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Sangonomiya Kokomi's wedding day sweeps in like a winter storm, the waves crashing into her and carrying her beyond the shore, led adrift to the steps of the shrine. Marriage is inevitable for someone of her status, but Kokomi has sometimes hoped to stave it off for another year, another, another.
No matter.
To crystallize the peace between the Narukami and Watatsumi peoples, she ties her fate to Kamisato Ayaka. The heron stands with her shoulders pulled back and head held high, a serene smile on her face the whole time as she crosses into the ceremonial hall in her unerringly white kimono, looking every bit like the title her people proclaim for her.
Everything about their wedding breaks their own traditions. The Watatsumi shrine maidens swallow a bitter pill, clench their fists knuckle-white when they perform the rituals together with the red-clad Narukami girls. The incense they burn smells nothing like the sea-god wood long seared into her mind.
Kokomi raises her cups of liquor and tea and downs three of them in time with her Kamisato bride; the taste of the last mixture almost makes Kokomi wince in front of the silent crowd.
She will write of how Kamisato Ayaka's eyes finally betray the first hint of worry when they’re finally alone that night, the corners of her lips finally thawing to show that yes, she's human too.
But if Kamisato Ayaka notices her shaking hands, exhausted after a day of waving to the crowds standing in greeting despite the harsh snows, she says nothing.
Her stare lingers, just a second too long, before she turns away, throat bobbing.
*
She hesitates to say that their marriage was decided on a whim.
Certainly, the idea of binding Sangonomiya by laws, blood, tradition, is something that has mulled in their minds for months. Each time General Kujou arrives with the commission's entourage to participate in the peace talks, they part without knowing how long the peace might last. She knows fully well that the few eligible candidates – worthy of her most divine excellency – are given much thought over the months, including the general herself even, but it takes the elders arriving on the name Ayato, and a vehement protest that a once-disgraced leader cannot be trusted that a soft, but firm voice volunteers for the unenviable job.
From there, things spiral.
Watatsumi's naysayers will never quite dare to rise against the Sangonomiya-led peace, but–
It comes close. A scuffle along the shores even after that incident with the Fatui, and there's no saying no. She writes back to say yes after a fortnight of thought. The moon wanes, and the waves leap under the new moon.
The Kamisato-sealed scroll smells faintly of sakura, a scent wholly alien to her.
*
In truth, Kokomi barely sees much of her new bride. There's much to be done, for both of them, in the aftermath of a war that has scarred the country. Yes, they are seen together, often, out in the streets of the villages, their long day trips punctuated by calls for the Divine Priestess to kiss a newborn's forehead. Beside her in her ceremonial kimono, Ayaka is the perfectly demure picture of kind elegance, her voice light and charming despite the pointed questions that some have the audacity to direct at her when they think Kokomi doesn't hear them. But in the night, they retire to their own rooms, Ayaka to a newly refurbished suite, and Kokomi to her cave whenever she can.
Ayaka tries talking to her, but–
Ah, Kokomi muses, it is hard for her. Kokomi only wishes to melt into paper, into the heady inks and dusty books.
The realisation comes as spring dawns.
She doesn’t notice him, not at first, but she certainly does when one of her attendants inform her that the maids have all been murmuring about his presence. What’s he doing here? Do they not trust the Sangonomiya household, that they have to bring in one of their own? And was it him that they might’ve heard sneaking around at night?
Kokomi has shushed their concerns quickly. There’s nothing wrong with bringing a friend. She’d have done the same, if she was the one required to live in her spouse’s home every half-year. If Gorou is unconcerned about Thoma, then she trusts his judgement.
But he comes to her before Ayaka is due to leave.
“You know, you could try talking to her.” He fiddles with the stick in his hands, the scent of grilled unagi emanating in the air. At least someone in this place appreciates seafood. “Let’s see… you like games, no? Milady is skilled in all the arts – Go, Shogi… next time, hm?”
(Anyone else would probably be punished for their impertinence. But she’s not that kind of ruler.)
As per their agreement, Ayaka departs with a small party, escorted by two sets of generals, one stiffly and formally, the other with a spring (or at least, as much as he can muster next to someone who’s tried to kill him prior) in his step. The spring and summer festivals on Narukami Island must command her time and attention, and at this distance, it'll be nigh impossible for the Yashiro Commission's most favoured to perform her duties.
Kokomi watches her go, the stone in her heart dropping to its depths.
*
In her absence, Kokomi almost forgets she's married until the spring festival on her own island, when an older lady clicks her tongue and wonders aloud about Ayaka's attendance.
"Sangonomiya-sama, I mean no disrespect, but does your wife mean to dishonour your marriage?"
She nearly stumbles against a pebble before General Gorou pulls her back.
Wife.
She denies it, repeating the platitudes that they recited at their wedding. Gorou tries not to laugh aloud when she insists that it is a part of this new world, the new peace that allows their worlds to coexist. If she says it enough, she’ll believe them true too. She must not sound convincing enough, for the old lady tuts and her tottering grandchildren titter as they walk away.
That evening, when Kokomi picks her brush up to write in her journal, she pauses, the pig-hair of her brush hovering over the inkstone. Setting it down, she thinks as she grounds out circles with the inkstick methodically, feeling the day’s challenges finally wash away from her tense shoulders with each loop made.
She sets her journal aside and pulls out some paper.
Dear Ayaka–
Is that right, using her first name like that?
Her mind spins with teachings on protocol, but she cannot remember if the Narukami people have a different way of addressing their spouses made through political ties. She was likely never taught, she muses, since she never expected this union.
Soon, though, she finds that letter writing is easier than talking to Ayaka. It feels little different from journal writing, if she doesn’t think too hard about its intended recipient. (It helps that the distance between their islands stretches considerably.)
Dear Ayaka,
The spring blooms have come to Watatsumi. Allow me to enclose a flower in this seashell. They remind me of you. Flowers don’t often bloom in Watatsumi, but the few that do are lovely.
(She’s pretty, and that’s all Kokomi really knows even now. Her throat wells up with something; she’s resolved to treat her people as her people, but with her marital partner she’s sealed her away like a stranger from another land. Which, in effect, she is.
But Kokomi wants to be able to call her Ayaka, and not have the doubt seal her mouth. Kokomi knows what it’s like to perform all the time, of the energy it must require, and she regrets not asking if Ayaka was unhappy.)
I wonder, have you had one of our filled buns yet? In spring, our people return to the seas for the ocean’s catch. Perhaps it’s different from the meats and fruits abundant in your homeland, but perhaps you might enjoy something new?
Her messenger coughs to hide his surprise the package that she places in her hand, chirpily instructing that she wants to bring her wife something from their island before the season passes. The gifts she encloses in the box contain items that she’s confirmed with her attendants wouldn’t spoil by the time they reach Narukami, not in the still-cool weather.
She murmurs her hope into the salty breeze: I hope you like them.
*
“Welcome back. I trust that you had a good journey–”
Wife.
The word still catches on her tongue, barely blowing past her teeth when she steps out to greet them. Above them, the moon is full yet again, almost as golden as the leaves in her garden. Ayaka’s hair gleams in the moonlight, and it’s all she can do to stare, entranced, before remembering that she should finish her greeting.
“Shall we? I know you had a long journey, but,” she swallows the day’s exhaustion away, “I think I owe you a few games of chess. I’ve had my attendants prepare some desserts I hope you’d like.” Courtesy of Thoma’s advice and a proof of the Narukami Island’s goodwill with trading the country’s sugar stocks.
Ayaka smiles – small, tremulous, but genuine. She lets Kokomi take her hand, one sword-calloused, one petal-smooth, as they head inside.