Work Text:
You'd seen the Great Spire before, once.
Back then, it was only a memory - a fragmented collection of feelings broadcast unconsciously by your partner during one of your first nights at sea. There, it had appeared all at once: a sudden interruption on the horizon of the shared seascape of your dreams, a massive needle poking through the fabric of your mind. Your surroundings shifted as your sleeping thoughts drifted along the fog of memory: the Wandering Mind lost its fresh metallic sheen, replaced by the creaking driftwood that the Wandering Eye would eventually become. The Chionthar's familiar waters churned and evaporated, replaced by a downpour of the Yal Tengri's frozen sprays.
Seeing it was, at first, exhilarating. The thrill of discovery and the longing for adventure were aspects of Balduran that the Emperor still held close to his heart, even after decades of being so forcefully divorced from his old identity. But, then came the horror.
Even as your shared dream-ship rolled forward, the Spire never seemed to get closer. It loomed eternally in the distance, as desolate as the ice caps surrounding it, like a forgotten lighthouse, or the tower of an abandoned cathedral, its only defining feature being the crystals of glass haphazardly jutting out across every meter of its surface.
Balduran would never reach that spire. He would never see the heights of the world.
No, he would instead meet his insignificance within its depths.
And then, the Emperor's thoughts grew lucid.
He swept the nightmare away, vowing to never again allow those long-drowned memories of that specific sea to resurface.
Reality is, sometimes, not as dreadful as your nightmares.
«Is it everything you thought it would be?»
The Emperor hums, feigning a moment of thought. You felt your partner's trepidation as if it were your own the moment your ship neared the beach of this ancient Gondian refuge. He's long since learned to not expect much of Faerûn - but, still, the glittering glass and gnomish ingenuity on display within the Great Spire are glorious sights to behold, even for his eclectic tastes.
«… It is much more flattering from this angle.»
You can't help but laugh, but you do agree. From the shore, the jagged crystals that the spire is known for appeared arbitrarily placed; but from the inside, their constructions shine with a recognizable, well-organized chaos. Enormous beams of glass form an elaborate spiral staircase that spans the height of the entire structure, the crystalline patterns within them sparkling with brilliant fractals that seem more organic than mechanical. You run your gloved hands along the nearest step, taking a moment to relish the subtle warmth radiating from it. Even in Summertide, and even with the heat and smoke rising from the operations of the factory below, Toril's north pole is still too frigid for illithids to be tarrying in it.
Tarrying?
There's a twinge of that anxious impatience again as the Emperor floats past you. Yes, tarrying. What he wishes to see most is the top. Preferably soon, before the last of the day's light is gone. Right.
«Maybe it's better to experience it this way,» you say, following him up to the next landing. «If I had to climb this thing in my old body, it would've taken days. If I somehow didn't give up after the first step...»
«We could have always taken the…» He looks down the shaft of the pillar, where a complex series of platforms and pulleys move the working Gondians and their tools between the base of the tower and the yawning hole that makes up the roof. What did they call it again…? «The elevator.»
«Aw, where's the fun in that?» You skip ahead of him. «Besides, those lifts are meant for folks half our size.»
«Fun, you say…»
The Emperor pauses and turns his gaze upward.
Not much further, now.
Reality is, sometimes, as wonderful as your dreams.
This time, even more so. This view of the Great Ice Sea is more beautiful to a pair of illithid eyes than anything you could've dreamed up. The Gondians say they seek to earn their god's blessing by reaching the top of the world out here, but you think they've already succeeded.
From here, it feels like you can see everything: to the west is Sossal's Naupau, the small port city you sailed in from and will be returning to. South of that lie the steppes of the Endless Wastes, cradled by the Icerim Mountains beyond, where you can just barely make out the crumbling towers of the former Citadel Rashemar that Minsc told you so many stories about. And further still along the basin are the snow-capped Glittering Spires and Winterkeep palace. To your back float the icebergs of the winter ice pack, looking so small from up here that you might think them harmless. It's all blanketed by the soft golden light of the sunset, its last stray rays bouncing off every distant icy peak in a way that makes each mountain seem to have its own halo.
It is freezing out here. The Emperor shivers, tightening his grasp on your hand.
You don't need to ask again, but you do: «Is it everything you thought it would be?»
Seeing the world bloom before him - and knowing how much more there is to still see beyond all this, both above and below - makes him feel insignificant again. But here, beholding its beauty, and now, with a partner to share that feeling with, that insignificance feels… not so bad. Perhaps even comforting. He is not just a speck of dust floating in a void of nothingness, but a thread woven tightly into the magnificent vastness of the universe, with as much a right to exist and enjoy that existence as any other creature. He takes a deep breath, and you take it with him, basking in the frigid sting of it.
The crisp, painfully poignant sting of being alive.
Though you can no longer smell or taste the air, the feeling of it in your lungs is more than enough.
And these colors are glorious. Balduran would never have appreciated them.
The Emperor laughs at this realization.
The sound is wet, and raspy, and instantly lost to the wind, but you can feel the gratefulness pooling in his bones, and in yours.
«Yes. Everything I thought it would be. And so much more.»
