This piece was actually written years ago, but I only just found it again. It was inspired in part by Anita, and in part by a statement in Saiunkoku Monogatari about make-up being a woman's sword and shield.

Enjoy!

A Woman's Sword and Shield

Cold droplets slid down her neck and collarbone, and she caught them with the towel before they disappeared between the swells of her chest. She dried her face with quick, careful blots of the towel, then hung it back on the hook.

The mirror faced her, and inside, a nineteen-year-old girl with large dark eyes and a thin mouth. Her face had always been on the paler side, but the last few years had driven the healthy tinge of her Chinese face away and replaced it by a tired pallor and the early appearance of tautness in the muscles below her skin.

One click, and then she took hold of the sponge applicator, pressed it against the base, a shade darker than her skin, and then swept it in circular motions over her face, like a veil hiding the minute scar above her eyebrow from a Level 2 three years ago, along with the ones along her jaw, which had required stitches, and the jagged one on her temple, from stepping in to help Allen. She followed by dipping her fingers in the rouge, and with a swipe, her cheeks bloomed like a pale rose.

She slid her arms into the straps of her bra, struggling for an infinitesimal second with the hooks and clasp when her back bent in a way that it didn't really like to anymore, berating her for a fall that never quite left her the same, though she never let it affect her work. The traditional cloth she wrapped around her chest for missions was certainly more secure, but much more fastidious to put on as well. She tested the weight settled into the cups and continued, slinging an aquamarine tank-top over her slim shoulders, and pondered over the skirts for a moment. She didn't have many, her uniform serving her well for most occasions, but after a moment picked a white one, the frills leafing about her when she stepped off the bathroom platform.

Long, delicate fingers belied by the calluses and scarred nicks along her palms stroked the boots fondly. She stepped into them and they rose along her legs like a flood of water, yielding to her thin shape loyally.

She returned to the bathroom to sit in the front of the vanity, and teased the lids of her eyes with silver, pressing the top of the heavy pencil to create a continuous streak of moonlight that contrasted with the unending depths of her eyes.

A critical eye in the mirror spoke of her flaws. With a wet pop, the bottle of concealer was opened and magically, the faded purple of the bruise on her thigh disappeared. A strategically-placed armband denied the presence of bandages around her arm, the continual ache apparent only to her mind.

Her fingers unclasped the wooden jewelry box on the counter reverently. A myriad of accessories gleamed inside, brought from China, beckoning with their spiritual designs. Though it had ceased to be her home for a long time, she still held a natural affinity for her homeland, and it was with something of a misplaced nostalgia that she picked the set of jade earrings and necklace. Small and modest, the gems hung from her earlobe and settled against her chest with the somber regality of an overseeing queen.

There was one last thing… her fingers ran through the onyx-black locks of her hair, snagging on no tangles and ending at carefully-trimmed ends that brushed her shoulders. Two years had allowed her hair to regain its former femininity, but it would be several more before it reached its glorious length at the beginning of the war.

It was fine though. Drawers opened and closed and were carefully scourged for any ponytails. She wondered briefly if after two years, she'd even be able to find any. The past two years, far too long in her opinion, she'd had to deal with clips and headbands to keep her hair tucked behind her ears. It was possible that now…

In the back of her bedside drawer she finally found a pair of unopened ponytails, which she took out with an exclamation of success. The familiar motions came to her naturally, but it had been so long and her hair was so much shorter… She parted her hair, waves of darkness separating into equal halves, and proceeded to gather one half into a careful smooth bunch to the side of the back of her head. She secured it with a ponytail and worked on the other half, repeating the process.

It felt decidedly strange, her hair unaccustomed to being up, the air kissing her nape like a newlywed's, her scalp protesting mildly at the tautness. One of the pigtails was a fraction tighter than the other, but she doubted anyone save the science department would notice. The pigtails only reached the top of her ears, the length they'd been when she was a five-year-old and she had to bite her lip at the wave of regret and nostalgia that surged within her. It was swiftly quelled. This was a war with no room for regret.

She inspected herself, turned to the side and dragged a sharp eye along her whole body. She felt a surge of feminine satisfaction at feeling pretty and clean, and understood.

"Makeup is a woman's armor."

It was an old Chinese saying she'd giggled at when she was young and tomboyish. But she had taken Anita's dying words to heart, and had been carefully nurturing her hair to its former length. She would not let the war get the better of her.

She took up her purse, the light weight fitting comfortably underneath her arm, bumping against her hip.

Makeup was more than just the a shallow and insecure attempt at beauty. It was a strong woman's declaration of her being, the mark that she was ready and confident in her womanhood and did not disdain it, did not reject it, did not try to 'rise above it'. The charm and beauty it professed were her spear and arrow, while the powdery mask of colors was the shield over her true state and intentions within. It was, quite simply, her way of showing the world that the war had taken nothing from her, and she was still in full bloom. Regardless of whether that was a lie.

The hallways were damp from the recent heavy rains, humidity clinging to her skin, and she made a mental note to get the maintenance department to tune up the humidifiers and also replace the couple light bulbs that flickered on and off. First on her list was Kanda, so she headed for his room, her knuckles grazing the wood in a soft knock. She wasn't sure where he'd be awake or not, and if he was, she did not want to interrupt the little rest he could get.

"What?" came the snapped reply when the door opened a fraction, and she bit back a smile. Awake, but not happy. She sympathized though—he'd come back from a mission just the night before, and it had been a particularly grueling one, according to Komui.

"Good afternoon, Kanda," she smiled at his weary face, letting his bleary eyes blink once and look her over, "I'm going out, do you need anything?"

His fatigued gaze lingered on her for a second longer, and he muttered something as he disappeared back into the curtain-drawn obscurity of his room, and emerged with a scratched-at piece of paper, which he handed to her brusquely.

"Green tea packets… hair tie…" she read over the few other items. "I'll get you some hand lotion too, your hands are getting pretty roughed up. Anything else?"

His eyes flickered to the side, where she knew his paints and easel were, and she knew that he was too unmaterialistic to ask for something that was so obviously a simply hobby of his— a little-known one at athat.

"Ah, I've got it," she smiled. Years of companionship had not passed in vain, and she had managed to catch which brand and materials he favored by now, "So charcoal pencils, paper… anything else?"

He lowered his head a bit in embarrassment, "Ink."

He didn't say please, but his tone and clear discomfort said 'thank you' enough for her. She was about to turn around and wave goodbye over her shoulder when she heard him add softly, "It's… been a while since you've had your hair like that."

The door closed before she could respond, and she stifled a giggle, feeling oddly pleased. That he'd noticed was surprising enough, but that he'd actually mentioned it was almost miraculous. Though of course, in true Kanda fashion, it was up to her to decide whether his statement was a good thing or not. But in this was probably as close to a compliment as Kanda could manage. She placed his list in her purse and continued walking.

"Hey, Lenalee!"

She stopped and turned, waiting for Lavi to catch up with her.

"You going shopping? Mind getting me something too? I'd go along, but the Panda's running me ragged with making sure everything's written before I get sent out on the field." He was grinning from ear to ear, which she took as a sign that someone was currently bearing the brunt of one of his pranks.

"I bet he is," Lenalee grinned, "And I'm sure you're making his job as easy as possible, aren't you?" Lavi waggled his eyebrows at her and she laughed. "In any case, what do you need? I was about to go by your room too and check with you." She paused and tilted her head. "Aren't you leaving today though?"

He grimaced, and she rubbed the back of his head. His scarf now covered the lower half of his face to hide the scabbed mess over his chin, the result of a nasty fall, and his arm was in a sling. Luckily not broken, but ligaments sometimes took longer to heal than even broken bones. Reever had assured him it was only a mild sprain though. "Yeah. Tonight. The Akuma in Lyon are only attacking at night, apparently. So we're hoping to reach by dawn so we have the whole day to work and find out where the presumed Innocence in the area is."

She touched his arm and leaned forward to brush her lips warmly against his cheek, "Come back safely," she whispered, and he nodded, the smile wrinkling his fond eyes.

Abruptly, his mood morphed and he slapped her shoulder cheerfully and gave her an appreciative once-over, "My, my, aren't we all dressed up and pretty?" he sighed long-sufferingly, "It's good for the soul to see a woman, it's like a beacon of light in these dark, testosterone-filled hallways. You, Lenalee, are the sun that shines in the darkness of the Order!"

She had to laugh at his theatrics, but he shook his head and waggled his finger at her. "I'm dead serious. You look really nice, and…" his fingers touched the top of her pigtails, eyeing the wistfully, "I'd almost forgotten what you looked like before. It feels like we've been in this war all our lives instead of just a few years."

She bit her lip, about to console him, but he beat her to the punch and grinned again, eyebrow raised, "Is this because you're going on a date with Allen?"

She swatted his hand away and mock-glared, "No, you know he's only coming with me because it's dangerous for exorcists to go out alone. Now give me your list."

"Stationary, rubber bands, colored pencils, a blue bandanna, that scented shampoo at the apothecary— with the raspberry oil, please, and a pair of plain white socks. And my new book shipment at the bookstore. Oh, and also a bag of tulip seeds so I can start a windowsill garden for Kanda, you know how dreary his room is, some origami paper, and if you could be a doll and figure out what I can give Jerry for his birth—"

"Woah!" she cut him off before her brain imploded. "I can't remember all that. Can you write that down?"

He laughed and dug his hand in his pocket, tapping her head with the slim notebook he pulled out. "Here it is. Never fear, I wouldn't test you like that. Or anyone really, save for Gramps. Sometimes we'd give each other lists with hundreds of items and ask each other to repeat them weeks later." He tore out a sheet of paper and handed it to her, waving his hand in a jaunty farewell and promptly jumping over the railing. His voice rang out from the floor below, "Knock 'em dead, gorgeous!"

"Who?" she called out, confused, peeking over the railing.

"The boys, of course!" He gave her one last bright smile and suddenly disappeared, just in time, as she heard the quick pitter-patter of Bookman's unmistakable gait, which deposited a list in her hands as the figure flew by, jumped over the railing as Lavi had done just moments earlier, and disappeared as well.

She gave a conformed sigh. "He never learns, does he? I guess that leaves only brother…"

Komui didn't look up from his 'work' until she cleared his throat, and the papers he had been supposedly working on flew in the air with force of his abrupt standing.

"Lenalee! Where are you going without even telling your brother a word?" she ignored his horrified tone and straightened the pillows on his couch as she the disaster zone that no matter how many times she cleaned up, found a way to accumulate mountains of paper every day.

"And that skirt! I will not allow you to go out in such an indecent revelation of your nubile body! My darling Lenalee, you have no idea what the evil monsters known as men will plot! You have to take precautions against that evil!"

She rolled her eyes, subtly pulling her skirt lower. "Brother, have you even looked at my uniform? It's shorter than this. And I'm wearing shorts underneath, don't worry." She peeked into his cup, where she was afraid a rock of crystallized sugar was forming at the bottom. "Anyhow, do you need me to get anything for you while you're in town? I know you're in need of new slippers and you're running out of nails and screws. Your shipment of Mozart records arrived in the bookstore yesterday, by the way." For Komui, she did not need a list—everything he needed she had already made note of, but she always asked just in case. She mentally ticked off the coffee, and the hazelnut cream he liked to put in it, and a few cups to replace the ones he'd lost. A paperweight, also to replace one he'd lost— things probably ended up getting lost in the piles of rubbish in his office, and then accidentally getting thrown away as trash.

To her surprise, Komui nodded and reached into his drawer. "Here," he said handing her the bottom half of a sheet of paper. "I have some small requirements, mostly items of a mechanical nature…"

She frowned at the list. "Not for another Komurin, I hope?"

He pouted and waved the notion off as if it was the most unthinkable of things, "That, my dear Lenalee, is unfortunately a long-gone dream. It's because the science department won't let me borrow tools from them anymore."

With good reason, she thought, the cautious frown remaining in place for her brother. She made a motion to leave, and his lower lip suddenly struck out at a positively pitiful angle and he latched on to her, wailing something about his previous bon-bon becoming a lady and leaving him. She cut him off, gently prying his arms off her.

"Yes, brother, I am… I have to go now, please let go. And yes, I'll be careful, won't get close to any strange men, and will come home before six."

She let out a quiet bubble of laughter once she exited his office and once again reached up to touch the nubs of her little ponytails, enjoying the tickle of the tips at the shell of her ears.

It had at first been for her own benefit. She would not allow the war to get to her, and making sure she kept up with the appearance had inspired confidence and a hope for the new day in her. But little by little, she had begun to notice that it wasn't just a mental shield for herself, but a sort of beacon of hope for others as well. The cheer and hope and sense of normalcy that her well-kept appearance and touch of make-up provided to her was infectious to the others around her as well. It had taken a while, but she'd finally realized that they turned to her when they wanted to forget about the war for a bit, and pretend that they were semi-normal people who cared about things that seemed as petty as make-up and a clean, ironed outfit. It was, albeit, a bit embarrassing for someone as unmaterialistic as she'd grown up to be. And it made her feel as if she was being too self-important when she came to the hesitant conclusion that her comrades, in fact, enjoyed seeing her dressed up and made up. She had never cared much about such things, after all. War did that to you.

On the other hand though, it was perfectly logical. Men in battle were inspired with confidence when they saw their general in his best attire and in perfect shape, regardless of whether that was true or not inside. An unkempt, unshaven, tired-looking general served only to remind his men of the hardships of war and instill unease. It worked, she mused further, on a similar principle to Allen's smiles. Whether they were faked or not, is was good to know he was still capable of doing so, and his attempts brightened their days. As long as Allen didn't try to keep up the façade always of course. Sometimes he got too carried away with his need to pretend everything was perfect and he wasn't hurting.

What had at first been her following Anita's wishes for her own good had soon become an indispensable way for her to retain morale in her comrades and family, and it was a small, but important contribution to the home front.

She rounded the corner after the stairs of the bottom floor, heading towards the hooded figure with the white tufts of hair peeking out from underneath.

"Allen!"

He turned, and his eyes lit up as she approached.

"Lenalee," he gave her a smile as greeting and then his eyes alighted immediately onto her hair. He blinked, cocking his head to the side, "Your hair…" he'd gotten taller in the past two years, so that Kanda's nicknames of beansprout and such didn't really apply anymore, and were used more out of force of habit than anything. He put a hand on her head, and ran his fingers through her hair. His lips were pursed in a wave of nostalgia and regret, and she considered for a moment if maybe it had been a mistake for her to have tied her hair like this again. But then he smiled, and gestured for her to get in the boat.

"It makes me a little sad," he said, as if reading her thoughts, stepping in behind her and sitting next to her as a Finder picked up the oar and set the boat moving through the dark tunnels, "But at the same time, it makes me really happy. It was hard to get used to your short hair, I remember that. But seeing it grow… reminds me that we're growing too, and that we're moving on. And before long, we'll be able to see it back to how it was before."

She held his hand as he spoke, his warm gloved thumb brushing hers rhythmically. She nodded fiercely, eyes beginning to prickle, and she knew that he was doing the same. She cleared her throat and looked up ahead.

"We won't let the war get the best of us."

Thanks for reading!