Seien. Seiran. Seien. Seiran.
The sword was old and perfectly balanced. A plain hilt, a serviceable blade, suitable for a trusted retainer. He'd received it with reverence. The Master had said that there had been an entire stand of these plain swords, gathering dust in the Master's brother's armoury, but he knew it for something special. It was a symbol; a symbol of his loyalty. His loyalty to the Master, to the Mistress, to Shurei. It sang when he slashed it, cutting the air into serviceable pieces.
Seien. Seiran. Seien.
It was strange that they'd accepted him so readily. Ask no questions. Tell no lies. They didn't know where he'd come from, or his name. When he didn't speak they gave him his own name: Seiran. The word was uncomfortable in his mouth. He never spoke because the truth would kill them, and his honesty would not permit him to lie. Omit, yes. Lie, no. Still, in the dead of the night, in his bed, awake and staring at the ceiling, he permitted himself to mouth it: Seiran. He tasted it; rolled it across his tongue; slid it between his teeth and crunched.
Seiran. Seien. Seiran.
The blade glittered in the sunlight as he moved it in the basic exercises, the practices that would slowy make him a warrior. A proper warrior. A strong warrior. A warrior worthy of being a warrior, because if he wasn't a warrior, then he was just a thug with a pointy metal stick. Someone who would run from danger instead of towards it. He wanted to be a worthy warrior. He wanted to be of use to the Master and the Mistress. He wanted to protect Shurei; fragile, delicate, adorable little Shurei.
Seien. Seiran.
Shurei was tiny. A little ball of energy one minute, wracked with coughing the next. Zipping hither and thither, with a ferocious knack for getting in trouble and an utter lack of self-preservation. When a stray cat had jumped over the wall she'd ran towards the filthy, matted, starving thing without hesitating. The cat's response to this was predictable: it'd hissed and lashed out, leaving five perfect lines of scarlet across the back of Shurei's hand. His own response was immediate; his new sword was instantly in his hand but Shurei had cried, "Seiran, no!" and he'd been so surprised that the sword stopped, inches from slicing off the cat's head. "Don't hurt kitty!" And he looked at the cat, at the hideous, manky stray. He saw that it was pathetic and abandoned and frightened and he sighed. He saw himself in those yellow eyes. There was no point in killing the fragile. Besides, he didn't want to upset Shurei. So he picked up Shurei, her little body still unfamiliar, and the cat had run off. He saw it around from time to time; still wild, but sleek and well fed. He suspected that the Mistress was feeding it, knowing quite well her weakness for strays.
Seiran. Seien. Seien.
Unbecoming grunts escaped his mouth as he moved into the next stage of exercise. It was...disrespectful not to talk to them, he knew, but this love was painful and unfamiliar, and the words curled themselves into knots and wouldn't come out. So he cut the meat and served the dishes humbly, walked three steps behind the Master and Mistress, bowed lower than he'd ever bowed in his life, lower than he'd ever thought possible.
Seien. Seiran.
Sometimes he missed palace life. He missed the wines and the sweet, heavy liqueurs. He missed the pretty clothes because he was just a little vain, although he hated to admit it. He missed the food; the Mistress was a poor cook and the Master made dreadful tea. In the heart of his hearts, he wished he was being properly tutored in the sword instead of cobbling a technique together from parts of prior learning, his disastrous stint as bandit and the odds and ends he picked up from the warriors of his Master's brothers. Occasionally he daydreamed: he'd raise an army, march on the capital, claim the throne. Save the country from the inevitable depravations of his brothers. Save Ruyuki, whom he missed with a deep, fierce ache. Return with a mountain of gifts for the Master and Mistress, fine things and delicate foods, doctors to wait on sickly Shurei's every need. But those daydreams always filled him with a sick sense of shame; he'd never repay the Master and Mistress like that. And he swore an oath never to seek his birthright, swore on the night of his exile. A warrior keeps his oaths, and he wanted to be a warrior, very much.
Seien. Seiran. Seiran.
It wasn't such a bad name, he decided as he came to the end of the exercises and set his sword aside. He stretched with a great deal of pleasure and yawned sleepily. Prince Seien had been sneaky, cunning, and thoroughly ruthless. Of necessity, because vulnerability was cruelly punished in the palace. Just look what happened to Ruyuki. This new person- this Seiran- could let his guard down. Could love. Could protect. Could eat at the family table without fear of being poisoned by nothing more sinister than the Master's tea. The Master and Mistress were people of kindness and integrity. He wanted to be worthy of them. He wanted to be worthy of their kindness. He wanted to be worthy of Shurei.
Being Seiran wouldn't be easy, but he rather thought he'd enjoy it.