What to do, what to write…well, with a prompt like this from TA Leederman – They dined upon the eight-course meal of her people, celebrating her ancestors’ tenacity in the face of adversity… as well their more creative approach to using any available protein sources under the sun – and this week’s visual inspiration involving this little adorable guy, what else could I possibly do but combine them?

Isn’t he cute? I want one. Nice job, Midjourney.

Gin clutched Mittkin’s hand – safely under the table, for propriety’s sake. Such a violation of norms would be overlooked during Mittkin’s first family visit, and since all future visits depended on him accepting their norms – well, that would suffice as sacrosanct agreement for their marriage pact to forgive occasional overt displays of affection from an off-worlder.

All he had to do was make it through an evening of high protocol without giving offense, prompting any omens, or being challenged to a duel.

Her fingers tightened on his.

Tonight, they dined upon the eight-course meal of her people, celebrating her ancestors’ tenacity in the face of adversity… as well their more creative approach to using any available protein sources under the sun. And beyond it, as it turned out, into the depths.

“I’m only allowed to help you so much,” she murmured. “It’s a test for me, too.”

He squeezed back. “I know. It’s all right.”

Mittkin’s fingers remained tense in hers, belying his confident words.

Across the table, her mother’s bright silver eyes caught hers, shining underneath the royal coronet. Gin nodded, deemed the brief touch about to provoke a frown of disapproval and released his hand. Folding her hands properly – above the table, this time, for all to see that she was as unarmed – or, at least, as anyone might expect from a scion of the House of Sluggat, who was never fully unarmed.

Mittkin might not live the night, but her ability to rule – and stay on planet – would be determined by his choices in unfamiliar situations, as his ethics were presumed to reflect hers.

Liveried servants approached, trays in hand and not-always-ceremonial daggers near their free hands, as tradition demanded.

“The first course,” a familiar voice intoned. Swirling amethyst and emerald irises met hers, a combination she’d only ever seen from her first bodyguard and primary tutor. Until she’d gone off planet for the independence test, Aknon had been by her side. He gave her a nod, steady as always, without the promise of false hope.

Aknon lifted the cloche from Mittkin’s plate first – again as tradition demanded, for the one challenging for the heir’s hand.

Gin thought she was already sick of traditions, but this one left her catching a gasp. Smothering her reaction, the young adult steeled her nerves and forced her racing pulse to slow.

On the plate, a teardrop-shaped sea slug with a single eye faced Mittkin, its gaze round and unblinking. Its pale orange body – the color of undersea royalty, the color of salvation during the colony’s dread years – undulated slightly with liquid sways.

Only the royal family – and Aknon – knew how much her beloved childhood companion Saffron meant to her. Not even Mittkin. She’d planned to introduce them after they’d survived the formal dinner.

No one from Sluggat would dare to harm one of the undersea, let alone the princess who’d been fostered with the colony’s mostly-human heir.

Long moments passed.

“I am afraid, my honored hosts,” Mittkin finally said quietly, “that this creature is unfamiliar to me. However, it shows signs of awareness, and intelligence. Despite this being a meal, I dare not eat it.”

Saffron’s eye ridges wiggled in what Gin knew to be a grin, and her head protuberance unrolled to extend a white pearl.

Mittkin took the offering. “It is a meal,” he said, addressing the sea slug. “Do I eat this instead, or is it symbolic?”

The golden-yellow appendage motioned toward his mouth.

He ate it, a shocked look covering his face momentarily. The flavor, she knew, changed depending on what the consumer needed at the moment. Perhaps his grandmother’s apricot pastries, the ones he’d tried and failed to recreate for her.

Her own cloche was lifted quietly away. As she accepted her own pearl, Gin held back tears of relief, railing internally with despair she dared not show. Mittkin had passed, for now. Had he dared to reach for fork and knife…Saffron’s poison spikes would have ended the test, though not the meal.

Now she could explain to Mittkin how her people had survived the early years. The alliance depended on secrecy, since no one had bothered to inform the Empire that the planet had held a sentient species already. Not after the colony had been abandoned for decades with limited supplies and no comms, until some ponce bureaucrat had arrived in tight pants claiming taxation rights. The bureaucrat sat in his palace on the hill, ignored and uninvited.

All for the best, she decided. The ponce would have failed, and then they’d have a slew of dead ambassadors to explain to the Empire.

She swallowed hard. Yes, thinking of bureaucracy was the way to get through this evening without breaking the regal expectations.

Traditionally, of course, the first course was the easiest.

***

Thanks for the prompt, TA Leederman! Mine went to AC Young.

Find more, over at More Odds Than Ends.