The Forbidden City, Beijing - April 22nd, 1940, Late Morning
The sun climbed higher above the Forbidden City, its rays streaming through the courtyard and reflecting brilliantly off the ceremonial banners that lined the terrace. Light caught the golden embroidery on every surface, creating a celestial glow that sanctified the proceedings. Every single guest in attendance waited in hushed anticipation as the wedding ceremony approached its climactic moment. The air itself felt charged with historical significance, This was the kind of event that would be recorded in imperial annals, discussed by historians for generations, perhaps even commemorated in paintings and poems that would outlive everyone present.
Kylian, at this moment, was doing everything in his considerable power to maintain composure at a time when he felt acutely aware that eyes from multiple quarters were upon him. His positioning next to Princess Changning—so irregular, so visible, so fraught with implications both diplomatic and personal had made him an object of curiosity and perhaps suspicion. The Japanese delegation continued casting glances in his direction. Chinese officials seemed uncertain how to interpret his placement. Even some of the other foreign dignitaries appeared puzzled by the arrangement.
It didn't help matters at all that the one person he most wanted to avoid, needed to avoid for both their sakes was sitting mere feet away from him, close enough that he could detect the subtle jasmine scent that seemed to emanate from her robes, close enough to hear the gentle rustle of silk whenever she shifted position slightly.
The Wedding Ceremony;
"Hear this proclamation!" The court announcer's voice cut through the expectant silence like a ceremonial blade, trained to with perfect clarity. "From the Imperial Nation of Japan, the Grandson of the Heavenly Emperor, His Imperial Highness Prince Itsuhito, approaches with the utmost sincerity and dignity! He now enters the ceremonial ground to pay reverence to the Emperor of China!"
The announcement echoed through the courtyard, reverberating off the ancient walls and pillars. It was immediately followed by a fanfare of ceremonial music—drums, gongs, and wind instruments playing in harmonies that were simultaneously alien and compelling to Western ears. The entire court turned their attention in perfect tandem toward the Eastern halls, thousands of heads moving as one in a display of choreographed unity that was itself impressive.
Prince Itsuhito emerged from among the covered corridors on the eastern side of the courtyard, processing slowly toward the main ceremonial space. He was accompanied by a substantial retinue composed of both Chinese and Japanese officials, a visual representation of the alliance this marriage was meant to cement. Chinese courtiers wore traditional Ming-style robes, while Japanese officials wore formal *sokutai* court dress, creating an interesting synthesis of two ancient civilizations' ceremonial traditions.
The Prince himself wore long red robes embroidered with four-clawed *mang* dragons, a deliberate choice that acknowledged Chinese protocol while maintaining Japanese dignity. Only the Emperor himself could wear five-clawed dragons; four claws indicated high rank while still observing proper hierarchy. The sophistication and quality of the embroidery was evident even from a distance, each dragon rendered with meticulous attention to detail, the gold thread catching sunlight and seeming to make the creatures move across the fabric.
The assembled guests watched in silence as Prince Itsuhito made his way slowly toward the high terrace where the Emperor sat. The Prince maintained remarkable composure—his bearing calm, his movements measured and deliberate. He appeared to be perhaps twenty-three years old, Kylian estimated, studying him carefully.
What struck Kylian most about the Prince was a certain quality of detachment in his demeanor. He carried himself with undeniable dignity—his posture perfect, his steps precise but his face remained utterly emotionless, as though he were performing a duty rather than celebrating a joyous occasion. His features were sharp and aristocratic: long, elegant eyebrows, high cheekbones, a jawline that spoke to generations of selective breeding among Japan's imperial family. His face carried what could only be described as immense pride—not personal vanity, but the accumulated confidence of a family that traced its lineage to the sun goddess herself.
Yet there was something in his expression—or rather, in his lack of expression that suggested profound ambivalence about this marriage. Whether it was against his personal will, or whether he simply considered it beneath him to display emotion at a diplomatic ceremony, Kylian couldn't determine. Perhaps both were true.
"I did not expect the Japanese to be so willing to follow Chinese traditions so precisely," Ambassador von Rottberg murmured from the Hanseatic pavilion, his voice pitched low to avoid being overheard. "One has to wonder how much pride they had to swallow to agree to this ceremony."
"In this union of dynasties, not honoring the bride's customs in front of international delegations would be absolutely catastrophic to Japan's image on the world stage," von Hausen replied quietly, agreeing with his colleague's assessment. He flicked a brief glance toward the Japanese pavilion, where senior officials sat with carefully neutral expressions. "I would actually be quite surprised if they didn't comply with every protocol. Japan is nothing if not conscious of how they're perceived by other powers."
"You never know with a nation that views virtually every interaction through the lens of perceived slights and questions of honor," von Rottberg replied thoughtfully, his voice a low rumble that barely carried beyond their small group. "It makes them... profoundly unpredictable in diplomatic contexts. They may be performing this ceremony with absolute perfection while secretly seething at the obligation to defer to Chinese customs. The outward compliance may mask considerable internal resentment."
Kylian observed the Japanese Prince with intense interest, wanting to study him in detail, to understand what kind of man Princess Ankang was being married to. But he remained acutely conscious that the Japanese delegation was watching him as well, probably with far more suspicion than he felt toward them. He could feel their scrutiny like a physical weight, could sense their whispered speculation about why a relatively junior Hanseatic officer had been seated in such a position of honor.
When he turned his head slightly to observe the Prince's approach more clearly, Princess Changning inevitably entered his peripheral vision. He caught glimpses of her profile—her hair gleaming in the sunlight, the delicate curve of the back of her ear, the sharp yet somehow delicate line of her cheekbone. The way she sat with perfect posture yet without visible tension. The way her hand rested on the table before her with natural grace, as though every gesture had been choreographed by centuries of training in royal etiquette.
He simply couldn't understand why she affected him so profoundly, but he knew with growing certainty that he was slowly crossing a line in his heart, a boundary he had been determined to maintain but which seemed to erode a little more with every moment spent in her presence. He forced himself to brush these thoughts aside once again and redirected his attention firmly toward the wedding ceremony unfolding before him.
The announcement came again, delivered with even greater ceremonial weight: "Hear this proclamation! The eldest daughter of the Great Jin Emperor, Her Imperial Highness the Princess Ankang, who upholds the Mandate of Heaven and brings solace to the Four Seas, now enters into blessed matrimony, bringing glory to the Imperial Ancestors!"
The music swelled once more, this time emanating from the same path the Emperor himself had used, the most sacred and formal route within the Forbidden City. This processional entrance was even more breathtaking than the Prince's had been, more elaborate in every detail, as befitted the daughter of the Son of Heaven.
Unlike the groom, who had walked to his position, Princess Ankang sat within an ornate palanquin of extraordinary craftsmanship. The palanquin itself was a masterpiece—red lacquer decorated with gold phoenixes in flight, inlaid with precious stones that caught the light, supported by carved poles held by eight bearers in matching ceremonial dress. The balance of symmetry was perfect; each step synchronized so that the palanquin seemed to glide rather than be carried.
Her retinue included dozens of imperial guards wearing elaborate ceremonial uniforms rather than their usual military dress. Banner bearers carried standards representing both the imperial family and specifically Princess Ankang's own rank and lineage. The procession included a substantial number of musicians playing traditional instruments, the combined sound creating a symphony that filled the entire courtyard, echoing off walls and blending with the breeze.
Female attendants walked beside the procession in matching silk robes, carrying baskets of fresh flower petals which they scattered along the red carpet, creating a fragrant path for the bride. Senior eunuchs followed behind, carrying elaborate containers that held portions of the dowry, the wealth and prestige of the Jin Dynasty made visible for all to witness.
Princess Ankang herself remained concealed within the covered palanquin as it approached the terrace, maintaining the tradition that the bride should not be fully visible until the ceremony's appointed moment. When the palanquin was finally set down at the base of the Emperor's terrace, ladies-in-waiting immediately positioned themselves around it in formation.
Then Princess Ankang emerged, and the courtyard collectively held its breath.
Her expression remained invisible beneath the magnificent Phoenix Crown—an elaborate headdress of gold, pearls, and precious stones that was so heavy it required years of practice to wear properly. The crown's dangling ornaments created a veil effect, concealing her face while still allowing her to see. But the splendor of her wedding attire was visible to all and drew gasps of admiration even from those who had seen hundreds of imperial ceremonies.
She wore a voluminous, brilliantly red robe—the deepest, most vibrant red imaginable, embroidered with intricate dragon and phoenix motifs that represented the union of Emperor (dragon) and Empress (phoenix). The embroidery was so detailed, so extensive, that it must have required dozens of the empire's finest artisans working for months to complete. Gold thread caught the sunlight and made the mythical creatures move across the fabric as she walked. The weight of the garment was considerable, yet she moved with practiced grace.
She began her slow, measured walk toward Prince Itsuhito, who waited at his designated position. Every step was choreographed, counted, timed to the music. She moved as though floating, maintaining composure and grace despite the enormous physical and emotional burden she carried—the weight of literal fabric and jewelry, yes, but also the weight of dynastic expectations, national hopes, and her own uncertain future.
The bride and groom approached the base of the Emperor's terrace together, positioning themselves precisely where centuries of protocol dictated they should stand. The entire courtyard held its collective breath in anticipation. This was perhaps the most important moment of the ceremony, the act that would formalize the union before Heaven, Earth, and the assembled witnesses.
The announcement rang out: "The Three Reverences!"
This was the ritual of the three kneelings and nine prostrations—performed toward the Emperor, representing Heaven; toward the ancestral tablets, representing the generations past; and toward the earth itself, representing the natural order. It was an act of such profound submission and respect that it had been performed at imperial weddings for over a thousand years.
The couple knelt in perfect unison, as though they had rehearsed this moment extensively which they undoubtedly had. They bent forward until their foreheads touched the ground, holding the position for a prescribed number of heartbeats, then rose together. They repeated this sequence three times toward the Emperor, then turned to face the ancestral tablets displayed at the ceremony's periphery and performed the same reverence three more times, then finally faced the cardinal directions representing earth and heaven, prostrating themselves a final three times.
The entire courtyard witnessed something extraordinary: a Japanese Prince, grandson of an Emperor who claimed divine descent prostrating himself fully before a Chinese ruler. This was not what many observers, particularly Western diplomats, had expected to see. There had been speculation that some compromise would be negotiated, some modified protocol that would allow the Prince to maintain his own dignity while still honoring Chinese customs. Yet here he was, performing the full traditional reverence without visible hesitation or resentment.
It seemed that Japan was genuinely committed to demonstrating respect for Chinese traditions, at least in this public, ceremonial context. Whether this outward deference reflected true respect or merely diplomatic calculation remained an open question.
Wolfgang let out a small but audible sound, something between a chuckle and a scoff of disbelief. The noise was immediately noticed by Minister von Hausen, who turned and fixed Wolfgang with a stern, wide-eyed stare that demanded explanation.
Wolfgang simply shook his head and returned his attention to the ceremony, but internally he felt vindicated in his earlier assessment of Japanese sincerity. He had witnessed how Prince Itsuhito failed to appear for the dowry presentation ceremony at the Chang'an estate, a significant breach of propriety that had insulted Princess Ankang and her family. The Prince's performance of perfect protocol now, in front of international witnesses, seemed to Wolfgang like theater rather than genuine respect. The Japanese were showing the world what they wanted the world to see, while their actual regard for Chinese dignity might be something else entirely.
The couple remained kneeling before the Emperor even after the formal prostrations were completed. Now it was time for the exchange of tokens which would bind them symbolically to one another.
As the Minister of Rites had fallen ill that morning, the Grand Secretary, as the next highest-ranking official present, stepped forward to officiate this crucial moment. He was an elderly man whose long white beard and elaborate robes spoke to decades of service at the highest levels of government. He gestured with precise, ritualized movements, and two senior eunuchs appeared, each holding an ornate tray covered in yellow silk—the imperial color, used only for the most sacred items.
The eunuchs knelt before the Grand Secretary with perfect synchronization. He lifted the silk coverings with ceremonial deliberation, revealing the tokens that the bride and groom would exchange. One tray contained Prince Itsuhito's offering; the other, Princess Ankang's.
Prince Itsuhito's token was a piece of Japanese jadeite, a pale green stone prized in Japan for its supposed mystical properties was carved into a traditional Japanese seal bearing his personal name. The craftsmanship was exquisite, the stone itself probably worth more than most people would earn in a lifetime.
The Grand Secretary handed the first token to Prince Itsuhito with both hands, bowing slightly as he did so. The Prince accepted it with equal formality, then turned toward Princess Ankang. In a voice that carried across the silent courtyard, he declared in Chinese, "With this jade, I pledge my steadfastness."
His Chinese was heavily accented and clearly not his native tongue, but the effort he made to speak the bride's language rather than requiring translation was noted favorably by the Chinese officials present. It was another gesture toward respect for Chinese customs, whether sincere or calculated, it served its diplomatic purpose.
Then it was Princess Ankang's turn. The Grand Secretary presented her with her own token and this was the moment that made even hardened diplomats feel the weight of what was transpiring.
Her token was a lock of her own hair, bound with red silk thread. In Chinese tradition, a woman's hair represented her essence, her identity, her very self. To give a lock of hair to a man was to give him a piece of one's soul, to acknowledge his authority over one's person, to bind one's fate to his irrevocably.
The attention of the entire courtyard focused on Princess Ankang. Many present wanted to see how she might react in such a profound moment, whether she would show emotion, whether her hands would tremble, whether her voice would break. Yet she maintained perfect composure despite what must have been roiling emotions beneath that Phoenix Crown.
She turned to face her new husband and extended the lock of hair toward him with steady hands. In a clear, controlled voice, she spoke the ritual words: "With this lock, I bind my destiny to yours."
The words hung in the air with finality. Once spoken, they could not be recalled. Once the token was given, it could not be reclaimed. The marriage was becoming real, irrevocable, with each passing moment of ceremony.
Kylian watched this exchange with complex emotions he didn't fully understand. The ritual was foreign to him—in Hanseatic tradition, marriages were sealed with rings, not hair and jade yet something about its symbolism struck him as profoundly intimate, perhaps even more so than the exchange of metal bands.
At that moment, unbidden and unwanted, a thought washed over him with startling clarity and force: What if it were Princess Changning offering her hair to him?
The fantasy seized him completely for several heartbeats. He imagined her hands, those graceful hands he had watched holding a tea cup, had felt briefly against his hands extending toward him with a lock of her dark, lustrous hair. He imagined accepting it, binding himself to her, declaring before Heaven and witnesses that their destinies were intertwined.
The thought made his heart race uncontrollably. He could feel his cheeks beginning to burn with the intensity of the emotion flooding through him. He desperately tried to dismiss the image, to push it away, to remind himself of all the reasons such thoughts were not merely inappropriate but actively dangerous.
He used his arm to subtly cover his face, pretending to adjust his collar while actually trying to hide the flush he was certain must be visible to anyone who looked at him. He told himself firmly that such thoughts were forbidden, that even imagining such an impossible scenario was a kind of crime, a fantasy born of foolishness that could never be realized and should never be entertained.
He even apologized to her internally, as though she could somehow sense his improper thoughts and might be offended by them.
The burning sensation in his cheeks eventually subsided, his breathing gradually returned to something approaching normal. But in that moment of fantasy and forced recovery, he felt acutely, undeniably aware that the woman sitting beside him was pulling him in ways he didn't understand, couldn't control, and was slowly losing the power to resist. The battle he had been fighting against his own feelings—maintaining professional distance, preserving propriety, protecting both their reputations was being lost by increments with each passing hour in her presence.
The ceremony continued. Now that the tokens had been exchanged, the couple once again faced the Emperor and raised their respective tokens slightly. Prince Itsuhito holding the lock of hair, Princess Ankang holding the jade seal presenting them for the Emperor's inspection and blessing.
Emperor Xianhe stood from his Dragon Throne, a signal that the ceremony was approaching its climax. The courtyard collectively paid attention, all conversation ceasing, all movement stilling. When the Son of Heaven spoke, all Creation listened.
His voice, though he did not shout, carried across the vast space with remarkable clarity. Perhaps it was the acoustics of the courtyard's design, or perhaps it was simply that thousands of people were straining to hear every word he spoke.
"By the Mandate of Heaven and the Accord of Earth," the Emperor proclaimed in formal Chinese, his tone carrying the weight of cosmic authority, "This union is sealed before all witnesses. You are now husband and wife; our houses are now joined in bonds that cannot be broken. Let your hearts be bound as one for all eternity, and together, bear the weight of this age and all its burdens. Bring honor to our Imperial Ancestors through your conduct, and through your harmony, bring lasting peace to all under Heaven. This is Our Decree. Let the world bear witness and remember what transpires here today."
The entire courtyard with the exception of the foreign dignitaries who were not required to perform Chinese court ritual, bowed in perfect unison toward the Emperor. The only sound was the massive rustle of thousands of silk robes moving simultaneously, creating a susurration like wind through a forest.
As the Emperor's proclamation concluded and the formal blessings were complete, the newlyweds turned from facing the throne to face the assembled guests. For one final time, the entire courtyard bowed in unison toward the couple, thousands of people acknowledging the new reality that had just been created through ceremony and word.
The Grand Secretary raised his voice in triumphant announcement: "By Heaven's will and Earth's witness, the Sacred Rites are accomplished! The union is complete!"
As he spoke, an enormous ceremonial bell in a nearby tower was struck with tremendous force. The sound reverberated across the entire Forbidden City, felt as much in one's chest as heard with one's ears. It was a sound of finality, of transformation—the old world ending and a new world beginning in the space between one heartbeat and the next.
The couple turned from facing the assembled guests and walked together toward their designated position on the terrace, a level below where the Emperor sat but elevated above all others, signifying their new status. In a final act of filial devotion and respect, they kowtowed once more to the Emperor, completing the ceremony's formal sequence.
Emperor Xianhe, recognizing that the ritual was now complete, rose from his seat. This was the signal everyone had been waiting for. Guards and officials immediately moved into position, forming an escort as he prepared to depart. He made his way back into the Hall of Supreme Harmony with his two youngest children, Princess Anle and Crown Prince Jia Hao, leaving the newlyweds and the assembled guests to proceed to the celebratory feast.
The courtyard bowed collectively as the Emperor rose and processed away from the throne. It was a long, silent reverence—a profound act of respect toward the completed ritual and toward the cosmic authority the Emperor represented. Even after he disappeared from view into the shadowed interior of the Hall, the courtyard remained bowed until the ceremonial protocols allowed them to rise.
Finally, the bell struck again, releasing the assembly. The courtyard rose up as one, and the atmosphere immediately transformed. What had been hushed, formal, almost oppressively ceremonial suddenly became animated. The unspoken tension that had held everyone in its grip for three long hours was released like a held breath finally exhaled.
The Wedding Feast;
Chatter began to ripple through the assembled guests. Movement increased as people adjusted positions, stretched muscles held rigid by protocol, turned to neighbors to share impressions of what they had witnessed. The sound of human voices previously suppressed to respectful whispers, now rose in volume and complexity as hundreds of conversations began simultaneously.
The sound of music started to fill the air from specially positioned pavilions around the courtyard's periphery. Musicians played traditional instruments—guzheng zithers whose strings created cascading melodies, bamboo flutes dizi whose ethereal tones carried across the space, percussion instruments that provided rhythm. The music was specifically composed for banquets—celebratory but not overwhelming, complex but not demanding of full attention, designed to enhance conversation rather than dominate it.
Then, with the efficiency that came from centuries of imperial hospitality, an army of servants appeared. They emerged from service corridors in a seemingly endless stream, forming orderly lines that stretched from the palace kitchens to every corner of the courtyard where guests were seated. They wore elaborate, colorful dress uniforms rather than plain service attire, reds and blues and greens that matched the festive occasion, impressing foreign dignitaries with the wealth and organizational capacity of the imperial household.
Each servant carried covered containers—lidded vessels of porcelain or lacquered wood designed to keep food at optimal temperature. What was most impressive was the synchronization: service waves delivered courses to every guest at virtually the same moment. No table received food significantly before or after any other. The coordination required to achieve this across such a vast space, serving thousands of guests simultaneously, was itself a demonstration of imperial administrative capacity.
Kylian watched with fascination as servants approached his table and removed the lids from the first course with flourishes that were equal parts practical and theatrical. The food revealed was quite unlike anything he had ever encountered in his travels or his education.
This was merely the first course—appetizers, essentially yet the variety and sophistication were staggering. There was smoked duck, its skin a deep mahogany color from the smoking process, sliced thin enough to see light through. Drunken chicken, prepared in rice wine until tender and infused with complex flavors. A beef shank that had been braised until the meat fell from the bone, glazed with something that made it glisten. Jellied pork in soy sauce, the aspic catching light and seeming almost jewel-like in its translucence.
The options were overwhelming. Each dish was a work of culinary art, arranged on fine porcelain with attention to visual presentation as well as flavor. Kylian genuinely had no idea where he should begin. In Hanseatic formal dining, courses followed a prescribed order, each building on the last. But here, multiple dishes were presented simultaneously, and he was uncertain about proper protocol.
He glanced to his left toward the Hanseatic pavilion, hoping to take cues from his more experienced colleagues. Minister von Hausen and Ambassador von Rottberg were engaged in quiet conversation as they ate, their chopstick technique adequate if not elegant, clearly discussing diplomatic implications of what they had just witnessed. Wolfgang, by contrast, was enthusiastically diving into the food, sampling everything
excitedly. He had clearly decided that proper diplomatic analysis could wait, the food demanded immediate attention.
Kylian smiled slightly at his friend's unabashed enjoyment. That was Wolfgang, capable of maintaining protocol when necessary but never forgetting to actually experience and enjoy the cultures they encountered.
His eyes then inevitably drifted toward the Japanese pavilion positioned between his seat and the Hanseatic delegation. To his considerable relief, the Japanese dignitaries appeared, at least for the moment, to be focused on their own food and their own internal conversations rather than continuing their earlier scrutiny of him. Perhaps now that the ceremony was complete, his irregular seating had become less interesting than the cuisine on offer.
Kylian turned his attention back to his own food, picking up his chopsticks, implements he had been practicing with since arriving in China but which still felt awkward in his hands compared to familiar Western utensils. He hovered over the various dishes, trying to decide which to sample first. Each time he thought he had made a decision, something else caught his eye and seemed equally appealing.
Finally settling on the jellied pork, it looked least likely to fall apart in transit, he maneuvered his chopsticks carefully around a piece and began lifting it toward his mouth.
The pork slipped from his grip and fell back onto the plate.
He tried again, adjusting his grip, trying to hold the chopsticks at a slightly different angle. Same result. The aspic was too slippery, his technique too uncertain.
He made a third attempt, concentrating intensely on the mechanical problem of securing irregularly shaped, slippery food between two smooth sticks. The piece made it halfway to his mouth before sliding free and dropping back to the plate with a soft plop.
Kylian felt his frustration rising, though he tried to keep it from showing on his face. This was absurd, he was a trained military officer, he had mastered complex tactical maneuvers and diplomatic protocols, yet he couldn't manage to eat a simple piece of food without embarrassing himself.
"Captain, why don't you use a fork or spoon instead?"
The voice came from his right—unexpected, direct, carrying a note of gentle amusement.
Kylian turned his head and found Princess Changning looking at him, and for the first time since they had been seated together, making direct eye contact. Her eyes sparkled with what could only be described as amusement at his struggle. There was a slight smile playing at the corners of her mouth—not mockery, exactly, but genuine entertainment at watching him wrestle with chopsticks.