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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
- 6
- 7
- 8
Sacrifice

By Xero Sky

Pairing: 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 7

There were worse things to wake up to. He knew from past experience that waking up to major trauma, a demi-saiyajin’s diaper crisis, or being on fire were all horrible. Under the circumstances, though, cracking his eyelids open to find a ring of Vejiita’s relatives staring down at him didn’t strike him as all that much better.

He’d blinked at them sleepily from under the furs until he realized that Vejiita’s ki was no longer nearby and shot up from the couch, his aura already flaring. A moment later he found the prince’s signature again, further off but not terribly far away, and relaxed.

He found the royals staring at him from a few feet farther back than previously, and he smiled a little sharply at them before relenting and hiding his fangs again.

“Good morning?” he’d offered. They were his future relatives, after all.

The morning hadn’t really gotten much better from there. Vejiita’s uncle Hakusai, a large saiyajin with a mane of hair twisted into multiple braids and a beard worn much the same way, informed Kakkarot that they were there to get him ready for his network appearance with the prince that morning. He also told him that he was going to be late if he didn’t get his tail moving right this second.

Vejiita had apparently already been up for an hour.

Despite the obvious unfairness of being late when other people were supposed to wake him up, Kakkarot made an effort to go along with it. He supposed he should be happy they were there to help him, since he only had a vague idea where the hell he was supposed to go or what he was supposed to do anyway. He could find his way directly to Vejiita, no doubt, but not without knocking a few walls out. Considering how the royals were dressed, he was pretty sure the day was going to require a sense of fashion and manners he definitely lacked, so he was going to need all the help he could get.

Two young saiyajins, who were introduced as Vejiita’s cousins, stepped up to take him to the showers, making a visible effort not to look nervous. He bit back a comment about being able to wash his own ass, thank you very much, and followed them. There was a short secret corridor, a long hallway that they told him was only private, not secret, and then he walked out into what was easily the most luxurious bathroom he’d ever seen in his life. It was a large, communal affair, with a skylight overhead, hot water pouring in a waterfall into a deep, intricately tiled basin, and showerheads along the walls carved into shape of sea dragons spilling water from their snarling mouths. Bright mosaics covered the walls. Plants grew from stone planters and clawed their way up towards the light, circling broad pillars. He was used to simpler things in life, but apparently that wasn’t how things were done here. It was something else to adapt to.

The two cousins stayed just outside, but he could feel them watching as he lathered and rinsed himself; it was a curious sort of attention rather than perverted, but it managed to make him deeply uncomfortable anyway. He took a minute to make sure his tail was heavy with suds and water, and then whipped it in their direction. Foam flew, a royal cousin squawked in outrage, and he was left to finish his shower in relative solitude.

When he was done, he found a large towel waiting for him. His clothes, and the cousins, were nowhere to be seen.

Back in Vejiita’s bedroom once more, the older royals had clothes already picked out for him, only to find that they were nowhere near close to fitting. They’d overestimated his size considerably. While more clothes were sent for, the royals spent their time trying not to appear intimidated without antagonizing him. Crossing his arms, he sat down on Vejiita’s bed and stared back at them. The prince’s scent was all over the room but strongest here, and he enjoyed it, letting it soothe his irritation.

Some minutes later, a large pile of clothes was delivered and sorted through, and a relatively simple black outfit was chosen for him. To their barely-concealed astonishment, he roughly shooed them all out the door before getting dressed. He wasn’t usually concerned whether people saw him naked or not, but he wasn’t putting on a free show here.

As annoyed as he was, he did silently admit that he looked good in the sleek, close-fitting garments. When he opened the door, the royal relatives seemed to think so too, commenting on the fit. A couple of them even said so to him directly, making eye contact with him, which was a step up.

He slipped on black boots and was satisfied with his outfit, but they brought him another piece that he balked at. It was a red, sleeveless robe, about knee-length and covered with gold embroidery. The shoulders were flared slightly, as was the lower half, which was split into four panels decorated with sunbursts.

“Nope, I’d feel stupid,” he said, holding up his hands. He’d never worn anything that fancy in his life. It looked like something out of one of the history movies they’d shown him in purger rehab.

“I’m sorry, my lord, but it’s traditional, as well as practical. It shows that you’re high-rank enough to court the prince, without giving the audience any details,” Hakusai explained.

Grudgingly, he let them slip the surprisingly heavy robe over his shoulders. It wasn’t meant to close in the front, but a blue sash, sky in the middle shading toward royal blue at the ends, was wrapped twice around his waist and tied. His tail slipped out and around it without him even noticing.

“Red for loyalty, vows, and oaths sworn. Blue for new beginnings and clear skies,” Hakusai said, inspecting him.

“And the black underneath?” Kakkarot asked.

“Looks great with the rest of it.”

Kakkarot smiled and shook his head, wondering how much of this kind of theater was in his future. Probably more than he wanted.

Gold cuffs were placed on his bare arms, at his wrists and above his elbows, and then, to his surprise, one of the females painted something on his cheek with a few deft strokes of a brush. It startled him, but he held still, remembering the prince’s markings. When they showed him a mirror, he saw that it wasn’t quite the same. The crest of the House of Vegeta had been drawn on his face in bold black ink.

“What’s this?”

“A sign your courtship has been officially approved by the king. That’s tradition, too, but it’ll also remind anyone who looks at you that this has the backing of the state. Wearing that sign without the king’s approval means death,” Hakusai said.

Kakkarot took his measure. “How much do you know about all this?”

“As much as I need to,” the man said with a trace of a smile. He seemed content with not providing any more details.

Kakkarot was distracted by the return of the woman with the brush, who went for his eyes this time. He drew back, but then remembered the lines around Vejiita’s eyes, and allowed her. The cool, damp feeling was distinctly odd, and he blinked rapidly. She snorted and dabbed at her handiwork with a fingertip, fixing the damage he’d caused, then stood back, appraising him.

“What are those for?” he asked. He wasn’t exactly happy about displaying his ignorance, but the royals would just have to be his secret-keepers, like it or not.

“It’s the fashion,” she said with a shrug.

With his somewhat grudging permission, they tackled the hair on his head next, but handed him a smaller brush for his tail. Handling someone’s tail without permission carried all sorts of consequences, most of them violent. Brushing his tail gently until it gleamed, he considered the assault on his head and wondered why it was that no one ever trusted him to handle basic grooming. Chichi certainly hadn’t. The demon princess had often terrorized her saiyajins with a hairbrush, trying to keep them looking ‘civilized’. Goten had not at all appreciated it when Goku had taught her to fly, since it made it all that much easier for her to catch him before he could get away with messy hair. Of course, that made it easier for her to catch Goku, too.

Kakkarot smiled, not minding the feelings of fond nostalgia this time. Sometimes he missed Chichi and his sons so much that it sapped his confidence, and he tried not to dwell on it.

This time, though, it helped take his mind off of what was coming this morning.

He knew his normal appearance and his third-level form as the Legendary didn’t have much in common; even Gohan had said he barely recognized him at that level. In the years he’d spent on Vegetasei, he’d never had anyone realize who he was. He was about to undergo more scrutiny than he’d ever faced before, though, and he hoped his ‘disguise’ held up.

The alternative left him kind of nauseated.

A knock on the outside door heralded a cure for that, though, in the form of a great quantity of food being brought in. The mingled scents made it easy to push his angst aside for the moment.

At some point he’d learned the art of manners when dining, though these were saiyajin manners and Chichi would not have been impressed. At the very least, he managed to pack away a respectable amount of food while not wrecking his fancy new clothes. The royals turned out not to be much neater, which made him wonder where the first prince had acquired his more fastidious manners. He shrugged the question away. Today wasn’t the day to focus on the past.

At length the food was gone and preparations were made to leave. The royals touched up their appearances, making him realize that this was indeed a family affair, for a family that he was already part of. They were taking care of him regardless of what they thought of him, because they must know he wasn’t going anywhere. He was here for good, and he took it for a good sign that they were closing ranks around him.

He was given a final inspection, and then they were on their way, ushering him through yet another series of the secret corridors.

It occurred to him to wonder whether he’d ever be able to find his way anywhere alone here. He could just imagine someone finding his skeleton somewhere in one of these hallways, lost and starved to death. Of course, in that kind of dire situation he’d just fly up until he hit clear air, no matter how much architecture was in the way, but the image still amused him, and he followed his soon-to-be relatives into the narrow corridors with a smile on his face.

*******

It was still early in the morning, but the pub was doing good business. Being situated in the palace district, it was rarely empty and always open. Xenos weren’t allowed, and so the place catered to strictly home-grown tastes, often giving returning diplomats and colonials the most authentic taste of their homeworld they’d had in months. This morning it was mostly full of soldiers of all ranks who’d somehow missed the lockdown for their units and were staying off the streets until the city curfew ended at sunrise and they could report in. Few of them had any illusions about the reception they’d be getting when they turned up, so the drink was flowing fast. The pub’s enforcers only had to threaten to throw violent patrons out on the street, where they could play hide and seek with the city Guard, to keep order, so the crowd was relatively subdued. The pub’s employees, who were paid by shares of the daily take, were easily the most cheerful saiyajins around.

Video screens all around the pub showed a steady stream of the latest news on the crisis, and customers watched avidly, growling in outrage or making increasingly wild speculations in reaction. Every last one of them was ready to go to war over the kidnapping of their prince; the empire hadn’t suffered such an insult since the days of Furiza, when they hadn’t any choice but to swallow their pride and suck it up. The only real frustration was in the lack of a target. The palace hadn’t released any new information on the kidnapper, but the news video of the event had been broken down and examined pixel by pixel. There had been some reports coming in of people who said they might recognize him, but none of the leads had gone anywhere, which was in itself kind of suspicious. How did a saiyajin with that much power just show up out of nowhere? He’d blown the royal guards right off the viewing stand without even touching them, and that kind of power just didn’t go unnoticed. Conspiracy theories flourished.

The current favorite was that the kidnapper wasn’t saiyajin at all, but some kind of xeno in disguise. The resistance to that came from those who couldn’t believe that a xeno could manage to fool so many saiyajins. Saiyajins tended towards xenophobia at the best of times; dealing with aliens was a part of maintaining an interplanetary empire, but nobody much liked it. They were only allowed to live freely in the capital city, and otherwise they went nowhere without armed escorts. Blaming this on an outsider was inevitable.

The sudden notice of an upcoming announcement from the palace didn’t really come as a surprise, but it did get the attention of everyone in the pub. A ripple of excitement passed through the crowd as the royal insignia flashed up on the screens, interrupting the previous newscast. They watched avidly as the royal herald appeared, decked out in full ceremonial armor, and began to speak.

“By royal decree, as of the time I am speaking these words, the state of emergency is over. All personnel will report to their commands for further instructions; all previously designated reserve units will stand down. As of this moment, all obligations of blood feud are considered satisfied, and reprisals are outside of sanction and forbidden.”

A combination of elation and confusion settled over the crowd. It was over, without a fight? Bloodlust was not satisfied. On the other hand, whatever punishment they were likely to suffer for missing muster would probably be less now that the immediate crisis was over. What was going on? Voices were raised, and arguments broke out before the herald finished speaking, meaning that only parts of his speech were audible.

“...despite concerns, it has been announced…”

A delay in breaching a new keg of beer made the volume in the room spike, until it was shouted down by an even louder round of protests at the noise.

“Shut UP!!!”

“…expressed remorse for the elopement, explaining that he feared his unranked status would prevent…”

“You shut up, shit-eaters!!”

“…son of Bardock, an Elite-class soldier missing since…”

“QUIET!!” A female saiyajin jumped up on the bar and shrieked, the pitch of her voice like a spike in all their ears. The crowd hushed with a collective wince.

“Now let us take you to the homeworld, where the ritual of commencement is about to take place within palace itself. This will formally mark the beginning of the courtship cycle…”

Momentarily distracted, the crowd watched as the view changed to show the throne room of the palace. They’d seen it before; it was iconic. The floor and walls were black, as were the three broad steps of the dais. The throne was cut from a single piece of a different black stone, shot through with gold and scarlet. On the wall above the throne, the royal seal was inlaid into the wall with precious red stones from each of the worlds in the empire.

One hundred and twenty-one of the Elites, the traditional number of witnesses for official imperial decrees, filled in the rest of the room, resplendent in hastily-donned finery. None of them had had more than an hour’s warning before being called to throne room, but they’d done their best to outshine each other in the time allowed. Gold, black, and opalescent armor gleamed brightly under the lights. Elite status was earned through prowess and power levels, not through inheritance; only a very few bloodlines consistently produced Elite-class offspring in each generation, the royals among them. Having earned their rank, the Elite were jealous of their privileges and reputation. The large shoulder armor of several years ago had finally been banned because of the Elites’ inability to stand together in a crowd without bumping into each other and starting fights. They were usually entertaining to watch, but they were overshadowed this time, and the cameras quickly abandoned them.

The king had taken the throne, his long gold mantle pooling around the base of it. Below that, his son stood on the first step, waiting. All the cameras zoomed in on him. He seemed in perfectly good health and, as always, was perfectly composed, wearing the haughty, detached look he was famous for. He wore fine clothing that was much the same as he’d worn the day before, except this time the dominant color was red.   A formal blue cloak draped his shoulders. Those who were fond of such things would later comment on how perfectly dressed he was for a commencement ritual. Yesterday’s ink still decorated his bare arms, invoking extra good fortune.

The pub-goers whispered furiously, speculating.

The elders of the royal family, the king’s brothers and sisters, were arrayed before the dais, facing the Elite crowd and enforcing the distance between it and the throne. The royal line had never been seriously challenged once it had gained primacy, but the rebellions of the first century had fixed certain traditions, and this was one of them. The blood of Vegeta stood together as one.

The pub crowd quieted well before the Elites managed it, although there was a poorly disguised rumble of commentary. There was a sense of pride and relief among them, outwardly masked by disappointment over the outstanding war they weren’t going to have now. Battle was one thing, but the saiyajins had had more than a taste of total warfare over the past few years, and the prospect of another, more ferocious round was less appealing than they liked to admit.

Curiosity caught them all up, one after the other, as they waited for this Kakkarot, son of Bardock, to show his face. They couldn’t help being fascinated: a low-class purger who’d gained enormous power but not enough status to court the prince, had planned the ‘kidnapping’ to show off his worth to the world. The prince must share the same feelings, or he’d never have gone along with it. It was a great dramatic and romantic gesture, the kind saiyajins appreciated.

A rumble of drums finally announced Kakkarot’s appearance at the far end of the throne room, and everyone, whether inside the pub, inside the throne room, or watching from anywhere across the empire, fell silent. The cameras swooped in like predators.

He was an impressive figure, they would admit. Tall and handsome, he strode up the aisle slowly, but without hesitation, as if he had always belonged there. The presence of the Elites, staring at him from either side of the aisle, seemed not to intimidate him at all. It was obvious that all his attention was on Prince Vejiita.

A close-up showed the royal insignia on his cheek, and the darkness around his bright eyes. Although it was hard to tell for sure without being there to scent him or feel his aura, most found him good-looking enough to fill his role in this drama. He’d shown he was powerful enough to earn the prince’s regard; it was only right that he be handsome as well.

He passed through the cordon of the royal family unhindered, and stopped at the first step. He bowed to the prince, an open hand pressed over his heart.

Nothing happened, not for several long moments, just long enough for the cameras to pull their focus back, looking for whatever else must be happening to create this delay. Just long enough for people to begin to wonder.

The prince slowly turned to look at his suitor, and whatever communication passed between them was entirely private, hidden from the millions watching. Then he extended his hand, and Kakkarot, taking it, was drawn up on the dais with him, standing where only a handful of saiyajins had ever been privileged to stand.

The eldest of the royals, the King’s great uncle, came forward. He was white-haired and scarred, but he was still a powerful warrior, despite the loss of one eye. He carried a staff with him, but it did not bear his weight; it was the lance of the last Armori king, vicious and now destroyed enemies of the royal bloodline. He’d taken it as trophy in exchange for his eye.

It was his place to pronounce the simple vows, their place to agree, and the king’s place to witness and approve. That was all that was needed to begin the courtship, which would last three lunar cycles and presumably end with the Ritual of Binding. That was one of the milestones of a saiyajin’s life, and a great deal more important than today’s ceremony.

Today’s ceremony was intended to set the empire straight again, introduce Kakkarot and the prince’s courtship to the people, and give them a romantic façade to focus their attention on. Initially the king had planned for the event to take place in private, so that he could keep his promise that neither would have to speak, but the theatre of it all was too useful, and would accomplish too much. He’d told his son himself, and endured that storm; Kakkarot hadn’t questioned it.

Those that saw the expression on the prince’s face thought it reflected the solemn importance of the ceremony.

Kakkarot smiled through the whole thing.

“Will you, Vejiita, Fist of Vegetasei, prince, heir to the Blood of Vegeta, heir to the Throne of Kings, take the vows of Courtship, in accordance with the old tradition, with this honorable warrior, Kakkarot, Son of Bardock and a mother unknown?”

Another slow pause, perhaps for dramatic effect, and surely not from any reluctance on the prince’s part. Surely not.

“I will.”

“Will you, Kakkarot, Son of Bardock, an honorable warrior, take the vows of Courtship, in accordance with the old tradition, with Vejiita, prince of all saiyajins?”

“I will.” There wasn’t a trace of hesitation, for drama or other benefit, in Kakkarot’s response, and the pub audience laughed, charmed by his eagerness.

“Who witnesses these vows?”

“I do.” This was from the king, who stood now before the throne.

“Then it is so sworn and so witnessed on this day,” the old warrior said. “May the blood of your enemies fall like rain.”

And that was all that needed to be said. A Courtship lasted three lunar cycles, and during that time they would show each other the fidelity and devotion of a bonded pair. If, at the end of that time, they found they could not live together, they would go their separate ways. No one would fault them for it.

Vejiita and Kakkarot turned to face the crowd of Elites and the cameras, and let the public drink their fill of the sight.

In the pub, the crowd cheered, for the new Courtship, for the end of the threat of war, and for the casks of brandy the owners brought out in celebration. They would spill out into the street into awhile, drunk and looking forward to brighter days.

Vejiita didn’t look at Kakkarot during the rest of their time in the throne room, nor on the procession out. Kakkarot took his hand, though, and would not let it go, not until they had reached the great table and took their seats for the feast. The two of them barely spoke to each other, but it didn’t seem to dampen the celebration around them in the least.

Vejiita hadn’t agreed to the feast, either, but he knew the importance of maintaining appearances. When Kakkarot once again took his hand after the meal, when the room was aflame with raucous laughter and the toasts were becoming less and less coherent, he only sighed inwardly and gave it up. There was no point in fighting it now.

It would be different later on.

*******

Turles woke up and stared at the ceiling, wondering if it had always been that wavy and fluid. He wasn’t surprised by this, nor by the many complaints his body seemed to have this morning. After talking to Nappa and seeing to Radditz’s recall, he had decided to stop thinking about everything, and gotten blind drunk on tavor and whatever that green stuff was from his private stash. By the time he’d remembered the pass-code to his private storage locker, he wasn’t really up to reading labels.

Saiyajins didn’t get hangovers quite like other species did, but sometimes it took awhile for their bodies and ki to reassert their normal functions and patterns. Turles wasn’t suffering so much as he was still drunk, and there was no cure but to wait it out.

His comm unit disagreed. Loudly. And repeatedly. The shrill sound made Turles briefly want to die, but he was a highly disciplined and dedicated member of the Red Hand, and all the bullshit that entailed, so instead of destroying the damned thing, he reached over and tapped it gently. “Who are you and what the fuck do you want?” he said.

“Turn on the news,” Nappa’s voice said. His voice was only slightly less annoying than the comm signal had been.

“What?” Turles mumbled the question, but he was already fumbling around for a remote. It took him a moment to remember that he’d upgraded his electronics the last time he was planet-side, and didn’t need anything hand-held anymore.

“Video. News,” he yelled at his video screen, and was gratified when it came on immediately. It was horrifyingly loud, but he forgot all about that as he tried to process what he was seeing.

“Will you, Kakkarot, Son of Bardock, an honorable warrior, take the vows of Courtship, in accordance with the old tradition, with Vejiita, prince of all saiyajins?”

Son of Bardock?

Son of Bardock?!

The bastard himself was standing right up there, taking vows with the prince he’d kidnapped not a day ago, and he was the son of Bardock?

“What the fuck is this shit?” Turles asked. It wasn’t clear who he was asking, maybe the universe itself, but it was Nappa who answered him.

“90% chance of blood relationship,” the general said. “Isn’t that what you said?”

“94%,” Turles said absently. “Did you know this was happening?”

“Didn’t hear a word until the Elites were summoned,” Nappa said. “They had the full 121 before I could have gotten there anyway, and then this went live.”

“He’s got the royal mark and everything.   What the hell are they telling the press?”

“That it was a big romantic gesture. Low-class purger elopes with the prince to prove he’s worthy. He’s real sorry for all the trouble he caused.”

Turles snorted. “I bet. You buying it?”

“Fuck no. You saw the look on the prince’s face yesterday. That wasn’t romance, it was _rape.”

“But let me guess: now the war’s off and everybody’s all happy and shit, right?”

“More or less. And your nephew is courting the heir to the throne. How much better can your day get?”

“He’s too old to be my nephew, damnit! What the hell is going on here?”

“Your guess is as good as mine. But I’ll be damned if I’m gonna let this go much farther without finding out.”

“Damned straight,” Turles said, sitting up. His head did not appreciate that maneuver, and he grabbed hold of it, trying to stop the world from spinning.

“Get a shower and a stim shot and meet me at my office, and we’ll see what trouble we can cause, yeah?” Nappa said.

“I can be there in five,” Turles said, rather optimistically.

“Not without a shower you won’t, you smelly bastard. See you when you’re sober. Nappa out.”

“Well, fuck you too,” Turles said, but the link was already dead. Stupid skin-head always had to get the last word.

As he rummaged around for a clean uniform, he got a whiff of himself and realized that the stupid skin-head was right about the shower, too.

Why was it that all of his relatives were such bastards?

*******

In another part of the capital city, other eyes had been watching the news.

The offices of the Primarchy were located in a new building on the far side of the capital from the palace. Because the clergy received only minimal government support, the simple, but soaring building had been built almost entirely through donations from the faithful. Inside it, the clergy lived average lives, neither ascetic nor luxurious. Most were either volunteers or on a modest salary. The wealth of the clergy, such as it was, was spent mostly in supporting the numerous informal temples that had sprung up since the advent of the Legendary. The religion had only recently gained any kind of structure. The role of Primarch had only been in existence for three years.

The church and its theology revolved around making Vegetasei worthy of the Legendary’s return, but it had no formal name. The story of the Legendary was so ingrained in saiyajin culture that while his actual arrival had been a shock, it hadn’t actually been a surprise. The grass had been dry for a long time before the lightning struck, and the resulting firestorm had been so quick and easy as to be inevitable.

The Primarch saw his job as tending the flames.

Now he stood outside on the balcony outside his office, leaning on the rail and watching the city beneath him. The elaborate gold and green robes he’d worn yesterday at the Prince’s coming of age celebration belonged to the church, not to him, but he still wore the beads in his hair and a gold and green sash around his waist. It wasn’t a badge of office, but a mark of his zealotry. Primarch Renkon was a true believer.

“Is there anything you require, Primarch?” The man at his side had appeared from nowhere, apparently, which was a trick he had learned in service at the royal palace. Usually it annoyed the Primarch, which meant he’d done it to tease his superior out of the strangely quiet mood he’d been in since watching the news.

The Primarch smiled. “No, I think not, Kaisu. Today has already been full of unexpected blessings.”

“Has there been any word from the palace?”

“No, and there won’t be. The Prince is still as stubborn as ever, for now,” Renkon said with a smile.

“And this pleases you?”

“Ultimately it won’t matter. The prince is mating a saiyajin of great power named Kakkarot. It’s perfect.”

“You don’t think he’s…” Kaisu hesitated, reluctant to say it.

“The Legendary? Unlikely. Why would he not reveal himself and take his true place? And there are still many saiyajins with that name.”

“Is his appearance a sign, then?”

Renkon stood up to his full height. “How long have we struggled to gain the cooperation of the palace? And now this Kakkarot has appeared in their midst? If it’s not a sign,” he said with a smile, “it’s an opportunity, at the very least. We need to discover who this saiyajin is and what he believes.”

“If he’s marrying the prince, he’s probably not very pious,” Kaisu said with more diplomacy than he obviously felt.

Renkon laughed and laid a hand on his shoulder. “Keep your head up, my friend. The truest of believers can turn up in the least expected of places. Besides, surely he wouldn’t object to the blessings of the Legendary on his wedding day? I’ll be more than happy to do the invocation for them both.”

“Just make sure you’re wearing full armor under your robes,” Kaisu said sourly.

“Fortunately, I just bought a new set for the prince’s birthday.”

Kaisu laughed, but quickly grew sober once again. “Don’t take this lightly, sir. Vejiita believes in nothing more than his own strength. He was rumored to be the Legendary when he was born, do you remember?   I think seeing the true Legendary appear has warped his heart.”

“I haven’t gotten this old underestimating my opponents. The prince will come around, and maybe when he does, that’ll be enough to bring the Legendary back to us.”

“I hope you’re right.”

“Have a little faith,” the Primarch said, turning to go inside. “And in the meantime, let’s get to work. If this Kakkarot is the key to the prince’s heart, I want to know everything there is to know about him.”

“Yes, sir.”

~to be continued~
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Sacrifice