Braig was right, he was having a long week.

After an academic assessment, his tutor focused on history, mathematics and science. When those lessons ended, a large man appeared to toss a wood sword at him. Dilan, one of Xehanort's guardsmen, would be his combat instructor. Vanitas didn't know why he would possibly need to use a sword, unless he would join the army at some point. He had no time to think on it either as the man never let up an inch. If he wasn't clumsily swinging a sword, he was being forced to exercise until his limbs shook.

"Again." It was a bored sounding command. Dilan wasn't cruel, not exactly. He showed no remorse when seeing Vanitas' face after knocking the hilt of his sword on his nose. The teeth baring snarl on his lips did nothing to dissuade him and Vanitas was forced to fix his mistakes one painful step at a time.

The training room was large and empty save for racks of different swords carefully away from everything else. Though even with the open space, Vanitas tripped and felt as though the walls were tight as he was pushed back constantly.

The soreness in his arms and legs made his lessons in etiquette all the more painful. If it weren't for Braig leading him through the often confusing halls of the manor, he was sure he would get lost in a hazy cloud of pain.

Picking the wrong utensil earned him a slap on his hand with a ruler, which was already aching from being whacked with a wood sword.

By night, Vanitas didn't read any of the books he picked out. A large package of clothing and essentials just for him came and bit by bit he gave them a home. Journal entries were kept short, and sleep came fast.


Vanitas sat in bed. His room was cast in a blue tint from the early morning light and he stared down at his hands. He was still so thin. Xehanort was thin too, but in a different way. His fingers didn't look like they lacked strength. Experimentally, Vanitas curled each digit slowly in and out. He winced.

Every last piece of him was aching in some way.

It was Sunday. Around this time, he would normally be getting ready for church.

He had no lessons planned, and there would be no training either.

With pained steps, he stood before the full length mirror next to the dresser and looked himself over. Gold eyes stared back and trailed down to his frail body, still in his night clothes. He couldn't see all of the still healing bruises, but he could feel them.

Was this what noble children lived like?

The thought didn't seem quite right as he'd only heard the other children talk about them as though they were born perfect. The tales of faraway princes riding on white stallions made perfect sense after all. You were born rich, guaranteed a happily ever after, and just knew everything.

Still uncomfortable with calling the man by any title, Vanitas found himself speaking immediately to Xehanort.

"Why do I need to learn how to use a sword?"

The dining room they ate meals in was smaller, meant for no more than four people. At the circular, cloth covered table, Vanitas put his utensils down and placed his hands in his lap, mindful of his posture.

"Aah, this is a surprise. You went into your training without question."

Vanitas tried to hold his gaze, but it fell to the half-eaten plate of food.

"I didn't expect to become a soldier."

"And I'm not sending you off to war."

The younger looked up. Xehanort took another long chew of his food and swallowed.

"The other nobility," Xehanort shook his head as though in disappointment. "They allow themselves to grow fat and ignorant. Like swine. But you, I will not let that happen to you. My successor will be worthy of my name."

"Worthy?" Vanitas repeated.

Xehanort put down his knife and fork.

"Wisdom comes from many places. A strong body and a sharp mind can be the ultimate weapon. Not to mention…" He waved his hand as though in dismissal. "No man of wealth is without enemies. Defending oneself is essential."

Vanitas wasn't completely sure what to think, but he was all the more curious.

"Can you fight?"

"Me?" he chuckled. "Now why would you think a withering old man like me could put up any fight?"

"You said a strong body and a sharp mind. Then I could be worthy. So- doesn't that mean you already have both?"

Xehanort's eyes narrowed and his lips curled into a smile.

"Perhaps if your training goes well, I may show you."


The following week still hurt, but a lot less. Vanitas didn't want to keep getting hit, so he did better at avoiding it. Though it still wasn't good enough. Memorizing the confusing array of knives and forks was slow, but progressing.

Xehanort kept himself sparse, only meeting with Vanitas during meals or watching him every other day or so.

Wake up, get ready, be tutored, train, be whacked with a ruler, and learn the interior of the manor bit by bit.

Life in his new home burrowed its familiarity under his skin with the aches of training and acceptance of who he was now. If his head hurt, it was from being knocked upside it, not hunger.

Several weeks passed this way until the bruises hurt less, and he'd memorized each floor. The servants stopped gazing at his eyes over time, and he'd come to learn their faces. A particularly chatty one talked about the Master, the other servants, and the house's history. She was likely the youngest he'd seen and probably close to his age. But she talked a mile a minute and it was hard keeping up with who was who.

They bowed, he ignored them.

Aside from Braig, he never bothered learning their names. Though in his head, he'd remember the maid's name as "Omelet."

Seeing that he was getting comfortable with his training, Xehanort tacked on even more. Vanitas began to memorize the exterior of the manor as well, given that he had to run its large perimeter. It was the first time he'd actually taken a good look at the back yard besides seeing it out a window.

At least ten acres of land sprawled before him in a rectangular yard. A separate house that was of a similar design, but only two stories, must have been where the servants stayed. It looked to be a small walk away, and had been obscured in the beauty of gardens, a gazebo, statues and trees that speckled into a forest. The perimeter, like the front, was guarded with a pointed fence.

Vanitas couldn't idle and admire for too long, there was no telling what Dilan would do to him. So with sweat pouring down his face, he kept moving.

If it weren't for hand maids glaring daggers and forcing him to bathe before dinner, he would have skipped. Lessons in dinner and posture escalated to speech and politics. It was possibly harder to memorize than what the gossiping maid talked about.

Xehanort showed no sympathy to his trembling hands when trying to cut a piece of chicken nor the way his glass of water shook when handling with the best of his care. It would have been so much easier to plant his face onto the plate.

Braig's unpredictable demeanor was likely the only comfort Vanitas would get.

"Man, you're really getting worked to the bone! Though if soldiers got your kind of training I don't think there'd be any country willing to mess with us."

Vanitas was never sure if he was being mocked or not, but as it were, he was the only employee seemingly not trying to bleed him dry. He would keep holding on, though. The pain was different from how his former masters treated him. Being struck with the blunt side of a sword was different from a whip.

The thoughts were pushed down. He wasn't a slave anymore. And if being knocked around during training would remind him, then he'd take the punishment.


Journal Entry 18

I'm so tired. I managed to finish "History of the Foretellers." The tutor barely talked about it, but it seemed important. A massive war was fought all because someone placed doubt into a small group of people. The Grand Maester must have had one of those sharp minds Xehanort talks about. I don't think there was a traitor in the end.

If I could get people to do what I wanted with just words, then life would be a lot more fun.