#7kpp week 2022

[fyeah7kpp]

7KPP Secret Santa 2022

Hello, my dears! Another year, another time to start planning for another holiday gift exchange! This year, I have a bit more free time now (it’s a miracle!), so we’re actually going to start the sign-ups and everything a bit earlier, so we have plenty of time to draw names and work on gifts! Don’t worry though, you’ve still got a few weeks to make up your mind on whether you want to participate this year! (For inspiration, feel free to check out previous years’ 7KPP Secret Santa tags for previous gifts!)

As always, if you’re interested in participating, please fill out this Google Spreadsheet. In order to give everyone time to draw names and create gifts, I’m planning on closing the sign-up on November 5th, 2022 at 11:59 PM EST, so please try to at least sign your name up by then. I hope to be able to have the drawing all set up a few days after that. As we’ve done in previous years (except last year), the gift exchange posting day will be tentatively scheduled for January 1st, 2023, but we can check in as the time gets closer to get a better idea of how people are looking.

I leave guidelines for the gifts open for each participant. The only thing I ask is to try and avoid alpha content spoilers so everyone can enjoy the gifts without having to worry about whether or not there are spoilers.

If you have any questions or concerns, please send me an ask either here or to @angstmongertina​​ (my main tumblr) and I’ll get back to you as soon as I can!

-Mod Tina

Disclaimer: Just as before, I am in no way affiliated with Aly other than having an appreciation for the game and this is not any sort of “official” gift exchange. We’re just here to spread some love for the holidays!

[angstmongertina]

A Scholar’s Legacy

For the 7KPP Secret Santa 2022, I got Lavi, who does not have a tumblr, but here’s the fic anyway! Happy holidays, happy new year, and I hope you enjoy it!

AO3 Link

Warning: The last part is angsty. Do be aware of that when you read!

When he was first given his assignment at the Summit, it seemed straightforward enough. Of all the young nobles attending the Summit, those of the Jiyelese delegation tended to be relatively moderate, the examination serving as a filter for those who were talented, prepared, and perhaps most importantly, appropriately motivated. From the information he had gleaned, the lady Jiya was certainly one such individual—elegant, well-spoken, and prepared. A simple enough assignment and a welcome charge, considering the precarious state of the world.

When he got word that there was a last-minute change in his assignment, he was no longer so sure.

He was provided with oddly little information at first. His original lady had, in just the few weeks time before the Summit was to begin, gotten married, and her cousin had been volunteered to serve as her replacement. A distant relative, a young lady who had, notably, not taken the examination herself.

Lady Thelesis.

She was, like the rest of her nation’s representative, well-learned and bright, but there was precious little else to prepare him. Her family was rather insignificant, so far from the royal family that it was a wonder she had been remembered as a potential replacement for her cousin at all. Rather than attend the Imperial Academy, that foremost center of learning for the young nobles of her ilk, she had remained at home, trained by tutors and parents and her own thirst for knowledge. Beyond that, she was a mystery.

Perhaps that was why, when he was finally able to meet with her face to face, he had been so taken aback by the young lady before him.

On the surface, she was similar to many ladies of her kingdom, certainly, but he had learned to read beneath the surface, had the experience to see beneath the masks that his charge wore, and she had an air of genuineness to her that many of her fellows lacked, a sincerity that was at once refreshing and dangerous, in the political machinations which made up the Seven Kingdoms Summit. Where others were outgoing, she was quiet, content to listen rather than speak out, unless necessary. She was impulsive, speaking and acting with an energy that was frenetic, almost compulsive in its simplicity. She was so young, barely older than Katyia herself had been, those many years ago, when she had first arrived on the Isle, headstrong and confident and full of fire, full of the same fire he could see now.

She was not originally meant for this life, this web of intrigue and half-truths. She was brought to this chance meeting not by choice but by duty and family.

In some ways, then, she was just like him.

He paused, looking down at the woman before him, the young lady who would be in his care for the next seven weeks, her blue eyes wide with sincerity with every question she answered, every statement she made. She watched him just as evenly with that gentle, inquisitive gaze, and he nodded once, brisk and business-like, tearing his gaze away and turning her over to her maids.

It was just another assignment. That was all it would be. It was only the uncertainty of the summit, only this unexpected change in protocol, that was giving him such atypical, unsubstantiated thoughts.

That was all it could be.

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“Come dance with me,” she had said, and he couldn’t say no.

Then again, he learned very quickly that it was incredibly hard to say no to Lady Thelesis. When she had first arrived, he had had his reservations about her, not about her character or strength, but rather her reception and own sense of self. But instead, she had excelled beyond his imagination, until he was almost ashamed at his own lack of faith, such as it were. She had thoroughly charmed the attendees at the Summit—not all of them, certainly, but enough, from the flighty pirate prince to the proper Wellish princess to even the arrogant Corvali lord… or at least insomuch as he could be charmed. They could not say no to her either, as was evidenced by the number of gifts she had received, from well-wishers of all kind.

Including him.

He hadn’t expected to want to gift her with anything, was just expecting her to be another assignment, but instead he found himself filled with an inordinate amount of relief that she had been in her room, that he could give her his gift in peace and in person, rather than having it left as one of the many gifts on her table, from potential suitors and friends and even those he had not expected would involve themselves in the affairs of a young lady of little name.

A young lady who, it seemed, could just as easily make a name for herself, who could earn any name she wanted at the Summit.

A young lady who could have any name she wanted, if the amount of interest she had amassed was any indication. Nobody could deny her. But no, instead of any of the young nobles she no doubt could have chosen, she had listened to his advice, as selfish and brazen as it was. Instead, she had chosen nobody.

Instead, she was in front of him, watching him with those bright blue eyes that seemed to sparkle, crystalline, in the light, and asked him to dance.

She had done it before, claimed that he was the most graceful person she knew, that it was the best way to practice for the upcoming ball. He had led her through the steps before in an empty room, she light and elegant on her feet, every count, every variation more evidence of her prevarication, evidence that neither of them seemed inclined to acknowledge, she unwilling and he strangely unable. He had seen her smile as she twirled, eyes shining with a light that he didn’t, that he couldn’t, try to interpret.

He had felt her in his arms, in his crisp, professional closed position, alert to his every cue, had felt a momentary loss of warmth, an inexplicable sensation on the always temperate isle, every time she spun away from him, and an even less logical twinge of something bittersweet each time she returned to his arms, and that had only been before. Before the Matchmaker and his momentary loss of control. Before she learned the truth about him, and about everything.

This time, he knew without a doubt, it would mean a change in everything.

“Come dance with me,” she had said, with entreating eyes and hand outstretched, a request and a demand all at once, and with his heart beating wildly in his chest, with his mind unable to stop what had already become the inevitable, he silently took her hand and led her in.

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[HERE BE BONUS ANGST]

The dark halls once were a source of comfort, a sign that all of the delegates were safely in their rooms, but it had suddenly become an ominous sign. His footsteps echoed through the empty corridors, lit only by the silvery light of a new moon, its pounding alongside the incessant chanting in his mind.

He’d failed. He’d failed. He’d failed.

The dinner had run late, the delegates still in animated discussion when he checked on her, and with the entirety of the Summit attendees focused on the play, he had had just enough time to dash away, to run the errands he had put off again and again, replaced with monitoring Lady Thelesis, with the pressure of Imogen’s trial weighing on them both. He had assumed, had hoped, that the acquittal would mark the end to the various potential threats on her life. He’d thought that with her immediate influence on international politics ended, she would be well enough for a time, protected by the formalities of the Summit. He’d thought she would be safe. He’d thought… He’d thought…

He’d thought wrong.

Instead, he’d failed her, and she was surely about to pay the price.

After his years of living on the isle, he knew the twists and turns of the castle’s corridors like the back of his hand, but at this moment, every corner seemed to be unfamiliar, filled with creeping shadow and unexpected danger. Still, he ran, gasping for breath, towards the practice rooms, any trace of his typical formality gone.

And still he was too late.

A crash reverberated through the air, and though part of him expected it, he faltered, skidding to a stop as he turned the corner into the room because…

Because…

“No.”

His eyes were deceiving him. His every sense eas deceiving him. He knew his lady, clever and kind and good. She couldn’t be— She had to have—

“Lady Thelesis?” The words caught in his throat, choked by guilt and horror at the sight, at what he had failed to prevent, and he swallowed hard. “Thel?”

A pained gasp, a brief glimpse of pale skin, and suddenly he was on his knees, hands scrabbling through rubble and wood, desperately listening for something, anything, to indicate that he wasn’t too late.

Slowly, slowly, he uncovered her, already pale skin unnaturally white, beautiful dark hair matted with blood and grime. Those sharp, crystalline blue eyes—that had captured his attention when he first met her, that sparkled whenever she grinned at him with mischief and friendship and maybe something else, something he didn’t dare name, that he loved—dulled by pain and blood loss.

“La— Thel?”

He received a muffled groan and his heart leapt, though whether in relief or terror he couldn’t be sure. Before he could move—to drag her out? to scream for help?—a hand, cold and slippery with blood, brushed his wrist and he froze, even his breath stuttering to a stop.

“Jasper?”

Her voice was hoarse, almost imperceptible, but still his heart pounded, louder and louder, almost drowning out his shaky, whispered reply.

“I’m here. Lady— Thel, I’m here. Stay with me.” The words fell out of his mouth, slowly at first and then faster and faster, a desperate tumble of everything he’d held back. “Help will be here soon. Someone will have heard. Just hold on a little longer.” His vision blurred and he blinked hard, once, twice, until he could make out her beloved features again. “I’m sorry I wasn’t there. This is all my fault. I should have been here. I’m sorry. I—”

“Stop.” Her hand reached for him and his words died in his mouth as he took it, let her guide it to his face, her fingers too cold against his skin. “I was foolish. I’m sorry.”

“No—”

“Jasper.” In that word, in that statement of his name, there was something so soft and gentle, something so like the woman he had come to hold above all others, and he felt his chest tighten as she smiled, that same warm, bright expression that had charmed everyone at the Summit, that had charmed him. “It’s okay. Thank you.”

“Thelesis?”

But there was no response, nothing but the soft thud of her hand against the ground, the harsh, ragged breaths leaving his mouth, and the too loud pounding of his pulse, to drown out the screaming in his mind, the agonizing anguish that was ripping his heart, ripping every fiber of his being, in two. He reached for her, gathered her in his arms, blood-slicked fingers scrabbling for a pulse, for a sign, for anything.

Nothing.

And for the first time in a long, long time, in that dark, too empty room, he let down his guard and cried.

[teaandinanity]

Day Five - Festival

[mendedwings]

7KPP Week ~Family~

Missed Day 1, but have a post game Adie/Clarmont ficlet for Day 2 of @fyeah7kpp’s appreciation week

---

The return journey to Wellin, much to Adie’s relief, went as smoothly as such things could. Of course, her company this time might be a bit of a distraction from the smaller bumps and inconveniences. She was pretty sure her hand stayed linked with Clarmont;s the entire carriage ride to Holt, an arrangement to which he did not object.

She turned to grin at him, almost bouncing with nervous excitement, when the castle came into view. “Almost there!”

Clarmont smiled back and squeezed her hand. “I can’t wait to see your home.”

“Our home. They’re going to love you,” Adie said confidently, squeezing his hand in return. The would, because who didn’t? And they would because she did.

“I certainly hope so.” There was a teasing twinkle in his eyes. “Would be awkward if your family doesn’t approve at this juncture.”

“After we’ve already made it official?” she laughed, twisting a loose wisp of hair with her free hand. The mere fact he’d said family had warmth swirling in her chest and meant his odds were good.

The carriage pulled into the courtyard, stopped in front of the pair of figures waiting by the entrance. Clarmont beat her to the carriage door, swiftly dismounting and offering her a hand down with the biggest teasing grin he’d sported yet.

Adie rolled her eyes with a laugh, but accepted the playful chivalry, mostly because it was the fastest way out of the carriage. She eschewed decorum the second her feet hit the ground, lunging forward into the hug Henrietta offered. The head maid’s arms went around her with familiar, bruising enthusiasm, and Adie held her just as tight.

“I missed you all,” she mumbled into Henrietta’s shoulder. “So much.”

“And we, you, Ariadne,” Henrietta replied fondly. She stepped back, smoothing red-blonde flyaways behind Adie’s ears before cupping her face in both hand to examine her. “But this trip clearly agreed with you more than you expected, Countess. I’ve not seen you so happy in many years.” A sly smile aimed over Adie’s shoulder. “ I suppose I have the handsome fellow you’ve brought home to thank for that?”

Adie laughed. “Indeed you do, though I am also happy to be home.” She reached a hand back to where Clarmont watched the reunion with a smile. “This is Lord Clarmont, my husband.” The word still sent a thrill down her spine.  “Clarmont, this is Henrietta.”

She turned to greet Clifton as Clarmont nodded respectfully to Henrietta. Her chief landsman embraced her with less fervor but equal affection to his wife.

“Good to see you again, Countess,” he said, then arched a brow at Clarmont.  “I presume he treats you right?”

“More than,” she promised. “Kind and brave as he is handsome, and loves me very much just as I am. As I do him.”

“Good.” Clifton gave a satisfied nod and squeezed her shoulder affectionately before moving in to shake the new earl’s hand. Recuing him from Henrietta’s barrage of question in the process. 

And Adie rescued him from both of them a moment later, citing the long journey and a desire for time alone with her new husband.

“You’ll meet he rest of the staff later,” she said as they climbed the stairs arm in arm. “But they’re the ones in charge when I’m not here, so it’s good they were first.”

Clarmont smiled. “You’ve mentioned being close to your staff, but it was still heart-warming to see in person.”

Adie nodded, tugging him past the door to their room. “I want to show you something. Henrietta stepped in to help raise me proper after my mother died. Taught me manners, decorum, all those womanly things my father couldn’t. When he... took ill, Clifton filled the role, as best he could with his station.” She let her hand slide down his arm to link their fingers again as she pulled him along. “The two of them are as much family as my parents were, and I’m glad they like you.” A grin. “Even if that wasn’t really in doubt.”

Clarmont chuckled. “I’m glad of that as well. Adie, where are we going?”

They reached her goal even as he asked. “Here.” She pushed open the door. “Not as pretty as our sunrises, but this is the best view in the place for sunsets.”

They stepped out to watch, Clarmont’s arms settling around her shoulders and his chin resting atop her head. “Still very lovely,” he murmured as the sky went purple and gold. “Thank you for sharing it with me.”

“Of course.” Adie leaned back into his chest, her wedding band flashing in the light as she covered his hands with hers. “You’re family now too.”

Clarmont hummed softly in agreement, pressing a light kiss to the top of her head before resuming his position. “So I am.”

[malmiele]

↝ 7kpp week day 2: Family

The Lingho clan of Suey are relatively new nobility, created for the previous magistrate of Suey who had been a scholar of common birth. The current lord of Lingho Manor is his grandson, who lives in the manor with his wife, his parents, his wife's parents, and his four children:

Ulyssa, their eldest daughter, is intense, ambitious and perfectionistic. She is said to be the cleverest of the siblings and their unofficial leader, although her tutors used to despair as she often challenged their teachings. She gained significance in international politics when she attended the Summit as a last-minute replacement for her second cousin.

Paris, their eldest son, is Ulyssa's older twin brother by twelve minutes, although he is happy to take a back seat and defer to her, assuming the role of a foolish sibling to the responsible sibling. This conveniently obscures the fact that he is very intelligent as well, and will rise to the occasion if required.

Jaxon, their youngest son, was born three years after the twins. He is reputed to be sweet-natured and innocent, often worrying his older siblings.

Nestoria, their youngest daughter, was born five years after the twins. She is the baby of the family, but struggles with finding her interests.

it's been a long time hasn't it? during 7kpp week i wanted to share some things about my jiyel mc and her siblings.

none of the images are mine. gif footage was taken from moss and feather on pinterest and the chinese drama song of youth 玉楼春.

ulyssa's sibs have names all inspired by the iliad: ajax for jaxon, nestor for nestoria, and paris...as both an iliad character and the name of a french city (just like lyon) i could not resist

[awaylaughing]

7KPP Week 2022 - First

Hello, I threw this together real quick and then forgot to edit it so it is what is. Starting off, some canon defilement ft. Zarad and Lady Pippa, at the welcome feast, and only obliquely referencing the prompt as is my MO. Despite what his eldest brother might think, it was not proper princeliness to sit in a corner and brood, and so Zarad was front in centre in the ballroom. He had for the most part already spoken with his fellow countrymen, save his aunt who was holding court with some of the older delegates and ladies Aditi of Teyal and Pippa of Amandor. They had entered only minutes apart a few minutes before the bell, and Zarad made sure he spent exactly as much time watching both of them come in as his reputation demanded, and not a moment more.

It was harder than it should be.

Zarad hadn’t laid eyes on Pippa since her sister’s death twenty months—and every one of them counted, to his chagrin—ago. He didn’t recognize the dress, though he spotted the empress’s hand in its expensive threading and near eye-bending colours; Pippa had always pointedly eschewed her mother’s preferred whites and greys, she wouldn’t have chosen silver on her. Otherwise she was much the same. The riot of gold and red hair ruthlessly corralled into a twisting updo, decorated with a glittering net and white flowers, the straight back posture, the whispering skirts, and the bright but gentle smile fixed firmly in place.

It was quite the juxtaposition to their last meeting, where she had been entirely undone. That he found himself comparing this ultra-polished version unfavourably to a grieving one was perhaps sadistic, or at least disturbed, but it was true.

As the actual feast part of the so called Welcome Feast came closer, and Pippa kept her distance, he found himself stealing more and more glances. She’d been slowly circling the room all night, apparently without pattern or preference for any one person or group.

Of course, she was in fact working her way towards the Hiseans, as everyone else from Corval was. She’d already tested the Hisean waters with the very proper princess who had all but fled from him earlier, but she’d finally made land with the big fish. It was hard to say if prince Hamin had been waiting for this meeting before she started approaching him, but it was clear Pippa had sparked his interest

Prince Hamin, loudly and unapologetically himself as he was, was nearly as distracting as lady Pippa, which he was thankful for now as it gave Zarad an excuse to less than subtly eavesdrop. There wasn’t much surprise that followed; Pippa plied her trade like the master she was, the pirate prince did his best to ruffle her feathers in response. They parted quickly enough, Pippa turning after a deep curtsy and finally turning to actually look at him.

He smiled, softening the razor edge of it to something more smug than bitter. He was used to being the fallen prince, insomuch as one could fall without being disowned or murdered. It still stung to go from the person dark eyes sought out first, to the very bottom of the barrel.

Not that he should have been surprised. Lady Pippa was a woman with a plan, namely to secure her family’s tenuous position. Zarad had his plans too though, and staying in last place for Pippa’s regard was not among them.

[altairtalisman]

Wrote something for Day 5 of @fyeah7kpp's 7KPP Week because I had a sudden bolt of inspiration when it comes to Festival

That does not mean that it translated into an excellent story though

[fyeah7kpp]

Hello, my dears.

I hope everyone’s 2022 has been going well, and I’m sorry for the silence in the past few months--irl has caught up with me with a vengeance for a bit there, but we’re making things work.

Anyway, in light of a relatively recent update from Aly (that I totally forgot to post about here, oops, sorry) and the fact that it’s been quite a few months since we last had an event, I thought we could have another 7KPP Week, especially since our last one was way back in 2019. So, without further ado, another 7KPP Appreciation Week!

When: Between August 21st and August 27th! Where: Post on tumblr (and elsewhere is fine too but we’ll be organizing here on tumblr)

The prompts are as follows! (Since they’re all one word prompts, you can interpret them how you wish!)

Day One - First Day Two - Family Day Three - Food Day Four - Fashion Day Five - Festival Day Six - Feelings Day Seven - Future

Feel free to use the tag “7KPP Week 2022“ and/or @ this blog, and we’ll do our best to reblog everything!

As always, please feel free to send an ask/DM me if you have any questions! We look forward to seeing everyone’s submissions, and hope that you have a great August!

-Mod Tina

[teaandinanity]

Day Four - Fashion

Valeriya in red, before and after.

[fic under the cut]

Before

Red is not much worn at court. Oh, occasionally someone will return to the social whirl in unseemly haste, still in half-mourning, with notes of carmine as accents or scarlet trimming a gown, rubies at ears and throat, garnet garlanding a wrist. Improper, certainly, but not unpardonable. More than that, though, is rarely seen. It is ill-bred to be much out in society in full mourning, freshly widowed, even with the more relaxed strictures under the new regime - and even the most abbreviated, superficial mourning will oblige her to wear full crimson for another six months.

She cannot wait half a year to start campaigning to be a representative at the Summit, not if she wants to seize the opportunity that hovers just within reach. It is almost too late for a true start already. She could wait, if the campaign were merely performative, merely an excuse to show herself to advantage and make inroads among the powerful, perhaps win another unwanted husband. The problem is, for all the skepticism of others, she means it.

She wants this, wants it far too much to let it slip through her fingers just because some people find it scandalous that she won’t play the grieving widow. Her relief is meant to be bereavement. They want her to pretend that it is.

She, for her part, wants this; she wants to go to Vail Isle, to have better options than she has been given, to prove herself so publicly that she can never be ignored or dismissed again.

So she wears red brazenly, and never bows her head in shame because she does not let herself feel it. She wears red, and it draws eyes.

The fashion, this season, has been for pastels. Valeriya can wear pastels, but they do not suit her half so well as jewel tones. She wears red, bold and bright as fresh blood. She wears red and seizes attention, holds it, uses it.

She is clearly not mourning her husband, they say. It is true enough.

She is shamelessly turning her mourning period to her own advantage. Also true.

She killed her husband. False, but she cannot deny the timing was convenient.

Convenient, and conveniently irrelevant. No one ruling the new Revaire cares about a little (unproven and unprovable) murder because she can prove - is proving - how she would excell if allowed to represent them. Everyone in this court with the power to stop her has blood on their hands; they are hardly going to fuss about a bit of red.

–

After

Red is often worn in Jiyel; it is worn for weddings and for festivals, for good fortune, for joy. She has always thought it suited her, but she has never loved it half so much as she does on the day of her wedding, wrapped in layers of silk so thick with gold embroidery it is stiff in places. Her hair is held up with gold, dripping with carnelian and ruby and garnet. The layers and the jewels should feel heavy, but her heart is light as thistledown. She feels as if she could float away, so the solid weight merely feels reassuring, grounding.

A marriage contract, in Jiyel, is often as not negotiated primarily by family rather than the principals. She and Lyon are neither of them dependent on family and thus subject to their wills. The contract they put their names to was a collaboration between them, from start to finish, not a zero-sum struggle between two noble families intent on getting the upper hand. They’ve started as they mean to go on; as partners, and as masters of their shared fate.

So she looks at her husband - also in red, although on him it is an accent to his customary, comfortable black - and grins, too happy to care that it’s broad and graceless. He smiles back, soft-eyed, clearly not minding in the least, and that means it’s alright. She is wearing red and gold, hair styled and face touched with tasteful cosmetic artistry, but he doesn’t care about all that. He cares enormously, though, that she’s happy.

The exchange of vows is relatively private; there will be a party, later, where Lyon’s peers (few), friends (fewer), and everyone who managed to insist on being invited because the King indicated an intention to attend his cousin’s wedding (unfortunately plentiful) will challenge her to debates on various subjects and present her with poems expecting her response to be spontaneous verse of her own creation - challenge her, in short, to prove that she’s worthy of her new husband. She doesn’t care what they think on that subject. Lyon has decided she’s worthy of him. She does not have to prove herself to anyone else; he’s decided she is.

He’s decided she is, and the Matchmaker agreed, and the contract is signed.

She will still meet the challenges presented, because she does not want a single person here to doubt that he chose well, but their opinions don’t truly matter to her husband, so for today at least, they do not have to matter to her, either.

He loves her. He loves her today, in red, giddy and grinning, and he will love her tomorrow morning, in a rumpled shift, contented and sleep-soft. He is not marrying her to be decorative.

She holds his gaze and it’s like no one else is even there. That’s as it should be; these words might be heard by others, but they are not for them. She is not performing for an audience. She is speaking to her husband. She is making a promise to the man she loves.

Jiyelian weddings have the couple write their own vows, and it was harder than extemporizing any speech meant for a crowd because she had ample time to overthink words intended for an audience of one, who matters more than anyone else ever has.

But she wants to say it anyway. She wants him to know. He should always know how much he is loved. He deserves to hear it said out loud.

She holds his eyes and for once even though there are many eyes on her, she does not pitch her voice to carry. She only speaks, quietly, to him.

“You are the answer to a question I have spent my life afraid to articulate. You woke my soul to joy; I want to share that happiness with you.

With you, I would share all that I am, and I promise to be gentle with those parts of yourself that you share with me.

I promise to listen, to your words and your silences both.

I promise you support in your endeavors, an ally in your struggles, and a safe place where you can rest.

You have my heart already, so I cannot offer it now, but I pledge to be a partner to you, and to try to deserve your faith. 

I am so glad to call you husband.”

Glad. It is too small a word; she is both proud and humbled, ecstatic, triumphant. She cannot say any of that. It sounds wrong in the air, would be twisted further out of true by the ears other than his that would hear her. This is not a victory she has won; it is an unlooked-for gift, a kindness she cannot deserve. It is a measure of grace from the very universe, that he should have looked at her, seen her, and found something to love.

Other people will try to find hidden meanings in her words. Lyon won’t. Lyon sees her clearly, but his eyes are nonetheless soft. That gaze pierces every defense she’s ever had, but it holds her so gently.

He’s smiling at her, that quiet curve of his lips that isn’t at all performative, that only ever happens when he is truly happy.

She looks back at him and thinks the love must be shining out of her the same way the sun glows through a raised hand, mortal flesh wholly insufficient to contain so much light.

[angstmongertina]

7KPP Week 2022: Day 1

We’re doing another 7KPP Appreciation Week over on @fyeah7kpp, and I thought I’d start the prompts with an introduction to how my ultimate OTP meet in their cutest iteration, the Childhood “Friends” AU. It’s so cute, I almost feel bad for what I put them through on most iterations.

Day One - First

Lady Camellia Guo of Jiyel had barely turned nine years of age when she attended her first academic lecture.

Cousin Jiya, three years her elder and born with the triple advantage of an influential lineage, razor sharp intelligence, and not insignificant beauty, had adapted quickly to the expectations placed upon her, rising to the challenges of academic study and social niceties with aplomb. As such, it was only natural for the entire extended family to be invited to the budding young scholar’s first officially hosted event; after all, few had mastered the art of both paying respect to others and humbly bragging about themselves as thoroughly as the Jiyelese elite.

Which was, of course, why Lia found herself in the library, contemplating the impressive collection of books with curiosity and no small amount of envy. The lecture on Jiyel’s changing philosophy towards its relations with its fellow kingdoms had been most fascinating, particularly with regards to the introduction of the famed summits, to be sure. However, and much to her chagrin, its conclusion had soon brought about mingling and dancing with the peerage of Jiyel, a pastime that she, still a child with barely a name of her own compared to her much grander cousin and the other, more esteemed, guests, had little to contribute. But the library, on the other hand…

She reached out, running a gentle finger along the worn spines. Leather, smoothed by years of careful handling, greeted her as far as she could see, from the floor to the ceiling in carefully arranged rows of bookshelves, covering everything from art and music to science and history. Craning her neck to one side, she mouthed the titles to herself as she shuffled forward, each one more intriguing than the last.

Rounding a corner, she continued forward, transfixed, until her arm bumped into something hard and she tore her gaze away, just in time to watch as a precariously stacked pile of books teetered on the arm of a chair… before collapsing onto the floor as well as the lap of its occupant.

In the suddenly deafening silence, she winced. “I’m so sorry.”

Cool dark eyes blinked several times from behind a thin pair of spectacles before their owner sighed, brushing his hair out of his face as he looked down at the mess she had made. “It is no matter. I should not have kept them so.”

“And I should have paid more attention to my surroundings as well. I apologize for not noticing you sooner.” As she spoke, she knelt, gathering the fallen books and depositing them into a stack that she rather suspected would rival herself in height.

And, given the diminutive form working beside her, would probably give her newfound companion a run for his money as well.

After setting down another two onto the pile that was already threatening to reach her waist, she turned to him. “Were you planning on reading all of these?”

To her surprise, he flushed a faint red, halfway through putting the final tome on their careful tower. “I admit it is unlikely that I even could, but many of these are new to me and their perusal seemed a… more interesting way to spend the evening than performing social niceties.”

“At least until I interrupted?”

He paused, considering her with something that, for all the world, resembled Master Hinata’s expression when discussing the unknown mysteries of astronomy, the expression of a researcher possessed by a scientific curiosity bordering on fascination. “I confess I am not entirely certain. I suppose that remains to be seen.”

She smiled with some mischief, even as she folded her hands as demurely before her as she had been taught. “I see. Do you need more data?”

“It would seem that that would be ideal for proper analysis.”

Try as she might, she couldn’t quite hold back a giggle. “Are you hoping to conduct an experiment on social interactions, then?”

“That would be an efficient way to…” He blinked, apparently taking in her amusement, before his expression drew into a hint of a frown. “I… apologize. I am not well-versed in the social arts, nor do I find much enjoyment in their performance. I fear I am poor company for you to keep.” With that said, he returned to his seat, this time free from the looming threat of collapsing books, though she couldn’t help but notice that even though he had a book in hand, he didn’t seem as impatient as he could have been to read it.

“If I wanted to find sociable company, I’d go to the ballroom. Since you’re clearly not there, I think it’d be safe to assume you aren’t interested either.” The only response she received was a shrug, which was, given the situation, acknowledgement enough. “Besides, there are better ways to improve at onvu than reading a manual on strategy.”

When he met her gaze, this time with a brighter curiosity, she grinned. “I think I saw a board earlier. You can always test your new strategies against another player. See how much Liu Zhu’s manual can actually help you.”

“I didn’t— I was brainstorming how to counter them!” His protest floated over her shoulder as she walked away, laughing; the quiet shuffles following her were indication enough that he was more amenable to her suggestion than his mannerisms might have implied.

Which was how, an hour later, Camellia found herself in the most evenly matched game of onvu she had ever played. Contrary to her teasing, he had proven himself to be a formidable opponent, armed with quick thinking and a hidden spark of spontaneity that took her entirely by surprise.

Then again, considering the astonishment that slowly turned into respect in his expression, perhaps it was a mutual experience.

Scarcely daring to breathe, she watched him sit forward, absently pushing his glasses further up the bridge of his nose as his eyes scanned the board and her scattered pieces. A thin finger nudged a cavalier to the side, neatly avoiding her attempted Taniguchi maneuver, before he slouched back with a genuine smile. “A good attempt.”

Finally relaxing, she grinned back and slid forward in her seat to shift her sage over a square, disrupting his counterattack. “Not quite. Check.”

Consternation flooded his face as he leaned forward, contemplating the board with renewed intensity. “That was… unexpected.”

She laughed, swinging her legs rhythmically as she waited for him to settle on his next move. “The game would be over much too quickly if it were not. Except…”

“Except it may just as well be now as well.” Her companion scowled, though his gaze never left the board.

Before she could reply, the door to the library creaked open. “Lia? Where are you?”

She heaved a breath, sliding out of her seat with an apologetic look and padding around the corner to the doorway. “I’m here, Mother.”

Her hand on her hip, Lady Hyacinth sighed, though it sounded more resigned than exasperated. “Of course you are. Heavens forbid we should find you properly socializing as opposed to ensconced in a library somewhere with your nose buried in a book.”

“I like reading, and I’m certain nobody even noticed my absence. It’s not as if any of them would want to dance with me, so learning is a much more efficient way to spend my time.”

“Learning and socializing need not be mutually exclusive, my dear. But no matter. Your father is ready to return home.”

Camellia nodded. “I’ll be just a moment.”

“Of course. It would not do to leave the room a mess.” Her mother smiled. “We’ll meet you in the entryway.”

When she returned to the onvu board, it was to find her opponent a little distance away and back to perusing a book in what was once again threatening to become a fort around him. He didn’t bother to look up as she drew near, though she couldn’t help but notice that his literature of choice was another manual on onvu strategy… and that his general had been tipped over on the board in a show of surrender.

She smiled, sweeping the pieces into their drawer. “Thanks for the company. I had fun.”

At that, he did glance towards her, eyes flicking so quickly that she almost missed it. “Good game.”

“You too. Rematch next time?”

Nearly at the corner, she paused, turning her head back just in time to see him shrug, though he did drag his gaze fully away from his book to meet her eyes.

Grinning wider at the acquiescence, reluctant though it might have been, she dropped into a brief curtsy before hurrying away.

[angstmongertina]

7KPP Week 2022: Day 4

Day Four - Fashion

Today’s post is basically just a snapshot of Lia’s closet. While she does have more... Arlish inspired clothing, many of her favorites and nicest dresses, the ones that she brings with her to the Summit, consist of more traditional Jiyelese hanfu. The simplest, pictured at the top, are what she is accustomed to wearing back home or when working or studying. The ones with more flowy lines and elaborate embroidery are saved for when she wants to make an impression (such as the one inspiring the previous Fashion post I made for 7KPP Week). And finaly, the last is what she might wear to her future wedding.

Yes, I was just really lazy today. Images taken from pinterest.

And because I can, two bonus images that don’t really fit the same theme under the cut:

Because I love these two pictures from my pinterest board for Camyon, I had to share them. First, an image evocative of Lia and their daughter, Lily.

Second, an image resembling Lily, now the older sister to a set of twins, Conan (reminiscent of the boy featured here) and Caden.

Because it occurs to me that I am not really planning on introducing the children at all this 7KPP Week so I thought I’d throw them in here, while I’m sharing an unreasonable number of images anyway.

[angstmongertina]

7KPP Week 2022: Day 2

Onward to day 2 of 7KPP Week. I’m already late but that’s because I wasn’t expecting to participate at all, but then I got slapped in the Camyon feels so here we are. This is technically more in the Childhood Friends AU, but it’s a relatively oblique reference lol.

Day Two - Family 

“Have you heard? Jiya got married.”

Looking up from the perusal of her own mail, Camellia blinked. “She did what? When?”

Across from her at the breakfast table, her father grinned, clearly relishing the attention. “Just a few days ago, as I understand it.”

Lady Hyacinth leaned forward, a concerned look on her face. “That is odd, don’t you think? One would assume that we would have heard something earlier, at least about an attachment, if not an engagement. And I thought she was selected to be a delegate.”

“I believe she was selected to be a delegate. That’s the curious part. I imagine the Crown is none too pleased at the moment. Such a carefully curated list, thrown off at the last moment.”

Her mother opened her mouth to say something in return, but before she could, Mrs. Lee slipped into the room, handing Lord Franklin an envelope. “A messenger just arrived from the capital, sir. He said it was urgent.”

He raised an eyebrow, running a light finger over the wax seal. “From the Council of Foreign Affairs? And addressed to…” He turned it over and hesitated, just long enough that she knew, she knew,, because why else would they, the untitled family of a small holding, have been contacted by the Council for Foreign Affairs?

“Well, there’s your answer, I think, Father.” She nodded toward the letter, keeping her voice carefully light, neutral. “The Crown has found a solution, almost just as quickly.”

“And quite an elegant one, too, one has to admit. After all, it isn’t as if they could just request the next highest score on the exam to attend without insult or bringing more headaches upon themselves Whereas Lia, on the other hand…” Lady Hyacinth shot her a smile before giving her husband a wry look. “And look, just a moment earlier, you had been so eager to share the gossip, too. It’s almost as if they knew.”

Lord Franklin groaned, though with no real irritation. “The universe is far too fond of irony, it appears.”

“Or perhaps you simply tempted fate too much, dear. At any rate, we do not have much time to decide. I’ve heard from the Chen’s that the delegates are due to set off for the Summit in only a few week’s time, and that her Weijun has been preparing for months, and he was hardly the top scorer on the exam.”

“I’m sure they all have, Mama. It would be simply illogical to take the examination, be selected for the Summit, and then do nothing to prepare for it.”

“Impudent brat. I know you know what I meant.”

She laughed, ducking the light-hearted swat from her mother’s fan, before letting the mirth fall. “I do, and you are right. Which means I should probably start preparing myself, if I want to have any hope of making a comparatively passable impression.”

“You’ve decided, then?”

She glanced at her father. The surprise in his voice was not wholly unexpected, but there was a hint of something more, something deeper, that flickered across his face, and she found herself looking away before her face could betray her.

No, he need not be reminded of the precarious balance they had achieved only with the Crown’s support, need not feel the sting of failure to provide for her future that she knew both he and her mother had grappled with for years.

No, this was her choice, her responsibility.

“I have.” She glanced towards her mother with a grin. “I can’t allow Lord Weijun’s mother to have all of the bragging rights, after all.”

Lady Hyacinth shook her head with a quiet chuckle. “He’s hardly the only other delegate to attend the Summit, my dear.”

“Perhaps not, but since Cousin Jiya is no longer attending, he’s the only other one I know.”

Her mother rolled her eyes, though the exasperation was belied by the fond amusement in her voice. “And whose fault is that? I know for a fact that even Duke Lyon himself has attended several of Jiya’s events, but you are the one who chose to hide in the library rather than socialize, are you not?”

She heaved a dramatic sigh. “Only the first time, but very well, I must concede your point. But at least I will be able to meet the rest at the Summit, and you will have your stories to share with the other mamas over Mahjong at the next tea.”

“All right, all right. If you’re sure, then it’s up to you. Just promise me you won’t spend your entire time at the Summit hiding in the library as well.”

“Well, I’ve heard that they do have a very expansive collection…” On her way to the doorway, she caught her mother’s raised eyebrow and sighed, dropping the levity. “But I understand. I won’t, I promise.”

“That’s my girl.”

“Lia.”

She paused, turning to meet her father’s gaze, serious and thoughtful.

“You’re sure about this?”

“Positive.”

He sighed, a heavy exhale that somehow seemed to carry the weight of years of guilt mingled with pride. “Very well. I suppose you’ve done more than enough for us now and you more than deserve this chance.” He hesitated for just a moment. “Just… be careful.”

“Of course.” She stooped, pressing a kiss to his cheek. “Thank you, papa.”

He cleared his throat. “Go on, then. We have a letter to write, and you work to do. And Lia?”

She froze, one hand resting on the handle. “Yes?”

He smiled, warm and fierce. “Thank you. We’re proud of you.”

[teaandinanity]

Day Three - Food

Y’all this is so long I do NOT know what happened.

I have broken Lyon’s date into more than one because a) the current mechanics do not actually make temporal sense, and b) they get engaged SUPER-fast as it is as an approved match so they NEED to spend more time together.

Fic under the cut.

It is marvelous to let herself be more, at the Summit; more present, louder, larger. She has spent so much of her life biting her tongue and making herself small for her own safety.

Now, she walks with long, leisurely strides, letting herself take up space and refusing to give way. She speaks in measured cadences, still quiet, but letting herself take up time and ensuring she is understood, refusing to be spoken over.

She feels somewhat smug about this, although she keeps the warm ember of it safely hidden away.

She eats slowly, too.

That requires far more will than the rest; a part of her still fears food will be taken away. 

But manners require her to take dainty bites and set down her fork between them, to sip slowly at her drink, to make pleasant conversation and not fix awed eyes on her improbably full plate. 

Manners dictate a great many things she would rather not do. She does them anyway, because they enable her to do the things she needs to do. She is making good progress with her goals, she thinks - so she can take a break to go and bother a certain library ghost.

–

The Duke is not visible from the door, which is probably by design. He is still not difficult to find.

She settles at his table, even though he has certainly not made her welcome. This is a public space, and she very much doubts the librarians will allow him to take his entire hoard of books back to his room. That will probably deter him from simply fleeing. So they’ll have a chance for conversation, however little interest he may have in it. For her own part, she is very interested in it; he was the most interesting person she spoke to at the welcome feast, so he will have to chase her away if he wants her gone.

She feels a bit like she’s ambushing him, but even just a few days in, everyone knows she doesn’t experience guilt or remorse when going after something she wants; she’s sure he won’t expect mercy on that front.

He looks up and his expression is not nearly resigned enough to make her apologetic. He even lowers the book! That’s practically an invitation. And because she’s curious, and it seems a reasonable opening gambit with another bibliophile, she asks,

“What were you reading, before I so cruelly interrupted?”

If he had not stopped reading, this would indeed be cruel, but he made eye contact and stopped reading before she even said anything, and thus the word is pure levity.

He still looks like he’s not sure why she’s here, but she really was just… seeking him out, to spend time with him. Which is idiotic - she very clearly heard him state an absolute disinclination to marry for politics (or even to have come to the Summit at all), and rumor already says he’s equally uninterested in forming diplomatic ties, or politicking.

He doesn’t strike her as the sort of person who says anything other than exactly what he thinks, so he can’t be a prospective match and he won’t be a useful contact.

And yet, here she is, all the same.

And he does, in fact, answer her question, so she’s being granted the conversation she wanted with substantially less invested effort than expected;

“The Historian Kellem Ives’s philosophical treatise on the ethical impetus upon those with the power to act upon significant events to intervene versus maintain neutrality to allow for unbiased documentation in terms of the impact on perdurable public good.”

She blinks, but that - makes perfect sense, actually. Maybe he’s more inclined to take an active hand than she’d thought, or others expect. He’s considering it, at any rate, or there’d be little point to reading such a treatise.

“Does Historian Ives have anything interesting to say on the subject? I can think of few people for whom such considerations would be more relevant than to delegates at the Summit.”

“It is an interesting discussion, but I’m uncertain as to its pertinancy in this case. It seems to me more of a treatise on regret, having made a decision he tries to justify living with.”

“Ah. And it is too soon in our own sagas for most of the principals to be burdened with an excess of regret. Do you have concerns about your own role here?”

She wonders if he’d admit it, if he did. If he’d tell her, when history tells her she has to overcome hurdles to persuade others to give her anything at all. So she adds, to soften that, to offer an alternate path for the conversation,

“Else it seems unlikely that you should coincidentally be reading something so potentially applicable to our present situation.”

“It isn’t coincidental at all. Unedited first edition copies of Historian Ives’s work are almost impossible to find, even at the Jiyel Royal Archives.”

He hasn’t quite answered her question, but that’s a kind of answer in and of itself. He’s hungry for knowledge the same way she is for safety and softness. For the rest - she laughs.

“I see; you are more interested in taking advantage of the Isle library than your position as a potential agent of change.”

“I… I confess, I haven’t become of one mind on the matter. And you, Lady Valeriya?”

She’s been told that when she smiles like this, she looks like a cobra spreading its hood, like a grinning jackal ready to crack bones in her jaws. Duke Lyon does not seem alarmed or intimidated in the least, and she likes him all the better for it.

“I am usually a creature of many minds, thank you for asking.”

Not alarmed at all; he looks impatient. It’s delightful. No one with sense has been impatient with her in ages.

“No,” he says, refusing to be diverted, “what are your thoughts on this matter?”

It’s inexpressibly strange that she finds it reassuring to be put on the spot and not allowed to escape, just because she’s so certain that he will not use her truths against her. She’s rarely ever been so certain of anyone so soon after becoming acquainted, but she feels very sure of him. The rabbit-flighty fear in the back of her mind is flopped belly-down and sprawling, utterly exposed and entirely unworried.

She hums, considering, letting her expression melt back to contemplative neutrality. It’s a good question, really; self-interest is all well and good, of course, but that’s not why any of them are here - not really. Even those who consider themselves entirely self-interested are here in the broadest historical sense because Princess Katyia brought seven nations to the table in pursuit of peace.

This is a novel situation, though; no one’s asked her to debate ethics in…

Ever? Possibly ever.

She wanted to take this opportunity and grow beyond herself, and here is a sterling opportunity. Something entirely, delightfully fresh and new.

“Well,” she says slowly, “I think the idea of maintaining historical neutrality makes a poor substitute for creating history you can be proud to own, instead.” She warms to the subject and her hands get involved. “Accurate accounts are all well and good, that future generations might learn from them, but they do nothing to address the ills of those suffering in the present. Present harm must take precedence over a hypothetical future in which an unbiased account of said harm could potentially be of use. That is only deferred action, and such a deferral allows things to worsen in the meantime.”

If she had done nothing, only accepted her lot and noted it down in a diary, she would be a shade of herself. She might be dead in truth, but even if her body lived, her spirit would have been broken by the life others meant her to lead. And no one would ever read that diary, because she would never have mattered enough to be worth taking note of.

She meets his eyes when she stops, realizing she’s looked away, that she’s breaking a great many conversational rules; talking too quickly, by the end, looking away from her conversational partner. He meets her eyes evenly and says,

“You speak so passionately on the subject, I can almost forget your argument is essentially flawed.”

She thinks she might have been less shocked if he’d slapped her, and she finds herself grinning again, too many teeth and leaning forward as her pulse ticks up. Why does anyone say Jiyelians are cold and boring to talk to? This is better than piquet.

“How so?”

“We do not have the power to predict or control the ripples and after-effects of our decisions. How can we in good conscience play with hypothetical fire, knowing full well that not only can we be burned by it, but so too can anyone who is around us, or even many innocents we will never see or meet?”

She relaxes back into her seat again, more thoughtful. He IS worried about his role here - and it’s reasonable for him to be so; there is a great deal of weight given to the word of a Duke. She has to fight to take up space; he has very probably had to fight not to be given more than any creature could want. If he does exert the power he has, it will be considerable, and he’s plainly unused to the application of it. But the sort of people who ought to worry about how their actions will affect others are always those least likely to do so; the ones who cause the most collateral damage so often simply don’t care who they hurt.

He cares enormously. And with so much power, perhaps it is true that a poorly-chosen action could cause greater harm than allowing a current wrong to go unchecked. Perhaps.

But then again - perhaps not.

She stares too long, studying him. He doesn’t look at all discomposed by her scrutiny.

If he’s inclined to act, she thinks Duke Lyon will do it for the right reasons - and do it with the care and good sense to minimize consequences, however uncomfortable he is with politics.

“To be human is to err,” she muses, “but I truly believe that it is only in doing nothing that we could truly fail. When our fear wins, we leave the field clear for those who do not care what damage they wreak. To be wise enough to recognize the weight of the responsibility, compassionate enough to care what results, and brave enough to try, regardless - that is what we should all aspire to. We owe our best to the people who are depending on us, but no one can reasonably demand that we be more - or less - than human in the attempt.”

There’s a turn of something almost distressed around his mouth, at that.

“How can you speak of failure so lightly?”

Oh, she doesn’t. Failure is terrifying, and she has spent her life walking on the narrowest rail above it and praying her balance holds. She is here for the sake of her own ambition, true, but -

Not only that. No one will ever believe her, but she is here for more than that. She wants so much, and much of it is selfish. But it is, she thinks, possible to be greedy without wanting to hurt anyone. Covetous without being cruel.

She does not want to take the things she needs away from others who need them more. She does not want to eat the world, only to find enough comfort and kindness in it to see herself happy and safe. Failing in that means misery. Failing in her other goals may mean war.

And yet:

“The worst failure of all is the failure to try. History looks kindly on those who have tried to do the right thing for the greater good. They do not always succeed, and sometimes their success comes at great cost, but even in their failures they give us something to aspire to. We all wish to believe that no matter how dark things may get, however viciously selfish those around us may be, some people will always be brave and good and just.”

It may be a lie, but it is a beautiful one; she retreated into stories and history to hide, first from her mother and then from her marriage, for a reason.

She concludes,

“So even the failures inspire and teach the future, like your historian’s accounts - but they don’t need some mythical ideal of neutrality to do it.”

She’s not sure he’s persuaded. He doesn’t look sure either, though, which is more consideration than she expected to win. He hasn’t dismissed her argument entirely out of hand, at least.

Things draw to a close not too long after, but this certainly hasn’t put her off seeking him out again. She feels invigorated and relaxed the same way one does after a brisk walk or a long ride; she’ll sleep well tonight, mind sated and full.

–

Her next trip to the library sees Duke Lyon in the same spot. If she hadn’t seen him at lunch, she’d think he hadn’t moved at all. Regardless, he has, quite plainly, been here for a while. He is thoroughly entrenched, well-defended from attempts at socialization between the book battlements and his own intimidating aloofness.

Or, well, she has heard people gossiping about his intimidating aloofness; that seems to be the prevailing perception of his quiet. He has not seemed aloof to her, only shy and perhaps a little bored - and both vanish quickly in the face of any expended effort, because she’s found him unfailingly delightful to interact with. 

He certainly doesn’t look bored now, devouring the library as if he fears the knowledge they contain will be withheld unless he swallows it all down in one great gulp.

That does make her wonder. She approaches without an invitation she will certainly not get, absorbed as he is, and then compounds her rudeness by opening with a question rather than a greeting:

“If I ask you something, will you promise to answer honestly?”

He glances up at her but does not put the book down. It is refreshing to talk to someone who isn’t snubbing her out of spite when he makes it clear she is not the most interesting thing in the room.

"I prefer to be honest in general. Yes, I promise to be honest, but I don't promise to answer."

He is so precise in his language, and it sends a little frisson of delight up her spine; he says just what he means, and means it whole-heartedly, and so everything he says is true. She wants to settle in more comfortably, but this is important;

"Seeing this pile has given me a sinking suspicion. When was the last time you ate anything?"

He doesn’t respond. His expression suggests that he is having to give actual thought to the question. This is not him withholding an answer, it is him refusing to offer a vague approximation of the truth or a white lie.

Right. She nods decisively and turns for the door, saying,

“I'll be right back."

She steps out of the library again and catches the eye of a passing servant. There won’t be a proper meal ready, not this long after dinner, but that shouldn’t be a problem. 

“I imagine there’s some kind of soup or porridge going in the kitchen - could you bring a bowl for Duke Lyon? I would not normally ask for such a thing to be brought around so many books, but he isn’t sure when last he ate, and I’m sure none of us want him to pass out. If that isn’t practicable, perhaps some nuts or dried fruit and a bit of bread and cheese?”

That should be a sufficient list to make something perfectly edible appear in short order - none of it requires preparation, and all of it should be immediately to hand in any large kitchen that isn’t egregiously mismanaged (which Vail Isle’s certainly is not).

She strides back into the library with the satisfaction of a task efficiently dispensed with.

Lyon is exactly as he was when she first entered; ensconced amidst the books, reading at an improbable clip and only very occasionally slowing down - probably when he encounters something new. She watches for another moment, but he does not look up. Her mouth wants to curve into a fond little smile, and since there’s no one here to see but him, and he is too distracted to notice, she allows it out onto her face.

She modulates her expression to something more socially appropriate before she steps right up to the table, making herself a little more obtrusive. His head comes up and he blinks at her, clear perplexity on his face. 

(It’s adorable.)

“...you are back.”

Yes, obviously. She lets her own confusion wrinkle her brow.

“I said I would be.”

She’s sure she did - ‘I’ll be right back,’ and then she stepped out into the hall. She didn’t even go very far.

He’s studying her, as if she’s said more than that. As if there’s some deeper meaning to be gleaned from such a superficial exchange. He said what he meant, she said what she meant, she left temporarily, she came back. Why would it be more than that?

Well. It could have been. Certainly, some people excuse themselves ‘temporarily’ when they really mean to escape a conversation; she did it herself the first night, aiming Princess Ana’s somewhat overwhelming enthusiasm at Princess Gisette simply because that lady happened to be looking their direction when Valeriya cast about for a reason to cut the exchange short. But she didn’t lie to him, and she thinks he would have known if she did.

She’s still frowning at him in confusion when he finally says,

“...iit wouldn't be the first time."

She manages to keep from laughing, but she knows her eyes must be curved in mirth. Ah, expectations! Well, she’s been determined to prove herself more than she’s been allowed to be; it will be a far more pleasant pursuit in this case. She lets the smile out a little more and teases,

“Ah, do your literary fortifications tend to deter people from laying social siege? Do you chase the young ladies away with intellectual debate?”

 "...not usually on purpose."

She wants, desperately, to keep teasing him. It would be deeply improper - would, in fact, be outright rude - but she wants to. It’s almost a compulsion. Thankfully, that’s when the food arrives, so she doesn’t have to consider the matter further.

The servant she originally flagged down has brought assistants, and the trio are laden down with silver platters filled with food and a pitcher of iced-fruit drink. It’s far more than she asked for, a considerable spread, and it certainly cannot be permitted on top of the manuscript mountain Lyon has accumulated around himself.

So she gestures to one of the empty tables near the great windows, instead, farther from the shelves. It still feels almost sacrilegious to have so much food near books, a feeling she’s sure the Duke must share. The spread turns out to be comprised largely of what she’d asked for, just in greater quantities than expected, with the addition of some cold meat and leftover pastries.

“Thank you,” she tells the servants with a smile, and they file out after politely bowing or bobbing a curtsey. She supposes she’ll have to find another member of staff when they finish eating, to take the dishes away; they certainly can’t just leave them here to attract pests.

She turns back to Lyon and finds him examining the now-well-laden table and her with equal surprise.

Ah. No, she didn’t explain what she was leaving for, did she? She’d thought it was obvious, but perhaps not.

“Come,” she says, ignoring that and plucking at his sleeve, “I’m sure you’ll remember how hungry you are once you’ve had a few bites.”

A mind can be very good at ignoring the body, when it needs to be. Sometimes even when it doesn’t need to be. And she gets the decided impression that Duke Lyon lives primarily in his head.

He does, in fact, devour three entire plates before he even looks up; she, meanwhile, has pulled a bowl of almonds close to hand, and pinched a few of the dried apple slices (how is she meant to ignore so great a temptation? She’s already resisted teasing, she cannot reasonably be expected to resist sweets as well).

She sees him glance over and stills her hands. Ladies are not supposed to snack outside of meals; she always has, usually surreptitiously and quickly. Anything she got needed to be eaten quickly to make sure Maryusa didn’t take it or tell their mother, who insisted her firstborn should miss more meals, that she was too fat.

(In hindsight, she realizes that she was a healthy child, round in the way of most children; they carry a little padding because their bodies are growing, because they will need to store energy for the process.)

She smiles, tries to keep it light but not entirely vapid, and excuses herself with the truth; 

“I’m afraid my noisy seatmates rather spoiled my appetite at dinner this evening."

Lyon takes another bite, contemplating, and then asks,

"What happened at dinner?"

She playacts at shock that he’s initiating conversation, gasping theatrically, but when he seems genuine in his desire to know, she launches into the tale of how she (a much-put-upon heroine!) had to prevent her seatmates from murdering each other.

Whoever is responsible for seating clearly has it in for her; the only one of her quartet of seatmates who wasn’t actively escalating was the young man from Skalt, who only got riled because everyone persists in calling the whole delegation barbarians to their faces. Nearly everything that was said by the other three was rude, counterfactual, or both.

Eviscerating their opinions (almost entirely wrong) for an attentive and apparently amused audience is the most fun she’s had all day.

–

She thinks nothing of it when, the next time she joins him in the library, there is a little bowl of almonds on the table. They are appropriate snacks for a library (dry, tidy), and certainly by now the servants know that to get the Duke to eat you must put food near him, because he will not voluntarily interrupt his seclusion within his book fortress.

She takes a handful automatically, quieting the anxiety that hovers in the back of her mind, delighted to have both the reassurance and such excellent company.

–

When she joins him in the library at midmorning, a few days later, there is a little bowl of shelled hazelnuts waiting where she usually sits, and this time she considers its presence more carefully. It is not at Lyon’s shoulder, where he can absently reach for it. It is not the almonds that were here last time.

It’s hazelnuts - her favorite. They’d had them at a group breakfast the day previous and she’d had to forcibly restrain herself from taking the rest of the bowl with her when she left the dining room.

She blinks up and finds him watching her, rather than looking down at his book. Studying, still. Looking for a reaction.

So she lets herself beam at him, and pops one into her mouth, savoring it.

[teaandinanity]

Day 2 - Family

I thought about making this about Valya’s horrible birth family but then Tina gave me wonderful ideas and listened to me flail and encouraged me so we are having Fluff Hours instead.

Thank you Tina! <3

[snip]

The game is long-standing, by the time their daughter learns to read - they have been playing almost as long as they have shared a household. Nadia has very rarely found any of the slips before, and hasn’t found any for several months. They tend to keep them to places they think the other is likely to look, because the point isn’t to keep them hidden, just to make them a pleasant surprise when they’re found.

This time, Nadia has opened the book before her mother, intending to ask for a shared favorite tale (she still likes to follow along more than she likes sounding things out herself, impatient with her own slower speed), and so her tiny hands are the ones that pick up the paper.

“Mama, what does it say?”

“Why don’t you tell me? I’ll help you if you have trouble with a word.”

One delicate little finger traces under the characters and her daughter says, slow and intent,

“Forests that have no trees, rivers that are dry, cities with no buildings, what am I?”

And oh. It’s simpler than anything he’s ever left for her, so simple, simple enough that their little daughter can read it and put in a place where she would find it.

It’s an invitation, bringing their daughter into the game.

Valeriya’s heart is an over-ripe plum in summer, soft and too-warm. She loves him. It feels like it’s always been true, and yet, every day; more.

[teaandinanity]

Day One - First

HELLO FRIENDS IT IS 7KPP WEEK AGAIN please brace yourselves if this isn’t what you’re here for and/or blacklist one of the relevant tags down there at the bottom.

For day one, I chose to look at Valya’s first marriage, because she knew going into it that it was going to be a fucking nightmare. (:

--

Valeriya has a great many fears on her wedding day. Many fears, but no regrets.

Her husband is a vicious man; her fear of him is justified, but cruelty will not be markedly different in coming from a husband rather than her blood kin. She will be fed, here; she will be stronger, strong enough to bear with more, and it is probable she will face less. She is a light sleeper already, and she will be permitted to sleep separately from her husband even if she will not be allowed to entirely avoid his bed. She is light-footed, good at avoidance, good at dodging, good at soothing uncertain tempers. Valeriya will pretend to be hurt worse than she is, pretend to be more cowed than she will be, and if she must, she will kill him.

Her husband finds her beautiful; her fear of her wedding night is unavoidable. She knows what to expect, to some extent. She will pretend to be shy and missish to cover some of her distaste, make use of pharmacological assistance to dull her own revulsion. She has made the acquaintance of a local woman who specializes in herbal remedies, playing up her youth and her fear; the herbwife has offered her something to soothe her husband’s temper but which, with a slight adjustment to dosage, will often make him too lethargic to attend to his marital duties. Valeriya will avoid what she can, bear what she cannot avoid, and if she must, she will kill him.

She has a tea ready in her luggage, tucked inside a decorative sachet alongside a bit of scented felt. She will not fall pregnant. This is not the rest of her life. She will not allow it to be.

Her husband is not in good health. Her husband is not sufficiently cruel or violent to kill her out of hand. If he becomes so, she will kill him. No matter what, he will predecease her by decades.

She will survive this. She will survive this, and her parents will never have power over her again. They could only sell her into marriage once, and she made sure she was sold dearly, far more dearly than they would have bothered to do. She has made sure that she was sold beyond their reach.

She will be a baroness. They will not be able to compel her to anything, ever again. Her mother would have sold her into a miserable marriage and gloated to see her shackled for the rest of her life. Her family see her marriage as an end to her aspirations and her dreams, to everything about her that has been inconvenient, troublesome, too much.

This is the end of nothing.

She will survive this, and then her life can begin.

[angstmongertina]

7KPP Week 2022: Day 3

Because, at least in Jiyel, cut fruit is a love language and making food is a family bonding activity. Also known as: The moment all of Grenwold knew that Lyon was definitively a member of the family.

Yes, I am also confused by all of the fluff. WHO AM I?

Day Three - Food

Regardless of how long she has spent away, regardless of how long she has been moved into her new home, the rooms and passages of her parents’ manor at Grenwold will always be as familiar as the back of her hand. She smiles, weaving her way past servants, both recognized and new, with a nod, but does not stop, cannot stop, because she knows where she is needed. She knows in her very bones that every time she visits home without fail, the kitchens will be full of bustle and she will not—dare not—miss it.

Even before she enters the room, she can hear the chatter, the warm, rich tones of her mother, the quiet, deep baritone of her father, and she can picture them in her mind’s eye before she turns the corner, animated eyes and bright faces and light-fingered hands in constant motion, dusty with flour, creating rows and rows of neatly folded dumplings.

They look up when she enters but without a pause in their discussion, something about the moderate success of their tenants’ newest crop rotation, but she sees the open seat to Lady Hyacinth’s left, the pair of chopsticks and row of covered balls of dough, and for a moment, she finds that she cannot interject into the conversation, even if she wants to.

Instead, she settles into her seat, dodging floury smudges as she kisses her mother’s cheek, and picks up the rolling pin. The motion is half-remembered at first, the wrapper uneven and misshapen, formed by fingers now more used to holding a quill than culinary tools, but the rhythm is still there, comforting in its constance, in its timeless familiarity.

“A little lopsided there,” her father interrupts his discussion to comment, amusement dancing in the crinkles of his eyes, and she makes a face in response to his light laughter. “Looks like you need more practice.”

“Should we switch then?” she counters, and this too is familiar, the faux disappointment as he shakes his head, the fond exasperation as he passes over his own rolled out wrappers, each one a neat circle, without protest, and she relaxes as she settles into the folding process and the customary banter on the virtues of knowing how to roll out one’s own dough compared to the expediency of focusing on the part of the process that she is much more competent at, thank you very much.

For several long moments, it feels almost as though nothing has changed, until…

“Lia?”

“In here,” she calls, and it is only when Lyon enters the room and stops, sharp eyes examining her from head to foot, that she remembers the flour which always somehow, inevitably, covers her like powdered snow, and finds herself fighting a truly illogical urge to blush.

In contrast, her mother does not falter, wiping her hands on a towel before rising to her feet in a fluid motion. “Ah, Duke Lyon, I see you’ve found us. We’re making dumplings. Come and join us.”

Almost before she is even aware, another position has been set up to her left, her father passing over another set of chopsticks and dough in quick succession while her mother pulls over another chair, and it isn’t until he has folded himself into the seat beside her that she notices the hesitation in his movements, the way his gaze lingers on her hands as she tightly pleats the edges of another dumpling.

“Do you always make your own dumplings?”

She hums, reaching for another wrapper. “Typically, yes. Between making the filling and all of the folding, it is far more efficient for everyone to work together than for only a select few to make them for everyone.”

“And it has always been an excuse for everyone to sit down together.” Her father leans forward, though she rather suspects that it is less about reaching for the filling than it is to look around her toward her husband. “The experience itself provides an opportunity to come together as a family and spend time together.”

“Or, at least, a uniquely bonding experience that is different from sharing a meal or something else of that nature. It was something that I enjoyed doing with my parents, and something that we have passed down to Lia.” Her mother reaches for her own wrapper, holding it out, flat on her palm, as she meets Lyon’s gaze, warm and encouraging. “And to you, if you would like.”

It is an invitation, and even more than that, it is an acceptance, and if her smile is a little shaky as she watches him imitate her, the rest of her family are thankfully all much too distracted to notice.