The Quest for Dawn

Chapter 11: Poetry and Ritual

 The Elfsong Tavern became both a sanctuary and a prison as they waited for word from Gale about the Ritual. Shared tension stretched the next few days like slow drips in an hourglass. Astarion claimed a shadowed corner of their room during the day, cloaked in the natural darkness he now preferred. His hearing picked up every rustle of pages as Tav busied herself with books, each sound a painful reminder of the volumes he used to devour.

Tav found herself frequently glancing at her satchel. Every time she opened the wardrobe, her gaze would fall upon the leather pack she would carry on their adventures–where the Dawnshard lay hidden. It was a weight that seemed to grow heavier with each passing hour.

Music occasionally drifted up from the main hall below, Alfira's lilting voice a haunting polarity to the suffocating silence of their quarters. The first time it happened, Tav thought to invite Astarion to listen with her, but the words died on her lips. The melody that had once served as a prelude to their passion now seemed like it could be a requiem for their love.

In a moment of courage fueled by desperation, Tavriel picked up the slender book of elven poetry from the table. With a quivering voice, she began to read aloud:

"Aiya Faerûn, realm of my heart,
Where ancient magic and wonder impart.
From Silver Marches to Fallen Stars,
Your splendor and mystery shine afar."

She sensed Astarion's stiffening posture from across the room, but he made no move to stop her. She pressed on, her voice shaky but resolute.

"Aiya Faerûn, land of my dreams,
Where heroes rise and villains' schemes.
From forests of Cormanthyr deep and green,
To depths of Underdark where shadows convene."

She looked up to find him turned towards her, his unfocused gaze unable to meet hers. "Do you like that one? I–I could choose another to read, if you prefer..."

Astarion leaned his face into his hand, his expression curiously intent upon her. "Read the Lament of the High Elf."

Tav made a face he couldn't see, but her annoyed tone was clear. "Astarion, please–"

"Read it," he told her curtly. The command startled her. With the book still in her hands, she flipped the pages until she found the right passage.

Taking a deep breath, she began to read, "Oh, my beloved realm, so fair and bright, Now lost to darkness and eternal night–"

"In Elvish, if you please."

Tav bristled, looking at the passages in Common. A swirling Espruar text hovered beside them. She could technically read it, but her native language in written form was difficult, and she had not practiced it in her one-hundred-twenty years of life. Despite this, she took a breath, and made an attempt, "Aiya Elen... síla... lu-lumenn' omentielvo..."

Astarion waved his hand dismissively. "Stop, stop reading." He made a scoffing noise, and jeered, "Your accent is all wrong. Have you really never bothered learning to read your own elvish tongue?"

"I'm not formally educated, nor do I hail from the island of our kin. You know that, Astarion."

"Do I? I'm not sure I know that much about you, actually. Traveling, you said. Using your sorceress' wiles and siren's song for coin. Not much time for reading, then?" Tavriel swallowed the lump in her throat, fighting a frown. Astarion stood from his chair and fumbled around the bed, feeling his way towards her. He shifted his empty gaze as if addressing an invisible audience–reciting in flawless Elvish:

Aiya Elen síla lúmenn' omentielvo,
Nányë ve fírië, ar ilyë tier.
Aiya nístel anar síla calad,
Ar Elendil voronwë.