Vegeta's memories of his home planet were hazy and idyllic, as childhood memories often are. Perhaps he cared so much about Planet Vegeta and its memory precisely because his remembrance had colored it rosily. He missed his father from time to time. Saiyan royalty and nobility had the privilege of raising their children themselves, the children of the lower classes sent away to scope out and conquer weaker worlds.
By no one's measure had King Vegeta treated his son with extraordinary compassion or support, but he had always made sure that he had the best his world had to offer. Above all else, the King had valued competence, and Vegeta did not disappoint him in this regard. The father and his son were of similar minds, and they serendipitously offered each other exactly what the other had desired of him. Between them, there were few "I love yous," but such words meant little to them anyhow. Both preferred action over petty verbalizations. One did not prove one's devotion by meeting a quota of kind sayings, but rather by personal sacrifice—procuring precious gifts or overcoming impossible difficulties in the other's name.
Even decades after his father's death, Vegeta had not once dared to declare himself the King of All Saiyans. King Vegeta would remain their king forever. No one lived to crown his son. How could he, Prince Vegeta, take the place of his father, who had ruled over a live race in courage and strength? Should the Prince assume his father's crown, that crown would rest upon the incompetent ruler of a dead people. Prince Vegeta wanted the Saiyan king and his subjects to live, not die. To ascend the throne meant death to his world.
Vegeta remembered Saiyan music. War marches danced in his veins as he trained as a boy; they made his blood rush in a euphoric rage. He could still recall some of the lyrics to Saiyan children's songs, and he sometimes regretted that he could not remember them all; he knew he would never hear them again. Not even Nappa or Raditz could refresh his memory anymore. On the verge of falling asleep, a Saiyan lullaby would occasionally repeat in his head:
Sleep while you can, my happy child;
When you are strong, the nights
Forget they once stayed still and mild—
Sleep while you can.
Dream while you can, my little child;
When you have grown, your dreams
Will turn to war and blood and bile—
Dream while you can.
Rest while you can, my weary child;
When you have lived, your foes
Remember you and multiply—
Rest while you can.
Sleep while you can,
Dream while you can,
Rest while you can,
My precious child.
Vegeta wondered if any child of his would ever hear the old Saiyan songs—probably not. Where were the Saiyan women? Who would know the notes and sing them?
Earthling music had, almost more than anything else, convinced him to return. Serving as Frieza's stooge, naturally, did not come with much cultural stimulation. He had forgotten what it meant to exist in a cultural context during his years of interstellar piracy, and only when he immersed himself in Earthling customs did he again realize that societies had laws, traditions, and histories. On Earth, culture was more than just a few half-remembered legends and song fragments; the past breathed, moved, and ran away into the future. In some ways, Earth's future gave him a future. Frieza had destroyed the world of his past; he would have continued living in that dead past if not for the discovery of a new world. To think that he had arrived on Earth by mistake—Gohan, Bulma, and their friends had not thought of him when their wish had resurrected him. They had not wanted to.
Vegeta did not understand Earth and its people, but they offered him a semblance of so many of the things he had missed since the devastation of his homeworld. Earthlings trivialized their world, and he couldn't stand them for that at times. They did not deserve their world, and they never gave his a second thought. Did they not remember who he was? He had been the Prince of All Saiyans, a royal among an honored race. The Earthlings had no respect. They were narrow-minded, and they hated his people just as they had hated him. Often, he would remember why he had taken so much pleasure in murder, dealing death to those who did not value their lives and took them for granted.
The stars that had once been Namek's suns drew closer. In the distance, Vegeta could see the debris of the planet, just as he had seen the debris of Planet Vegeta. He sat cross-legged beneath the main window, searching for Kakarot's energy signature. Nothing. His skin prickled with frustration. He had come for nothing. Unless he gave up returning to Earth, he could survey none of the nearby systems. That soft, Earthling bastard—he always found some way to evade him.
Author's Note: Hi, this is your friendly neighborhood flamingpoetic here! Comments, suggestions, and constructive criticism are always appreciated. I guarantee a response to every question or review. I love to proofread and edit, so if you want a second pair of eyes on your work, I'd be happy to see what I can do for you. Just send me a message, tell me what you would like me to take a look at, and we'll work something out. Happy reading and writing, my fellow creative people! I'm having lots of fun with The Mistaken Wish—I hope you are too.