Sincerely Yours

AN: I don't know why I'm doing this, to be honest. I have so many LingFan projects at the moment, I really can't afford to start on a new one.

And yet here I am.

I was in the midst of writing a companion piece to The Heirloom Match, but it was just too somber. I didn't like where it was heading. And then I suddenly got this fun, comedic idea, and I couldn't resist just starting it.

When he was twelve, Ling's mother took him aside and gave him a very firm talk.

"Lan Fan is your bodyguard," she told him, looking him deeply in the eyes the way she did when she wasn't joking around, when she wanted to be taken seriously enough. It scared him sometimes, because his mother was often cheerful, and the few times she sombered were during matters of life and death. "She has sworn to protect you. You are her prince, and it is her duty to serve you. Do you realize what that means?"

Ling felt uncomfortable under his mother's unyielding grip and even more unyielding gaze. His mind reeled with tragic possibilities of what Lan Fan's job entailed.

"Uhm, uhm... it means she will die?"

His mother gave a quick shake of her head, indicating that it wasn't the answer she was looking for. "It means she cannot say no to you."

"Huh?"

"She can't say no."

"That's ridiculous!" Ling protested. "She says no to me all the time! Like that time I wanted to sneak in the kitchens before the festival but she said we couldn't and we shouldn't be stealing food. She always disagrees with my ideas, you know!"

His Ma shook her head again, sighing softly. "One day, you will see that your playful suggestions will become steadfast orders, and you will force Lan Fan to choose between loyalty and honour. It's easy to say no to you now when you are a child, but you'll find that it would not be that way once you have a crown on your head."

Ling's mouth tugged into a smile. "You really think I will wear the crown someday?"

She looked back at him and patted the top of his head, exactly where a crown might sit eventually. "You know that I really believe so, my son. And when you do, I hope you will be something that none of the other Emperors have ever been."

"Ooh, what's that?"

"Great," she answered. "Great and kind."

-o-

Ling observed in squeamish silence as the alkahestrist stitched Lan Fan's thigh, watching the swollen, red flesh come together with the black thread. Already eighteen, already an emperor, and he still didn't know if he could become accustomed to watching his friend get patched up like an old quilt ragdoll. His gaze slid down her leg, finding a mosaic of bruises and old scars, and his mind could not help but map each of the abrasions to the memories from where they came. He remembered how she got them, every single one.

"There you go, my girl," the alkahestrist said, tying the final knot on the stitches. She cut the thread with a quick snip, and gathered her belongings. "It's not a bad wound, but I will give you some alchemy-enhanced ointment to help speed up the healing process, so you can be bouncing on that leg in no time!" the nice, old woman said. She opened her kit, and handed Lan Fan a porcelain jar.

When the alkahestrist had left, Ling remained where he was standing. Lan Fan avoided his gaze. She knew she was in trouble.

"Why didn't you tell me the wound was infected?" he asked, at length.

She sighed, toying with the stopper on the jar, and shrugged in response. "I didn't need to bother you with such things, your Imperial Majesty."

It had been a week since the turmoil at the border of the badlands. He thought Lan Fan's injuries had been attended to properly, but during the chaos she must have had less attention than she'd needed.

He realized the dilemma she faced. On one hand, keeping herself in top shape was one of her most important responsibilities, considering she was his last line of defense. And on the other, although battle scars were very much glorified among bodyguards and warriors, frequent injury suggested a certain lack of finesse and agility. Confessing that she was hurt yet again might spur the sharp ears and eager tongues of the people at court. And the ongoing turbulence surrounding his reign definitely did not help. He had been Emperor for three years. It was both an accomplishment and an underachievement. Attempts to shove his royal rump out of the throne would not cease for many years, and that meant it was not going to be peaches and cream for Lan Fan any time soon. Already, there were some who questioned her qualifications as his High Guard.

Ling looked her over, studying her lethargic movements as she began to apply the ointment on the sealed wound. Her face was white and pasty, her hair matted on her forehead and neck with sweat. She looked terrible, and Ling felt the now familiar pang of guilt when he realized it had been a long, long time since he'd seen her look hale.

"That's how many times now? Five? Six? The first time, you didn't mention you had pneumonia, and we only found out when your cousin couldn't wake you from sleep. And you remember when your automail hadn't been attached properly? The metal links to your nerves rusted from exposure and you almost contracted tetanus!" He wished she wouldn't hide her afflictions. "What were you thinking? What are you thinking?"

But she just sat there silently.

Ling exhaled in frustration, and turned around. Finally, after he made up his mind, he faced her again. "Maybe you should take a lieu week. Or two." That got her attention. She looked up, not directly into his eyes, but close enough.

"I will be alright, your Majesty!" she exclaimed. "I will rest tonight, and I can come back tomorrow morning with renewed vigour!"

"No, Lan Fan," Ling stated sternly, and he didn't need to explicitly claim it was an order for her to understand she had little choice in the matter. He remembered how long ago, years and years ago, it would have been much easier for her to question his decisions, to insist that it was for his own good that they abandon his silly little plans, because while he was quite a brilliant boy when it came to games and pranks, he was less so in the art of self-preservation. And it was Lan Fan's duty to push it to the top of his list, to pull it out of his blind spots.

It was just difficult when nowadays his self-preservation meant her peril.

He sat beside her slowly. Quietly, he asked, "Why don't you just tell me what's wrong?"

"It is not my place to prioritize my well-being over yours," she answered. Her exhaustion was now more pronounced with her dejection at being dismissed for the next fortnight.

"Well, think of it this way," he said, brushing her hair from her damp forehead. "If you're not in good shape to protect me, then I'm sorta kinda in danger too, don't you think?"

She didn't answer. He knew that being discharged was considered unfavourable by most, and for someone as hell-bent on fulfilling her duty as Lan Fan was, it must be devastating.

"I'm not angry, you know," he reassured her. "I just want you to rest."

Lan Fan looked so deflated, he almost decided to shorten her lieu. He couldn't fathom how anyone could find enjoyment in getting beaten up, but it was almost as if she considered herself a failure if she was taking a break. Ling didn't know for sure. And perhaps that was what grated at him. That despite the fact that Lan Fan had spent more time at his side than anyone else in the past three years, than even she had spent with him during their childhood, he knew her less than he used to when they were burgeoning youths.

"That's alright, isn't it?" he prodded.

Listlessly, she responded, "Yes, your Majesty."

Ling sighed, knowing that although Lan Fan was not a liar, she had learned to conceal many truths from him as well. It was clear that it wasn't alright for her. Her yes was not an answer to his question, but a memorized declaration of obedience.

Impulsively, he sat closer to her, taking her automail hand and laying his head on her shoulders. Once upon a time, the gesture was second-nature to him and so was her response of flailing with embarrassment. Then he would tell her nobody was looking. Then she would distract him with food. And it was a routine they had, warm and familiar. Until they grew up. Now she didn't push him away, but sat there rigidly, coldly.

It was worse.

"Lan Fan..." he began.

"Yes, your Majesty?"

He tried to collect his thoughts. There were so many questions. What happened? Why were they not the way they had been? Where was their easy friendship? Why did she replace it with silence and shadows? Why was it that even though he had rarely been without her by his side, he felt lonelier than ever?

He was at the very top of the social ladder, and he found the winds of power too cool all the way up there.

Finally, he spoke. "Do you like being my bodyguard?"

She shifted. "It is the greatest honour I could ever hope for."

He felt not a drop of lie, but he could not bring himself to accept her answer comfortably. He was the ruler of Xing. He was the Emperor. For her to say otherwise, to say anything less, would equal to treason. There was simply nothing else she could have said.

Ling lifted his head from her shoulder and stood up.

He knew what happened. He knew why their warm camaraderie morphed into awkward greetings and averted gazes.

Words were no longer sufficient for them. Not when his crown and his title and honorifics insisted on wedging themselves in between, rendering truth and meaning useless.

-o-

Ling spent the next week whining to his mother (only occasionally) and binging on food (more frequently). The bodyguard assigned to him was Lan Fan's cousin, her second in line when it came to the roster of appointed bodyguards. Like her, the young man had a knack for evading the spoken word or any kind of sound in general.

Presently, Ling was having troubles keeping his lids open and his belly from rumbling – quite difficult to do at the same time, surprisingly – in the midst of an important assembly. The various Masters of the court were engaged in a meeting with him, as they discussed a great many topics from the trade with Amestris, to the flooded towns at the coasts, to the dissent in the badlands two weeks before. In front of him was a rather homely looking pile of letters written by the leader of the rebellion. It was the evidence they needed to arrest the mastermind and convict him of treason.

It was strange. Even though the letters had been coded, it was amazing to see how much one could convey in them. An entire rebellious faction had taken root all in a span of five pages.

Ling was lazily browsing through them, filtering out the sounds of bickering among the men and women in the room, when his mind caught on a wisp of an idea.

A letter.

From someone unknown.

Many of those involved in the guerrilla hadn't known who the real initiator was. But they had read his letters and believed in them. Some had died for this nameless ghost, because despite everything else, the message in the letters had meant something to them.

Maybe Ling could –

"Your Majesty?" someone called. "Your Majesty?"

Ling shook himself from his reverie. "Huh? What is it?"

"We were wondering what you thought about the idea of housing the flood victims in the Dao hospices?" one of the men asked.

"Go for it," Ling answered him, and he heard the satisfied grunts of some of the officials in the room. But the man stuttered and began to protest.

"B-but, your Majesty! Those hospices are reserved for the Dao! They are supported by Dao taxes! My peoples would not appreciate having their taxes go to the Yoon peoples."

"Tell them I acknowledge their sacrifice and willingness to help during such dire times," Ling answered. He had to admit, sometimes the easiest part about being the Emperor was that even something as small as his notice or acknowledgment was considered a boon by his people. "The entire country will hear of their honourable generosity."

He left it at that, trying to rush out of the room with as much inconspicuousness as possible. He headed straight for his private chamber, where he settled himself at his desk, took out a blank piece of paper and a pen.

The page stared enticingly back at him.

If he could don a name that was not his, he would elicit a more honest response from Lan Fan, a response that even he would no longer be able to doubt. She would not know that she was speaking to the Emperor. She no longer had the need to embellish her words with flattery and obedience.

If he could get this right, maybe... maybe they could be friends again.

-o-

Lan Fan finished her evening stretches. She was getting ready for bed, eagerly awaiting the next day when she would have only four more days before getting back to duty. She had been feeling much refreshed after a few days of rest, and found the remaining time off rather boring and unnecessary. Still, she could not disobey the Emperor, so she spent her time doing chores that she had put off for quite a while. Now her apartments were clean (thought she really could not understand why the Emperor had given her such a big one), her automail was polished and the blades sharpened, and her uniform was mended. She was itching to get back to work.

A servant came to take away her dinner utensils. Lan Fan thanked the young woman kindly, but before she exited, she pulled out an envelope.

"I found this by your door," the maid said, handing it to Lan Fan.

Lan Fan took it, frowning when she realized it did not bear the name of the writer. When the maid had gone, Lan Fan pulled out the sheet from inside and unfolded it. She read the contents.

Dear High Guard,

Ah, perhaps I should refrain from calling you 'dear.' It is not my place, is it? In any case, I understand if you are curious about the nature of this letter, and maybe even about me.

Well, here goes. I suppose I should begin by saying that I am no one of great importance. And should you decide to stop reading now, I will understand. Hence I choose to confess it early on, so I do not risk wasting your time. I only write to you because I wish to say that I admire you very much. I hope that is not creepy. If it is, forgive me. I'll let you know that I do not often make the habit of being creepy. At least not frequently, although I have been told by some acquaintances that my eating habits do happen to be, at certain times, creepy.

I am fortunate enough to say that I witnessed your great fighting prowess at the border of the badlands some weeks ago, and that I have your brave and headstrong efforts to thank for my life. I do not know if the guards of the Emperor often receive mail where they are praised for the honest and awe-inspiring work that they do. If not, I find it extremely unfortunate, and I hope I am mitigating that misfortune even just a little bit. High Guard, I wish to thank you for saving my life. I think of you every day and I remember how lucky I am.

Sincerely Yours

P.S. If you wish to respond to me, I will look for a letter in the stone alcove by the hibiscus plants in the Eastern Wing. I will wait for three days, and if you have not responded, I will send you another letter, just in case you did not receive this first one. And if I do not receive a response from you afterward, then I will take that to mean you are not interested in corresponding. Have a lovely day.

Lan Fan blinked and reread the letter. Then she blinked again and shook her head.

Well, this was interesting.

AN: This will be a short story. Three chapters at most. Hope some of you like it!