Her daemon doesn't settle until she's fifteen. When it does, she's not sure what to think. Every member of the Huo has had a creeping, quiet daemon—snakes, lizards, bats. Something invisible, silent. Arasar is a wolf, small and soft and gray, with long teeth and bright eyes and a cocky gait. He can be as still as he pleases, when he wishes it, but he's not an individual, not a lone hunter the way her grandfather's hawk is. He's a pack animal. The clan whispers about him, and about her, as soon as Arasar settles, but all Lan Fan does is tangle her fingers in the ruff at his neck and hold on.

"They're stupid," he says in a low growl as he and Lan Fan pass a trio of twittering Yao girls. "You know they're stupid. They've always been stupid. And jealous."

Lan Fan nods, slowly, but she doesn't quite believe him. After all, she may be taller and stronger than those girls, may know a hundred ways to kill a man with her bare hands, but she can't do what they do, either. She can't speak the way they do. She doesn't like poetry or walk in courtly halls the way they do. Sometimes she wondered if she might not be jealous of them. It was worse before Arasar finally settled, but once he did, she feels worse, somehow. Because no matter how strong and brave and powerful and silent she can be, her daemon says something's different about her. He says she can be more.

She doesn't know if she wants to be more.

The young master's daemon has been settled since he was eleven. Siritha has a striking face and long springy fur, and she walks at the Young Master's side on her knuckles in a funny rolling gate that only monkeys have. She doesn't have a tail, so she can't hang upside-down from trees the way the Young Master does, but she hides higher up in the branches and pelts snotty nobles with date seeds and worse. One of Lan Fan's most vivid memories is of Siritha turning and slapping her bare primate ass at a group of nobles who were whispering about Lan Fan behind their hands. Lan Fan turned bright red behind her mask, and Arasar gave a low growling chuckle, deep in the back of his throat. He and Siritha have always been friends, but it changed a little after that. They worked closer together, in smoother harmony, and Lan Fan felt it in her training sessions with the Young Master. They worked better too.

Kreena, her grandfather's daemon, flutters her wings and tells Siritha it's unbecoming of the Young Master for his daemon to be making an idiot of herself in front of the court. Siritha throws a meat bun at her and says that if Kreena can't be bothered to take care of her human's granddaughter, then Siritha's going to do it for her.

She remembers it later when Kreena flies in front of her during the battle at the Amestrian fort, and takes a bullet meant for her. She remembers the way her grandfather screams.

She can't take the rooftops the way she would have before Arasar settled. When she chases Edward Elric, he scrambles up through an automail metal dump and makes a tremendous leap onto the rooftop just in time for Lan Fan to set off one of her grenades. He snarls and snaps when Ed catches her in his net, his daemon curling around his throat as he went to collect his automail arm. Arasar he traps in a stone hand that appears out of nowhere. She has to use a crowbar to wrench Arasar free when Ed is distracted by the Young Master.

"Sorry," he says, when they're running away from the battlefield. Lan Fan slows at a corner, drops to her knees, and buries her face in Arasar's ruff.

"Don't ever apologize," she said into his fur, and he whined a little, his tail dusting the hard earth. If Siritha and the Young Master overhear it, they say nothing about it.

Siritha is the one to catch her arm when she saws it off. She sees the Young Master shudder, a whole-body quiver that makes the hair on the back of his neck stand on end, as she falls off his shoulder and hits the ground with a sharp scream. Arasar is making a soft whining sound in the back of his throat, circling her, licking tears off her face, as the Young Master drops to his knees and binds her wound with his jacket. "You fool," he says. "Damn you, Lan Fan, you fool," and if Arasar hadn't been Arasar, he would have snarled at the Young Master for saying it. Siritha's paws are bloody. Lan Fan swallows hard, once, twice, and then reaches out with her remaining hand for Arasar.

"Find someone," she says. "Find anyone. Leave a trail." She glances up at the Young Master, whose face is twisted and agonized, and says, "You have to go."

"No," he says, and his hands tighten on the knot over her open shoulder. "Lan Fan, I'm not—"

"He's coming," she says. "We need the Stone, master. We need it. For Xing," she says, and then she throws up on the dust next to her, thin and liquid and flat. He rubs her back without thinking about it, because he's Ling Yao, and he's always been kinder than he ought to be. "You have to go."

Something tugs at her gut as Arasar reaches the limit of how far they can be parted. He comes back within seconds. Her arm is gone. She doesn't ask where it went.

"Go," she says, not to the Young Master but to Siritha, and Siritha nods and takes the Young Master's hand and draws him away. She calls after him. "I'll be hiding below."

She can't catch Arasar as he leaps down into the sewer after her, but he lands on all four feet like a cat, and lets her lean on him as she walks in the opposite direction.

At first she thinks Alphonse Elric has no daemon; that, or that Dr. Knox's daemon, a big old grumpy cat, ate it before she ever saw it. Then he takes off his helmet to let the little dove free, and she flutters to rest on the headpost of Lan Fan's sickbed, cooing softly. It's the only thing that puts her to sleep, after Al delivers the message from her master. That, and Arasar's head resting heavy on her belly, reminding her that he'll tear out throats for her while she's injured like this.

She wonders what happens to a man's daemon when he's turned into a monster.

Homunculi don't have daemons, she realizes, as she extends her elbow blade into Gluttony's head. She wonders how King Bradley does, a scratched-up, scarred old lioness with wicked teeth and a chopped-off tail. She supposes it's for the same reason that Siritha is still at her master's side, even if Greed is using the Young Master's mouth.

Siritha clings closer to Lan Fan's side than any daemon other than Arasar ought to, but Lan Fan can understand why.

The journey back to Xing is longer than it ought to be. There are more dust storms on this crossing, and they have to linger in the ruins of Xerxes for more than a week as the wind howls and sand scores deep holes in the stone walls of a dead man's home. They burned Fuu before they left Amestris, and she sleeps around the heavy urn that holds his ashes and bones every night. She doesn't quite manage sleep. Arasar, his ear bandaged, rests heavy against her right shoulder, because her left is still too sore and untested to take the weight. She watches the Young Master sleep, or at least pretend to sleep; his chest rises and falls, but oftentimes he simply lies flat with his eyes on the ceiling, listening to the wind. Out of the three of them, Princess Chang is the only one who can manage a full night's rest, and she sleeps with her wildcat tucked into her belly. Lan Fan hasn't caught the beast's name yet. It just gives Arasar evil looks when it thinks Lan Fan's not paying attention.

"Lan Fan," says the Young Master on the ninth night, and Lan Fan lifts her head from her grandfather's ashes. Siritha is sitting by the Young Master's head, stroking his hair with her agile fingers.

"Master," she says. Her voice cracks. She hasn't had water in a few hours. She's been saving it for Princess Chang. "Is there something you have need of?"

He shakes his head, and sits up. Siritha crawls into his lap. She's been especially clingy since Greed was destroyed, as if she needs to hear Ling's heartbeat and feel him breathe just to make sure that he's Ling, and he'll stay that way. He eyes her, and then he glances at Arasar, and Arasar's missing ear, sliced away by she doesn't know what, before he licks his lips. "May I see your arm?" he asks, and Lan Fan can't help it; she shifts a little so her left arm is behind her, just out of reach. If he notices, the Young Master says nothing about it. "Amestrian technology is…unique in regards to prosthetics. And it's…" he searches for a word. "Please may I see it?"

She nods, licking her lips, and then she peels off her jacket so she is sitting in a sleeveless shirt, and scoots closer so he can touch the arm. The stump of her shoulder still aches and pounds from the wrench of catching Greed—of catching the Young Master—but simple movement doesn't sting too much. He looks up at her, and when she offers her hand, he takes it in both of his, turning it so her palm faces the ceiling. His touch is light and clinical as he lifts each of her fingers, turns them as much as they will turn, and then lets them fall again. The lanternlight flickers against his face.

"There will be talk," he says, "when you come back with a metal limb."

She goes to shrug, then remembers with a shock of warmth to her face and neck that he's holding her hand. Lan Fan bites her tongue instead. "There's always talk," she says in a low voice, and doesn't look at him. "It will simply be different, this time."

His fingers tighten against her wrist. Then Master Ling pulls her arm forward a little, and traces the lines of her plates with his fingertip, up her wrist, up her forearm. She can't feel texture or pressure with her new arm, but she can feel temperature, and his finger is a bead of warmth against her metal flesh. She thinks of her jealousy of the pretty court girls, with all their dainty daemons; she thinks of the women of the Huo clan, their shadowy companions. She thinks of Master Ling and Siritha slapping her ass, and she thinks of Kreena winging in front of a bullet for her as her grandfather attempted to blow himself up to take King Bradley down.

"I don't care if they talk," she says suddenly, and this time when Ling looks up at her, she meets his gaze. "I am not ashamed."

He squeezes her metal hand, and smiles.

Their reception in Xing is tremendous. Lan Fan keeps her fingers tangled in Arasar's ruff as they are presented to the Emperor, as Master Ling offers the Philosopher's Stone they fought so hard for to a selfish old man terrified of his own death. She's dismissed after the first hour of discussion of heirdom, and Lan Fan wanders the halls outside of the Imperial apartments. Some of the daughters from the Lotus Hall put their hands up to their mouths and whisper.

"Is that the Huo girl?"

"She looks so weathered."

"And her daemon, all bruised and beaten—"

"What happened?"

One giggles. "I wonder if she tripped and fell."

Lan Fan looks them right in the eye, and says, "Actually, I cut my own arm off," before she folds her hands behind her back and waits beside the Gate of Paradise. Arasar sits beside her, and as soon as the women are gone, he turns his head up to her.

"Feel better?" he says. Lan Fan smiles.

"Oh, loads."

Master Ling is Emperor before she realizes that Siritha is acting differently. At first, Lan Fan thinks she's imagining it. The macaque, who has always been so bold and brazen, shies away from her now. Master Ling acts no differently than he has always done, teasing her and trusting her, but Siritha barely ever emerges from the spot under his throne where she has taken to hiding herself. Arasar can't work out what the matter is either. It's confusing.

There are many things she's not ashamed of, now. She's not ashamed of being crippled. She's not ashamed of being strong. She's not ashamed of loving the Emperor. She knows many people love him, no more and no less than she does. But she'd be lying if she said that Siritha's new habits don't bother her, because they do. She remembers the spry, saucy little daemon who slapped her ass rather than let Lan Fan be bullied, and she misses her, even if she hasn't exchanged a word with Siritha in years.

The Emperor calls her to his office one day, and she finds him pacing. Siritha is nowhere to be seen. After a careful scan of the rest of the room, she finally finds the daemon perched on the back of a trunk, something tangled between her fingers. She's braiding ribbon. It's something she only does when Master Ling is nervous. Lan Fan looks from Siritha to the Emperor, and then bows. "Majesty," she says, and the Emperor comes to an abrupt stop in front of his desk. "How may this one serve you?"

"No," he says, abruptly. Then he lets out a sharp breath. "Lan Fan, can you lift your head? Please."

She hesitates, and then she straightens. Her mask feels cool and still against her face. She clasps her hands tight behind her back. Arasar sits beside her, sniffing the air absently. His ear has healed well. There's just enough fur to keep the sensitive skin covered, but she has to be careful to scratch around, rather than over, his ears now. She often does it with her metal hand, because he says it gets at the itches better. She's not sure she believes him, but she does it anyway. Siritha finishes her first braid, and begins on a second, using crimson and gold silk. The Emperor rubs his wrist, where he's had the ouroborous mark inked into his skin—a memory, he told her, and a remembrance—and then he takes a step closer to her.

"I've…received a request," he says. His voice is tight, but he's trying to hide it. "One of the boys from the Zhao clan has petitioned for your hand."

This is absolutely not what she was expecting. Lan Fan and Arasar exchange a glance. It feels as though the bottom of her belly has fallen away. She licks her lips. "I see."

Something unidentifiable flickers through the Emperor's eyes. "Were you aware that he was going to ask?"

Lan Fan shakes her head wordlessly. She doesn't even think she knows anyone from the Zhao family. Something in the Emperor's shoulders tightens, and then loosens again. His mouth quirks up a little. "Would you like me to send him a polite rejection?"

Lan Fan's about to nod, and then she thinks better of it. "No," she says. "Be rude."

The Emperor chokes on a laugh, and grins at her. "Rude?"

"He didn't even ask me," she says in a low voice. "How am I supposed to say yes to someone who says nothing to me himself?"

The strangest look passes over Master Ling's face. On the back of the trunk, Siritha looks up and then away again. Then, in a purposefully light voice, the Emperor says, "What would you do if someone were to say something, Lan Fan?"

Arasar stands and circles around her legs. Lan Fan wonders if they're talking in hypotheticals anymore. If they ever were. She hesitates. "Um," she says creatively, because the Emperor is watching her. "It would—it would depend on the person. I think."

"You think?"

"Know," she says, and when his forehead wrinkles, she says it again. "I know. It…it would depend on the person."

He tilts his head just slightly. Siritha mirrors him. Arasar makes a soft whuffling sound, and mutters, "Obvious," under his breath. Ling glances at Arasar, and then up at Lan Fan again, and there's a real smile twitching at the corners of his mouth.

"Obvious?"

She flushes red under her mask. Arasar nudges her metal hand with his head. "Um," she says again, because even if she's not ashamed of it, she'd never actually thought that she would ever say anything about it.

Siritha makes a happy chortling sound and leaps off the trunk. In two bounds, she's across the floor and on Ling's shoulder. She's too heavy for it now, but he balances for her anyway, because she's his and he's hers in a way that Lan Fan can only understand with Arasar. He's hers and she's his. Siritha whispers something in Ling's ear, and then she leaps again, and she hits Lan Fan's chest before Lan Fan can even take a breath. She's funny in her arms, tingly, warm and softer than she thought, but there's a moment where she can't breathe for touching Siritha, and it looks like Ling can't breathe either. His hands twitch and clench as Siritha curls into Lan Fan's chest, hooking her fingers into Lan Fan's shirt, and looks up into her face.

"Obvious," she says, in a final tone of voice, and then she reaches up and unhooks Lan Fan's mask from her face. Lan Fan doesn't protest. She has her arms full of macaque and doesn't actually think she can stop Siritha anyway. Her whole body is tingling with the touch of another daemon. There's a funny, staticky, crackling feeling creeping up her spine.

The Emperor's much closer now. She realizes it only when she looks up from Siritha's smug face and finds that he's standing right before her, his hands on his daemon's shoulders. He bends down a little, and sets his cheek to Lan Fan's. She thinks he's breathing in the smell of her hair. Lan Fan can't breathe at all. Touch has overwhelmed her.

It feels like a lighting bolt straight to her soul when Arasar takes two steps forward and knocks his head into Ling's hand. She almost can't stand it. Siritha scrambles free of the pair of them, and suddenly there's no space between them. His hand creeps to the back of her neck. Lan Fan kisses him first, and his mouth is like the touch of a star.

Arasar nips at Siritha's stubby tail, and presses hard against her side, sighing in pleasure.

A/N:

Daemons
Ling-macaque
Lan Fan-Tibetan wolf
Fuu-Barbary falcon
Ed-mongoose
Al-dove
Winry-mouse
Mei-wildcat