Chapter Text
When Morena Dekarios stormed out of the back rooms that day to put an end to the incessant ringing of the service bell by a cocky little apprentice demanding to be seen during the lunch break, she never would've expected the tall lad with the poorly disguised North Ward vowels would be the one she would end up choosing to spend her life with. As the bell’s chimes kept threatening to fall off and the boy continued calling out declaring he was expecting better service from a place as esteemed as Serpentil Books & Folios, she marched, glowing globes struggling to keep pace to light her way, apron strings flying behind her, over to the one desk Dwitt kept at the front of the store to handle customers, and put an end to the ringing herself.
All bravado and pretence at maturity and swagger vanished under the gaze of the teenage girl who never had to pretend. The presentable brown hair and beginnings of a beard did nothing to disguise his youth. The boy looked about her age, with at least a foot on her and the broad shoulders of someone who could afford food every day, but he shrank back in terror and mild intrigue when Morena’s hand landed on his. All puff and pomp about him deflated, and those sad green eyes met with a glare laced with a thousand threats.
“Yes,” she gritted through clenched teeth, “sir?”
The actual profanities and screams she’d wanted to say were left to hang thick in the air.
“I, um, I'm here to pick up an order, under Emvar Adarbrent.” The accent shone clearer under duress. He spoke with his free hand as if the words and gestures served as a shield. “We—See, Mr Adarbrent commissioned some nautical maps for the new shipping lines, and—”
“And you thought to ignore the many, many, signs posted that Mr Serpentil is busy with a client and we are at lunch at this hour.”
“I—I actually browse from the outside a lot,” he choked. “I always thought it was just him here.”
Morena stared at him. “You think Mr Serpentil himself handles inventory and stocking?”
He was apologetic after that.
After checking the Adarbrent bona fides and logging the claim, Morena would’ve been happy to just let him carry the maps back to Mariner’s Hall alone if he didn’t insist on dropping the protective tubes at every chance. When he offered her lunch the next day as an apology she was hardly going to be one to turn down a free meal, let alone something more substantial than the hardtack she managed to live off during her breaks at work. The instincts said nothing good could come of this, but the stomach only really had to hear the word food to have her agree. She had a knife, and she’d fought off worse, and judging by his clumsiness just holding some transport tubes he’d be an easy enough fight if it came down to it.
“Oh, and before you assume I’ve completely lost sight of the most basic of manners,” he said, “I'm Leo, by the way. Leo Dezlentyr—although, no, not those Dezlentyrs. Lesser branch. Cousins of the ones you're probably thinking of.”
She took another tube off him. “Morena Dekarios. Just Dekarios.”
It was the beginning of an odd friendship.
Leo talked the whole way over, letting his mind wander from tangent to tangent as they passed various sights and landmarks that sparked some association with random topics. It was all the air of a scatterbrained scholar rather than a recently made full employee working logistics and bookkeeping for the Adarbrents, and despite all instincts telling her to just smile and be invisible, he insisted on hearing what she thought and only grew more intrigued the more she spoke.
“I mean, surely you must be getting experience for the Font, no?” he mused. “It’s not everyone who can casually drop all those references to everything from music theory to mapmaking without so much as a quick glance to check the facts.”
“Rich words from a bookkeeper,” she said. “I’m sure you of all people know sages and clergy aren’t the only ones who can read.”
“No,” he said, nearly dropping a tube, “but not everyone who reads would actually thrive in academia. So where are you studying?” And before she could answer he immediately followed it up with, “And do you think we account enough for the possibility of distortion on maps of the Sea of Fallen Stars?”
She’d returned to a confused Dwitt asking why the sudden impulse to actually leave for lunch, only for him to get excited at the prospect of a date and encourage her to get out of the store more. It wasn’t a date, she kept insisting. The barely discreet highborn lad just felt bad for ruining her lunch break. But Dwitt just smiled and said to go, talk to people who aren’t the books.
She hadn’t the heart to correct him and say that the way this man talked about books, she might as well be talking to a library.
One lunch at The Red-Eyed Owl nearby was enough to have her admitting that it was nice, being able to relax for a bit with someone her age before it was back to the endless tasks of the store. She wasn’t, in fact, a scholar, like he’d assumed. She’d never even been to school. Her family traced roots back to Chessenta and Calimshan, but her own branch had lived in the Dock Ward for the past few generations now, taking jobs where they could to survive, just about every member looking for the first boat or caravan out of Waterdeep in the hopes of something better. Money occasionally trickled back home, but she was lucky to find work with Averick Serpentil at the age other children were learning to read, picking up skills until she was passed on to his son Dwitt when Averick retired. She may have grown up surrounded by the elite in the worlds of business and magic, but there was no path to the Font of Knowledge for her. There was barely even time for friendship, since she worked too often in the dark of the boarded up bookshop to be seen by many. Everything she knew she learnt from observation and experience, dealing with customers and having to read the books and become something of an honorary sage herself to better help Dwitt and the customers find what they needed.
She expected disappointment from this boy with the noble surname and the poorly disguised North Ward upbringing, the familiar wall of formality that the customers—so many wizards and merchants, and all so arrogant—erected once they realised what she was, but all Leo could do was stare at her with those huge green eyes like she was some sort of wonder, something to behold.
“You are amazing,” he said, and despite every guard she had up telling her that it was surely some sort of lie, it was hard to ignore the way he insisted on asking her questions, listening to every word.
They began meeting for more lunches, when they could. He would drop by the store until she showed him the way through the back where they accepted deliveries. They read together, secretly, when they were sure Dwitt was busy with a buyer or distracted with his wife and their attempts to conceive a new heir to the Serpentil legacy. There were nights when Leo would pass by on his way home nearby, asking her in the light of the bookshop’s protective glyphs if she’d like to have something quick at The Sleepy Sylph or The Friendly Flounder or watch a show at The Three Pearls before they called it a night. She’d walk home to Mistshore hours later, belly full and throat hoarse from the sheer amount of talking, letting herself pretend just for a while that there was no need for her knife as she walked Dock Street at hours she swore she’d never be caught walking Dock Street.
He confessed first. After about a year enjoying each other’s company it became hard to pretend they felt nothing other than friendship whenever their hands would reach for the same book or Leo’s usual habit of avoiding eye contact faltered and Morena caught the rare glimpse into those sad green eyes. He became her first kiss, and Morena was only too happy to let it be the first of many, and as the months went on she would begin to imagine a lifetime of kisses. There were letters, pages in his neat hand and the faint watermark of the Adarbrent Shipping Company, entire treatises about her intelligence, her long dark hair and regal nose, the sweet sunkissed amber of her skin against the harsh austerity of Waterdeep’s desolate winter, the way her smile could light up the night sky like an aurora to rival the stars. She spent hours at the shared kitchens in Mistshore, huddled in her makeshift blankets and the heat of the fire, viciously guarding her homemade hundur sauce as it bubbled away, waiting to be bottled just for him.
They married when they were barely twenty, and despite both of their families demanding they leave Waterdeep and make their fortune elsewhere, they remained in the Dock Ward. Over the years Morena had grown more valuable to Dwitt, essentially taking over when his wife gave birth to Jym and then occasionally running the store herself as Jym’s early growth needed both parents around to deal with illness or milestones, and her pay finally rose to reflect that. Leo had earned a supervisory role early and rose up the ranks to the point where they could actually call what they’d set aside a real fund. They found somewhere safer than Mistshore to live and they worked. They took what they earned and they saved. And one day, years later, Leo took her aside to explain that they’d finally amassed enough that they could buy their own place.
Morena had to remind herself to breathe before she asked him to repeat what he just said. A house. Actual property.
In Waterdeep.
Her not getting pregnant that night was nothing short of a miracle.
By then Jym had grown enough that he could potter along the maze of shelves at the store, watching and learning much like Morena had to, so many years ago. Dwitt needed some increase in revenue to provide for his ageing father and new family, leading to an increase in Morena’s hours to help meet the new sales targets. He was out more often to secure new acquisitions, or Morena would have to leave town to investigate rumours of a potentially rare book for the shop, which left Leo free to attend the open houses and chase leads on the housing front. The plan was to find somewhere just big enough for them and a couple of kids, maybe somewhere in the Southern Ward or Trades Ward not too far away from work, in a lovely neighbourhood with trees and families with children for their own to play with. Morena Dezlentyr would pack the map orders or check on the warding glyphs and let her mind wander, waiting for the word on an open house she could come to, imagining what beautiful little home their future family would soon call their own.
It was Fleetswake when Leo insisted they take a walk around Dock Street to take part in the festivities. He arrived at the store in his best clothes, as splendid as he could manage without worrying too much about getting robbed south of Snail Street. They ate too much seafood and drank too much ale, and despite the strict budget Leo had been on since their engagement he bought her a flower crown simply because she liked it, remarking that she was more beautiful than all the flowers decorating the harbour.
Their walk took them up to Mistshore, her old neighbourhood made of sunken ships and scavenged detritus all lashed together in the foetid waters of the ruined harbourfront to form some semblance of housing, and as she pointed out the general area of her old room and the shared kitchens where she’d cooked for him, he directed her attention closer to the waterfront, to the old crumbling naval tower near The Sailor’s Own where she often held her knife closest for fear of the people who’d made the tower their base of operations. The area was different than when she lived there, still too dangerous to let the Watch have any presence, but some of the old towers had become noticeably cleaner, regaining some of the prestige they must’ve had before the Spellplague. The tower she avoided even had scaffolding now, signs of repairs in the cracked plaster and new tiles on the terrace roof.
“There’s a proposal to incorporate this area into the Castle Ward,” Leo explained. “The talks of revitalising the areas near Mirt’s Mansion have brought some interest into this neighbourhood, and in about ten years I daresay it’ll be prime waterfront once more.”
Morena fought the urge not to laugh. Mistshore, prime waterfront, with all these sunken ships still littering the harbour.
His green eyes filled with hope. “What do you think?”
She stared at him as the implications sank in. “Leo,” she said, “you can’t be serious. Mistshore.”
“Only technically. It won’t always be Mistshore.”
“No,” she said. “No, even if we even entertained the notion… Darling, how many floors does that tower even have? How would we afford it? How many children would we even need to justify the space?”
He took her hands in his. “Trust me.”
Morena had barely any time to ask how the owners even let him have a key when he led her through the entrance and hallway and into a room larger than their entire apartment. She could only start piecing together all the changes she could guess from her time in the neighbourhood—the repairs in the plaster, the wood floors freshly installed to replace the rotten boards eaten away by time and neglect, the walls filled with the skeletons of built-in bookshelves climbing all the way up to the ceiling—when he brought her onto a terrace just beyond the doors, and Morena blinked away the glare of the setting sun to see…exactly what Leo saw in this place.
The harbour exploded in a feast of colours as every boat proudly bore garlands upon garlands of flowers to celebrate the festival. What was normally a shameful sight of decrepit old ship hulls and scavenged materials paled in the sight of the scale of the harbour, the rays of sunlight piercing through the clouds and trailing across Stormhaven Island and Deepwater Isle, ship sails glowing gold, the crests of the waves glittering. Morena never could’ve imagined this part of Waterdeep could ever feel peaceful.
She gave herself a moment to just take in the sky.
“This could be home, my love,” Leo smiled, with all the tenderness of the day he asked her to marry him. “We could make a life here.”
Morena Dezlentyr couldn’t help but imagine.
“Leo,” she breathed. “It’s beautiful.”
He grinned, and held her close. “I knew you’d love it.”
“But how would we pay—?”
“Already did,” he said. “A year ago, actually, before the market values rose. It went for a price you wouldn’t believe. Most of the house budget actually went into repairs.”
She blanched. “A year. Leo, we agreed to sign together. We were supposed to—”
He turned her attention back to the harbour, to the beauty of the setting sun.
“Could you imagine,” he said, “calling anywhere else home?”
It was beautiful. It was so beautiful. But if she had only known beforehand—
“I’m so glad you love the surprise.”
A surprise.
Almost four years ago they had married. They had hoped and planned and saved to build a life together, as equals, as partners. And in some fit of ambition or love or… Morena wasn’t even sure what, Leo had thrown it all away for some romantic fantasy of surprising his wife with a house she had no say in buying, all for the sake of… some sort of grand gesture.
It took a few moments to settle back into his embrace.
* * *
Mum. Everything's sorted, all well with Mystra. Will be home in about a tenday. Love you. Also I'm engaged. You'll adore Astarion. Please be kind.
Morena Dekarios had grown used to a lifetime of her precocious son interrupting her days with his little mind messages as soon as he figured out the trick to it. What started as jumps of alarm became as routine as finding a letter placed on the nearest table for her, and she had become as adept at immediate replies as she was at everything else, relishing in any chance to use her quick wit.
This time, however, her son awaited her response from the moonlit deck of a far off passenger ship, his betrothed huddled in his embrace for warmth as they watched the waves glitter in the darkness. The tableau of peace and comfort came to a halt as he clutched at a sudden pain in his temples, causing the other to immediately snap to attention, peppering him with questions about his welfare and reaching for the nearest weapon.
“No, no, it's all right,” he winced, a sheepish smile playing on his lips. “Mum's just replied.”
“And?” he said. “Is she all right? Should we have told her in person?”
And to his great surprise he was met with giggles, silent at first until the laughter grew, catching onto the other despite the questions of concern, and they both had fallen into a loop of silliness encouraged and escalated by the other.
“But what did she say, Gale?”
“Thirty years Morena Dekarios had never failed to reply to my messages with something pithy and clever,” Gale managed, in between gasps of laughter, “and tonight I find she's quite speechless.” He gathered himself, but only barely, as the giggles began to sneak their way in. “Twenty-five assorted sobs of joy. I think she’s fine.”
Morena waited for them at the ship’s assigned pier near Shipwright’s House, despite Gale’s ridiculous request to please just wait at home, barely a fifteen minute walk away. Their tressym Tara nestled in her arms, partly to better distinguish Morena in the crowd of greeters and street sellers eager to cash in on the hunger of weary travellers wanting an early dinner, privately so she could have some of her own comfort as she searched for some glimpse of his brown hair and purple robes before the imminent sunset made that impossible. Normally she and Tara both would’ve scolded him for using what few funds he had on something as indulgent as a passenger ship, but the prospect of waiting one tenday instead of at least three was good enough to overlook the transgression, just this once.
“I’ll head up for a better view, shall I, Mrs Dekarios?” Tara said, indulging in a scratch behind the ears.
Morena straightened herself up from a jostle that had pushed her a little too hard. “Please do, dear.”
The tressym was up among the gulls in seconds, flitting about and over the crowd as she scanned the passengers alighting onto the pier. Morena steeled herself, hand gripping surer on her knife with every suspicious shove or push—it was still the Dock Ward—until a voice she feared she would never hear again rang out in the crowd.
“It’s Taaaara!”
Gale.
Her heart soared.
After all these months wondering when she would receive word that he’d died, here he was, home at last.
Morena followed the sounds of their familiar voices, shoving her way through the chaos of the pier and shoving aside thoughts of maiming, disfigurement, whatever horrible injuries he must’ve had and refused to tell her about—until there it was, that flash of purple, the sound of his endless droning to Tara about whatever new topic of study had taken his fancy, and all worry of her reaction to grievous harm was thrown into the wind.
She hugged him in a lunge he never saw coming, sobbing incoherent gulps of relief into his chest that he was here, he was here, he was here.
“Mum!” he said, his voice sounding far away and underwater. “Oh, Mum, no, I asked you to wait at home! It’s not safe for you to be here this late!”
It took no time to wipe off the tears and slap his arm.
“Horrid child!” she said. “As if I don’t know my way around my own neighbourhood.”
“Well!” a voice came from beside him. “It’s good to know it won’t be just Tara and me keeping your ego in check.”
Morena’s gaze snapped to the new person to find a hooded figure about Gale’s height, shrouded in a thick cloak that just about covered all visible skin and a gaiter that covered what the hood could not, leaving just the hint of the eyes when viewed from the right angle. The contours of armour suggested themselves at the shoulders and torso, barely visible under the effect of light seeming to bend and dim around the person, coating them in an odd eternal shadow, and beside them Gale magicked away their travelling chests and swallowed a sigh of regret.
He gave Tara a little scratch behind the ears as she settled over his shoulder. “This is not how I meant for you both to meet.”
The person laughed, a sharp little giggle offset by a series of elegant little movements that instantly gave them away as some flavour of elven. “No, my love, though I will say as far as first impressions go, I've certainly had worse.”
Morena’s hands flew to her mouth. “Gale! This is Astarion?”
“The very same, Mrs Dekarios,” Tara declared, giving her wings one last shake before her body slackened into peaceful lackadaisy. “Though a tad more… covered than I’m accustomed to. But I’m sure Mr Ancunín has his reasons.”
The figure—Astarion—spoke with a grin in his melodious, silken voice. “I do apologise, Mrs Dekarios. Where are my manners?” he waved a hand with a flourish, a ring sparkling in the afternoon sun, and bowed low. “My name’s Astarion Ancunín. It is an honour and a joy to finally make the acquaintance of the great Morena Dekarios of song and legend.”
She let his pale hand take hers for a little kiss. He twitched for a fraction of a second at the movement but there were no pustules or concerning patches of discoloration she could see from the fingertips, and nothing appeared to be rotting or fallen off. Wherefore would this young man need to be covered so?
The ring was barely more than a peek in all the movement but an oddly glittering topaz didn't seem the kind of thing either of them would choose as an engagement ring. Her mind started flicking through its pages of knowledge on crystal correspondences and jewellery with magical properties when Gale cleared his throat.
“Right, well, now that you've made friends, might I suggest we leave this blessedly sunlit pier and—”
It took a single look to shut him up.
Morena turned to her future son-in-law. “Astarion, dear, I do apologise for my ill-mannered son. I wholeheartedly assure you that he'd been raised better than this.”
“Oh, I can tell right away that all this was despite your best efforts.”
Tara yawned against Gale’s cheek. “Sometimes you try and try, and still they endeavour to find a way to disappoint you in the end.”
“I’m right here,” Gale huffed.
Morena balanced on her toes to give Gale a peck on the cheek and offered the mysterious newcomer the crook of her arm. “Come, Astarion,” she said. “Indulge an old woman as she crumbles into dust and ruin. Tell me everything, there’s a good lad.”
He was only too glad to take it, height difference be damned, ignoring Gale’s own pointed glances and quiet little frets and fusses about the cloak, my love, the cloak.
“Why, Mrs Dekarios,” his voice filled again with an audible grin, “is that a knife under your sleeve?”
“Dock Ward, born and raised,” she said, and nodded at the handle she felt secured at his back. “Yours?”
The dark figure shrugged. “Foundling. And then… let's call them odd jobs.”
“Say no more. I know better than to ask.”
“Oh, Gale has clearly left out some of your best stories.”
He was cold under the cloak, which Morena filed away on the list of clues about the strange aura of mystery and literal darkness around him, but solid enough, even if Morena noticed it was Gale holding both packs as they made their way back up to Mistshore. It was odd, she mused. She would’ve assumed, for someone literally cloaked in darkness, that he would feel fouler and she more on guard. Instead, she enjoyed his strange company, listening intently to all his wry observations and tales of his time with her son as they made their way home.
Tara and Withers had kept her informed, of course, when Gale had stopped bothering to Send word on his adventures in the wilderness, or his wellbeing in general. They never could bring themselves to betray his trust and relay information he asked not to pass on, but his love life became a useful workaround for the information blackout. Gale never really was exactly the taciturn type when it came to affairs of the heart. Morena would often spot a new conquest or next great love before he could, just noticing the sudden uptick in mentions of them and his almost compulsive need to sing their praises at every opportunity. It was sweet, and often a great source of amusement, watching his string of adolescent flings and fumbles evolve into whirlwinds of hormonal abandon. It was a source of harmless fun until as the years went on it became clear that there was one person, above all others, seeding the fields of his affections and patiently awaiting the fruits of their maturity, ever since that spring day her seven-year-old boy had accidentally cast Fireball without trying.
Morena never was told what happened between him and Mystra to make him withdraw from the world outside of his missions and research, lost in years of a feverish, almost fanatical haze, his every thought preoccupied with his goddess and how best to serve her. He never said what happened to break him so completely that he cut himself off from the world, poorly disguising the fact that he was clearly preparing to leave it. To her greatest credit Tara never let on so much as a hint. But Gale had been Gale of Waterdeep since he was ten, his unassuming surname all but forgotten, and Morena had perfect hearing and all but ran a bookshop that was no stranger to magic users of all kinds, most of them only too glad to take part sharing the latest on the downfall of a Chosen. On the rare occasion she did happen to catch a glimpse of her son below the floor he claimed as his research lab, he would be on the verge of tears and exhaustion, clearing out some treasured book or magical item to fuel some vague mission of forgiveness. The lively young man who took great care in his appearance increasingly resembled the hollow wretches who once called their tower home, weakened and driven mad by the substances they needed to feel any reason to live.
She feared the worst when, after weeks of him begging to pay what little he had left to help her move to Beregost to live with her brother, he disappeared without a trace. Days of panic and mourning left her too bereft to work until Tara padded into the kitchen, announcing that Gale was spirited off against his will, but had escaped and was now making friends and searching for a way home.
Morena just about cried for joy when eventually, quite pleased with herself, Tara was thrilled to report Gale developing quite the bond with a pale high elf as the journey went on. Withers would smile at some memory as he tucked into his slice of cake, only too happy to share tales of awkward attempts to describe the appeal of this bosom friend’s musk and glistening muscles.
There wasn’t much information to go on, but what little she got was enough to allay the constant gnawing fear of Gale’s imminent demise. Over a year of silence and desperate isolation and now Morena had begun hearing of plans for the future, offers of homemade meals and tours of Waterdeep. Her son was coming back to her, she would sometimes allow herself to believe, in more ways than one.
And if her sources were correct, and they very likely were, it was thanks in no small part to the pale elf currently walking her home.
There was a quick stop at the food markets on the way, where Gale avoided answering any questions about the bottles of fish and animal blood he stopped to procure, when Morena thought she may as well ready Astarion for his new home if he wasn’t already warned.
“Now, I don’t know if Gale’s already said,” she started, “but our neighbourhood isn’t exactly in the most splendid part of the City of Splendours. You’ll fit right in in that getup, but you will have to take care of yourself, because the Watch certainly won’t.”
“Oh, my dear, there was much embarrassed caution of the fact,” he laughed. “The first impression was a vision of some magnificent sea view on the waterfront, but after that whole business with the Netherbrain he approached me later with an illusion of the truth of it, slums and all. And then after that I'm afraid I couldn't get him to shut up.”
Morena shook off what she thought she must’ve surely misheard—Netherbrain?—and tried her best to meet those sharp eyes. Gale, forthright about his background? “Even the fire?”
“And all the soot he coughed up clearing out the charred ruins just beyond the terrace,” he nodded. He grew thoughtful as the road grew rougher and a fresh wave of smell washed over the street. “I know everything about me says otherwise, darling, but believe me when I say an old tower in the worst part of town will be the nicest home I’ve ever had.”
“Funny,” she said. “I said the same thing.”
They reached the tower soon enough. Gale assured him, just before he crossed the threshold, that this was his home now, and he was not to hear a word to the contrary about permission or invitation.
“It is your home,” he repeated, “for as long as you wish to call it your home.”
Astarion took his first hesitant step inside, and Morena could’ve sworn he looked shocked that it worked.
She was just about to bring the tea out to the terrace when Gale directed her to the study instead, waffling about how Astarion would do better in the heat of a good fire at the moment. While she couldn't exactly disagree, having been arm in arm with him for practically the whole walk home, her other observations presented themselves like a line of fledgeling constables waiting to have their uniforms checked. The ring, the obviously enchanted cloak, Tara's remark about a change in appearance, the bottles of blood, Gale's insistence that they meet at home.
Morena said nothing as she set down the teapot and cups. She watched Gale hesitate to close the doors on his favourite part of the sunset and the view that would’ve won Astarion over as she started the fire, observing as Astarion took his hand and quietly reassured him of something, only for Gale to shake his head and shut the doors with a touch too much enthusiasm.
The room plunged into darkness, and slowly lit back up with the growing light of the fireplace.
Astarion removed his hood and pushed the gaiter down from his face, revealing a handsome young man with exquisite white curled hair and eyes that shone a unique shade of auburn in the firelight. Again, no injury or disfigurement, that Morena could see, no signs of disease or so much as a mark on those delicate pointed ears. Clearly the aura of shadow and mystery wasn't out of a need to fulfil some sense of vanity, unless one counted the general sense of luxury and fashion in the stylish cut and rich dark black dye in the garments.
Morena's gaze idly wandered towards the covered neck.
“Are you all right, my love?” Gale asked as they seated, looking him over for… something. “The, erm, journey, has treated you well?”
He scoffed. “Darling, the fact that I’m here at all is wonder enough,” he said, petting Tara as she readied his lap to be napped on, and added more softly, “I’m fine. Everything present and accounted for. Nothing to fuss over.”
Gale just about swayed in relief. “Thank goodness.”
There was a quick kiss on her son’s forehead as she dismissed herself to check on dinner. “Welcome back, my little love,” she murmured, leaving her glance at his trembling hands unsaid. “It hasn’t been home without you.”
She indulged in a little hug, and she let Gale have his moment of holding on and struggling to not burst into tears before she let go.
It was good to have her boy back. A little scruffy, a little battle worn and starved from life on the road, but home at last, and better than he’d been in over a year.
“And Astarion,” she smiled, “welcome to the family.”
He had his own turn to look like he was also choking back tears.
Morena left them to it, one last glance at her son home at last and gazing with such earnest love at the figure sat across him, taking his first sip of homemade tilia tea.
“Is this all right?” he asked, with a tenderness she’d never heard with any of the others he’d fooled around with and made himself a fool for. “Are you all right, my love? Could you call this home?”
The ring sparkled in the twilight as he brushed his fingertips against the side of Gale’s cheek and brought him in for a kiss.
“It’s beautiful,” he breathed. “I couldn’t imagine anywhere else.”
Something in Morena’s heart unclenched, some distant memory resolved, and she made her way to the kitchen.