The Quest for Dawn

Chapter 29: Homecoming

The voyage from Athkatla was an experience of mixed emotions, but the sheer joy of hearing Tavriel's voice once again eclipsed any lingering doubts. Gale and Shadowheart were utterly stunned, prying Tavriel and Astarion for an explanation, but the elves remained tight-lipped. When Astarion privately revealed to Gale that he had bartered the Dawnshard to the half-devil Raphael in exchange for Tavriel's voice, the wizard's shock and disbelief were understandable.

Astarion had held the relic in his hand and given it away. Though he was filled with a sense of pride knowing that—this time—it had been his choice to make. Even as the lingering melancholy refused to completely dissipate, he savored every word that fell from Tavriel's lips, and was visibly moved when she began to sing. In those moments, he understood, to the very depths of his soul, that he had made the right choice.

Shadowheart was taken aback that her elven companions had even brought such an artifact aboard their voyage. Their explanations remained somewhat obscured, but they insisted on having their reasons. To the cleric, retaining such a powerful object seemed like sheer folly. Yet, in a twist of fate, it had become Tavriel's salvation. Additionally, Astarion felt a sense of liberation from a portion of his torment. If the relic held the key to restoring his sight, knowing it was lost for the sake of his beloved was a heartfelt and poetic expression of his love for her; one that both companions deeply respected and admired.

When the carriage ride back to their manor had concluded, Tavriel was the first to step out, a necessary eschewing of social convention, and held out her hand for her beloved. As he reached for the frame, with his staff in one hand, she had to remember to tell him, "I have my hand out, my love."

His free hand reached out, and Tavriel took it, helping him to step down onto the path. "Thank you, my dear," he said lightly, "although, I am starting to think you enjoy this."

Tavriel gave him a smile that showed in her tone, reaching for the curls around his pointed ears. "Perhaps, but only because holding your hand gives me pleasure."

Astarion smiled at the feel of her fingers in his hair, the lids of his eyes lowering. "As much pleasure as your hands in my curls, darling?"

"Oh, no, never as much pleasure as that. Your curls are my favorite."

He closed his eyes and hummed in contentment at her touch, until the unloading of their travel chest from the carriage jolted him from his reverie. With a sigh, he adjusted his grip on his staff, his hand still intertwined with Tavriel's, and reluctantly straightened, bracing himself to re-enter the home they had been away from for the past month.

"Well," he said with a sigh, "I suppose we'd better get on, then? I—" he let out a small, somewhat sheepish laugh, "I'm afraid you'll have to lead me to the stairs, my love. It's...been a while."

"I suppose it has," Tav agreed softly, gently shifting his hand to her arm to hold. Without having to say a word, she began to step forward toward the stairs, where the end of his staff found the first step. Together, they climbed, and were welcomed by their affable young footman, Renthil.

After a nearly a month's absence from Ancunín manor, their return was marked by a period of readjustment. With the Dawnshard now gone, a significant weight had been lifted, though it was bittersweet. Astarion found himself no longer burdened by the weight of hope, yet it felt as though he had regressed to a time when his affliction was still fresh. The landmarks along the wainscoting of their home had to be traced and learned anew. The steps across the ballroom had to be recounted meticulously. The placement of the furniture, the edges of the rug, the distance of the stairway banister to the wall; all of these had to be slowly relearned.

Despite this, Astarion found comfort in the familiar surroundings, the scent of old wood and polished stone, the warmth of the hearth. And most especially, the subtly hummed songs from Tavriel's voice. When he found himself at odds in the corridors upstairs, the soft songs and words from his beloved would drift from somewhere down the way. He would smile softly and press ahead.