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To catch a caged Bird	By : Vegetaswriter Category: Dragon Ball Z > Yaoi - Male/Male Views: 1250 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: I do not own dbz, or make any money from this

Chapter List
- 1-To catch a caged Bird
- 2-Chapter 2
- 1
- 2
Author notes: Okay I’ve been working on this for a very long time actually, just had been doing little here, little there, only coming back to it when I wanted to, some influences from Animeslave are in here as well, since she messaged me an idea while I was working on this. Started this in the beginning of April, posted a few paragraphs on tumbler a few weeks ago. But I finally finished where I think this chapter should end and now posting it. Not really sure where I am going to be taking this, or what pairing it’s going to be! But rest assured, it will be very homoerotic in later chapters. For now, well… let’s just say it’s going to be typical for me. So, warnings - everything but the kitchen sink, okay well, I won’t be doing anything extreme.
I do not own DBZ, nor do I make any money from this.

Chapter 1

A thick leather strap wraps around a boy’s long elegant neck, the click of the crudely made lock seals his fate. The young boy’s throat constricts as he whines, choking against the heavy meaning placed upon such a small simple object.
“Do not fret young one, we are men of the golden cloth.” The elder’s lips pressed gently upon his temple, comforting in his old wise ways. “Our God Marronia will deliver us.” His whispers lulled the young boy in a momentary comfort. His fine aged whiskers tickled the boy’s cheek; strangely, the whiskers were soothing to the boy.
The Barbaric men clothed in heavy bear skins and boiled leathers herded them into place, the young pretty women of child bearing ages ushered to the back into a darken room. The boy knew what was going to transpire and he pitied the maidens, silently he prayed. He knew of those things, those adult things, for he had over heard the bluster of soldiers in his father’s great hall, spinning tales of the great conquests of women, and the variety of their plump cunts. He shudders at the memory, his eyes once again thieving glances to the now closed wooden door, his heart heavy with grief.
The chain rattles as a beast of a man towers over his small group, their once golden cloaks sullied by mud stiff under their shins making the cloth difficult to move. The beastly barbarian hollers in his countrymen crude rough tongue, sounding callous and intolerant in its bellows, they shuffle. The chain rattles noisily as they walk. The youngest of their group struggles from the weight, sluggish, clumsily moving along. The beast hollers more, bearing over the young struggling one, and he could see the rot of the beast’s teeth, the rank of decay. His belly turns at its putrid scent, making his steps falter turning the attention of the beastly man upon himself.
The beast growl, hooking a sausage fleshy finger under his leather collar, hauls him closer, brushing sickening lips and vile breath over his ear, unknown words spoken to him. The works mysterious to him, however, the message clear, wickedness.
The day descends into a cold night; the bitter winds howled causing the boat to sway. Ice formed above his head, where once was a steady drip of sea water. He looked over his brothers of the golden cloth, all tightly huddled trying for warmth. These barbarians were mad, the winter solstice is a Holy and bitterly cold time of the year, and yet, these mad dogs born from an evil bitch rode the sea in winter. What are these men? He thought.
The sound of grieving and prayers from the elders caught his attention, looking on as they wrapped the youngest boy’s head with sullied pieces of robe ripped from their cloth. The child was too young to survive such cold, he gave up too easily all by closing his eyes and letting the cold sleep take him.
He yawns.
“Don’t sleep, young brother. Death will take you.” An older brother by a few years whispers through chattering teeth, nuzzling his light honeyed locks closer into his shoulder. He could feel his violent shivering, while he sat numb, unfeeling. He could only return the gesture, nuzzling his brother closer.
~ * ~
Bright yellow fields of wheat swayed under the bright afternoon sun the heat welcoming and light upon his bronzed skin. He leaned out further, overlooking the balcony to watch the servants and guards bustle around the palace grounds. His chest bore the weight on the banister as he tip forward and back, his toes scraping the stone below. His two older brothers raced along in his line of sight, darting closer making him lean a little further out.
He felt the lurching of vertigo, his body moving over the banister, his lungs expanded with a fright of air. Then his downward fall halted abruptly, hanging over the banister.
“Crazy boy!” A man shouted. Hauling the frighten boy up by his left ankle and placing him upon his two feet. “Now keep your feet planted.”
“Father!” He beamed, relieved and thrilled by seeing his large father. The man was built like a stone house, towering over him; appearing larger than life.
“What ever caught your attention enough to almost make you end your life, boy?” His father’s silvery grey eyes twinkled,
“I saw Potat and Mixgree running inside with something. I wanted to see what it was, father.” He replied, taking his father’s hand as he walked away from the balcony towards the bed.
“Ah yes, perhaps some wormy bug they found in the gardens.” His father chuckled.
He twisted his lips in disgust, making his father laugh harder and his hefty hand ruffles his hair. “I don’t like them much either.”
“Do you need to talk to me about something?” Not that he didn’t enjoy visits from his father, he just knew, there was always a purpose for a King’s visit.
His father smiled down to him, placing a burdened hand upon his shoulder. “Yes. I need you to hear and understand things from me before it is laid upon your feet tonight.” His hand lowered and moved, bringing the boy in a one armed hug, keeping his youngest son close. “You know your older brother Mixgree will be King one day, and Potat his Royal advisor. Then it is your little sister Peppa will be married to a rich lord or Prince from a different land.”
“Yes father, I know.” He moved in closer, digging his cheek further into his father’s side. “And I understand I am a, Bastard. I do not belong in the Royal court.”
“No, that isn’t so.” His father exclaim. “Yes, you were born from wedlock and your mother died in during the birthing. You are still MY son.” His father held his chin between his forefinger and thumb, he smiled. “You are my very image, boy.” He rubbed his chin. “As you know, the Queen isn’t very… approving of you. And if I were to die, she’ll send you far away with naught a thing but the name I have given you, Vegeta. So, my boy, I have planned to secure your future within this country and palace.” Silence filled the room as the King’s calloused hand rub the scrawny arm of boyish youth, holding his son tighter against his side. He could hear the quicken beats of his son’s heart waiting for the conclusion. “You’re leaving to join the Priesthood of Marronia. They have agreed to groom you for high priest, second to rule over the country. The Queen does not know the details, only that you are being sent to the Brotherhood of the golden cloth. She will not know how far you will climb in rank with them.” His father smiled, placing a kiss on his son’s forehead.
Vegeta huddled closer, wrapping his smaller arms tightly around his father’s hips…
~ * ~
The voyage was grueling, the cold winter nights had taken many lives of young and old men alike, once a number of eighty-one men of the golden cloth were stuffed into the room under the ships haul, now only twenty-eight remain. The door opens as the beastly man whom herded them into this place stomps his way in, followed by a man he hadn’t seen before, both grasping thick menacing whips, Vegeta nudges the older boy curled behind him with the honeyed hair… adjust the amount of survivors to twenty-seven.
The new Barbarian man of long gangly black soot covered hair towered over him, kicking the feet of the boy behind him. Shouted to the beastly man, they shared a chuckle. The black haired man looked down to him again, kicking him away from the dead boy rattling his chained feet.
Vegeta remains silent, his eyes ever watchful as they manhandled his once brother and warmth sharer. He knew he should feel something, sadness, fear, yet he had still felt numb, as if he couldn’t truly comprehend what was happening. The man of black hair stripped away the robes of the honeyed haired boy, taking anything of value. He grasps the cold body’s ankle and dragged the body of his brother akin to a sac of manure, showing no cares for his fellow man. It made him think. How do they see us?
The beastly man barks orders, which sounded very familiar, and Vegeta’s mind curls around the words, repeating them over and over, sounding them out, breaking down the syllables. Walk, or move, maybe even march, he guessed; giving the words substance.
Vegeta moves forward, allowing them to herd him similar to dogs herding sheep. His feet shuffle, his body weary from hunger and the cold deeply rooted into his joints, the jarring tightening and loosening of the chain stumbles him, not daring to look back at what he already knew. The sharp crisp snap of a whip accompanied by the agonized wails of he fellow brothers was all he needed to understand what the tightening of the chain meant. The old and the too young too weak to walk slowed, or fell, the chain loosen as they found some semblance of strength to walk. Or perhaps, it was the whip that motivated their fatigued bodies; possibly, it could be how these Barbarians treated their dead. What ever the reason, it motivated them to move.
They were marched one-by-one up the stairs, the bitter cold winds biting at their bare feet, huddling their grubby robes tighter against their flesh, trying to obtain some seclusion from the cold; it done nothing.
Vegeta felt the sharp cold air cut his lungs; however, being stuck in a haul surrounded by filth and the rank of bodily fluids, he could not deny the welcomed freshness of the winter’s air spiced with pine.
He looks around the vast area, only a few huts, smoke funneling from the roofs and the sent of cooked meat makes his stomach knots violently reminding him of his hunger. His mouth waters as he breathes it in, he could almost taste the meat.
He didn’t have much time to sink in the momentary freedom from the ship’s haul before he was once again moving off the ship. He kept his head down, not bringing any attention to his person, an art he had perfected in his father’s Royal Court, always hiding within plain view. His vision was more based on sounds, and scents, elaborating any area around him, see without seeing, from a man touching a woman’s arm by the light rustle of her gown or how timid a child is by the light tap of his foot. Not that his vision was hindered, for his eyesight was crisp as any healthy boy, it was the circumstances surrounding his position within the family; the bastard.
He settled down against the wooden wall, his bare feet dirtied and cold from the bare solid ground under him, flakes of show still clutched around his ankle from the march through the snow. His toes turning colors, from a peach tone to bluish purple, and he feared the winter’s bite would take them. He, like many of his brothers rubbed their feet trying to bring some warmth to them.
The weaker ones, moved away from group, not trying for warmth. He knew they were giving up, allowing the winter’s sleep of death to take them. He didn’t mourn them, nor did he try to plead with them. Instead he brought his feet closer, almost hugging them against his swollen empty belly. He hadn’t spoken a word since this begun; only listen and reminisce of his home in the palace.
In the great brick walls of his father’s house he never knew what hunger was, fresh fruit, sweet lemon bread and honey mead always at his sitting table for any time he wished to snack. His breakfast, lunch, and dinner served to him at his table, and on the rarest of moments his father would dine with him. He could smell the roasted boar and fired potatoes; he could almost taste the sweet grape wine.
~ * ~
“Do you remember why we went to war?”
Vegeta rested his head on his open palm listlessly gazing down at the yellow tinted parchment manuscript, detailing the war a decade passed. He sighed, taking glances at his teacher, an old wise withered man, his beard white as snow and shiny bald head. His old hand shakes with contained irritation from the boy’s impudence.
“Why must I learn this? Isn’t this irrelevant to what I must know?” Vegeta asks with a grump.
The old man smiles to him, Roshi was his name. “You must know these things, boy. The only way not to repeat history is it to learn from it.” His aged hand reaches for a new scroll from the stone shelving. He unravels it with such delicateness, as if the parchment would crumple with rough handling. “You see here, boy.” His fingers brush over the fine art depicting the land as a whole. “Once we were all of the same people.”
~*~
Another kick to his cold foot jolted him from memories, ever vigilant to the snarling barbarian’s bark; he scampered to a standing position. He waited, eyes wide and lips sealed as the men with heavy bear-furs strapped to their broad shoulders rounded them up, ushered them out of the poorly constructed hut.
The men of the brotherhood burdened with chains and collars were silent as the grave, the shuffling of chains and barks of the wild-men the only sound to be heard. Vegeta thought to a time not long ago, when his brothers would talk amongst themselves in light content tones, the subjects of philosophy and science corresponding with religions of otherworldly places were always encouraged and nurtured within the temple halls, their voices were musical. Once smiling joyful faces of his brothers could light any space, welcome you into its warming graces.
Now his brothers have turned to muted despair, communal to solitary. Their faces dirtied and sullied by the rape of their freedom. Chains weighty and collars chaffing, each movement each step makes the leather burn and the chain sing, each miniscule movement reminded them all, they were no longer men, but objects for whatever devices their masters decides of them.
From a distance he hears a great rumble, looking to the skies the sun was blacken by a thick cloud of smoke hanging over the hills ahead, fear takes him. He could make out the sounds of feminine screams and the shouts of burley men as they come to the hill. His throat dries, and his heart began to race. Strange scents clog his nose, congested to a mix which makes them incapable to decipher its individual origins. The chain becomes heavier.
He craned his neck over the shoulder of one of his brothers, in hopes he could see over the hill. He could see the tips of huts encircled by the bow of the hill, dipping down and cradling the wooden tops. Smoke towers from each hut, some from the side, and from the roar of noise he heard carrying in the wind, he knew this was a gathering of sorts.
Arriving to the top, he paused.
A collection of men and women of numerous nationalities stirred together resembling ants, scurrying from one cluster to another. He couldn’t distinguish any details; however, he was no ignorant child. He knew what this was, and finally, as if a veil had been removed from his eyes, the gravity of the situation and what had past connected to his head, he exploded in hyperventilating horror.
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To catch a caged Bird