Hi people! I'm back! Here's my new story, Thus One Reaches the Stars. Sorry, it's not a Piccolo story. But before you hit the back button, you should know that it is a Namek story. In it, I try to describe life on Namek in the years before the planet was destroyed, leaving only two survivors: the young Kami, and Gurru. You might recognize three names in the story, other than that, all characters are my own. Enjoy!

Sadly, I do not own Dragonball. If I did, I would be rolling in piles of money and getting my butler to type this for me. Since he's not here, you'll have to deal with my inferior prose.

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            A leaf flutters gently in the morning breeze. In the Gardens of Sianne, the air is cool against the skin, and the sounds of the world are shut away from those unwilling to hear them. It is a place where one goes to be alone.

            A solitary figure sits underneath the leaves, trailing a slender hand through the chill waters of the fountain. His garment is white as snow, white as the edge of the fountain he rests upon, white as the bark of the tree that hangs over his head. He sits enveloped by the whiteness, a hood covering his emerald face. White as death.

            It is of death that he is thinking; not of his own, but that of others. He knows death is not an end, but a beginning. Such is what the scholars teach. Perhaps they're right. He knows better. These deaths are the end of an age, and what is to come, he does not care to imagine.

            So he sits, dressed for mourning, with his hand growing cold from the water. He barely lifts his head as five other people join him, disturbing his privacy. They disturb the purity of the white garden, being dressed from head to toe in black and silver, the marks of the King's Guard.

            One namek steps forward, his jade skin gleaming slightly with a thin sheen of sweat. The clear light of the yellow sun is reflected in the shine of his eyes. His short black cloak tumbles forward from his shoulders. He kneels, and begins to speak.

            The white namek tries not to hear the words of the ritual. He recognizes them though, and he doesn't like it. His head rises with a note of surprise in his black eye. The words continue in the flowing language of his people, deciding his fate for him. He stands before the fountain, before the other nameks and slowly removes his soft white hood. Sharp features shine in the sunlight, breaking the spell of the uniform surroundings.

            The kneeling figure rises also. He takes a step back, his feet pressing lightly against the soft blue grass. He shouts in a great voice, pleased with his task.

            "The King is dead! Long live the King!"

            The other four take up the cry.

            "Long live the King!"

            "Long live the King!"

            Katat lowers his head until his chin nearly rests upon the soft white fabric of his robe. He then raises it, meeting the dark grey eyes of the Captain of the King's Guard. Katat nods slightly, accepting of his fate.

            "Long live the King."