Disclaimer: I do not own Fullmetal Alchemist.
Pairing: LingxLanFan
Warnings: Language, Minor Violence
Chapter Two
I Want to Be Strong
My name is Lan Fan.
I am eleven.
I am defined by the mask I wear and the callouses upon my hands.
I am eleven, yet older than I care to be and weaker than I should be.
She had grown with the passing of the years.
But still, she appeared very much the same.
Her hair was short, like that of a boy.
Instead of dolls, she instead always held a blade at her disposal.
The women fluttered by – small steps casting an illusion as colorful fabrics dragged along the floor.
Instead of a dress, she wore the black outfit as always.
She had grown with the passing of the years to remain just as a fixture upon the wall.
He had grown as the time had slipped by.
But still, he was very much the same.
His heart was pure, betraying his childish nature.
Instead of cruelty, he instead always experienced the kindness of those around him.
The men talked on – their voices drowned out the sound of his footsteps and his escape.
Instead of a prince, he would have much rather been the son of a merchant.
He had grown as the time had slipped by to detest the luxury that suffocated him.
"Young master," the cloaked figure reprimanded lightly, "This is not right."
Ling hushed her, quickly climbing up the tree. "Just help me over the wall before they catch me."
"I will be scolded later," she sighed, swiftly making her way up the branches despite her laments.
He used her gentle boost to propel himself over the tiled wall top and into the street. "Come on, Lan Fan. I'll take the blame for it."
Lan Fan stealthily leapt into the dirt road with little more than a common gust of wind. "You always say that, but I am always the one who gets in trouble."
Ling laughed and Lan Fan watched. "Don't worry, it's a holiday. Take it easy!"
Maybe he was just a little too greedy. But he wanted to feel the city around him.
He wanted to smell the foods the vendors sold.
He wanted to follow the stray cats around the streets.
He wanted to jump on the rocks along the bank of the river.
His greed was innocent, but it was still a sin that fate would not forgive.
"Lan Fan," Ling called, waving a pale hand in front of her masked face, "if I'm boring then tell me." He pouted jokingly, face shaded from the heat of summer by a cheap straw hat. The shaved ice in his hand was melting down his arm, the sticky syrup staining his clothing.
Lan Fan turned her gaze from the dresses in front of her to Ling. "They're cheap, not pretty at all," he remarked, finishing the remains of his desert before tossing the paper cone into a bin behind the vendor's stand. Lan Fan blushed under her mask, moving to stand. Ling laughed with ease, "Sit for a while. There's no rush here." Her face burned further, both from the heat, and his words.
"Aren't you hot? Take off your mask," the prince suggested though to Lan Fan, it was more of an order. Still, the soft breeze was a welcome sensation. She took of the wooden mask and placed it carefully on her lap. With the silence just settling in, a gust of wind shook the tree above them, the green leaves rattling with excitement.
Ling took a deep breath in, his eyes turned skyward. "It's such a shame," he remarked. Lan Fan stiffened, thinking that he was referencing her features, rapidly bringing the mask up to her face once more. "Even when in season, the cherry blossoms are never quite as pretty as you," Ling finished, grinning widely at his companion only to frown. "Why do you always insist on putting that mask on!"
Maybe she was a little too greedy. But she only wanted to feel like a girl.
She wanted to decorate her hair with braids and ribbons.
She wanted to wear a dress, just once.
She wanted to feel pretty.
Her greed was understandable, but it was still a wish fate would not grant.
At first, it sounded like nothing more than a bar fight – just a couple of drunk men engaged in a simply fist fight. Then, it became just a bit more dangerous, a man took out a knife. Then, well then it became a lot more dangerous. Said knife flew straight towards Ling, and it was no accident. Lan Fan used Ling's straw hat to knock the blade off its course, buying enough time to grab his hand and run.
"Run faster!" Lan Fan begged as they tunneled through the alleyways towards the imperial palace. She urged Ling to pick up the pace but saw the sheen of sweat, caused by both the heat and his fear, covering his nervous features. Lan Fan turned and deflected the incoming shuriken with her arm guards. Then a sound caught her attention, Ling had fallen.
Lan Fan stopped, there was no way to escape now. She trembled slightly, she would have to fight. Pausing to look around, she found it, fireworks. Lighting a quick fire with a match tucked within her black robes, she ignited just a few and aimed them strategically in the direction of the emperor's residence. The girl took Ling's hand and threw a smoke bomb. "Come on," Lan Fan whispered, pulling the boy along.
But somewhere along the way, a sword cut through the debris and reached her. She let go of his hand and gave him a quick shove. "I will follow later, just run," Lan Fan assured him, attempting not to limp, "Find my grandfather. Hurry."'
"No, come with me," Ling pleaded, tugging upon her sleeve. She pushed once more as the dust settled, pointing her leg towards the wall, obscuring it from sight. "I'm not leaving you!" he yelled, grasping her arm and turning to run. An arrow grazed his cheek and embedded itself on the wooden wall in front of him. He froze, struck with a piecing stinging pain and a deathly fear for his life.
A cloaked figure stepped in front of them. "Stay here," he commanded from behind the mask, one that Lan Fan felt comfort in seeing despite his infuriated tone.
She nodded obediently, "Yes, grandfather." Finally free from danger, Lan Fan slid to the ground and took off her mask to examine the severity of the wound that, until now, Ling had not noticed.
It stung a little more than necessary. It was really just a cut.
"Calm down and breathe."
He was being a little louder than necessary. It really wasn't helping the situation.
"Listen, it doesn't hurt at all."
He was crying now. This was really not necessary.
"It's okay," Ling stated, still shaking and covered in dirt, "You'll be okay."
Lan Fan held bit her lip before answering, "Young Master, your face has been cut."
Ling smiled apologetically, "You'll be scolded won't you?"
"Probably." She laughed. "You should have run when I told you to."
"How could I run when you can't!" the boy replied, glancing down at the deep gash marring Lan Fan's skin.
"Because you are the prince," the girl stated, flinching as the wound was cleaned.
He held her hand. She held back a cry as the cut was stitched closed. "You must become King."
Ling felt his chest tighten and her fingers tighten around his. He nodded. "Alright, I promise."
Ling crouched closer to the sliding screen of his father's door to pick up on the conversation.
"Sadly, sir, it was not a foreign attack," a stern voice answered. Fu as Ling recognized.
"Then, was it -," Ling's father began, slowly growing quieter with each word.
Fu sighed. "It was another clan."
Ling froze by the door. "Another clan?" he mouthed to himself.
"With so many other potential heirs, I think everyone is taking the matter into their own hands," Fu elaborated from behind the rice paper door.
Ling ran down the hall.
Fu sighed, "He heard it all, sir."
Ling's father simply nodded. "Let it be."
Ling sat lifelessly, holding her mask.
There were tearstains that marred the cheaply, paint-coated insides.
She turned slightly in her sleep, her eyebrows furrowed.
He glanced at her sleeping form.
"You must have been so afraid," Ling stated at last. "I'm sorry, but right now I'm scared too."
He waited for no response, but instead tied the mask around his head.
"Can I borrow this?" Ling asked, voice quivering, "I just need it this one time."
My name is Ling.
I am eleven.
I am defined by the name I possess and the crown upon my head.
I am eleven, yet younger than I should be and weaker than I need to be.
"Greed, like the love of comfort, is a kind of fear."
-Cyril Connolly
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