayal, stared at nothing.
Kerr stood frozen, the cold reality slamming into him. This wasn’t a knightly oath, a toast of fealty. This was a butcher’s ritual, a gamble with death as the table stakes. The smell of fresh blood, human blood, now mixed with the darkspawn stench.
Duncan wiped his blade clean, his expression unreadable. He lifted the chalice again and offered it to Kerr. His eyes held no apology, only a grim necessity. “Your turn, Kerr Cousland.”
Kerr’s fingers were numb as he took the heavy cup. The mixture inside was dark, viscous, swirled with unnatural colors. It smelled of the deepest Wilds, of crushed beetles and rotting lyrium. He thought of Daveth’s final convulsion, of Jory’s desperate, dying breath. He looked at Alistair, who gave a minute, tense nod.
He raised the chalice to his lips. The liquid was warm, thick. It coated his tongue, his throat, with a taste like burnt meat and sour wine. He forced it down.
The fire started in his gut. It wasn’t a metaphor. It was a real, chemical blaze that shot through his veins, igniting every nerve. His vision whited out. A piercing shriek filled his ears—his own? He felt his body go rigid, then thrash uncontrollably. The world tilted, dissolved into a kaleidoscope of jarring, painful images: darkspawn hordes under a green sky, a dragon with scales of shadow, a castle crumbling into the sea. Agony spiderwebbed through his skull. He felt a hot wetness on his upper lip. Blood.
Then, nothing.
Consciousness returned in fragments. The smell of clean linen and elfroot. The gentle, golden glow of healing magic, a soft hum against his skin. A cool cloth on his forehead.
He was lying on a low cot in a different tent, smaller, orderly. Shelves held dried herbs and clay pots. The air smelled of mint and warm earth.
A woman’s face swam into view. Older, with lines of wisdom and kindness etched around her eyes and mouth, her hair a shock of white pulled back in a practical braid. Her hands, glowing with a soft blue light, were pressed gently against his bare chest.
“Ah, you’re back with us,” she said, her voice calm and melodic. “I was beginning to wonder if you planned on sleeping through the entire Blight.”
Kerr tried to speak, but his throat was a desert. He coughed, and a bolt of pain lanced through his side. He looked down. A nasty, purpling wound marred his ribs, a deep gash he didn’t remember receiving. It was clean now, the edges knit together by silvery magic, but still angry.
“The Wilds gave you a parting gift,” the woman said, following his gaze. “A genlock claw, most likely. You were running on so much adrenaline you didn’t even feel it. It was festering. I’ve drawn out the infection.” Her magic receded, and she reached for a jar of salve. “I am Wynne, a mage of the Circle, assigned to the King’s camp.”
“Kerr,” he managed, his voice rough. “I’d bow, but I think I’d fall over.”
A faint smile touched her lips. “Save your strength, Grey Warden.” She began applying the salve, her touch firm but professional. “Your body has been through an ordeal. The Joining is a potent kind of poisoning. Your system is purging the worst of it.”
He watched her work, her fingers deft and sure. “That salve… elfroot base, obviously. But there’s spindleweed in there. For the pain. And a hint of embrium. To stimulate healing, not just magic it shut.”
Wynne paused, her eyes flicking up to meet his with genuine surprise. “You’re knowledgeable.”
“My family’s herbalist, Elspeth. She believed a lord should know where his medicine comes from. Made me learn every plant from the Frostbacks to the Waking Sea.” He winced as her fingers probed a tender spot. “She also said spindleweed should be mixed with honey to avoid skin irritation. Your recipe is better.”
“Flattery and botanical critique,” Wynne said, a warmer light entering her eyes. She continued her work, her hands moving across the hard plane of his stomach, down towards his hip bone. “A rare combination in a patient. Most just grunt or complain.”
“I’m full of rare combinations,” Kerr said, regaining a sliver of his usual demeanor despite the pain. “Lordly manners, gutter-fighting skills, and now an encyclopedic knowledge of poultices.”
Her hands were on him, cool and capable, smoothing the salve over his skin. The professional detachment was there, but so was a tactile, human warmth. He was intensely aware of his own near-nakedness, the blanket pooled around his waist, the play of the lantern light on the muscles of his chest and abdomen. The herbal scent of her, the focused curve of her neck as she worked.
And despite the pain, the exhaustion, the traumatic memory of the Joining, a familiar heat began to stir low in his belly. A purely physical response to the proximity of a beautiful woman, to the gentle authority of her touch. He felt a thickening, a heaviness between his legs under the thin blanket. He shifted slightly, a flush of embarrassment creeping up his neck.
Wynne’s hands stilled for a fraction of a second. Her gaze, which had been fixed on the wound, flicked down and then quickly back up. A faint, almost imperceptible pink tinged her cheeks. She did not pull away. Instead, she cleared her throat softly.
“The, ah, muscle tension here is considerable,” she said, her voice still calm, but a note lower. Her fingers pressed a point just above his hip, where tension indeed coiled. “The body holds trauma. You must learn to relax, or you’ll tear my hard work open.”
“Relaxing isn’t my strong suit,” Kerr breathed, his eyes locked on hers. The moment stretched, charged with something unspoken. He saw not reproach in her look, but a seasoned acknowledgment, a faint, shared amusement at the stubbornness of the male body.
The silence in the tent became its own distinct presence, thick and tangible. The distant camp sounds—shouts, the clang of a smith’s hammer—were muffled beneath it. His reaction was a clear, defined ridge pressing against the worn linen sheet draped over his hips. It was impossible to ignore. She’d felt him stir, and now she’d seen the unambiguous outline.
Wynne’s gaze held for a heartbeat longer than necessary. Then she looked away, a soft, warm blush spreading from her neck to her hairline. She busied herself with recapping the salve jar, her movements precise.
Kerr let out a slow breath. “I am flattered it caught your attention.”
She gave a light, dismissive laugh, still not meeting his eyes. “You shouldn’t be. The residual magic from the healing can sometimes cause unexpected… physical sensations. At my age, one has seen everything, young man. Don’t trouble yourself.”
He scoffed, the sound rough in his healing throat. He propped himself up on an elbow, wincing at the pull in his side, but his gaze was unwavering. “Age is just a tally of years, not a barrier. I could close my eyes right now and recite every curve of you, from the line of your shoulder here,” he said, his voice dropping, a low and certain murmur, “to the secret places that would make you gasp. I’d paint a map of you from memory, with just my tongue, and I wouldn’t get lost once.”
Wynne froze. The jar in her hand clicked softly against the wooden shelf. Her blush deepened, but this time it wasn’t one of simple embarrassment. It was a wave of something hotter, a stunned stillness as his words landed not as practiced flirtation, but as a genuine, stark declaration. He sounded absolutely sure. It was more than a jest, it was a confident offering, waiting only for her acceptance or refusal.
She finally turned her head back to look at him, her composure cracked, her eyes wide with a mix of shock, disbelief, and a thrill she hadn’t felt in years. He held that gaze, his own intense and open.
A slow, knowing smile touched his lips, a shadow of his usual mischief returning to him. “Since the cat’s already out of the bag,” he said, his voice conversational, casual even. “Would you like a proper look?”
Wynne’s mouth opened slightly, but no sound came out. She swallowed.
She swallowed, the sound dry in the quiet tent. Her eyes, sharp and intelligent, held his. The blush hadn't faded; it had settled into a warm, living flame on her skin. She didn't look away. Instead, a slow, deliberate curiosity softened the surprise in her expression. The air between them crackled, thick with elfroot and unspoken want.
Kerr held her gaze, his own unwavering. Then, with a careful slowness that belied the pounding in his ribs, he shifted his weight on the cot. He used his free hand to gently grasp the thin blanket pooled at his waist. He didn't fling it aside. He drew it back, just enough.
The lantern light fell across him, illuminating the stark lines of his hips, the trail of dark hair leading down. His erection stood full and heavy against his stomach, a thick, flushed column of flesh that made her breath catch audibly. It was, as he’d implied, considerable. The girth was undeniable, the length impressive even in repose. The healing wound on his side was a stark, purple contrast to the warm tone of his skin.
Wynne didn’t gasp or recoil. She leaned in, her healer’s instinct and a far more primal interest merging into one focused action. Her movements were voluntary, considered. He watched, his heart hammering against his sternum, as she bent closer. The clean, herbal scent of her hair filled his senses. Her eyes, now inches away, studied him with an analytical hunger that made his skin prickle.
He released the blanket. His hand, instead of retreating, came up to cradle the side of her head. His touch was not forceful, but an invitation, a guide. His fingers traced the elegant line of her jaw, sliding into the soft, white hair at her temple.
He placed her head on the blanket, which she voluntarily moved to get a clean look at it. Her cheek met the worn linen beside his hip, her gaze level with him. From this angle, the sheer scale of him was even more apparent. She could see the intricate network of veins, the bead of moisture at the tip. Her breath, warm and shallow, ghosted over his skin. A soft, almost imperceptible sound escaped her—a low hum of pure, startled appreciation.
“See?” Kerr’s voice was rough, barely above a whisper. The ache in his side was a distant pulse compared to the throbbing focus of her attention. “No magic required. Just a reaction. To you.”
Wynne’s lips parted. She didn’t speak. Instead, she turned her head slightly, her nose brushing against his heated skin. She inhaled, as if taking his scent, learning him. Her eyes drifted closed for a second, a silent surrender to the sensation. When they opened, the professional mage was gone, replaced by a woman captivated. “It’s…” she began, her own voice husky.
“A lot,” he finished for her, a faint, tired smirk on his lips. “I’ve been told.”
She laughed then, a real, throaty sound that vibrated against him. “An understatement.” Her hand, which had been resting on the cot, rose. She hesitated, her fingers hovering just above his shaft. She looked up at his face, seeking permission, her eyes blazing with a want that mirrored his own.
Outside, the camp noises continued—a distant order shouted, the dull thud of a practice dummy being struck. Another world, where darkspawn blood and death waited. In here, there was only this breath, this heat, this suspended moment of shocking connection.
Kerr gave the smallest nod, his jaw tight. “It’s yours,” he murmured. “If you want it.”
Her fingers, cool from the salve jar, finally made contact. They traced his length from base to tip, a slow, measuring stroke that made his whole body tense. Her touch was clinical and worshipful all at once. She wrapped her hand around him, her fingers not quite meeting. A soft, incredulous shake of her head. “Maker’s breath.”
He watched her, mesmerized by the sight of her elegant, capable hand on him. The dying embers of the Joining, the ghost of Daveth’s convulsing body, the metallic memory of Jory’s blood—it all receded, burned away by this simpler, more urgent fire. He reached for her, his hand sliding from her temple to cradle the back of her neck.
He pulled her gently upwards, guiding her face to his. Their lips met, and it was nothing like the chaste, magical transfer of energy from before. This was hungry, a clash of teeth and heat and shared, desperate breath. She tasted of mint and ozone and something indefinably, wonderfully her.
He felt her other hand join the first, both working him now, exploring the heavy weight of him with a mix of reverence and strategic curiosity. Her kiss broke, trailing down his jaw to his throat. "This is," she gasped against his skin, her hands still moving, "a profoundly terrible idea."
"The best ones always are," he managed, his hips lifting slightly into her grasp. The wound in his side protested with a sharp twinge, which he ignored.
She sat back on her heels, looking down at him sprawled on the narrow cot. Her robes, practical linen and soft wool, were still perfectly fastened. Her hair was still perfectly braided. Only her eyes, dark and liquid, and the rapid rise and fall of her chest betrayed the current flowing between them. Her gaze held his, a silent, weightless conversation passing in the dim light.
The corner of her mouth quirked. "You are recovering from a lethal ritual and a septic wound."
"And yet, frustratingly alive," he breathed out, his smile lazy but his eyes intense. "Feeling has quite definitively returned. Mostly in one area. It's very distracting."
She laughed, a short, surprised puff of air. Her decision was made. There was no more hesitation. Wynne didn't disrobe with drama. Her movements were efficient, practical. She simply untied the woven belt at her waist. She pulled the outer robe over her head in one smooth motion, letting it fall in a soft heap on the earthen floor.
Beneath, she wore a simple linen shift, thin from countless washings. The lantern light revealed the contours of her body—the soft drape of her breasts, the curve of her hips, the strong line of her shoulders earned from a lifetime of study and casting. She was real, solid, breathtaking.
"I need to mind your side," she said, her voice low. She placed a warm hand flat against his abdomen, feeling the muscle tense beneath her palm. She hooked a finger into the edge of his smallclothes and drew them down, helping him free without letting his movements strain the healing gash.
Then she knelt over him, one knee on either side of his hips. The worn linen of her shift brushed against his thighs. She looked down at him, taking him in again, her expression one of focused appreciation and slight, audacious awe.
He reached up, his hands sliding beneath the shift to find the warm skin of her waist. "Don't you dare heal me right now," he murmured, his thumbs stroking the softness of her belly.
"I wouldn't dream of it," she whispered. "This requires full sensation."
She lifted herself, balancing. She took him in hand once more, guiding him. Then she lowered herself onto him slowly with a breathtaking grunt, adjusting to his size and girth.
It was a slow, inevitable descent, a tight, burning heat that surrounded him utterly. Her head fell back, the tendons in her neck standing out, her eyes squeezed shut. She was impossibly tight, and she took him inch by deliberate inch, her body trembling with the effort of accommodating him. The sound she made was raw, punched from her lungs, a mixture of strain and profound relief.
"Kerr," she breathed, his name a fractured thing. She settled fully, her weight a delicious pressure. She didn't move for a long moment, just sat there, impaled, breathing heavily, her inner muscles fluttering around him in a series of involuntary, gripping pulses.
He saw stars. His hands tightened on her hips, not to control, but to anchor himself against the sheer, overwhelming sensation. He was buried inside a Circle mage in a dusty healer's tent, and it was the most vividly, dangerously alive he'd felt since drinking from that damn chalice. The smell of their mingled sweat, the herbal salve, her unique scent filled the space.
Her eyes opened. They were dazed, but a sharp, playful intelligence quickly returned to them. She rocked her hips, a tiny, experimental movement.
"See?" he gritted out, his own breath hitching. "Versatility."
She began to move then, finding a rhythm that was all her own. It was not the frantic pace of youth, but a deep, rolling cadence that took him apart with devastating efficiency. Each rise and fall was measured, intensely felt. She used the muscles of her thighs and core with a warrior's control, driving him deeper with every drop of her hips.
The cot creaked a frantic, rhythmic complaint beneath them. A clay pot rattled on a nearby shelf. She braced her hands on his shoulders, her fingers digging in, her shift rucked up around her waist. The loose neckline slipped, and he leaned up, ignoring the fire in his side, to catch a peaked nipple in his mouth through the thin fabric. She cried out, her rhythm faltering, then becoming more urgent.
"Your side," she gasped, even as she ground down harder.
"Sod my side," he growled against her breast, the words muffled. The pain was there, a bright, syncopated counterpoint to the building pleasure, making everything sharper, more real.
He could feel the coiled tension in her growing, a gathering storm. Her breaths became short, sharp gasps that matched the slap of skin on skin. Her careful control began to fray at the edges. Her movements lost their measured depth, becoming quicker, more desperate. She was chasing it, using him to find her own release, and the honesty of that need pushed him closer to his own edge.
"Look at me," he demanded, his voice rough.
Her eyes, glazed with pleasure, found his. Held. In that look, he saw the wise mage, the healer, the woman who had seen centuries of folly and still chose this moment of beautiful, terrible judgment. It undid him.
He pulled her down into a final, deep kiss as his hips surged upwards off the cot, a last, straining thrust. He spilled into her with a ragged groan, the sensation so intense it bordered on pain. The convulsion of his release triggered hers. She shattered around him, her cry swallowed by his mouth, her body clenching in rhythmic, milking waves that seemed to pull the very soul from him.
She collapsed forward onto his chest, her full weight driving the air from his lungs, her face buried in the crook of his neck. Her hair, come loose from its braid, was a fragrant curtain around them. They lay like that, entwined, slick with sweat, breathing in chaotic unison.