Thursday began with breakfast, giving Void attention, and then to training.

Olette sat on the floor. Reading from the tale of Sleeping Beauty. She knew the stories, but never really read through them in full.

Gratitude was something foreign to Vanitas. He learned "please" and "thank you", but the words always felt just as empty as the prayers he recited automatically to the Sisters. Actions spoke louder than words, he figured. As the story ended, Olette yelped in surprise when he gently pat her on the head as he did Void.

Monday would crawl back around as would his normal instructors, and suddenly, he felt behind.

"…you aren't recognized as anyone's heir around here."

How could he hope to take on Xehanort's legacy if he couldn't even have his servants respect him? It was absurd to even consider having so much to his name if the weight would immediately crush him.

No. He wasn't a slave master.

He'd be better.

Braig's dedication to Xehanort likely didn't come overnight. He didn't look like the cowering, whip fearing men he'd seen, hobbling in the dirt and collapsing under the strain of work too much for them to bare. If Xehanort just died, he'd leave.

He'd earn his title.

He'd earn everything.


Time passed as though he was monitoring an hour glass. Some days felt abysmally slow as though watching the top drop bit by bit, others flew by like the grains of sand rushing to the bottom.

Vanitas threw himself into training with a fervor Dilan didn't see coming and the sudden questions of what to do when not explicitly training made the man actually stop and lecture. Xehanort obliged to their mismatched meals. Vanitas learned which servant did what and assisted in meal preparation. He was obviously not a trained cook, but he would learn. The chef's only condition was that only Vanitas would eat what he made.

These were not acts of kindness or generosity, but precision and efficiency. He wanted to learn every skill he could to be entirely independent as well as know the ins and outs of everything in the mansion.

Void grew, rarely leaving Vanitas' side unless he was training. Otherwise he sat at his feet and warmed his ankles as he sat up with perfected posture and wrote out equation after equation and recited historic scientific theories.

Olette would read on Sunday afternoons as Vanitas listened, swinging his sword with a newfound accuracy and calculated strikes. She'd learned to just accept the head pats as they started to feel rather nice with the perfect pressure when rubbing her head.

Horseback riding, shooting, hand to hand martial arts, ballroom dancing, Vanitas took them all in stride no matter how awkward they felt. Different instructors came to and from the manor as months went by, making it lively with the noise of horse shoe clatter.

When Xehanort invited him to his private laboratory, Vanitas was thirteen and assimilated into the estate.

Except the forbidden basement.

Down a spiral staircase lit by electric lanterns, they reached a cold place. Even with his long sleeved shirt, Vanitas could feel the chill in his arms.

There was a small corridor at the bottom, which lead to a small room. On a line of hooks were several white coats, and a table had an assortment of gloves, goggles and other protective wear.

"Put on one of those masks there. You'll be needing goggles too. You won't be doing anything today, but it's for your own protection."

At Xehanort's instruction, Vanitas obeyed.

Bubbling, fizzing, and the hiss of steam greeted Vanitas when the door to the next room was opened.

Various gadgets spun or sat still on one long table. On another, test tubes had been set up in a colorful array.

An entire shelf was dedicated to preserved parts. What took Vanitas' immediate attention was the pair of conjoined hearts. One was covered with a sickly white film, and the other looked abnormally dark red.

"You see, my expeditions are valuable to medical science and technology. I claim to be no practitioner of medical care, mind you."

Xehanort waved to a severed hand.

"That is the hand of King Jecht, a fearsome warrior who was felled in battle. However…" He smiled to himself beneath his own mask. "He was born with the most curious disability of having a paralyzed hand."

Vanitas eyed the hand as though it would twitch in response.

It didn't.

"Despite my training to be a soldier, I took interest in" Xehanort paused. "Improving the human body. As proof of my integrity, I got his hand to work. There are some things that I regret not have been able to discover. Namely immortality, and revival of the deceased."

Xehanort looked to Vanitas then, gold eyes gleaming behind glass.

"And that is where you come in. I am old. Better than most men my age, but still aging. You shall continue my research. And if I die in my sleep, I'll at least have the hope that I'll wake up in a better body."

It sounded like something out of one of the many stories he'd read. Living forever would have been pretty boring after an extra two hundred years or so, surely. Though as impossible as it sounded, maybe it was fate.

"I guess I could try to keep you alive longer. I don't think I've exactly learned how to manage the estate on my own."

Xehanort chuckled and patted Vanitas twice on the back.

"I knew you were a good pick."


Journal Entry 100,

I don't think I should think too much on everything I read. The Frog Prince… didn't give much to reflect on.

Though, if someone claims to be a prince in the form of a frog, I'll toss them against a wall and see what happens.

Xehanort's wishes for immortality sound like a more impressive story, and I really want to see it work. I don't think gods are really worth worshipping over, if any are real. But I suppose I'd be some sort of god if I pulled it off.