Work Text:
Comfort and Joy
You stare out across the undisturbed field of white. It is dark still, and the snow lit by moonlight gives off an ethereal glow.
Give it an hour and the city will have woken, and the undisturbed winter blanket will be torn up with footprints and brown with mud.
You watch from the upstairs window, able to see the entire high street from here. When Gale invited you to visit him in Waterdeep for the winter holiday you were excited at the prospect. Celebrations are…few and far between. Not that you are complaining—scarcity drives up the value. You scratch shapes into the frost that clings to the corners of the window panes, distracted by your thoughts. As you began looking forward to the celebration, you thought of all the things you were looking forward to. Pretty quickly you realized your shortsightedness. A great deal of what you loved about this holiday is no longer available to you. Your body does wonderful and unique things, and yet some of the things you took for granted are lost to you.
<Not lost, just filed in a different drawer.> The thought startles you, insofar as that is possible. No matter how absorbed you are in work or worry, or indeed in daydreaming, you never entirely let go of the Emperor. He is your tether, as necessary to you now, after all these years, as one of your own tentacles.
You move to unwind yourself from the alcove next to the window, a cozy spot in wizard’s home full of cozy spots, but the Emperor puts a hand on your shoulder, and bids you to make a space for him.
<It’s Deadwinter morning,> you say. You feel your face warm, and aren’t certain why you’re blushing.
You sense his amusement, his usual reaction when you blush. <And we’ve come here to enjoy it…so what’s troubling you?>
If he wanted to he could answer that for himself. He’d need only to extend his reach a sliver to weave your thoughts into his own. He’s deliberately holding back, letting you choose to share this—or not.
<The smell of pineboughs.>
<Excuse me?> he says, uncomprehending.
You point to the door of the shop across the road. The porch awning hangs heavy with winter greens, trimmed with ribbons and dusted in the overnight snowfall. <Pineboughs. It was one of my favorite smells of the holiday. Do you recall it?>
The Emperor shakes his head. He’s quite a few more centuries separated from his sense of taste and smell than you are.
The Emperor trills quietly when you push the memory of pineboughs against his mind. <It feels familiar. What else do you miss about the holiday?>
<Gingerbread.> You try to recall the sharp burn of clove and ginger, how it tickled your nose before it ever reached your tongue. You realize the Emperor is waiting for a “taste” as well. This one is more complicated, and takes you a moment to form. The taste blooms into memory, softly and slowly unlike the pine.
<Oh!> You feel him withdraw his connection, as he recoils from the experience. <Do people like this?>
You chirp an amused sound. <I may have made it too spicy. That was what I liked best about it.>
Your spouse’s quiet and careful interest feels suddenly overwhelming, and you hesitate. But he slips an arm around your shoulder, and pulls you in to rest your head against his. <It’s ok to miss it. But, you may have noticed that you’re experiencing it all pretty vividly right now.>
You do. You are. It’s almost as good.
<More?>
<Ohhhh.> Your husband’s eyes gleam and a purr spins up deep in his chest.
You laugh. <Yes, you’d have to be a rot grub not to like hot cocoa.> You squeeze his fingers, lying gently over yours.
He shifts and presses his mouth to your forehead, and you feel a warm swell in your chest.
The images, smells, sounds, tastes pour in suddenly. It’s no longer difficult to conjure them, they come as easily as if you were living them.
A crackling fire in a stone hearth - The earthy-sweet, round scent of woodsmoke - The feel of warm socks on cold toes - Peppermint.
<I feel…contented. Comforted.> he says, and twines a tendril around one of yours, caressing it gently.
Your heart sings to hear your partner’s appreciation for your scene.
You feel those things too, you feel them even without the glow of a fire, or the sweet sting of candy. You feel surrounded by home, and the joy that fills you has nothing to do with the warm chocolate flooding over your consciousness.
<Neither does mine, my love. But thank you for sharing it with me all the same.>