Dragon Ball/Z/GT Fan Fiction ❯ A Moment Alone ❯ A Moment Alone ( One-Shot )

A Moment Alone

by GutterBall

GutterBallGT@hotmail.com

one-shot

Warnings: grief, memory of character death

Disclaimers: I own neither DBZ nor the characters therein. No profit is intended.

A MOMENT ALONE

Gohan knelt next to the lake, tears streaming down his face. He'd been so brave before everyone else, but he was still a child. He needed the release of those scalding, searing tears, the aching sobs, the occasional wail against the unfairness of it all.

*How could you? How could I? Oh, Daddy, I'm sorry!*

The fresh rush of tears joined those that hadn't dried yet, and he fell forward, sobbing on his forearms, soaking the gravelly bank he'd chosen as the best place to mourn his father, the greatest hero the universe had ever known. He felt no shame at these tears, only a remorse so great it tore a hole right through the middle of him, a void of loneliness for that special scent, that particular voice, the all-encompassing goodness and love and pride that was his father.

*Sometimes, I can almost feel his arms around me. Dad...I....*

He'd been fine. He'd borne his grief on his narrow shoulders, comforting his mother -- his pregnant mother, much to his shock and dismay -- comforting Bulma, even comforting Vegeta, to an extent, though the cold Prince refused to acknowledge either his own feelings or Gohan's fumbling attempts to get him to talk about them. He hadn't broken down once and had even returned to his studies harder than before to make up for all the time he'd spent training.

And then, he'd found it. A simple poem, used as the prime example of a villanelle in his literature studies book. A simple poem that had brought him immediately to his knees, that had sent him through his window -- though he knew his mother hated that -- and to this, his father's favorite fishing spot, to sob and wail and mourn as he hadn't allowed himself for months.

*And you, my father, there on the sad height,
Curse, bless me now with your fierce tears, I pray.
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.*

It had all just crashed down on him with those words. He...he hadn't even gotten a last hug, a last goodnight story, a last kiss on the forehead. His father had seen the moment and seized it, cheerfully sacrificing himself like he always did, trying to save the world. Trying to save his son.

"Daddy! Please come back! How could you leave me like this?"

His muffled cry echoed strangely in the little cavern made by his arms and the rock below him, but the strange intimacy of that echo calmed him a little, as if he were talking directly to his father, rather than shouting his pain to an empty, uncaring world.

"You should have stayed with me, Dad! Fought with me! I had to do it all alone, and then I had to keep on living when you stayed dead. Gods, Dad, you even smiled!"

And he had. Son Goku, protector of the weak and innocent, defender of all things good, had smiled as he said his dubious goodbyes. Worse, he'd smiled when he told them not to wish him back. He had gone gently into the night, had welcomed the dying of the light with open arms and had...had smiled.

"We...we could have brought you back, Dad," he whispered, his breath jerking in and out with his diminishing sobs. "We would have found a way. Why? Why didn't you rage? Why didn't you fight? Why did you...why did you have to stay away?"

Hunching his shoulders against the loneliness encroaching yet again, against the cold, blowing emptiness in his heart where his father's love and laughter had burned for so long, Gohan rolled to his side and curled into a little ball, wishing for those strong, well-loved arms to wrap around him, to hold him close and hold him safe, to remind him that all was right in the world.

A drop of rain splashed his cheek, but he hardly noticed the wetness as it followed the tracks of his many tears. Another, and he sighed, rolling onto his back to look up at the sky, wishing for an image of his father against that faded-denim blue, a sign that he was still up there, somewhere, looking down on his son and smiling.

*Wait...blue?*

Another drop splattered on his forehead, making him blink. Blue. There wasn't a cloud in the sky. Another drop. What the--? Another drop, this one on his nose, and he sat up, staring up at the unending, unyielding blue of the cloudless sky, a flicker of...hope? apprehension?...flaring to life in his chest.

"Dad? Daddy, is that you?"

Another drop, right between the eyes, and he realized this strange rain was warm, though it was late in the season and should be chilly, if not cold. Another pang of...something...speared his heart, and he reached up to the wetness on his forehead, tracing his finger through it and bringing it to his mouth.

Salty. Like his own tears....

"Daddy! Please, Daddy, talk to me! Come back!"

He jerked to his feet and into the air, stretching his arms up as if his father would swing him up and settle him in the crook of his elbow at any moment. He flew higher still, surrounding himself with the comforting blue of endless sky until he felt...felt....

Another stanza from that stupid, depressing poem occurred to him, though somehow, it rang in his head with his father's voice -- soft and smiling, like when he used to read a much younger Gohan bedtime stories in the dark.

*Wild men who caught and sang the sun in flight,
And learn, too late, they grieved it on its way,
Do not go gentle into that good night.*

And Gohan cried again, feeling the phantom warmth and strength of familiar, well-loved arms around him, holding him close to the echo of a thudding, comforting heartbeat, a lingering whiff of his father's sweet scent tickling his nose and filling his senses. Oh, gods, he felt it! He heard it!

Gods, he smelled him!

"Daddy, I miss you so much! I love you!"

Hugging the phantom sense of his father as tightly as he could, he fisted his fingers in a non-existent gi and sobbed, feeling tears not his own falling into his hair and trickling down his forehead. The comforting, familiar presence stroked and soothed, hugged and cried, and eventually faded away.

Gohan hung in the air, sorrow washing over him as the last of that wonderful scent blew away on the breeze, leaving him chilled and alone again. Somehow, though the ache settled immediately back into his heart, it was a little easier to bear than before.

After all, his father had wept. His father had wept for his son, had grieved.

"I love you, Daddy," he whispered, swiping at his cheeks with his sleeve. "I love you and I'll wait. I'll see you again. I know I will."

He looked up and smiled softly, feeling a little of the ache lessen. It seemed the sigh of the breeze carried another hint of his father's scent, a slightly heavier scruff through his hair, as if invisible fingers had run through his chaotic spikes, a whisper of words not spoken or truly heard.

*Love you, son....*

"I know, Daddy. I know."

END

Do not go gentle into that good night,
Old age should burn and rave at close of day;
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Though wise men at their end know dark is right,
Because their words had forked no lightning they
Do not go gentle into that good night.

Good men, the last wave by, crying how bright
Their frail deeds might have danced in a green bay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Wild men who caught and sang the sun in flight,
And learn, too late, they grieved it on its way,
Do not go gentle into that good night.

Grave men, near death, who see with blinding sight
Blind eyes could blaze like meteors and be gay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

And you, my father, there on the sad height,
Curse, bless me now with your fierce tears, I pray.
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

-- Dylan Thomas