Third Year
My dear, I do believe you'll be the death of your uncle. Did you see the look on his face when you revealed that crazy notion of yours? I honestly believed his eyes were going to pop out of his head. Frankly speaking, I don't blame him either. After all, how many years do you have to your name, Ren?
Thirteen. At thirteen, young men till fields, and dream of glory. They don't bother thinking about what can be done to attain it. At thirteen, girls begin to express an interest in the petty, pretty ornaments that make heads turn, and not in the study of strategy or of wielding a weapon. It's almost completely unheard-of.
You must understand his concern. He cares about you so much that he'd probably send his whole army to reinforce you, should you so much as dash a foot against a stone. And it's at this time where we need all our forces the most. We couldn't possibly spare someone to look after you, though- deny it as you may- you do need looking after.
Yet, perhaps I should have foreseen this. You are your father's daughter, after all. You have too much of his blood in you to allow yourself to be groomed into some nameless warlord's bride and not have something contrary to say about it…
"Xun, please?"
"No," I should say. A flat, straight "No." It's what I know my master wants me to say. I'm guessing he knew you were going to come to me, expecting… what? Encouragement? Maybe. Probably.
I don't think he knows just how right he was. Then again, he's probably never realized just how difficult it is to refuse you when you ask for things. You have everything you desire before you ask… almost.
Maybe this time around, we won't tell him. Just for a year or two.