(no subject)
Title: Rising
Author: yamikinoko
Recipient: ningicoco
Rating: T
Characters/Pairings: LanFan + Mei, Ling cameo
Warning(s): Maybe have spoilers for end of any FMA series...? Regarding Ling, Lanfan, Mei, and Al, anyway.
Summary: It doesn't quite make sense, how they have come to this, whatever this is.
Notes: Ohmuhgosh--I didn't expect to have this much trouble with this fic! I apologize in advance for the general vagueness and incoherency of it all. I've only read the manga, so I have no idea how the government of Xing works. I kind of speculated it's kind of like ancient China, so the mannerisms of the characters will follow an English version of ancient Chinese protocol. [For instance, the siblings of the Emperor are referred to by their order of birth, for example, Big Sister, Second Sister, Third Sister, etc.] And correct me if I'm wrong, but I do seem to remember that there are 50 clans in Xing, and the Emperor takes a concubine from each clan... Well, I guess at worst, it would be a sort of AU fic. I'm deeply sorry if this is not what you were looking for.
The first month (and the second, the third, and the fourth months) in the reign of Emperor Ling is fraught with tension-the Royal Palace fairly hums with it. The Yao Clan posts guards in every corridor, a pair at every door. The Emperor moves about his Palace with no less than a full contingent of the most loyal, most honored of Yao warriors, armed to the teeth and bristling with a distrust bred of countless centuries of strife. Before the Emperor enters any room, it is meticulously and systematically searched for potential threats; before the Emperor takes a bite, a single sip of any meal, it is tested and tasted for poison.
The Yao are paranoid, yes, but this is the chance they have been anticipating for centuries, and they are not about to let a wayward assassination attempt take their glory away from them. They smother their Emperor in yards of the finest silks, cage him with hordes of pedigreed young men, both militant and erudite-they want to keep him safe.
They do not understand that safe is a single yin mask and an oddly gentle temper. (They never will.)
-----
LanFan guards the magnificent double-doors of the Emperor’s quarters with her second cousin, an equally gifted fighter, but still it galls her to be on this side of the door, and not at the Young Master’s side, where she ought to be.
You are a woman, the Elders said, You have done your duty, and your family shall be honored among our Clan, for as long as the Sun continues its course in the Sky. She says nothing, and her head remains bowed, in respect, in submission. You will continue to guard him-this is your duty. But you are a woman, and it is improper, and thus you will remain at his side no longer.
Those are the orders, and this is her duty. The yin mask on her face remains as stoic as ever, but behind it, the corners of her lips twist downwards as she wonders whether or not the Young Master’s new guards (honored brothers, honored uncles) know to remind the Young Master to eat, and to sleep, or even if they dare to do so.
From the haggard appearance Young Master’s face has taken lately, it isn’t likely.
LanFan’s heart beating in her chest hurt. She may be ill.
-----
She is the Emperor’s Honorable Sister. It should be no surprise that they should see each other in the palace-in fact, it ought to be expected. Nevertheless, on this misty-cold morning, their eyes meet for the first time in a long while from the ends of the hallway-they both freeze, and it is an involuntary movement, like that of the hare in the shadow of the hawk.
They are past the point where they hate each other, where they would attack each other on sight, but neither are things comfortable between them.
She may have pleaded for the Chang, but having known all her life rival clan meant enemy, the habit is a hard one to break. She may have been grateful for the interference on behalf of the Chang Clan, but insignificant and poor though her kinsmen may be, they are still proud.
Neither of them moves at first.
Xiao Mei squeaks in the rigid silence, reflecting her mistress’ discomfort, and Mei finally forces her limbs into action, though she would like nothing more than to leave and come back another time. Her slippered feet make hardly a sound as she walks down the corridor, yet her footfalls are clumsily loud in her own ears, and each step seems to take longer than the last. (Perhaps they do, as a result of limbs gone stiff with tension and awkwardness.)
She does not look at the yin mask as she (finally) reaches her destination, fixing her gaze instead on the ornate doors of the Emperor’s private quarters, and speaks to the lacquered wood,
“Mei Chang requests an audience with her Most Esteemed Brother, the Emperor of Xing.”
LanFan says nothing, does not move as Second-Cousin responds in the formulaic, and passes through the doors to announce the arrival of Seventeenth Sister (the way LanFan herself is not allowed to do). For a moment, they are alone, standing in the dim glow of oil lamps, and the heady smell of incense that wafts through the open doorway from the Emperor’s chambers.
“How are you?” Mei finally asks, because it is not in her nature to ignore a former ally. She soothes Xiao Mei’s squeak of surprise with a light pat to the head.
LanFan responds quietly, a bit unsure how to do so, “I have been… well. …And how are-a thousand pardons, and continued good health to Her Highness.”
It is a strange exchange, as the royalty do not ask regarding the wellbeing of the hired help, and servants certainly do not request answers of their betters. All the same, her proper answer is not one that invites further conversation, and it is thus that they stand in silence until Second-Cousin returns.
“If Her Honored Highness would please follow me, the Esteemed Emperor is ready to receive you.”
Even then, LanFan only bows, low at the waist as is required until the door swings shut once more.
-----
Another week passes in monotony for LanFan. She stands vigilantly at her post during the day, she patrols the hallways during the night, she returns to her guard upon the approach of dawn, with a short rest in between. It is dull, tireless, thankless work for a sovereign she hardly glimpses anymore, but LanFan does not complain.
(How can she, when the Young Master’s life depends upon her?)
It is on a still, clear night that they meet again, as LanFan walks her third circuit around the wall’s perimeter. Her eyes are alert for any movement, any incongruous shadow, but it is no small surprise when she tenses at an unexpected presence, only to find that it is Mei, sitting comfortably on the battlements. Her feet dangle over the edge, and there is a thoughtful, furrowed look to her brow as she looks out over the sparse firelights of the capital city. It is Xiao Mei who first notices her presence, despite her noiseless footfalls, and emits a sound that is oddly reminiscent of a greeting.
To this, Mei looks up, and their eyes meet. One second, two.
Gathering her wits about her, LanFan drops into a deep, respectful bow, and her lips murmur a properly respectful greeting to the Seventeenth Sister. Her eyes are downcast as she straightens, so she does not see the frown grow more pronounced on the other’s face, before finally,
“You know, you weren’t this much of a dry stick back in Amestris,” Mei snaps, and the angry inflections of her voice crack like a whip in the fragile silence of the night air.
Somewhere deep inside, LanFan feels the stirring of something burning and flaring to life that may have been called her temper at some point, but she squashes it the way she has been repressing everything lately, “I must apologize, but this ignorant one does not understand Her Highness’ meaning.”
Xiao Mei squeaks in concern and falls back as Mei springs to her feet on the ledge, for once towering over LanFan and glaring down into the slits of the yin mask, “Mei means that you’re stupid! Stop calling Mei the Honored Seventeenth, Her Highness, Lady Chang-Mei doesn’t want to be called that!”
Another flare. Also quashed, but the flicker doesn’t go as quickly, “Those are Her Highness’ titles-”
Furiously, “No!”
A moment, two.
“Mei hates this stupid court, hates the stupid people in the stupid court, hates the stupid Emperor who’s too stupid to make the stupid people shut up so he can actually help his people-”
Another flicker. Another flare. “The Emperor is not stupid.”
“Yes, he is! The Chang are dying of starvation, and the Emperor is too busy playing his stupid court games to help Mei’s family, and-”
Burn. Blaze. The metallic rasp of drawing steel.
“DON’T CALL THE YOUNG MASTER STUPID!!”
Mei easily flips away from the slashing lunge, and her petite features are drawn together in fury, braids flying about her head in a flurry of chaos as she draws weapons herself, “Why not?” she taunts, and there is nothing childlike about the expression on her young face as she ducks beneath a savage thrust of the blade to attack with her own daggers, “He dropped you too, didn’t he? You were at his side, helping him, helping the Yao rise to power, and where are you now?”
The next swing of the sword is accompanied with a hissed, “Shut up,” but there is a lilt to the words that sound almost like a catch of the throat, or the barest hint of desperation.
“You know it, Mei knows it, the entire palace knows it.” She is tired of waiting, tired of her people’s suffering, tired of promises taken too long to fulfill, and that bitterness and rage overflows now, becoming a weapon, “Ling doesn’t need you anymore-he has the elite of the Yao Clan. He wanted power, and he has it now. What does he need you for?”
More insistently, hoarse? “Shut up.” And the renewed scything of her blade, as though to clear the accusations from the air, from her hearing, from her memory.
Metal dances in the night, throwing off slivers of moonlight. Sparks ignite and just as quickly fade with the crackling of alchemy-both are breathing heavily now, but Mei is relentless, “Mei thinks that Ling is stupid for not fighting hard enough for what he wants. But Mei thinks that you’re more stupid for fighting so hard to not to have what you want.”
Shut up, LanFan thinks, but other than a rasp of breath, nothing else comes from her throat. They continue.
The edges of the sky are beginning to lighten with dawn when they finally collapse in exhaustion to the stone beneath them. Both of them are panting too much to speak, and so they simply sprawl there on the cool floor and try to remember how to breathe again. Xiao Mei inches cautiously closer, feelings safe for the first time in hours to approach her mistress and her odd-faced friend.
Finally, “Mei is sorry,” she begins, in a suitably contrite tone. LanFan says nothing, “Mei knows that Ling is trying his best, and that he needs LanFan very much.”
But they both know at least half of that statement is false. LanFan removes the yin mask to free her breathing, and is surprised to find that her cheeks are slicked with sweat (with tears?). The morning breeze plays over her face, chilling the skin and drying it.
Her eyes ache strangely as she gazes towards the rays of the sunrise peeking over the horizon.
-----
It is Night Seventeen of many more Nights to come, and LanFan stands at her post, rigid in attention. However, there is a certain stiffness to her stance that is not quite natural, that seems to tremble with barely suppressed emotion.
Whether it is rage or grief, even LanFan cannot tell.
All she knows is that the heavy double-doors are closing once more behind yet another princess, this one of Chang, and the seventeenth of the Emperor’s concubines. Her hand rests convulsively on the hilt of her sword, and her artificial limb scrapes, metal against metal even through the gloves, in a nearly unintelligible rasp of protest.
There are many more to come, each raven-haired and beautiful, with skin like porcelain alabaster, eyes like wet jewels of green and blue, each floating, ethereal in trappings of silk to have their night with the Emperor.
Second Cousin’s eyes hold something so painfully akin to pity that she can do nothing but keep her own fixed straight ahead, even as her body threatens to snap with tension.
There is a faint squeak further to the left, and it is oddly familiar, even as a hurried shushing follows. Glad for the distraction, she turns to see a figure lurking in the shadows at the end of the hallway, and she can just make out the length of braids…
Their eyes meet, and though her first instinct is to jerk away as she had once done, it is not her second-so she looks through the yin mask and wills the other girl to understand, because she is anchored here by the armor of the Royal Guard and her duty-
Mei seems to come to a decision then, and marches up with Xiao Mei rapid on her heels. The journey down the hallway is brief, quick, and within seconds she is before the Emperor’s doors.
Her face is set, and she speaks before LanFan or the nonplussed guard have even a chance to bow and greet her, “Mei requires the assistance of the Royal Guard tonight.” The guard-who-is-not-LanFan-in-the-yang-mask attempts to sketch a bow and reply at the same time, but she talks right over him, “One guard should be fine. Mei will take this one. He will return to duty tomorrow.”
And without another word, she nods imperiously at LanFan and sweeps regally down the hall. Second Cousin looks at her in open bewilderment and LanFan only shakes her head, following. The Lady Chang’s mannerisms have always been puzzling, and rather hard to decipher.
LanFan is grateful for her interference all the same.
-----
The rooms of Seventeenth Sister are still remarkably spacious compared to the guards’ quarters, and the walls are adorned with silks and elegant brush paintings that a guard could never dream to buy even one of on their salary. Mei flops bonelessly onto a pile of silk cushions and gestures for LanFan to take a seat as well. She is about to protest, but there is a distinctive glint to Her Highness’ eyes that speaks of another lengthy midnight brawl if she does not obey.
LanFan sits down gingerly on the wood paneling, desperately trying to ignore a lifetime’s worth of rules stating that she really cannot sit in the presence of her betters.
She succeeds, just barely.
Xiao Mei wanders over and sinks into a particularly plush pillow with a feline yawn of contentment. Her mistress pets her head absently before speaking, “Mei doesn’t know what to say,” she announces quite solemnly, “But Mei doesn’t think that you should take the night watch for the next month or so.”
This is unexpected, and LanFan is at a loss for words. “It is my duty,” she says finally, and for the first time, the words ring hollow. In the awkward silence that follows, she tries to salvage the situation, the only way she knows how. With Mei, it is ever only one thing:
“Umm… How is… Mr. Elric…?”
It is rather like flipping a switch, to turn on a floodlight, or to open the dam to a reservoir.
“Prince Alphonse?? Oh, he is as handsome as ever, and such a gentleman-just the other day, he was studying in the palace library and-”
There is just something that strikes her as odd about sitting in a pile of cushions with a girl she considered an enemy not one year earlier, and discussing the finer attributes of Alphonse Elric’s jawline. It is so odd, in fact, that she is soon fighting to hold back her giggles, despite the fact that just five minutes earlier, her chest was so heavy it felt like it was going to drop to her feet and lodge there, despite the fact that for the past two weeks, she was certain she was going to drown in the cloud of gloom that had enveloped her.
Mei stops guiltily, apparently mistaking her shaking for something less innocent, “Oh. Umm, Mei is being inconsiderate. Mei did not mean to rub it in-”
LanFan lifts her head, and though there are tears running down her face behind the mask, it is through the effort of holding back her laughter, rather than any real grief.
Rather than sadness, it feels like a cleansing. LanFan laughs, and the sound is a little rusty from disuse, but when she slips off the yin mask, the sound flows free in the air. Mei gapes for a moment, and grins (a little maliciously).
The first flying projectile hits LanFan directly in the face, and bottles up her laugh with a stopper of stuffed silk. She is left blinking in astonishment, and Mei giggles, pure mischief in sound. LanFan ducks hurriedly as another pillow hurtles towards her.
“This is for making Mei worry! Take this, and this!”
There is a definite smile on her face as LanFan sets down her mask, and picks up a pillow instead, advancing threateningly. In response, Mei grabs two (the second of which topples Xiao Mei from her perch with an offended squeal) and attacks.
The two pummel each other amidst a maelstrom of swirling goose feathers, until they are both nursing stitches in their sides, both breathless with continuous laughter.
(It is obviously her imagination, but for some reason, her body feels as light as the feathers floating around her. LanFan feels light enough to fly.)
-----
It is nighttime, and they are both on the walls of the palace once more, but this time, though Mei is seated comfortably on the battlements, LanFan is leaning comfortably with her back against them, watching the younger girl speak (or ramble) with the slightest hint of an amused smile on her face.
“…so of course Mei told him that if he was going to insult the Chang, that he should to it to Mei’s face instead of being a gossiping little coward, and he said that…”
It doesn’t quite make sense, how they have come to this, whatever this is, but LanFan cannot deny that it is a welcome change to her otherwise very monotonous routine.
“…and there was no way Mei was going to let him say that more than once, so before he could, Mei kicked him in the face.”
“So you were the reason the Royal Guard was mobilized,” LanFan comments softly, with a chuckle, “Those of us who were able to leave our posts were alerted to an assassination attempt on the life of the Sixteenth Prince.”
The younger girl only sniffs, “Mei only kicked him a little hard in the face, and he was crying like a baby.”
“I heard you broke his nose, and that he hit the ground so hard he got a concussion.”
“…Mei kicked him more than a little hard in the face…?”
The two girls look at each other, and the angelic expression on Mei’s face and the slightly disbelieving one on LanFan’s make them both laugh.
And it feels good.
Out on the walls, under the cover of night, they are more than sovereign and servant, more than spawn of Chang and Yao.
It feels better than good.
(It feels free.)
The yin mask lies dormant on the stone beside her-it does not hinder her gaze as she raises her head to contemplate the night sky.
Author: yamikinoko
Recipient: ningicoco
Rating: T
Characters/Pairings: LanFan + Mei, Ling cameo
Warning(s): Maybe have spoilers for end of any FMA series...? Regarding Ling, Lanfan, Mei, and Al, anyway.
Summary: It doesn't quite make sense, how they have come to this, whatever this is.
Notes: Ohmuhgosh--I didn't expect to have this much trouble with this fic! I apologize in advance for the general vagueness and incoherency of it all. I've only read the manga, so I have no idea how the government of Xing works. I kind of speculated it's kind of like ancient China, so the mannerisms of the characters will follow an English version of ancient Chinese protocol. [For instance, the siblings of the Emperor are referred to by their order of birth, for example, Big Sister, Second Sister, Third Sister, etc.] And correct me if I'm wrong, but I do seem to remember that there are 50 clans in Xing, and the Emperor takes a concubine from each clan... Well, I guess at worst, it would be a sort of AU fic. I'm deeply sorry if this is not what you were looking for.
The first month (and the second, the third, and the fourth months) in the reign of Emperor Ling is fraught with tension-the Royal Palace fairly hums with it. The Yao Clan posts guards in every corridor, a pair at every door. The Emperor moves about his Palace with no less than a full contingent of the most loyal, most honored of Yao warriors, armed to the teeth and bristling with a distrust bred of countless centuries of strife. Before the Emperor enters any room, it is meticulously and systematically searched for potential threats; before the Emperor takes a bite, a single sip of any meal, it is tested and tasted for poison.
The Yao are paranoid, yes, but this is the chance they have been anticipating for centuries, and they are not about to let a wayward assassination attempt take their glory away from them. They smother their Emperor in yards of the finest silks, cage him with hordes of pedigreed young men, both militant and erudite-they want to keep him safe.
They do not understand that safe is a single yin mask and an oddly gentle temper. (They never will.)
-----
LanFan guards the magnificent double-doors of the Emperor’s quarters with her second cousin, an equally gifted fighter, but still it galls her to be on this side of the door, and not at the Young Master’s side, where she ought to be.
You are a woman, the Elders said, You have done your duty, and your family shall be honored among our Clan, for as long as the Sun continues its course in the Sky. She says nothing, and her head remains bowed, in respect, in submission. You will continue to guard him-this is your duty. But you are a woman, and it is improper, and thus you will remain at his side no longer.
Those are the orders, and this is her duty. The yin mask on her face remains as stoic as ever, but behind it, the corners of her lips twist downwards as she wonders whether or not the Young Master’s new guards (honored brothers, honored uncles) know to remind the Young Master to eat, and to sleep, or even if they dare to do so.
From the haggard appearance Young Master’s face has taken lately, it isn’t likely.
LanFan’s heart beating in her chest hurt. She may be ill.
-----
She is the Emperor’s Honorable Sister. It should be no surprise that they should see each other in the palace-in fact, it ought to be expected. Nevertheless, on this misty-cold morning, their eyes meet for the first time in a long while from the ends of the hallway-they both freeze, and it is an involuntary movement, like that of the hare in the shadow of the hawk.
They are past the point where they hate each other, where they would attack each other on sight, but neither are things comfortable between them.
She may have pleaded for the Chang, but having known all her life rival clan meant enemy, the habit is a hard one to break. She may have been grateful for the interference on behalf of the Chang Clan, but insignificant and poor though her kinsmen may be, they are still proud.
Neither of them moves at first.
Xiao Mei squeaks in the rigid silence, reflecting her mistress’ discomfort, and Mei finally forces her limbs into action, though she would like nothing more than to leave and come back another time. Her slippered feet make hardly a sound as she walks down the corridor, yet her footfalls are clumsily loud in her own ears, and each step seems to take longer than the last. (Perhaps they do, as a result of limbs gone stiff with tension and awkwardness.)
She does not look at the yin mask as she (finally) reaches her destination, fixing her gaze instead on the ornate doors of the Emperor’s private quarters, and speaks to the lacquered wood,
“Mei Chang requests an audience with her Most Esteemed Brother, the Emperor of Xing.”
LanFan says nothing, does not move as Second-Cousin responds in the formulaic, and passes through the doors to announce the arrival of Seventeenth Sister (the way LanFan herself is not allowed to do). For a moment, they are alone, standing in the dim glow of oil lamps, and the heady smell of incense that wafts through the open doorway from the Emperor’s chambers.
“How are you?” Mei finally asks, because it is not in her nature to ignore a former ally. She soothes Xiao Mei’s squeak of surprise with a light pat to the head.
LanFan responds quietly, a bit unsure how to do so, “I have been… well. …And how are-a thousand pardons, and continued good health to Her Highness.”
It is a strange exchange, as the royalty do not ask regarding the wellbeing of the hired help, and servants certainly do not request answers of their betters. All the same, her proper answer is not one that invites further conversation, and it is thus that they stand in silence until Second-Cousin returns.
“If Her Honored Highness would please follow me, the Esteemed Emperor is ready to receive you.”
Even then, LanFan only bows, low at the waist as is required until the door swings shut once more.
-----
Another week passes in monotony for LanFan. She stands vigilantly at her post during the day, she patrols the hallways during the night, she returns to her guard upon the approach of dawn, with a short rest in between. It is dull, tireless, thankless work for a sovereign she hardly glimpses anymore, but LanFan does not complain.
(How can she, when the Young Master’s life depends upon her?)
It is on a still, clear night that they meet again, as LanFan walks her third circuit around the wall’s perimeter. Her eyes are alert for any movement, any incongruous shadow, but it is no small surprise when she tenses at an unexpected presence, only to find that it is Mei, sitting comfortably on the battlements. Her feet dangle over the edge, and there is a thoughtful, furrowed look to her brow as she looks out over the sparse firelights of the capital city. It is Xiao Mei who first notices her presence, despite her noiseless footfalls, and emits a sound that is oddly reminiscent of a greeting.
To this, Mei looks up, and their eyes meet. One second, two.
Gathering her wits about her, LanFan drops into a deep, respectful bow, and her lips murmur a properly respectful greeting to the Seventeenth Sister. Her eyes are downcast as she straightens, so she does not see the frown grow more pronounced on the other’s face, before finally,
“You know, you weren’t this much of a dry stick back in Amestris,” Mei snaps, and the angry inflections of her voice crack like a whip in the fragile silence of the night air.
Somewhere deep inside, LanFan feels the stirring of something burning and flaring to life that may have been called her temper at some point, but she squashes it the way she has been repressing everything lately, “I must apologize, but this ignorant one does not understand Her Highness’ meaning.”
Xiao Mei squeaks in concern and falls back as Mei springs to her feet on the ledge, for once towering over LanFan and glaring down into the slits of the yin mask, “Mei means that you’re stupid! Stop calling Mei the Honored Seventeenth, Her Highness, Lady Chang-Mei doesn’t want to be called that!”
Another flare. Also quashed, but the flicker doesn’t go as quickly, “Those are Her Highness’ titles-”
Furiously, “No!”
A moment, two.
“Mei hates this stupid court, hates the stupid people in the stupid court, hates the stupid Emperor who’s too stupid to make the stupid people shut up so he can actually help his people-”
Another flicker. Another flare. “The Emperor is not stupid.”
“Yes, he is! The Chang are dying of starvation, and the Emperor is too busy playing his stupid court games to help Mei’s family, and-”
Burn. Blaze. The metallic rasp of drawing steel.
“DON’T CALL THE YOUNG MASTER STUPID!!”
Mei easily flips away from the slashing lunge, and her petite features are drawn together in fury, braids flying about her head in a flurry of chaos as she draws weapons herself, “Why not?” she taunts, and there is nothing childlike about the expression on her young face as she ducks beneath a savage thrust of the blade to attack with her own daggers, “He dropped you too, didn’t he? You were at his side, helping him, helping the Yao rise to power, and where are you now?”
The next swing of the sword is accompanied with a hissed, “Shut up,” but there is a lilt to the words that sound almost like a catch of the throat, or the barest hint of desperation.
“You know it, Mei knows it, the entire palace knows it.” She is tired of waiting, tired of her people’s suffering, tired of promises taken too long to fulfill, and that bitterness and rage overflows now, becoming a weapon, “Ling doesn’t need you anymore-he has the elite of the Yao Clan. He wanted power, and he has it now. What does he need you for?”
More insistently, hoarse? “Shut up.” And the renewed scything of her blade, as though to clear the accusations from the air, from her hearing, from her memory.
Metal dances in the night, throwing off slivers of moonlight. Sparks ignite and just as quickly fade with the crackling of alchemy-both are breathing heavily now, but Mei is relentless, “Mei thinks that Ling is stupid for not fighting hard enough for what he wants. But Mei thinks that you’re more stupid for fighting so hard to not to have what you want.”
Shut up, LanFan thinks, but other than a rasp of breath, nothing else comes from her throat. They continue.
The edges of the sky are beginning to lighten with dawn when they finally collapse in exhaustion to the stone beneath them. Both of them are panting too much to speak, and so they simply sprawl there on the cool floor and try to remember how to breathe again. Xiao Mei inches cautiously closer, feelings safe for the first time in hours to approach her mistress and her odd-faced friend.
Finally, “Mei is sorry,” she begins, in a suitably contrite tone. LanFan says nothing, “Mei knows that Ling is trying his best, and that he needs LanFan very much.”
But they both know at least half of that statement is false. LanFan removes the yin mask to free her breathing, and is surprised to find that her cheeks are slicked with sweat (with tears?). The morning breeze plays over her face, chilling the skin and drying it.
Her eyes ache strangely as she gazes towards the rays of the sunrise peeking over the horizon.
-----
It is Night Seventeen of many more Nights to come, and LanFan stands at her post, rigid in attention. However, there is a certain stiffness to her stance that is not quite natural, that seems to tremble with barely suppressed emotion.
Whether it is rage or grief, even LanFan cannot tell.
All she knows is that the heavy double-doors are closing once more behind yet another princess, this one of Chang, and the seventeenth of the Emperor’s concubines. Her hand rests convulsively on the hilt of her sword, and her artificial limb scrapes, metal against metal even through the gloves, in a nearly unintelligible rasp of protest.
There are many more to come, each raven-haired and beautiful, with skin like porcelain alabaster, eyes like wet jewels of green and blue, each floating, ethereal in trappings of silk to have their night with the Emperor.
Second Cousin’s eyes hold something so painfully akin to pity that she can do nothing but keep her own fixed straight ahead, even as her body threatens to snap with tension.
There is a faint squeak further to the left, and it is oddly familiar, even as a hurried shushing follows. Glad for the distraction, she turns to see a figure lurking in the shadows at the end of the hallway, and she can just make out the length of braids…
Their eyes meet, and though her first instinct is to jerk away as she had once done, it is not her second-so she looks through the yin mask and wills the other girl to understand, because she is anchored here by the armor of the Royal Guard and her duty-
Mei seems to come to a decision then, and marches up with Xiao Mei rapid on her heels. The journey down the hallway is brief, quick, and within seconds she is before the Emperor’s doors.
Her face is set, and she speaks before LanFan or the nonplussed guard have even a chance to bow and greet her, “Mei requires the assistance of the Royal Guard tonight.” The guard-who-is-not-LanFan-in-the-yang-mask attempts to sketch a bow and reply at the same time, but she talks right over him, “One guard should be fine. Mei will take this one. He will return to duty tomorrow.”
And without another word, she nods imperiously at LanFan and sweeps regally down the hall. Second Cousin looks at her in open bewilderment and LanFan only shakes her head, following. The Lady Chang’s mannerisms have always been puzzling, and rather hard to decipher.
LanFan is grateful for her interference all the same.
-----
The rooms of Seventeenth Sister are still remarkably spacious compared to the guards’ quarters, and the walls are adorned with silks and elegant brush paintings that a guard could never dream to buy even one of on their salary. Mei flops bonelessly onto a pile of silk cushions and gestures for LanFan to take a seat as well. She is about to protest, but there is a distinctive glint to Her Highness’ eyes that speaks of another lengthy midnight brawl if she does not obey.
LanFan sits down gingerly on the wood paneling, desperately trying to ignore a lifetime’s worth of rules stating that she really cannot sit in the presence of her betters.
She succeeds, just barely.
Xiao Mei wanders over and sinks into a particularly plush pillow with a feline yawn of contentment. Her mistress pets her head absently before speaking, “Mei doesn’t know what to say,” she announces quite solemnly, “But Mei doesn’t think that you should take the night watch for the next month or so.”
This is unexpected, and LanFan is at a loss for words. “It is my duty,” she says finally, and for the first time, the words ring hollow. In the awkward silence that follows, she tries to salvage the situation, the only way she knows how. With Mei, it is ever only one thing:
“Umm… How is… Mr. Elric…?”
It is rather like flipping a switch, to turn on a floodlight, or to open the dam to a reservoir.
“Prince Alphonse?? Oh, he is as handsome as ever, and such a gentleman-just the other day, he was studying in the palace library and-”
There is just something that strikes her as odd about sitting in a pile of cushions with a girl she considered an enemy not one year earlier, and discussing the finer attributes of Alphonse Elric’s jawline. It is so odd, in fact, that she is soon fighting to hold back her giggles, despite the fact that just five minutes earlier, her chest was so heavy it felt like it was going to drop to her feet and lodge there, despite the fact that for the past two weeks, she was certain she was going to drown in the cloud of gloom that had enveloped her.
Mei stops guiltily, apparently mistaking her shaking for something less innocent, “Oh. Umm, Mei is being inconsiderate. Mei did not mean to rub it in-”
LanFan lifts her head, and though there are tears running down her face behind the mask, it is through the effort of holding back her laughter, rather than any real grief.
Rather than sadness, it feels like a cleansing. LanFan laughs, and the sound is a little rusty from disuse, but when she slips off the yin mask, the sound flows free in the air. Mei gapes for a moment, and grins (a little maliciously).
The first flying projectile hits LanFan directly in the face, and bottles up her laugh with a stopper of stuffed silk. She is left blinking in astonishment, and Mei giggles, pure mischief in sound. LanFan ducks hurriedly as another pillow hurtles towards her.
“This is for making Mei worry! Take this, and this!”
There is a definite smile on her face as LanFan sets down her mask, and picks up a pillow instead, advancing threateningly. In response, Mei grabs two (the second of which topples Xiao Mei from her perch with an offended squeal) and attacks.
The two pummel each other amidst a maelstrom of swirling goose feathers, until they are both nursing stitches in their sides, both breathless with continuous laughter.
(It is obviously her imagination, but for some reason, her body feels as light as the feathers floating around her. LanFan feels light enough to fly.)
-----
It is nighttime, and they are both on the walls of the palace once more, but this time, though Mei is seated comfortably on the battlements, LanFan is leaning comfortably with her back against them, watching the younger girl speak (or ramble) with the slightest hint of an amused smile on her face.
“…so of course Mei told him that if he was going to insult the Chang, that he should to it to Mei’s face instead of being a gossiping little coward, and he said that…”
It doesn’t quite make sense, how they have come to this, whatever this is, but LanFan cannot deny that it is a welcome change to her otherwise very monotonous routine.
“…and there was no way Mei was going to let him say that more than once, so before he could, Mei kicked him in the face.”
“So you were the reason the Royal Guard was mobilized,” LanFan comments softly, with a chuckle, “Those of us who were able to leave our posts were alerted to an assassination attempt on the life of the Sixteenth Prince.”
The younger girl only sniffs, “Mei only kicked him a little hard in the face, and he was crying like a baby.”
“I heard you broke his nose, and that he hit the ground so hard he got a concussion.”
“…Mei kicked him more than a little hard in the face…?”
The two girls look at each other, and the angelic expression on Mei’s face and the slightly disbelieving one on LanFan’s make them both laugh.
And it feels good.
Out on the walls, under the cover of night, they are more than sovereign and servant, more than spawn of Chang and Yao.
It feels better than good.
(It feels free.)
The yin mask lies dormant on the stone beside her-it does not hinder her gaze as she raises her head to contemplate the night sky.