They were Shimadas

The sun never seemed warm enough when Hanzo was a child. It would blanket the hallways in light, but never warmth, and so there was this constant, deep chill within his bones. It seemed only he could feel it. No one else seemed to feel the frost on their bones, and if they did it never showed. It haunted him in a way, much like the scaled creatures that rippled under his skin.

Every time the sun was away he would walk to his Father's side, absorbing the lessons, reciting each verse like it was sacred.

And there were many verses.

Their Great Aunt was to be respected but ignored. Their business partners in the shipping industry were to be taken with a heavy grain of salt; their tactics had little room for friendship. Their second cousins were deceptive but frugal; good to be held at arms distance as they worked wonders with off-shore bank accounts. Those same cousins craved the Shimada power as the streets craved Uncle's drugs. Speaking of Uncle, Father didn't trust him nor love him. The man was married into the family and while that hadn't stopped the head of the Shimada's from caring for anyone before, he held no love for his sister's husband and so, neither did Hanzo. 

Father taught him who to trust and how to trust them and Hanzo committed every lesson to his memory, branding it into his existence. It was his life, his legacy.

Auntie was sweet and good-natured, but she couldn't keep a secret and so Hanzo treated her with silent affection. Ji-chan was overbearing, wanting to influence everything, best to tell him superficial problems and listen to him scoff at them. Uncle was full of faux pleasantries, and Hanzo regarded him with disdain as Father did, so much so that the man noticed.

"Your kid makes the same face you do," Uncle chuckled one day, his smile not reaching his eyes. Hanzo felt his frown try and pull into a sneer as something in his chest growled.

Father put a hand on Hanzo's shoulder and, as poised as he always had, he put on a smile and laughed; "Perhaps you just incite the same expression out of everyone you meet, brother."

Then, Father had thrown a small smile down at Hanzo and the world warmed just fine enough, with no need of the useless sun. That spark of mirth in his Father's eyes melted the cold and kindled Hanzo's small smile.

That night, Hanzo had felt warmest. He'd glimpsed himself in one of the castle's mirrors and held himself a bit higher as the dragons he must carry in him purred. He had Father's eyes, steely and cold; calculating. His hair was long, held back, and cared for by Mother's gentle hands. His hands were trained, callused. His jaw was set. He was the spitting image of his Father, and he held himself as such when the warmth flooded through his entire body.

But he was not his Father, yet. He was not a true Shimada, yet.

Father was two people, it seemed. He was the Head of the Shimadas, and then he was simply Sojiro Shimada. When Hanzo stood by his side for interrogations or executions, the coldness dug so deeply into his heart that he thought he may as well be ice. Father certainly was. He taught Hanzo how to strike for pain, for a quick death, for a slow one, which ribs to break, and where one should snap an arm. He taught Hanzo how long it took for someone to bleed out and how much you could get them to squirm. He taught Hanzo how to look for fear in the eyes, and recognize faces of fear; the fear of death, and the fear of living.

But then Hanzo would fail, he would falter. He'd hesitate or squirm or puke and the Head of the Shimada Clan would vanish like smoke. His Father would finish the job, quickly, efficiently, and silently. He'd turn, without malice, without anger, put a hand on Hanzo's shoulder, and lead him away, his eyes made of stone. Away from prying eyes and elder judgments until it was just the two of them in a hallway, then he would squeeze Hanzo's shoulder.