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Sacrifice	By : xerosky Category: Dragon Ball Z > Yaoi - Male/Male Views: 8290 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 1
Disclaimer: Dragon Ball Z is the property of Akira Toriyama. No money is being made from this work of fan fiction.

Chapter List
- 1
- 2
- 3
Sacrifice

By Xero Sky

Pairing: Goku/Kakkarot x Vejiita

Rating: NC-17

Warnings (for the entire fic): Slash, non- or dub- con, sex, violence, profanity, death, angst. AU, time travel.

Summary:   Rejecting your fate is a privilege of power. Sometimes, however, the price may be too high to pay.

Chapter 2

Kakkarot swirled the violet liquid around in his glass, watching the crystals break up again and sparkle in the haphazard lighting. It was 80-year-old scarpa, expensive as hell, but worth it. The very first sip had made his lips go numb. It had to be drunk slowly, to give his body time to neutralize the toxins, but the buzz was mellow and nearly hallucinogenic. Considering that it was distilled primarily from the venom of a wasp nearly the size of a truck, it was remarkably smooth.

He sat with his feet propped up before the wide-open windows of the best private room in a pub not far from the palace. The flickering of a video screen covering one wall was all the lighting the room had at the moment, and he only glanced that way occasionally, watching the news with the sound turned off. The view out the open window was better anyway; the pub stood very near the crest of a hill, and he had a clear view of the palace itself and much of the downtown area. It was near dawn and a cool breeze swirled in, bringing the scent of the flowering vines that climbed the outside wall. He inhaled slowly, filling his lungs and breathing out again, feeling the way his head gently swam from the scarpa, letting his senses roam out and map the life of the world around him.

Vegetasei...

There had been a time when Vegetasei meant nothing to him; back then, he'd never even bothered trying to envision what his homeworld must have been like. Even during the rare occasions when he and Vejiita had been both alive and speaking to each other, it hadn't really occurred to him to ask the only other survivor what home had been like. That terrifying lack of imagination astonished him now. Everything had been about Chikyuusei, his home, his family, his friends, what he could see and feel and taste. Even after he'd been to different worlds, he only focused on the one he'd sworn over and over again to protect, even though no one had asked him and no one would ever thank him for it.

He snorted softly and shook his head, then took another drink. All of that was in the past, his past, even though somewhere out there right now Chikyuusei was spinning without him, or any memory that he'd ever existed. In fact, he was the only Kakkarot anywhere right here and now; in this time line, Bardock had gone missing in action before his second son had been conceived. He had no idea where Radditz was here and now, but he supposed he could find out later on. What mattered was that no one knew Goku anymore, or expected anything of him, or remembered him as anything but a saiyajin. All things considered, he was okay with that.

He missed his sons, and his wife, though she had died well before her world had ended. In that timeline, the first one, his sons were still alive, something that couldn't be said for the majority of humanity, and they still had a future before them. That thought brought him some comfort, at least. He would never see what they became, and never see the grandchildren he might one day have had. That timeline was closed to him now. His Chikyuusei was so far beyond his reach now that it sometimes seemed like a dream.

It was the nature of things, how the universe worked. He wondered if Mirai Trunks had understood that. Once you left your own timeline, you couldn't go back to it. Even if you found a place and time that seemed almost like home, it wasn't. The very act of time travel changed the timelines, split them endlessly until it was impossible to guess how many different versions of existence there were.

More than that, there were some events that were so significant, so potent, that they could not be avoided. It had taken him a long, long time to realize that he couldn't really just go back and change things enough to stop what had happened to Chikyuusei. There was no amount of training or strategy or luck that would prevent the coming of Death and the extinction of every last fraction of life on the planet. He could only suffer his own sorrows again and again, while trying to evacuate the few humans that would listen to him to Namek. Most times he succeeded in saving them, but sometimes not. Humanity's fate was variable. Only the arrival of Death never changed, and the way that it had eaten the life of the world. That, and in each and every timeline he visited, Vejiita still died in his arms, spilling out his secrets with his last breath.

A dozen times. A hundred. Blood and loss and terrible grief, until it all blurred into one dull note of pain.

Eventually he'd realized he was only paying penance by then, atoning uselessly for the things he had no power to change. He was infinitely removed from the life he knew; he didn’t have anything left to lose. He had his memories, and that was all he had. No matter what Vejiita had told him, there was no way to make anything of it. He’d even gone back to the very first time they’d met, armed with the prince’s own words, and that intimate breach of privacy had poisoned anything they might have ever had between them, killed their future in that timeline in its cradle. Vejiita was incapable of accepting that he had so intimate a connection with anyone; he had lost too much in his life already.

Goku had almost stopped trying after that. Almost.

It was Vejiita’s words that kept pushing him, much as the prince had in life. He’d heard them so many times now that they were engraved on his memory. Oh, there had been some variations, in form or language, but Vejiita had been remarkably consistent, and each small difference had blended into a perfect, excruciating whole. He tried not to let the words play through his mind right now, but of course it was entirely useless. Even dead a thousand times over, Vejiita still managed to get his own way.

He glanced at the video, trying to delay the inevitable flood of memories. It was useless, of course, and made more so by the images on the screen: this prince, from this time, shown victorious at the end of a recent battle. Without Furiza’s influence, saiyajins didn’t seem to care much for spandex, and the prince was wearing, of all things, a bright, orange gi under his armor. It was stained with blood, some of it his own, and his teeth were stained red when he grinned, his fangs showing.

Damned prince, Kakkarot thought, blinking in astonishment. How could he ever hope to escape the bastard when he somehow dominated every thought, every memory? No matter how painful, every moment was precious to him. The worst moments of his life unrolled behind his eyes again, as familiar and bitter as the taste of blood.

*******

Kakkarot…

You would never forgive me, and I won’t ask you…

“Forgive you for what, Vejiita?” He’d wiped the blood from Vejiita’s eyes so he could see, but the prince hadn’t opened them.   His forehead furrowed in concentration, the prince had continued without answering him.

…but you deserve to know what I’ve done.

He’d known the prince was dying; he could feel how much of his remaining energy was being used to let him speak. He didn’t waste their time with denial or grief; that was for later, if there was time.

I knew about you. I always knew. I also knew you were away from Vegetasei, and safe, and I made myself forget you, so no one else would ever know. Too dangerous. And then Radditz…

Vejiita had started coughing here, and Kakkarot had simply held him, giving him what energy he could. It was like pouring water into a sieve.

Radditz found you… too late. I’d made myself believe it wasn’t true…

He was whispering now, but his voice had steadied after the coughing fit. Kakkarot had bent low over him, until he was the only thing Vejiita could see, trying to capture his words.

I almost recognized you, but you didn’t remember, didn’t know… me. I couldn’t face it. Hated you. Even after we fused, it wasn’t… you didn’t see me. You didn’t understand. Never told you, but you – you have the right –the right to know…

Vejiita’s lips moved faintly, but he lacked the breath to speak any further. Kakkarot poured his life into the other man, to no avail. He welcomed the sudden flicker of alien thoughts through his mind, understanding that the prince could no longer manage words.

[Fear, pain, rage, longing. And terrible regret for what was broken, for what there was no time left to fix. They should have been one, not fused, but two-as-one, two who mirrored each other, two who were matched. Vejiita knew it, and had been too damaged to admit to it. And now, now it was too late.]

He died a few moments later, shuddering as the life left him. Kakkarot held his body close, breathless with sharp, bewildered grief. He had lost… He had lost Vejiita, and something more, something he had sensed but never understood, something as utterly beyond his grasp as Vejiita was now.

There were no resurrections waiting for him, no second or third or twenty-third chances. Their enemy this time brought annihilation, or freedom. The soul left the body and was gone. If it still existed anywhere, it was beyond the reach of the pantheon Kakkarot understood. That was part of the nature of Death, this new enemy that destroyed life, that fractured ki and spread like an oil slick across the earth. Death left behind nothing that was not brittle and gray and lifeless: forests that crumbled at a touch, grass that scattered to ashes before the wind, revealing carcasses that lasted little longer. Nothing would grow there again; the dirt was sterilized, even down to the level of bacteria.

Nobody was sure where it can from, or who first called it “Death”, but the name was apt. It was alien and unrelenting, and bitter experience showed that it could not be touched. Even saiyajin flesh was no proof against the creeping sludge. Trunks had touched it with a gloved hand and watched in horror as it ate through that into his hand. His father had quickly, brutally severed his arm, saving his life and shocking them all. Ki blasts killed it, but only of such magnitude that the earth suffered massive damage, and Death would always respawn, no matter how careful they were.

The only recognizable part of it, the only thing about the alien creature that made any sense to them, was that Death would sometimes spawn ‘champions’. These were shambling, unnamable horrors that were vaguely anthropomorphic and as solid as the bare rock. They would smash down obstacles and then dissolve back into the grey mass. They manifested increasingly when Death was confronted by individual warriors, as if it had been learning to respond in kind. Death itself couldn’t be touched and didn’t seem to notice any damage it suffered, but it would pause as its champions fought, as if entertained by the spectacle. That was the only sign of intelligence it had given since the day the first spore had arrived on Chikyuusei.

After a few trials, he and Vejiita had provoked a battle with the champions, hoping Death would stop and they’d gain enough time for the heavy equipment and ships at Capsule Corp to be moved to a somewhat more secure place. It worked. An army of grey monsters had appeared, fought, been smashed, crumbled, and were replaced in a struggle over several days. Death had slowed to a stop almost everywhere as the two saiyajins fought, spelled by their weaker sons, who generally had to fight together to match their father’s levels. It could not last, however. Despite their talents for dealing and absorbing damage, the saiyajins had eventually been worn down, and it became clear that they would have to disengage. That had been the original, sensible plan, of course, but they were saiyajins, after all, and it was hard to walk away from a fight with no conclusion. The fight dragged on longer than it should have, draining their reserves.

It wasn’t Vejiita’s fault that they were still fighting that final morning, or if it was, it was blame Goku shared.

They were waiting for the next batch of champions to rise. They were covered in their own gore, panting, and nearly sick with exhaustion by then. Power levels fluctuated, dipping almost low enough to drop them out of their ascensions before spiking up again sharply. Beneath them, dark saiyajin blood pattered down on Death’s gray surface, soaking in instantly. Goku’s hair had flashed black as his energy dropped, and Vejiita drew wordlessly closer to him, covering his momentary weakness. Almost belatedly, he tried to think of something cutting to say, but his usual wit failed him. Goku gathered himself back into a fighting pose and flashed a grateful, if weak smile his way, noticing that the prince’s own power was flickering madly. Those brief moments of distraction cost them both. The champions spawned right beneath them.

Goku was pulled down and slammed into the ground hard enough to bury him as the rock collapsed on him. Panicked, he’d clawed his way out, afraid of Death chasing him down there, flowing down over the edges of his impromptu grave. By the time he got up, Vejiita was already down, and Goku had used the absolute dregs of his strength to pull the prince up and away from the gray flood moving after him.

Their flight ended barely a mile later, sending them crashing into the dirt when Goku couldn’t keep them up any longer. He felt their sons in the distance, on their way, and wondered why the hell he hadn’t ever bothered to teach anyone else Instant Transmission. Then he saw how badly Vejiita was hurt, and couldn’t think about anything else. He’d never seen that much blood before, but he was a warrior; he knew at once Vejiita’s injuries were fatal. Saiyajin or not, the prince’s severed spine and broken ribs could be seen through the hole in his back, he was missing an arm and maybe an eye, and he simply wasn’t going to live.

Before Goku could even process the horror of it, Vejiita spoke, and that was the beginning and end of everything he knew.

In the end, perhaps a few thousand lives were saved by the delay they’d bought with Vejiita’s life. Capsule Corp was moved, and the spaceport was built, but the humans had debated and argued and, as Death inexorably approached each ‘fortified’ city, begun to panic, and that had killed them as surely as Death itself.   Nowhere near the number of people who could have been saved ever reached the spaceport.

Goku hardly noticed. Even that in that very first timeline, the mass deaths had just been background noise to his own searing grief. He’d thought he understood loss back then. His grandfather had died, his wife, his friends… Hell, he’d died himself a couple of times. None of it had prepared him for this feeling of being ripped in half. He couldn’t seem to feel anything but the emptiness. Before, when Vejiita had died, Goku had always known he still existed somewhere in the afterlife. It hadn’t been a matter of faith, of course; he’d known it in his gut. Just as he knew now that Vejiita was utterly gone. He’d never felt so lost in his entire life.

The children, his and Vejiita’s, were there and could take care of what there was left to do. His family and friends had, if nothing else, learned how to deal with world-destroying crises over the years. He did what he was asked to do, saved the world as much as he could. Restless, he had roamed over the shrinking landscape, hiding his ki to keep from attracting Death to their last refuge, thinking about everything and nothing, plagued by memories of the dead prince. Bewildered grief consumed him and kept him confused. He didn’t understand this kind of grief, or know what to do with it. If there had been no work to be done, he was fairly sure he would’ve gone mad.

Then, near the end of it all, when there was little left but the spaceport they’d built to evacuate refugees to Namek, Bulma had asked him to meet her in the flight control tower.

Bulma had been drunk when he found her, but she was still overseeing the drones at the port. Most of it was automated by that point, with robotic units bearing the CapCorp logo running all over the place. There were still ships in the slipways, crawling with construction units, awaiting their chance. Lines snaked out from the loading areas, full of anxious people clutching the few possessions they were allowed to take with them. There were thousands more out there, waiting in the holding areas for a space on the ships.

Beyond them, in the far distance, under darkening clouds, the low, constant thunder of Trunks and Goten trying to hold the perimeter of the peninsula could be heard. It had been found, over time, that magma could slow Death down; it couldn’t gain enough of a foothold on the shifting, hostile surface to gather into the concentrations it needed to spread. Eventually it would find a way across the moat they had effectively dug in the earth, but for now, it was kept at bay. Terrible energies hammered into the earth, breaking it open, triggering the seismic convulsions that kept the magma surging to the surface. The ground inside the perimeter was not immune; it shook almost continuously. The saiyajins worked in pairs, one slamming ki into the ground, keeping the wounded earth open, while the other tried to shield the port. Eventually the whole thing would come apart under the strain anyway, but they knew they were only buying time now. The earthquakes would shatter the ground under the port, or Death would find a way across. In the meantime, they worked furiously to get more ships built, more ships loaded, and more ships off the ground. There was no way it could work seamlessly, or even well, forever.

Bulma oversaw it all from the control room she lived in now, sleeping on a cot and subsisting on whatever her pitying staff brought her to eat or drink. On that afternoon, she was at the command console, her feet propped up, bottle in hand, surveying her domain.

“That’s the last of ‘em,” she’d said by way of greeting, gesturing vaguely with the bottle.

“Last of what?”

“Last of the incoming ships we’ve had any contact with. Landed and now already in quarantine. Who the hell knows if they’ll get out again before we lose everything.” Once the idea had finally been driven into their skulls, the remaining population of the world had begun arriving here at the spaceport, in dribs and drabs, hoping to get on a ship to Namek. Even an alien planet was better than a dead one; behind them, the forests and plains and oceans of Chikyuusei were already gray and brittle. The bustling spaceport was the only bright beacon of life left on the planet.

Bulma left unspoken the fact that this effectively meant that there was no one else left alive in the world besides the few thousands waiting fearfully to get on the evacuation ships here at the port. There wasn’t much left that either one of them could do about it, and even less reason to talk about it yet again. Goku had sat down heavily on one of the chairs, ignoring the groan of the metal frame bending under his weight. Saiyajins had much denser body structures than humans, and cheap furniture just didn’t last. It wasn’t like it mattered, anyway. “So what do you want from me? I’m supposed to be asleep right now.”

“Right. Like you sleep anymore, anyway.”

“Bulma…”

“Come with me,” she said suddenly, standing up carefully. “I have something you should see.”

It was the time machine.

She’d known she could build one, of course, and she’d worked on it slowly over the years; most of her quickest and best work had been done in times of crisis, and there simply hadn’t been anything requiring a time machine to spur her on. When it was finished, she’d had second thoughts about having built a machine with that much potential for misuse. Mirai Trunks had warned her that there would consequences, even if they couldn’t be detected right away. It wouldn’t be a matter of simply going forwards and backwards along a fixed timeline. She hadn’t been afraid of her own invention, but the potential consequences of using it had made her reluctant to use it in any situation where time travel would not obviously be the answer. It had seemed prudent to keep it secure, at the very least, and in time, without any crises on the horizon, she had sealed it away.

Despite temptation, she’d left it alone during this catastrophe. They had no idea where Death had come from, or how long it had been on Chikyuusei. Had it just arrived? Had it been dormant for some time before suddenly spreading? There’d been no signs on the planet below, and no revelations from above. The kais had been caught flat-footed by the whole disaster, and couldn’t provide much in the way of help at all. Death was a void in all ways, of life, of hope, and of information. Where and when would she have taken the time machine? What would she have done there? There were a thousand other things to do, and the machine had remained in storage.

But then Vejiita had died, and after a struggle, Bulma had decided that she finally had a solid, fixed moment in time when something that meant everything to her could be changed.

He’d listened, his heart beating madly in his chest, as she told him her theories and explained her decisions, and confided how much she missed her husband, how devastated she’d been by his death, and how she realized that now she had a second chance, maybe, to tell him how much she loved him. She was sending Goku because she was afraid she wouldn’t be able to convince Vejiita not to fight, but he might listen to his fellow saiyajin.

He’d listened, and learned how to operate the machine, and smiled to reassure her. He brought her aspirin and water as she sobered up. He gently rubbed her back as she cried. Somehow he did all these things without speaking his heart. He didn’t tell her all the things he knew about Vejiita that she did not. He didn’t mention that Vejiita had been fond of her, had respected her, but had never loved her, nor thought he should. Saiyajins had lived within many kinds of bonds; staying with the mother of his children had seemed perfectly normal to Vejiita, but it had made her his partner, not an automatic love match. Bulma had, of course, not understood it from his point of view, and he, of course, had never thought to explain it.

Goku also didn’t mention that if he did manage to save Vejiita, it wouldn’t have anything to do with her second chances.

That was how his obsession was born.

*****

Now, on Vegetasei, Kakkarot finally pushed away the memories, chasing them down with another drink. It didn’t matter anymore. During one of his many attempts, he’d even flat-out told Bulma why he was really trying to go back, and that… ah, that had gone spectacularly badly. He’d learned things about her during that trip that he would’ve been happy never knowing. That was also the trip where he’d capsulized and stolen the spaceship that would eventually take him to Vegetasei.

Another swig of scarpa burned its way down his throat. In this timeline, Bulma would still be a child, if she existed at all; he would never know either way. Here and now, he was on Vegetasei, and today the prince of all saiyajins was going to be his. He’d prepared for this moment for… he’d lost count of the years now. All those many attempts to get the Vejiita he’d known back were going to culminate in this; the claiming of a young man who didn’t know him and probably hated him by now. He regretted the last part, but nowhere near enough to change his plans.

He couldn’t.

He had nowhere else to go.

He’d given Vejiita twelve years to come of age; the last three of that he’d been living inconspicuously on Vegetasei itself, re-learning its culture. The language skills had started coming back on their own after Vejitto; he’d spent time practicing before he even killed Furiza in this timeline, just to make sure he could carry out his plan. The rest had come afterwards, when he’d skipped a few years into the future. He’d been pleasantly surprised to find the saiyajin government had made aggressive efforts to get their offspring back home from their purging missions, and even more pleased that they’d started programs to reintegrate the ex-purgers back into society. It made things even easier for him than he could have imagined.

As it turned out, he wasn’t the only purger who’d lost memories. The infant teaching programs had been designed to produce resourceful, clever, obedient killers who would be ready to rejoin their people once they’d finished their missions. In some cases, this had worked perfectly, and it had been at least partly successful most of the time. Young purgers, however, were apt to suffer serious injuries, and even when these weren’t head injuries, the trauma and stress were capable of fracturing their programming as new, urgent realities over-wrote pre-packaged memories. For years the purgers who’d made it back home had arrived with missing patches in their memories and educations. It wasn’t all that unusual to find a veteran who had no idea where he or she had come from, or why they’d been sent away. After Furiza’s constant demands were met, there wasn’t time or resources to be spent on the weak or the damaged. That changed.

It hadn’t taken much effort to get admitted into one of the retraining centers. They didn’t use the old deep-teaching methods, since adult brains were so much more complicated and varied than those of infants, and he’d never felt that his sense of self was ever threatened. He’d soaked up everything like a sponge, filling in gaps he’d never realized were there, learning things that made his own nature, as well as everything Vejiita had ever said, make sense in new ways to him. He’d enjoyed his time there. On graduating, they’d given him a new identification: Kakkarot, son of Bardock, registration number 40978-x-394-a. He stopped using his old name altogether. He was who he was, but ‘Goku’ was a thing of his past.

The saiyajin name hadn’t raised any eyebrows. It wasn’t a particularly common name, but neither was it unusual enough to attract attention. He’d been careful during his appearance as the Legendary not to give out any details other than his name, and he’d spent most of the time in one ascended form or another; so far, no one had connected the ex-purger to their new god. He’d seen the temples, and the images of the Legendary were all of himself at the third level, with the primitive, ferocious features and over-abundance of hair. There were no pictures, as far as he knew, of himself before he’d ascended, but even then he’d looked different from normal. He’d lost most of his normal tan on the space trip to Vegetasei, and he’d cut his hair short the night before. Afterwards, he’d skipped several years ahead before reappearing to lose himself into the population. He’d been free and clear since then.

He hadn’t realized how much significance the Legendary would have here. To be honest, it’d just been a cheap and convenient method of getting his way. He’d known they would take it more seriously than he did, but not how seriously. The temples and the offerings had been so bizarre and unexpected when he’d skipped forward in time from killing Furiza. He’d been used to ascending whenever it was convenient. It wasn’t to be taken too lightly; as Vejiita had once said, it sent them into an ecstatic state, and it would be easy to lose control and go too far. It was as familiar as a fighting stance, though, and Kakkarot could slip into the first level, at least, more easily than changing his clothes.

On Vegetasei, it made him a god.

He had no idea what to think about that. It was just too strange. At least they weren’t doing horrible things in his name, but he didn’t know what they wanted from their god either, other than to return to them. He’d already told them that he wouldn’t lead them, in part because he honestly had no desire to rule, but also because he simply couldn’t imagine Vejiita as anything but the prince of all saiyajins, the heir to the throne. He was more saiyajin now than he’d ever been, but he wasn’t going to conquer the universe for them, either.

Kakkarot hoped that his secret identity as Savior of the World could be kept hidden after he revealed himself to his prince, but he didn’t have a clue what he’d do if it wasn’t. He tried not to think about it, like the many other thoughts he’d put aside in pursuit of his obsession.

Fortunately, he’d had a brand new world to explore, and that had done more than keep his mind off it. For once he wasn’t a stranger to a stranger land; he was a saiyajin, and this was his homeworld, and he’d felt it in his bones. That sense of belonging had sunk deeper with every new thing, every new place he’d seen over the last two years as he waited for Vejiita to come of age. It had been one of his best ideas ever to take that time to learn his own people and their planet. It had almost been enough to distract him from the interminable wait until he got what he truly wanted.

But now that wait was almost up.

He stood up and stretched, then planted his hands on the windowsill to lean outside into the cool, fragrant air. Dawn was close enough that he could feel it, though the sky was still black. There was a different energy in the air as the living things around him reacted to the coming of day, shifting slowly into or out of sleep, anticipating the sun. There was a rustling nearby and he felt a light touch on his hand; one of the carnivorous flowering vines that covered the side of the pub was testing him out, sending out tendrils to see if he was edible.   He clucked his tongue reprovingly at it and the vine pulled back, releasing a fresh wave of sweet scents as if in apology. He grinned, feeling at home; this was a fierce world, full of fierce creatures. Draining his drink, he waited for the sun to come up.

Today was a day to be savored. He’d pictured it countless times, but if he’d learned nothing else in his life, it was that nothing went as expected where the prince of saiyajins was concerned. He planned simply on enjoying Vejiita’s birthday, getting as close to the prince as he could without revealing himself, until the time seemed right. Until he couldn’t hold himself back anymore.

Kakkarot smiled, watching the sky lighten. He could sense the prince’s presence far overhead already, his ki quietly roiling with anger and distress and something he couldn’t quite read. Vejiita couldn’t sense him at all, he knew, and that pleased him. He didn’t want the man to know he was already here, watching over him. Vejiita had resented his lack of choice, and fought against it, perfecting himself in the struggle. Kakkarot hadn’t planned on that happening – he hadn’t really thought much about what the prince might think of all this, to tell the truth – but it would have its advantages. He regretted the pain he’d caused, but he intended to soothe it all away over time. In the meantime, this Vejiita, hardened and angry and full of outraged pride, was as close to the Vejiita he’d lost as he would ever find again. Kakkarot could feel his hidden strength pulsing in the sky even now, carefully shrouded from all eyes except the ones he could never hide from. His prince had said they were matched – destined for each other.

Kakkarot was a true believer.

*******

To be continued.
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Sacrifice