A/N : It feels strange to be writing DBZ again after ten years. Whoa.
Warnings! : AU. Human characters. Language, suicide, homicide, other questionable things. Death!Goku (:'D). A loose retelling of the German-language musical 'Elisabeth', which I highly recommend, by the way, even if you don't speak German. It's amazing.
Pairings : Goku x Vejita, Gohan x Vejita.
I write mostly for myself, but I do enjoy reviews whenever they come along, but I promise I won't cry if you don't have time, nor will I nag. :D
VERY SLOW UPDATES.
On the Deck of the Sinking World
Chapter 1
The first stage was denial.
Always, the moment he made himself known, it was met with denial.
'It's not my time!'
Yeah, yeah, he'd heard that one before. He'd heard it so many fuckin' times he couldn't even remember now how many. Same old.
The second stage was pleading.
'Please don't take me, I've got so much I still need to do!'
Alright, sure you do, everyone does. He'd been hearing that for millennia.
Move it along.
The third stage was anger.
And, well, there was never any set rule for that one, and he'd been called so many foul things that his repertoire of nasty words had started to outgrow his list of how many different ways of saying 'please don't kill me!' there were.
They all received their due kiss upon the lips at the end of the road, no matter how vociferous the walk down it was.
Think they'd be glad to be dead. Life was too much work for too little reward, from what he had seen.
He, Death himself, had seen it all.
He was used to it all, too. That went without saying. He had been created solely for the job, so it was easy enough to do it, and do it damn well, but that didn't make it any less irritating.
For once, he just wished that something different would happen.
Something exciting.
Even he could get bored, and death had never really been much of a fun pastime. Wailing, and all that whatnot, got old. Hell, he was afraid that he was starting to smell like the old women he escorted across the way. Outdated perfume and that aroma of powder and something else that didn't really have a name but that was incredibly overwhelming all the same.
Well, a job was a job.
Some aspects were prettier than others, and some duties were just downright miserable.
Royals, especially. He was glad that the modern world had fewer royals than it had in years long since past. They were usually the worst when it came to death. Too much hassle, and too much bitching and moaning.
'But I'm the king!'
'Oh, well, let's move it, your majesty, I ain't got all day.'
'How dare you—'
How dare you.
He was Death, not some tired old manservant, and yet it seemed that they thought they were impervious to his presence all the same, having been told their entire lives that they were godly.
Yeah, right.
He hated royalty.
That was why he had heaved a great sigh and had set out begrudgingly to get that damn prince. The one that had been set to expire on a chilly fall night. He hadn't been looking forward to it. Who could've known that it wouldn't turn out like all the others had?
He had taken his time getting there, out of spite.
Princes—he hadn't even been much aware that there were any left. The world was changing, now, and monarchy was uncommon.
A rarity.
All the same, as much as he hadn't expected a prince, he hadn't expected him to be a child.
Tiny, so tiny, lying there in his bed, trembling as fever chills came and went. Dark eyes stared out, unfocused and distant. Pale and weak.
He had stood in the corner for a moment, watching people crowding and fussing as they tried to pull the sick child back from the brink of death, but it wasn't going to work, obviously, because Death had already gotten there.
A minute or so of watching the little child suffering in the throes of illness, and then he called him forward.
Something he had done on countless occasions.
The bedroom faded into a world of swirling shadows. No walls or ground or buildings. Just grey and black. In the distance, the sound of the flowing river.
Misty.
The child lied there for a moment, suspended in air and yet at the same time lying on the non-existent ground, shivering, and then he seemed to realize he had come back to consciousness with a look around.
That kid.
He would always remember that messy, unruly hair, and those little feet.
"Hey, wake up," he called, gently, taking a step forward to make his presence known.
Time to go. From now on, the child would walk in the shadows as much as he did. Life had forsaken him.
"Get up."
Fighting off the fever that would claim his life at any minute, the child finally shook his head, gave a grunt, and pulled his arms underneath him. A short moment, as he struggled to push himself upright.
Tough little guy.
"There you are," he said, as he stood before the little form below him.
He held out a helping hand. It was dismissed.
Ignoring quite easily his wobbly legs, the child pulled himself to his feet, bangs sticking to his clammy forehead, and when he looked up, there was no fear in his dark eyes. Curiosity, perhaps, but no fear. He looked around, realized he was far away from where he should be, and his breathing quickened a bit.
Death stood patiently still, and waited for the outburst. Usually this young they cried for their parents and clung to his hand or leg, terrified of the river and the shadows.
Not this one.
The child just stood there, glancing around at the strange new world he was standing in, and Death noticed then, how immaculately dressed he was. Perfectly preened, his garments pressed and ironed, his cape attached by their gold-gilded buttons, white boots pristine, hands gloved, his buttoned collar up to his chin and intricately embroidered. Royal blue. The child had been dressed so, perhaps, so that he would at least die looking like the prince he was.
A moment of staring, the child's pretty dark eyes upon his own, and then the child whispered, irritably, "Who are you?"
Ah, a question as old as time.
Taking a step forward, he knelt down, observing the child, and said, "Nobody. I'm just here to walk you home."
He had spoken to countless children, and was pretty damn good at that, too, and so it had certainly taken him aback when this child turned up his nose and swatted away his offered hand with a look of distaste.
"I can walk myself home, thank you very much. I didn't ask for your help. How dare you speak to me like this, without even declaring yourself."
And there it was!—how dare you.
Still, little kids weren't usually the ones who gave it to him. How old was this little thing? Five? And already bossing Death itself around. Go figure.
Pulling himself back up to his feet, he tilted his head a bit as he stared down at the uncomprehending child, and for the first time in a long, long time, he thought he felt a smile.
"Well, I still have to, whether you want me to or not."
At that, the child whirled around to face him, tottering a bit, and the look he gave then was alarmingly potent for such a tiny thing.
"I said I can walk myself! Go away! Who are you? What are you doing here, anyway? You're starting to get on my nerves! Go away!"
Oh, man.
"Look," he said, gently, as he tried to extend his hand again, "Just come with me, alright? You were very sick. Don't you remember?"
At that, the child's look of anger dulled a little, as he scrunched his brow in thought.
"Was I sick? Oh, yeah... That's right. I remember a little. Father was scared."
Poor thing—didn't even realize his little heart was seconds away from giving out.
"He was scared, for you. He cried."
A glance through the fog back into reality, where a red-eyed and yet somehow still regal king was on his knees before the bed, hands clasping his child's cold one and murmuring away his agony as he cried, cape pooled out beneath him.
The child peered up at him, and then that look was back.
"Well, I don't care if I was sick or not, I'm better now, so I don't need you here!"
And he was sure of it then.
He was smiling.
"Is that so? Aren't you scared?"
A little chest puffed out, and the child, fever or not, retorted, quickly, "No!"
"All the same," he said, as he reached out to try and grab a hand instead of waiting for his own to be taken, "It's time to go. You have to come with me."
Somehow, the child avoided his probing grasp, and staggered back, still unsteady from the illness.
"I'm not going with you! You're crazy! I don't even know who you are."
Usually on these trips, he said, in a droll voice, 'I'm Death, and I'm here because you, so and so, are dead. Let's go.'
He didn't really know why he lingered this time. Boredom, perhaps. Maybe the child's fearlessness kept him engaged. Billions he had taken, so many, and this was one of the very few times he could recall in which the first two stages had been skipped entirely to go straight into anger. That it was a child, perhaps, made it all the more intriguing.
But still, time was time, and the kid had to go, sooner or later.
"If you don't come with me, I'll just take you by force, you know."
Still, the child was undaunted, and just snipped, "I'd like to see you try, mister!"
"Oh?"
He put his hands on his hips as he leaned down to bring himself a little closer to that piercing gaze, and he could smell the lingering aroma of fever, and underneath the scent of the child himself.
Why did all little kids smell like powder?
Funny, that the elderly had such a remarkably similar scent to children. Such far ends of the spectrum.
"If I tell you who I am, will you come with me?"
A look-over, and then a crinkled nose.
"No."
"You like to be difficult, don't you?"
The child stomped his foot, growing increasingly agitated, and now there was the start of a whine in his voice as he cried, "You're being difficult! I didn't ask you to come here. I don't know you, so leave me alone!"
Frustration was starting to get the better of him, and it wasn't the sickness that made his voice so thick. Confused, and by now he was surely a little frightened, no matter how much he tried to square his shoulders. Those dark eyes had gotten a little bleary.
"Go away," he said, again, and this time he turned his back to keep face.
And yet, even though he was struggling not to cry, he still struck the helping hand away again when it was placed upon his shoulder.
Stubborn.
"You don't know me," he began, as he knelt down, "But I know you. You're the prince, right? Vejita. I came here just to see you."
The child glanced at him, quickly.
"Why?"
"Because you were sick. Very sick." He used the most comforting voice he had, the one where the tone was so deep that most of the consonants were lost to the winds, but one that had served him well in the past. "I came all the way here to escort you, because of how sick you were. You have to go over the river, you know. Even if you don't want to. But don't worry, I'll go all the way to the end with you. Alright? So...don't be scared."
A long silence, and then the tears that refused to be shed were evident in the child's eyes.
"Because I was sick? No way—I can get over that! There's no way a fever would...would..."
He trailed off, then, voice too thick to carry on, and the unspoken statement was all but obvious.
'Being sick couldn't have killed me.'
Sometimes life just wasn't fair. No matter how strong you were.
"I'm sorry."
The child's eyes settled onto his own for a while, defiant yet even beyond the blur of tears, and he asked, again, "Who are you?"
"I have many names."
The question the child posed then caught him completely off guard.
"Well—which one's your favorite? So I know what to call you."
Such a question had never even been asked of him.
He must have looked dumb, as he knelt there on the ground trying to remember his own damn name, and he could feel the child's eyes trying to study his mind as he himself searched his memory.
So many.
What was his favorite?
It came to him without him really being aware of it, and he heard himself utter, rather breathlessly, "Kakarotto. You can call me Kakarotto, if you want."
That name.
Centuries ago, an old woman had taken his arm with wonder, calling him Kakarotto over and over again, the name of her long-dead son, and even as he had tried to tell her that he wasn't Kakarotto, her smile of adoration had been too bright—he had given in, and let her call him that however many times she wanted to as he had walked her along.
It had felt nice, to be greeted in such a manner. As a son.
Comforting.
So let the child call him that, if he wanted to.
Finally, after a long moment of staring, the child took a great breath, and said, "Okay." And then he held out a tiny little hand, and for the first time since he had been created, he paused.
He had been trying to snatch that hand for a while, and now that it had been offered, he stopped.
Frozen.
He had never frozen up.
"Well?" the child pressed, "You said you were here to take me, so let's go. I'm not afraid. Of that river or you, Kakarotto."
Ha. Of that, he had no doubt. Still...
He hesitated.
The thought that squirmed into his head then was one he had never had, not since his birth, and it was one he should never have had at all. One that might have been the end of him.
Kakarotto.
The child trilled the 'r', not with his tongue, but rather in his throat. Ha.
Well—just once. What harm could come from it? What could go wrong? Hadn't he been looking for something different? Maybe it was time to create it for himself rather than just waiting for it to come along.
Finally, he gave a sigh and grabbed the tiny hand within his own, and instead of leaning forward to kiss the child upon the lips, he kissed the hand instead.
Forbidden, what he was thinking.
"You know what? I think you really can beat that fever. I suppose if ever I doubted anyone, it wouldn't be you."
A gaze of wonder upon him, like the one he had loved from long ago from a delirious mother.
Awe.
"So, if I let you go back, will you promise to pull through and live? You have to promise."
Without missing a beat, the stubborn child lifted up his chin and said, "Of course I will! It'll take more than some stupid fever to get me down!"
First, he had smiled. This time, he laughed.
Such strange sensations.
"I'm sure! Alright, well... You promised. So, I'll let you go this time, okay?"
The child nodded his understanding, and their hands released each other.
Standing up to his full height, a rather pleasant squirm in his chest—feelings, ha, what quaint things—he took a step back into the shadows.
The child's eyes never left him, and right before he disappeared, he whispered, "But beware, prince—I let you live this time. There are no second chances in death. If I come for you again, it's for good. Understand?"
A slow nod.
"Good. Take care of yourself. Don't forget this chance I've given you."
"I won't."
"Alright, then. Goodbye."
Darkness, as he fled, and the child was spared.
A sacred law, broken.
He had never thought he would be the one who would end up breaking one. He had been sure it would be his reckless brother, letting some two-bit sneak out of Hell and into Heaven with a few pleas and a couple of bribes. Well. It had to happen sooner or later. What could he say? The child had gotten to him, some way or another, slinking his way into emotions he had forgotten he had.
Damn.
Felt like he was a kid there, for a minute.
He retreated into ancient forests that he had haunted in times past, and walked silently amongst the huge trunks as he let his mind wander where it would.
Curious things, feelings. Pleasant. Death got old after a while. Time to intrude on life a little bit. Visit the living, instead of taking them. Why not? He had earned it. Besides, the child was his now. Alive only for his grace and mercy. Why couldn't he watch him, since it had been he who had born him for the second time? Should he not have allowed himself some little reward for being so adept at his job since the dawn of mankind?
Ah, hell—he was gonna do it, whether it was alright or not.
He was Death, Kakarotto now, he supposed, at least to someone, and for once, it had been he who had created something.
Whenever he could spare a moment after that, and sometimes even when he couldn't, he found himself returning to that palace, and looking in through the windows.
He stayed in the shadows.
The child grew up, slowly but surely.
And he couldn't help but watch. His one weakness. Vejita's life was his own doing. His masterpiece, perhaps, and if he was punished for letting it come to be at all then he was certain it would be worth it. It had been so long since he had felt. It was kinda nice.
Now he just needed to figure out why he watched.
Every so often, a thought would come into his mind, and he contemplated it.
The prince was growing to be rather handsome. Comely. He had pretty feet.
For the first time in his existence, he wondered what it would be like if he were alive.
Excitement.
He hoped that, in all these years, he would be remembered, as he remembered the prince clearly from that one night.
Every day, he came back and watched Vejita breathe, even as he stripped the breath from so many others.
His name was Kakarotto.
