A/N: See chapter one for disclaimer.I wanted to get this out before I went to a Latin competition, but it ended up being short an entire scene the night before I left. Sadly, it collected dust on my lap top until I got back and could finish it up. Sigh, and I tried to write faster too. Alas. And because I don't think I say it enough;

Thank you for all the reviews!

Last Time: Pan made a wish on a fallen flower petal, and Trunks got to watch her swim for a bit, though he made no move to join her. Bulma full out confronts the princess, but she evasively gets away from the queen. There is a huge thunderstorm, one which gets to Pan, who ends up telling Trunks her reason behind hating/fearing the storms and her worries that someone else close to her has died.

"Upon Regretting"

The wind had started to whine as it swept across the sky, and the shrill noise sounded more eerie than it should have in the thick silence of Pan's room. She hadn't made any move to talk to him more, her face was still turned away from Trunks, and he couldn't be sure if she was crying or not.

Trunks was staring at a very interesting dust clump at the corner of a shelf when he heard the slight shuffle from Pan. He turned his eyes to her, keeping his face turned away, and saw her swing her feet completely on the bed again, almost throwing herself underneath the warm covers that were there. He raised an eyebrow.

Trunks, as a rule, didn't like to see girls cry. He didn't like to see anyone cry really, but girls were worse. When they cried, cried for real, it was as if their entire world was destroyed and nothing in their life could ever possibly be livable with ever again. Pan hadn't cried like that before. She had shared with him something though, something that so obviously affected her, that it had moved her to tears at the memory.

But he didn't think Pan was one to cry and let it be shown. He wondered if she had even realized that she was crying. He felt ashamed, for not doing anything, for the desire was there so much to walk over and just hold her. Hold her, because her fingernails were still digging into her arms, and it was as if a dam was just waiting to burst inside her.

He wanted to hold her and let her sob. To get her stress out so that she could sleep. But he hadn't. He stood where he was, and even now, he didn't think that he could walk over. He wanted to, yes, but he couldn't make it to her.

She had turned her back to him, the covers pulled past her shoulders, so that only the top of her head was visible.

"I'm very tired… goodnight," came the wavering voice from the bed. Trunks wanted to stand where he was and contemplate the situation he was in. He wanted to stand and think about the story Pan had shared. He wanted to think of a way to comfort the distraught girl. He wanted fresh pie.

But no one got what they wanted all of the time, no matter what his father thought. So with a sigh that he made sure was audible, he turned and walked to the door, actually going through it this time, dry clothes still in his hands.

He closed the door most of the way and listened carefully, but no further noise from Pan could be heard. He was somewhat disappointed.

Shifting the clothes in his hands, he turned down the hallway and peeked into the first room he saw. It was almost across from Pan's own room, and after looking in, he could see a wide bed that looked not only warm, but also inviting. He liked the idea of being nearby Pan… just in case, and this room would certainly suit him fine, so he walked into it, leaving the door open.

He cast a quick look to the door, purely out of habit, as the only person that could see him anyway was Pan, and she was not going to try and watch him strip in her current condition, surely. So without further thought, he dropped his pants and tugged the once comfortable, now soaked tunic over his head. He had half a mind to hop into the large bed without putting on the new clothes, but declined the notion.

The bed was a stranger's… who knew what could have gone on in it before now. The pants that Pan had gave him he found he liked better than his own. They were much looser and fell down further than his own. He wondered if the owner was simply larger than he was, or if it was because style would not be as important, the peasants dressed for comfort instead of appeal. It was an interesting thought, and as he slipped on the dry shirt as well, he backed up his earlier theory.

He had rarely been in such comfortable clothing. He had always had to dress formally and regally for the court. Here it didn't matter. Naturally it didn't matter because he was invisible, but it also didn't matter because… that's just how it was…

Not for the first time, it struck Trunks just how laid back and different this life was from his own. He was finding less and less things that were worse here than at the castle. He sighed, pulling the hem of the soft wool down, and stretching his arms above his head.

Trunks yanked the covers back on the bed dramatically and hopped onto the bed. The covers felt thick and warm, and he snuggled further down into them, enjoying the feel of the soft warmth on his bare feet.

He gripped a pillow tightly, satisfied that it was not hard as rock as he might have once feared it to be. His eyes were drifting closed, the sun setting behind the clouds so no light was seen at all, and he almost smiled.

These peasants… they weren't quite so barbaric.

His dark eyes scanned the words on the page, frowning at the piece in general. Sometimes he would contemplate why he even bothered to read some of the books that he did, though the contemplation was fruitless because he always came to the same conclusion.

He was the King, so he really didn't have to read anything he didn't feel like. Well, these philosophical novels were not must reads in the first place. But his advisors liked to read the oddest pieces of literature, written by some far off peasant looking to make a few coins, and would quote randomly from them.

Vegeta didn't like having his inferiors quote something he didn't recognize. He liked having them quote something, and then be able to tear the reference to pieces with something from the exact same source.

And he was good at it. Usually by the third time reading a book he could remember any key parts word-for-word. So, because it gave him such an advantage on the council and against the underlings, he liked to be prepared. And that meant reading every 'classic' that seemed to be popping up around the country.

He also liked to make his son read some of the obscure books, the ones that he found particularly boring. He would rant about how insightful and honourable the books were, and watch in morbid pleasure as his son not only tried to read the book but appear to be enjoying it at the same time.

It was worth reading the lesser quality of books just to see Trunks try to read them.

Vegeta smirked to himself, calloused fingers resting at the corner of the page, eyes finishing the paragraph before turning. He shifted the pillow behind him, taking a glance at the empty spot at his side.

He was almost alarmed before he remembered that one, Bulma was just washing up, and two, it didn't matter because they weren't fighting anymore. Not that what they had been doing was really fighting. A disagreement perhaps? He wasn't sure. It was about the boy though, and she had a strong affinity about him. Sometimes he thought it was almost painful how much his wife loved his son. That the whole thing would only hurt her in the end, when Trunks turned away from his parents, just as he himself had done.

But he had left his parents much younger than Trunks. By the time he was twelve he rarely spoke to either of his parents, and was making plans how he would reign, or simply how to get away from home.

Though as far as he knew, Trunks had never shared the same kind of hateful feelings. He had hated his own parents. Trunks talked to both Bulma and him. Granted, he talked to Bulma more, but that was to be expected - the way she practically smothered him.

Speaking of the temptress, he thought, glancing up from his book, which was now carrying on about something he wasn't even following any longer, to see his wife. That was the price to pay when one let their mind wander. He could remember reading nothing on that page, or the page back. He sighed, marked the page he was holding, before looking back at her.

Bulma was wearing her sleeping garment that he liked so much again. It was her most becoming outfit really. There were some fancy dresses she owned, ones so complicated and extravagant he was fairly sure that she had someone help her dress into them, that were becoming as well. Though these dresses emphasized her body to a point of over doing it, and while these outfits were beautiful, and underlined her own beauty; it underlined it for the world to see.

It was shown at fancy balls or banquets when each Lord in the land took the opportunity to gawk at their Queen. However, the almost comically simple dress she wore now did not only make her beautiful, it was an outfit only he saw her in, and it was the one that easily suited her best. Her personality was woven into that dress; making it perfect. And so he liked it.

Or maybe he just liked taking it off. There were so many ties and knots… it could be entertaining some times. He liked the way Bulma would giggle when he tried in vain to untie her clothing, being at a loss with all of the layers.

Bulma had walked over, aqua hair pulled back into a simple series of braids, her slim fingers twirling the end of the braids absent mindedly. He glanced up at her, acknowledging her presence, and tiredly closed his book. She took this as a sign that she wasn't disturbing him and crawled into the bed next to him, pulling a pillow onto her lap. The two sat under the covers, leaning against the headboard, while he waited for her to talk, as he knew she would, and she fidgeted with a loose thread on the pillow.

"I was talking to her, like you said…" she started, still looking at the pillow, referring to Trunks' fiancée. "She snuck away though… she ran back inside before she could tell me anything. She does know where he is though," she said, almost as an after thought.

"You know this for sure?"

"Only on mother's instinct," she replied. He scoffed at her remark.

"I could always make her tell us," he suggested half-heartedly.

"Oh, don't," Bulma said, shoving her shoulder lightly into his. "It's not that important… I would know, I think, if something was wrong. I would know if she was hiding the truth because he was hurt or captured. It's almost as if… almost as if Trunks just had to go do something, and he got her to cover for him. I do not doubt that he will be back. It just irks me that she knows and I don't."

"I'm sure it does." Bulma rolled her eyes at her husband, but kept them on him, searching his face for something.

"Have you ever regretted anything?" she asked suddenly. He raised his eyebrows and looked at her.

"No. King's don't regret things," he replied automatically. Bulma made a noncommittal noise, as if she knew better and was silently disagreeing with him. He could be so stubborn at times, yet she had no doubt that in his mind, he thought he had absolutely no regrets in life, and if he did, he was King and could therefore make them not exist. Vegeta was pig-headed that way. She shook her head, looking at him closely.

His features were very chiseled and sharp, an exaggerated forehead, sharp chin, and a nose that she was often tempted to lean over and squeeze as she found it so cute. But there was something else beside a physical appeal. It was the very essence of her husband; his smell, his being, his soul. A person's self radiated of them, and she couldn't imagine waking up one day and not being beside that smell of musk and pepper she had come to associate him with. She shook her head slightly.

"I love you," she said softly, and though she had said it many, many times in their life together, this time made him start and look at her intently. She wasn't waiting for a reply, and she hadn't said it out of passion or feeling. It was as if she had just realized the fact, and felt that it needed to be stated as such. Her tone had been soft, yet serious. It was overwhelming, that someone could love him so purely for so long… Vegeta breathed.

"Thank you," was all he managed to say. Bulma smiled.

It was all that was needed.

Goten sighed and swirled the liquor in his cup, largely dispassionate about the drink he had ordered. He never was much of a drinker, and he didn't really feel like drinking at the moment. He wasn't even sure why he had come into the bar at that.

He wished he knew about Pan. He wished he could figure out who this mysterious boy she was going on about was. Not that she had said anything aloud, but he knew that someone new had entered her life; someone who was making big changes.

Whether these changes were for the good or bad, he wasn't sure yet. But if they were for the good… Goten would be glad to have his little niece married off. He would be glad if she could escape her contract and marry before Keipher had anything to say about it. And hopefully, he would be dead by the time Pan's own daughters were old enough to marry, and finish the contract started by Videl.

It was amusing, in a way, to think of Pan married. He knew that she was sweet and cute when she wanted to be, but to the general male population she always seemed to be bossy and self-righteous. Sure she could be sweet at times to them, but that was really just her manipulative character… Pan had a way with that.

He wondered offhandedly how the prince had refused her request for ownership of her farm. What kind of boy was he; to be able to withstand the will of Pan? The kingdom had a bright yet disastrous future ahead of it.

Ambition and power could take it anywhere. Not that Goten really cared on the whole. He took a sip if his drink before forcing thoughts of monarchy politics out of his mind.

He shook his head slightly, worrying about the storm that was thrashing outside, wondering how on earth Pan was doing. If he recalled, she never had liked thunder storms…

A resounding boom wasn't the only thing that brought Goten fully out of his inner monologue thoughts, but also the arrival of a burly man beside him. The man looked expectantly at the bartender who went to fetch a bottle of alcohol, after no words or exchange. Goten supposed he must be a regular customer to have his drink memorized.

He turned half of his attention to the man beside him, still absently sipping his drink. The bartender returned in a moment, carrying a bottle half-way full.

"This was it," the bartender said somewhat un-enthusiastically. "She ordered it from here, but like I said, it wasn't poisoned when I poured it into her glass, the priest did that."

The man now holding the newly acquired bottle was scowling.

"I believe me and my colleagues will be the one to determine that." He walked away in a huff, leaving Goten following his trail out with his eyes.

"The nerve," the bartender muttered. "As if any of my own stock would be poisoned. They won't find it in the bottle, mark my words." Goten looked towards the bartender who caught his eye. "I mean it; none of my stock has been tampered with."

Goten raised an eyebrow, casting a quick glance to his own glass.

"Why would anyone think that in the first place?" he asked. The bartender raised his own eyebrows and paused in whipping a glass.

"You mean you haven't heard?" he asked carefully. Goten shook his head. "Where have you been? There were crowds in here just a bit ago. Now, don't get scared away, I swear it's not from my liquor. But someone was poisoned…" Goten set his glass down and folded his hands.

"Poisoned? Are they alright?"

"I should say not. They're dead. A woman, red hair, very… artsy looking."

"Artsy?"

"Oh you know, bandana, bright colours…" he trailed off, making wild gestures with his hands in attempt to describe her outfit. Goten started.

"You mean, like a fortuneteller?"

"Yeah… you don't know her do you?"

"I think I might," he said quietly, biting his lip.

"Well, no one else does. You should go to where she is tomorrow to claim it. Everyone's spooked, and I think it'd be less if someone knew who she was."

Goten nodded, making plans to go in the morning, after the storm, wishing full heartedly that it wasn't the wild fortuneteller that used to like to stop by the farm and chat with Pan. He didn't want to have to tell her that a friend had died… no, killed?

"So, if it wasn't this that poisoned her," Goten pointed to his glass, "then what did?" The bartender frowned and leaned over towards him.

"I don't want to start a rumor, but I would bet my soul it was this one guy. He was looking at her funny and made some sort of gesture to her. Next thing she's crumpled down, cold as anything."

"What did he look like?"

"Well-" the bartender was cut off by another officer entering the bar who motioned that he needed to talk. The bartender cast a glance to Goten. "Come back tomorrow and I'll tell you. This looks like it may take a while."

Goten nodded, drowning down the rest of his drink and placing the appropriate amount of coins on the counter, before heading upstairs to the room he was staying in. In the morning, he would go see the body. In the morning, he would know if he had to break the news of a close friend's death to his little niece. In the morning he would know.

Trunks stirred in his sleep. The edges of sleep were beckoning him to fall back to them; their arms were tugging at him to return to them and dream more lovely dreams about cupcakes, tadpoles, and the dancing queen of badgers. But Queen Badger would have to wait the prince deemed, pulling his mind groggily from a dream, though his body willed it not to.

His eyes blinked open for a minute before shuttering close again. Most of his mind wanted to crawl back into his bizarre dream and see if he could get his dream-amphibians off his dream-cupcake, the other (smaller part) was trying to open his resisting eyes to see what had woken him in the first place. That small logical part of his mind wanted to know what had drawn him out of his sleep – it could not be dawn.

This smaller part won out, largely because of the fleeting thought that some sort of attack had been what had awaken him, and that Pan was in some sort of danger. Blue eyes squinted against the world, and it didn't take long for him to notice what was wrong. A patch of light was shooting through the door and across his face. A glance to the window not only told him it was night, but it also told him that the storm was still working strong.

He sat up stiffly, following the beam of light to its source to see the reason why he had been so unjustly taken from his dream. With a small groan he swung his feet over the side of the bed and placed bare feet onto the floor, waiting for the shiver of immense cold to overtake his body. It didn't come.

Somewhat surprised, he cast his blue eyes downward and eyed the thickly woven, yet well worn, rug that was pulled across the floor. His feet were met with the warm frayed wool, not the cold stone floor he was half expecting. He shook his head. He was not at home. He couldn't expect things to be the same; this was a small country house, coloured marble or the like wouldn't be present here.

He stood up, eyeing the floor one more time. No polished marble like his own room… but somehow this worse-for-wear rug seemed much more sophisticated and useful than his own expensive flooring. It seemed almost comical that in his entire life he had never thought to simply ask for a rug to put by his bed so he wouldn't have to walk on frigid floors.

Trunks tore his eyes away, hating the way that this near pauper's lifestyle was constantly showing him up. He walked carefully along the rug, remembering his first intention for getting out of bed. The simple clothes felt nice against his skin, and the floor was nice against his feet. He would have relished in the feeling more if it had truly been time to get up and not just a late night wake up. His eyes followed the light, and as he had expected, it was emitting from Pan's room.

He scowled lightly, anticipating a good reason why she had a candle lit this late at night; one that would surely wake him up. He wondered if she had lit it for that very purpose; and right now her own face was under layers of covers, blocking off the light, and that she positioned the candle just so its light would disturb his own sleep but not hers.

The prince pushed this thought away as the whole idea seemed silly, and surely no one hated him that much to try and formulate such a stupid ploy. He padded across the hallway to Pan's room and raised his hand to knock lightly.

The knock was very quiet and fell about deaf ears. He leaned over and peeked his eye through the door. Not seeing anything to turn him away, he pushed the door open quietly and took the first step inside.

Her eyes were closed, body stiff and her breathe rushed uneasily through her nose in a pattern that told him quite obviously that she was not asleep. He took another step into her room.

Her eyes flashed open, catching him as a guard would a criminal. He paused in his steps and looked at her, rubbing one of his arms with a hand. She stared.

"What?" she asked, her voice sounding rather hoarse.

"Your light…" he murmured. She raised her eyes towards the candle that sat by her bedside and sighed.

"I'm sorry," she said. "I forgot."

"You forgot you had a candle burning? Isn't that rather dan-"

"I know it's dangerous. I wasn't asleep anyway. I meant I forgot you were here and that the light would bother you," she said in an annoyed voice.

"Well don't you ever sleep?" he asked, rubbing his eye to get some sleep out. She scowled.

"Of course I do."

"Then why are you still awake? Look outside – it's night time." He made a gesture towards the window, to which she shuddered ever so slightly and shook her head.

"The rain won't kill you," he said, looking at the closed shutters and hearing the violent storm behind them. He realized what he said too late after he had said it. Pan's odd fear of storms and death clashed with his statement, and he found himself wincing as he turned his gaze back to her, wondering if his remark had been taken as a cruel jab or a slip of the tongue as it had truly been.

Pan's face was unreadable in any case, but her hands were not. They were clenched lightly at her chin, and looking at them, he noticed something that made him blink and take a hesitant step forward.

"Pan… you're shaking," he whispered. She looked at him but did not reply. He finished the steps between them and placed a hand over her fists. "… you're not shaking. You're freezing!" he exclaimed, bringing his hand back, shocked at the coldness of her skin. She shook her head in disagreement.

"I'm just a little chilly. It's cold out."

"Not that cold," he replied wildly. She opened her mouth to make a retort but he stopped her by kneeling down in front of her, blue eyes piercing into her own. "What's wrong?" he asked quietly. The words seemed foreign to him, and in fact, the whole situation was, making his reactions to the situations based completely on impulse.

Pan shook her head, her breathe sucking in uneasily.

"It's just rain. It doesn't mean anything," he said stupidly. She closed her eyes.

"Haven't you ever been afraid for someone?" she asked hesitantly. He closed his eyes and searched his mind. Had he? He wasn't sure. He didn't know if there was a time when he had actually feared for the well being of someone else. He didn't answer her.

"Staying awake won't help," he whispered. She nodded.

"I know. I just…"

"I can't sleep with that light."

"I know," she sighed, and the heaviness of her voice suggested that she did indeed know, and was once more sorry about having the light burning. "I just didn't want to be here… alone."

Trunks stared at her. She was worried enough about her family that she couldn't sleep, and merely lay in bed shivering. She didn't want the light off because then she would be alone. And being alone makes worrisome things all the more real.

The prince considered her for a moment before standing up.

"Well, I can't sleep with that on," he said, leaning over and blowing the candle out. A small noise of objection came from Pan. "But I won't leave you alone either," he added. And before he could really think about what he was doing, or why he was doing it, the impulsive part of his brain already had him swinging one foot behind Pan and making the motion to get his other leg to join it.

In a quick movement he had relocated behind Pan and had slipped underneath the covers. He turned on his side, facing Pan's back.

"I wanted this bed anyway," he said in a joking way. She didn't reply. "Won't you even try to sleep?"

"I just want my parents. They have to be okay. I don't want to be here alone," she rambled almost mindlessly.

"You're not alone," he replied. He brought his arms up and used them to pull her towards him. Her curved back was resting against his chest, one of his hands held across her stomach. She brought her own hands to his in an attempt to push him away, but as her fingers brushed over his wrist, they seemed to think better of it and took a rest on top of his hand instead.

"Why?" she asked dumbly, held against him, his hands on her stomach, covered by her own. She felt a shrug behind him.

"I wanted to sleep," he replied. The reply seemed hollow to both of them. A silence stretched out, with both breathing calmly, her shivering dying slowly and his eyes drifting close.

She went to turn to him in the dark, the faint natural light allowing her to make out the basic design of his face beside her.

"Thank you," she whispered to it. It did not reply. She studied it, not that it was the first time she had seen him sleeping, but certainly the first time she had felt the desire to look at him. His eyes were moving slowly behind his lids, and she wondered what he was dreaming of. A brief murmur from him about a badger and an army of carnivorous tadpoles changed her mind.

His lips were parted ever so slightly, wisps of lavender hair falling over his eyebrows and threatening to cover his nose. She turned, bringing a hand to brush away the hair. She bit her lip, staring at the face before her. It was near a miracle how calm and civilized he looked when sleeping. The arm around her waist tightened.

She shook her head and for a brief moment felt like crying. Everything was going wrong. The storm, Keiper, the prince and his curse. She was not supposed to do this.

This was what had been foretold to her that morning, by her friend in a whispered fortune, not that she believed in that stuff but…

She shook her head again. Leaning forward she whispered to his cheek softly;

"Thank you… again," and gently touched her lips to his cheek. He didn't stir. She leaned back, curling with his arm that was across her. The fortune was wrong. She would make it be wrong… because she didn't want to be hurt when this was all over. She didn't want to be on the losing end.

She didn't want to fall in love with the prince.

"You need to keep your arm steadier," he said in exasperation. The small boy looked up with wide blue eyes. Frowning, he turned back towards the tree line, lifting his arms.

The bow felt large and awkward in the prince's young hands. He carefully extended his left arm, gripping the center of his bow tightly, as his father had instructed. He squinted eyelids over his eyes, trying to perfectly line up the tip of his arrow to the spot where his father had told him to shoot.

It wasn't every day his father would come to watch him practice. Usually Trunks was just stuck with his tutor who drawled on how to hold weaponry and the basics on how to use it.

His small hand wobbled as he pulled the string back. He wanted to close his eyes tight, release the tension and cautiously reopen them to see if he made his target; as he had done many times before. Except now his father, the king, was here. And he didn't want to close his eyes to him. He didn't want to look childish.

He would rather miss with his eyes open, than miss while looking away and praying for dumb luck. With a deep breath, the boy made one final check on the angle to his target, and let the arrow go with a snap.

It wasn't certain to tell who was surprised more, the prince or the king, when the arrow went horribly off target. Trunks frowned.

"It's never been that off…" he murmured to himself, forgetting his father had been watching, in curiosity to the terrible aim of his shot. The king looked down to his son, but didn't make any comment to the shot. His son looked up at him after a moment, an unreadable expression on his face. Vegeta made a gesture with his head, to signal that the two of them should walk inside.

"I'll come back in a few weeks," Vegeta said after a few minutes of silence, as the boy almost skipped at his side to keep up with his father's larger strides.

"Okay," Trunks assented. "I'm not too good yet," he confided. "Luthor always makes the target though… but he's a few months older than me anyway."

Vegeta glanced down again, remembering 'Luthor' as the son of a noble; a boy Trunks occasionally learned with.

"Perhaps he works harder at it," Vegeta suggested with slight tact. Trunks shook his head.

"His Dad thought him how to shoot."

"I'm very busy," he replied with a sigh. "I don't have time to teach a seven year old how to miss a tree."

Trunks looked up and shook his head, smiling.

"I know you can't. A father doesn't teach that anyway," he said. Vegeta frowned.

"You just said that Luthor was taught by his father."

"No. I said he was taught by his Dad." Vegeta scowled.

"What's the difference?" Trunks looked as if he was going to laugh. He favoured the king with an amused look. As if the answer was common knowledge, and he was quizzing him on extremely easy material.

"A Dad likes his children," Trunks said with the calmness of pure fact. Vegeta started. He stopped for a moment to look at his son, but Trunks was already walking ahead, unaware of what he had implied to his father.

Vegeta blinked. A Dad likes his children. He turned his head slightly.

"Bulma? You remember, you asked me if I regretted anything?" he asked, quietly to the silent room that was now darkened with the candles out. He was doubtful if Bulma heard him, as a soft snore was the only reply he got. He continued anyway.

"I lied."

I wanted to have some sort of Trunks/Vegeta moment, where Vegeta actually makes a notion towards liking his son, since up until now all he does is complain when it comes to Trunks. He ended up saying that he regrets the almost-cold relationship he has with Trunks, which works as a moment, I think.

Angel Eevee