Will he hold your tiny face in his hands

He changes behind a silk screen, and Lan Fan stands before it, eyes repetitively scanning the room and gloved fingers drumming her thigh. She's his sole guard; the only one he trusts with his bare back, as she's trusted him with her tears and her anger and her blood.

At least she did before; in their youth. Before

She doesn't think she could do it today, and he understands without a word passing between them, because that is what Ling does. He knows her better than anyone, by the roll of her shoulders and the way she blinks when she's irritated.

He's getting married today, and Lan Fan is not angry.

She's known about it her whole life. It's the Xingese way, and she loves Xing; she is a child of it, a servant to it. She cannot be angry at the practice of the Emperor.

Above all else, she's proud of him. After everything that happened so he could get here, she's happy. More than anything, she's happy.

She's never been happier, she tells herself. Her best friend- her lord- is getting married today.

His first wedding; forty-nine to go.

Lan Fan jams her eyes closed for a moment- happy tears, she reminds herself, because how could she be sad today?- and breathes in deeply. In, two, three, four. Hold. Exhale.

She's proud of him.

His wife, soon to be Empress consort, is a woman of the Chao clan.

She has refined features, a narrow nose and an angular face. Her hands are graceful. Lan Fan has never seen her with dirt or grease smeared on her cheek. She is Lan Fan's polar opposite.

She's seen the way the woman looks at Ling; amicably, without much passion. It's clear she does not want to marry him, but the two of them enjoy one another's company. Lan Fan knows that they will come to be good friends, maybe fall in love over time. Ling says that's how it's supposed to be, when he speaks to a nearly-empty room like there's no one there. She cannot answer, but he tells her that Emperors do not marry for love, they marry for companionship. They marry for Xing.

There are words that hang in the air between them in that room, a daisy chain looping around his fingers, reaching her up in the rafters. It sits there like an unwelcome guest, staring expectantly, waiting for one of them to address it. Dismiss it.

Neither of them will. They fear the aftermath; flower petals on the floor.

There are footsteps outside, and a resounding knock.

With a sidelong glance at the rest of the room, Lan Fan stalks to the threshold and opens the door to reveal one of the Emperor's servants in his finest clothes. "The ceremony starts in ten minutes," he says, looking slightly terrified of Lan Fan. She often forgets that the palace servants view her as a living legend, the quarter-metal soldier that sacrificed everything to get their Emperor on top.

Suffice it to say, she does not have many friends.

"Thank you," she says simply, and it comes out like a snap. She can practically see the man quivering. Lan Fan shuts the door to avoid embarrassing herself further.

"Ten minutes, my lord," she tells him. It's quiet. He hears her anyway.

"Thanks, Lan Fan."

She doesn't answer. He doesn't keep talking like he usually would to dissipate the silence, which always makes him squirm.

Lan Fan stands there, in the center of the room, and tries not to feel jealous of the Chao noblewoman.

She is happy, she reminds herself, for the thousandth time that day. She is proud of him.