Dragon Ball/Z/GT Fan Fiction ❯ Sojourn ❯ Sorrow ( Chapter 2 )

Insert standard disclaimer here. I don't own Dragonball Z or any of the characters.

Sojourn, ch 2

Sorrow
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Vaulting into the air, my blood quickening and burning with the violent undercurrents of raw, unadulterated power, I felt myself being consumed alive by the white-hot fire of righteous fury, its bright tongues of flame rolling along the length of my outstretched limbs and crackling ominously in my hair. Every ounce of my being hungered for their slow, painful, delightfully messy deaths. Yet suddenly, the faint, insistent tingling sensation that had been persistently dancing around the edges of my awareness hit me with full force, flinging me back toward the ground. With a total lack of grace, I fell out of the air, landing awkwardly, as I recognized the barely discernable ki signature tickling my senses.

He was alive!

I scrambled madly toward him on hands and knees, fingernails clawing runnels through the soggy earth in my haste to reach him. Fumbling at his neck with trembling fingers, I burst into tears when the faint but steady pulse of his lifeblood thrummed against them. But I wept only for a second; crying was an indulgence for which I could spare no time. Gathering his poor, broken form up in my arms, I flew toward home with all of the speed that I could muster, cutting through the wind and driving rain faster than my thoughts could race, desperate to stay ahead of the one I most wished to avoid: What would I do, if he died?

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Descending from the sky, hair aflame and eyes burning iridescent aqua in an ethereally pale and expressionless face, she looked for all the world like the Angel of Death bearing a departed soul to the afterworld. Except that, as she drew closer, the tracks of anguished tears were clearly visible on each alabaster cheek, and her slim shoulders shook faintly with repressed sobs.

Cradled like a child in her arms, she held the limp, unmoving form of my son, and the breath stilled in my chest. No, not this...not my Gohan...he's all that I have left. Goku, he's all that I have left of you--

Bulma's steadying arms wrapped around me as if she feared I would faint, but I felt nothing, nothing at all, only a slight jolt of resentment at the relief she stoically tried to keep from her face, from seeing that her child was alive, and safe...

She had called me, a bit frantic, early that morning, saying that Gohan and Bra had had an argument and not returned last night, and asked if I had seen either of them. I had not, and worried myself, went over to wait with her. We both knew what could very well have detained them. As much as I wished that he would stop fighting them, there was too much of his father in him. He would never give up; he was so brave. Oh, Gohan.

Finally touching down, she took a few stumbling steps toward us. The incandescent aura around her made it difficult to look at her directly, from so close a distance. It disappeared in a flash as she powered down, and her knees almost buckled at the loss of strength, though her grip on my son never faltered. Drawing herself up, she brushed past us into the house. "Mom, hurry! I need you! He's alive, but barely!"

Alive! Oh please, please let him be all right...

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The three of us, and the lone doctor willing to trek out alone at such an unsafe hour, worked well into the night on him, suturing and wrapping and setting bone. As the only other living demi-Saiyajin, we needed my daughter's blood to save him, and she gave willingly, more than was probably safe, but he had lost such a great amount that we had to risk it. Unfortunately, the prognosis was still very bleak.

Eventually, exhausted, the doctor left, and we all collapsed in the infirmary, Chichi sitting in numb silence next to the still, white figure on the bed, while my daughter cried out her heartbroken sorrow into my arms until sleep finally claimed her. We had done all that we possibly could. Whether or not it would be enough, only time would tell. He had numerous fractures, some compound, and not a little internal bleeding. Thankfully, all of the major arteries were intact, and his Saiyajin healing abilities gave him a fighting chance; a human would have died almost instantly from such wounds.

I was most worried about possible brain damage. He had not regained consciousness the entire time, and there were multiple serious-looking contusions on his skull. At the very least he had a major concussion. At worst...he could be a vegetable. A mere human surely would have been. I said nothing of this to his mother or my daughter, however...I couldn't bear to take away their hope.

So, we waited. Chichi and Bra took turns staying with him, one or the other constantly there at his side. Bra's raw, anguished loss tore at me, and I wept for her, to have found such a love and lost it so quickly. At least I had had a few months, and a child to comfort me...

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That first night, my mother held me like a child, after her insistence that I let her look me over as well drove me into a storm of uncontrollable weeping. I was shamefully unhurt, not even a scratch on my person, since I lay ignorantly sleeping while they brutally pummeled the life out of my beloved. Deep within, I was furious with him, raging at him in my head for that unfair sucker-punch, and his misguided sense of honor that wanted to keep me from danger, even if it meant his own demise. If he hadn't been so stubborn, he might be here now, sitting with me, instead of lying balanced on a razor's edge between life and death. His love for me almost killed him. Mercifully, sheer fatigue eventually forced me under the thought-smothering grey blanket of forgetful slumber, and for a very short time I knew no more.

I woke in my own bed, in that cold deep bleakness when dawn is yet hours away, guilt and pain wracking my entire being, preventing any possible chance of going back to sleep. I crept silently out to the infirmary, seeking comfort in the mere sight of him. I desperately had to see him, to hear his heartbeat and know that he was still alive. As long as he still drew breath, there was hope.

Peeking in the door, I saw Chichi collapsed in exhaustion on the couch, tangled dark hair spilling over the edge and fluttering occasionally with the stray breeze creeping in through the partially open window. Her heartbroken worry was evident even in her sleep, as a tear crept out from under the inky lashes and slowly dropped, sinking into the pillow beneath her head. There were lines in her face that I'd never noticed before, making her look suddenly much older. She shivered a little, and I silently crossed the room and closed the window, taking a blanket from the closet and covering her slight form. Gohan's mom had always been a little overbearing and opinionated, but also generous, sweet and open. I was always welcome at her home, and every time I came she would force nine kinds of dessert down my throat, since she loved to bake them, and Gohan and his grandfather didn't much care for sweets. I, on the other hand, could have eaten my body weight in sugar.

She would have been glad, I think, to know that we were in love. Perhaps she already knew. I turned back toward him, drinking in the sight of his unusually pallid form swathed in bandages and hooked up to a wall full of machines. One to monitor his heart, another to dispense medication, a third to read brain activity. Mom never said a word about it, but we both knew that his head injuries had been serious.

I had to touch him, to feel his pulse beating reassuringly, his chest rising and falling as he breathed. Slowly, as gently as I possibly could, I levitated myself up onto the bed next to him, lowering myself by millimeters onto the blanket with a degree of control I had not known I possessed. Fortunately, it was a large bed, and I could lie next to him without actually coming in contact with his bruised and tortured body. With two fingers, I felt the pulse at his neck, and the unbearable tension I'd been holding leaked out of me as the skin beat against my fingers, proving that he was yet still alive. My hearing narrowed to just the slow sound of his breathing, shallow but even.

I began to fall asleep, crying silently, as near to him as I could possibly get without touching and causing him pain. My control faltered, in spite of my determination, and a low, anguished sob escaped from my aching throat, followed by another. And then, wondrously, he opened his eyes, and said, vaguely, "Don't cry, Bra...", touching my cheek with his good hand, before closing them again. Later, I would wonder if I'd been dreaming. Because he never did so again, instead slipping deep into the murky, limitless depths of a coma, where I could not reach him, for all my trying.

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His body healed, the angry red marks fading away and leaving pale, raised scars in their place. But there was no sign of his mind. We moved his limbs and turned him, rubbing lotion into his skin, to keep his muscles supple and to prevent pressure sores. Bra became a shell of herself, walking around in a daze, gaze unfocused, forgetting to eat. The only time she seemed alive was when she trained, which she did night and day, with a vengeance. She tortured herself daily, determined, I assume, to extract her revenge on those responsible for her pain. All of her waking hours were spent either training or sitting with her beloved, talking to him for hours on end, trying to keep the desperate pining strain out of her voice.

Chichi was no better. She had to be cajoled into eating, and refused to leave Gohan, sleeping on the couch in his room. Her weight dropped dangerously, and I began to worry about her. I asked her father to come and stay at Capsule Corp, since he was the only one who could convince her to eat or rest.

I had my own outlet for my anger and grief; I threw every ounce of my being into developing the machine, determined to finish it ahead of schedule. It was the only way that I could make a difference. Maybe, just maybe, we could prevent all of this from ever happening. Perhaps only in an alternate time, but that was better than nothing. I could sleep at night, knowing that somewhere there was a Goku that survived, and a Yamucha, and a Krillin...and a Vegeta...

And perhaps we could find Gero's lab, and gain some knowledge that might lead to the androids' undoing. This was my hope, my lifeline, my purpose for living, for continuing on. I toiled endlessly for hours on end in the lab, determined to make a difference, at any cost. And finally, nearly three years later, I succeeded. The machine was complete.

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One more time. I'd promised her that I'd go, and I would, but I had to try, one last time. The thought of leaving her here alone, when they still rampaged unchecked throughout what was left of civilization, tore at my insides until the whole of me felt raw and bleeding. I had to go, there was no other choice, but at the very least I would try to ensure her safety in my absence. All of their safety, for Gohan was as defenseless as a babe-in-arms at present. If they managed to breach the outer walls of Capsule Corp. and enter the stronghold, it was all over. No more Mom. No more Chichi. No more Gohan.

My breath was the only sound that reached my ears, running though the empty streets in the sepulcherous chill only found during the dead of night at midwinter. Eerily peaceful, the powder-blanketed landscape could have, in a moment of carelessness, been mistaken for a quiet, cozy night best met with a down comforter and another log thrown on a dimly glowing hearth-fire. But any glance longer than a moment would expose the lie; The pale dusting of white than ran calf-deep in the deeper drifts had not the clean, sparkling coolness of snow. It was ash. Fine as silt but faintly sticky, it clung to my boots and coated my lungs when the wind blew the bitter stuff into my face. Wrapping a length of cloth around my nose and mouth after the coughing fit subsided, I ran on, trying to ignore the gruesome landmarks occasionally unearthed by the bitingly frigid, careless wind and etched into sharp detail by the bright, unyielding light of the white winter moon. But the unmistakable afterimage of one skeletal hand burnt itself indelibly into my memory; it still clung, even now, to another, slightly smaller one. A pair of lovers, who had died holding on to each other, refusing to be parted, even in death. My breath caught in a jagged half-sob, and I turned back, walking the few paces that spanned the distance between them and I. There were no flowers to lay; nothing new grew here. Instead, I took the scarf I wore from around my neck, and carefully tied it around the interlocked bones, taking great pains not to actually touch them. I wanted no stray wind to separate these two, who had died to be together. It seemed strangely fitting, triggering a memory of something I had read once, of a culture where a couple wishing to marry had a rope knotted around their intertwined hands, as a symbol of their union.

My mother's plan might have been for the best. She entertained the thought that some clue might be found in the past, that could lead to the androids' defeat. But sometimes I thought that perhaps our world was simply doomed, and our duty lay in merely ensuring that the same thing would not happen again, in another time. Even should we all perish, I would readily give my life if it meant that somewhere Gohan lived, and thrived. Each day here was a small eternity of waiting, for the smallest flicker of eyelashes, or twitch of hand, that would signal his rise into consciousness. And yet the time had flown by; I could hardly believe almost three years had passed while he lay senseless. I was eighteen.

The light dusting of ash sparkling faintly under the moonlit canopy of night made the abandoned industrial lot look bizarrely like a winter playground: a snowball-fight haven for children born in another generation, when it was commonplace to spend afternoons outside without fear of attack. I only knew about such frivolous childhood games from Gohan, who was old enough to remember them.

Tonight, I played a much more dangerous game, and the prey I stalked would retaliate with things far more lethal than a stockpile of half-frozen snowballs potentially filled with rocks.

My target drew closer as I silently closed the distance between us. He had blazed a swath of destruction through the lot at least twenty yards across, and the swirling ash still obscured my vision. Inexplicably, he was alone, and my heart sang with fierce joy. Alone, I could take him!

His arrogance precluded any thought of pursuit...he never bothered to look around him, to watch his back. Perhaps he thought that nothing on this planet could possibly harm him, but I was about to prove him wrong.

He wasn't as careless as I thought.

I suddenly found myself mere inches away from the coolly gorgeous face that had haunted my nightmares intermittently for the past three years, and knew then that he merely toyed with me. But I had changed, in those three years, and I realized that the intensity of the ice-pale gaze no longer had the power to strike chill, gut-wrenching fear into my bones. And, most fortuitously, the other one was nowhere to be found. The stakes were even.

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The girl had improved remarkably. What she lacked in power, she made up for in speed. She dodged the majority of my attacks at first, but her feints were too predictable, and soon she was staggering, fighting to stay balanced each time she regained her footing. Already she began to tire, and I lost what little interest I'd had in the fight. The other one had been irritating, but at least he'd been a little more fun, and for a minute I regretted having killed him.

Suddenly, a violent back-kick caught me in the gut, propelling me backwards into a cement column, and I saw that it had all been an act. I laughed out loud, and took to the air.

"Now, that's more like it."

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He smiled like a cat, slowly stretching his mouth into an evil, knowing grin of anticipation. He charged me, and I shifted to the side at the last millisecond and gifted him with an elbow to the back of his head, bringing my knee up to his jaw shortly thereafter. He recovered preternaturally quickly, twisting as if his bones were liquid, slamming a boot into my face and breaking my hold. We circled each other in the air momentarily, gathering our energy for the next round. Dark, sanguine blood dripped slowly from the sculpted, patrician mouth, lips still smiling faintly.

It both pleased and disconcerted me, to see that he bled. I'd never thought of them as actually being part human. It wasn't some kind of mechanical, man-made fluid, either; we were close enough for me to detect the scent of real, living blood. Not an android, then. A cyborg.

He wiped his mouth and frowned at the crimson smear it left on his white, perfect hand. It occurred to me suddenly that he was not pleased to see it, and not in the least because it meant he had let me get in a decent hit. He didn't like to see his own blood. Why?

A reminder.

Gero couldn't have made these monsters out of nothing, if they were truly cyborgs...and androids didn't bleed. He would have had to have human hosts, a core system to build his design upon. Was it possible then, that he'd taken his subjects unwillingly, changing them against their will into something all but human? They would have been 'programmed', as well...but did some deeply buried part of him still remember?

Shock and grudging, horribly misplaced and involuntary pity froze me immobile, just for an instant, but it was more than long enough for him to send me spiraling down into an ash drift. Curling myself tightly into a ball, I managed to reduce the amount of damage I took from the shredded metal and other debris buried at the bottom. Pride pulling me to my feet, I stared up at him and abruptly wanted very much to eradicate the mocking smile once again beaming down at me from his face.

He spoke before I could. "Where's your lover, girl?"

My aura flared involuntarily as Gohan's broken form flashed before my eyes, and I heard myself growl, low in my throat. Inflamed, I spat back, "Where's yours?"

His eyebrows drew down slightly. "She is not my lover; she's my sister. And her constant bitching was grating on my nerves."

I laughed mirthlessly. "What could she possibly have to complain about, when the entire planet trembles at your fingertips? Did she break a nail?"

"My thoughts exactly. We have everything." The smug arrogance in his tone made me want to rip out his vocal cords and garrote him with them.

Instead I found myself replying, and wondering why the hell we were having this reasonably calm discourse instead of continuing to beat the crap out of each other. "Although, someday, you will destroy everything on this planet. Then what? You're still human enough that you can't survive the cold and oxygenless void of space. Then you'll really be bored."

He looked at me blankly, and I realized that the thought had never occurred to him, that one day they would run out of things to blast into oblivion. "You will be stuck here, on barren, empty rock. A great ball of nothingness. Will you build things to fill it again? I think not; It takes much more to create than destroy, and you will have completely lost that part of yourselves by then -- who are you? Who were you? Do you even know?"

The rest of my heated tirade was lost as his closed fist contacted my mouth. "Shut up!"

"You bleed," I said. "You're still mortal, barely...though you wish it were otherwise." His expression boiled with sudden rage, and I launched myself toward him. "You can still die!"

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Her words stirred up lost images I'd wanted never to see again. Impressions and feelings of loss and an unbearable, engulfing, sorrowful rage. A nameless woman's featureless face and soft arms, a scrap of music, a child's drawing.

Damn it! What was she doing to me?! Those things belonged to someone else, a man long dead. Not me.

Furiously, as we battled, I sought to regain the cold void of total detachment, a task usually made easier by remembering that I was more metal than man. No longer was I subject to their weaknesses, their puny morals and pointless emotions. I was freed from that prison of flesh that held all of them captive, slaves to their own mortality.

But this time, I could not banish the unwelcome sense of feeling, could not attain the calm emptiness of a perfectly controlled mind. Tides of raw emotion crashed over me, and worse than the pain itself was my complete inability to pinpoint the source. I was drowning in a viscous sea of thick, black fog, with tendrils of something far too tangible to be mist, piercing their way into my flesh, clouding my vision and pouring down my throat as I opened my mouth to scream. What was it? Why did it torment me? Go away!

I shook my head to clear it, and the blackness receeded enough that I could see again, though it did not disappear completely, dancing around the edge of my vision, taunting me. My opponent stared back at me, golden hair glowing like a small sun in the darkness, eyes glinting coldly. Bitch! This is your doing! With a gutteral scream of rage I dove for her throat.

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He seemed beyond words, so angry that his movements became jerky and uncontrolled, as his fury took him completely over. Never before had I seen him display anything other than mild irritation, amusement, or boredom. Now, consumed by a berserker's rage, his fists shook faintly with repressed anger and a slight flush actually appeared on his normally pale face. It seemed that the human part of him preempted control of his brain when strong emotion manifested itself, as it did now. His reflexes no longer supernaturally quick to react, I began to gain the advantage, though his brute strength and endurance did not flag. I was winning.

For what seemed like hours, we battered each other, though he seemed to accrue most of the damage. I began to tire slightly, but knew in a moment of uncanny insight that his storm of fury was wearing him down, and elation brought renewed strength to my limbs. With a final spinning kick, I sent him to the ground and met him there, flickering down in an instant, reappearing a breath away from him, pinning him to the ground, two fingers jabbing into the soft flesh under his jaw, hard enough to feel his pulse beat beneath them, my ki hissing and sparking around my fingertips as I prepared to unleash the blast that would take his head off. Sitting on his chest, I stared down at him and smiled a triumphant farewell--

and stopped. His face was again utterly expressionless, but deep within the endless pools of blue I caught a spark of...resignation. Acceptance. And suddenly the living warmth of his skin and the beating heart beneath me undermined my resolve. But it had to be done. Perhaps he had not chosen this path, but it was the only way to stop the killing. Unbidden, words sprang to my lips. "I'm sorry--"

But before I could release the dormant power, a bright, blazing heat flayed the first layers of skin from my back and sent me tumbling. The world spun crazily as I twisted through the air, away from the blurred figure of the deceptively slight female that had come out of nowhere. I could not even draw breath before another blast struck, but I threw a ball of power in retaliation at her feet, sending a shower of shattered razor-edged rock swirling around her. She laughed, and instantly was upon me, slamming me into the ground painfully. Blow after blow rained down upon me, until I could no longer ward them off. My last vestige of strength fled, leaving me utterly bereft and unable to move. I was finished. I could only stare at the blonde newcomer and hate her silently, as I watched her mock him, waiting for one of them to strike the final blow.

His systems repaired themselves quickly. Already he looked as though he'd taken only minimal abuse. He strode over and lifted me up by the hair, the sharp pain and what remained of my girlish vanity forcing me to use the last scrap of my energy, levitating enough to prevent him from pulling it all out at the roots. If I were going to die, and of that I had no doubt, at least I wouldn't die bald.

Completely drained of power, I closed my eyes resolutely and willed an apology to my mother, to Gohan. I wondered if my father would be waiting for me...what I would say if he were...

"Why, girl?" The crystalline-clear voice pierced through my pain-clouded brain and jolted my eyes open with its unfamiliar note of...what? Wonder? He was once again coolly distant, utterly tranquil and detached. Only the faint line running between his eyebrows and the corners of the too-perfect mouth twisting down, ever so slightly, conveyed any expression.

"Why do you keep fighting us, when you know you cannot win? He was the stronger, and we killed him." But his narrowed eyes asked, Why did you hesitate?

The ice-bitch looked up from studying her flawlessly manicured nails. "Juunanagou, let's go...kill her already." Then, looking back down, she frowned, and I imagined that I must have chipped the immaculate polish. The thought pleased me immensely.

I didn't mention that he was still alive. Better for him that they think he's already dead. Chikyuu's last hope now was that he somehow recover, once I was gone. "I fight because I must. There is no one else, and some things are worth any price."

For long moments he continued to stare at me, holding me aloft. At last he realized that no further answer was forthcoming, and gave an elegant half-shrug. "No matter." His other hand encircled my neck, and began to heat the air around it, until my skin blistered and blackened, and the acrid scent of my own burning flesh choked me. The last thing I heard, before the world disappeared in a blinding flash that faded into a bloody haze of pain was, "It will be interesting to see if she survives this..."

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I did.

My mother must have braved the ruined streets alone to find me, and even knowing that I would have died otherwise, I still managed to muster up furious anger at her for risking herself so blatantly. Unrepentant, she refused to hear any of it, saying that her life was worth nothing at the cost of mine, and that she would do it again, a hundred times. Completely lacking any fighting skills or physical strength, my mother was the bravest person I had ever met.

In time, I recovered fully, and the final preparations were made for my journey. I spent that last night in his arms, and no one objected. It was unbearably ironic, that were he hale and conscious, the very idea of us innocently sharing a bed would have raised indignant squawks of offended propriety from both of our mothers. Instead, both said their good-nights and retired, my mother kissing me on the forehead, and Chichi touching Gohan's face lightly as she left. I would have given anything for him to be awake, even if I wasn't allowed to hold his hand until I was thirty. I wasn't even sure that he was here anymore; it felt as though I sat next to an empty shell.

But he was still warm, and the faint taste of his unique ki signature hung in the air around me, reminding me that part of him, at least, still lay next to me. I lay back, stretching out alongside of him, and tried not to think about the morning that loomed before me. I trusted my mother; she was an amazing scientist and a genius; but this was a feat not attempted before, and there was no guarantee that it would work, that I wouldn't blow up, or get lost, or somehow miscalculate the energy needed to return. I was terrified that I would never see any of them again. That they would be left alone to face the end.

Eventually his burning warmth penetrated my fear-chilled limbs and I stopped trembling, simply lying there and being content to just...be. There was no tomorrow or yesterday; for the moment I could pretend that I simply lay in bed with my sleeping...boyfriend? Lover? Soulmate? Teacher? What was I supposed to call him? I had no doubt that we would have married someday...but we had never even 'dated'. There was no label for my relationship with him. He was just Gohan. My Gohan. The resolute steadiness of his strong heartbeat eventually lulled me into slumber.

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The cloying scent of hair dye hung heavily in my nostrils as I awoke, and I wrinkled my nose. Not unpleasant, but not good, either. It had refused to go away, even after shampooing. My mother insisted that I not reveal who I was, since it might prevent my birth from ever occurring. But I was nearly a dead ringer for her younger self, she said, not totally identical, but similar enough that there would be no mistaking whose daughter I was. Add to that the fact that I might need to show my Saiyajin fighting abilities...and it was going to cause problems, either way. Chichi had snickered rudely and said that her younger self was more likely to accuse Goku and Bulma of having an affair, than to think Bulma and Vegeta might ever hook up. Then she and my mom laughed uproariously over the image of the diminutive dark-haired woman pounding Goku into the ground for an affair he hadn't had yet.

Padding sleepily over to the bathroom, I gazed at the mirror and even I didn't really recognize myself. Under a shock of red hair, my face peered back out at me with eyes turned bright peridot green by the painless ocular injection my mother had given me the night before. Contacts were too easy to lose in a fight, and I hated having something in my eyes anyway. The artificial pigment would last for 30 days or so. My mother walked in while I was still trying to come to terms with the hair, though. That was permanent, and I'd have to grow it out.

"I look like a clown."

She laughed, and ruffled the already sleep-tussled hair. "No, sweetie, it's a very nice color on you. Fiery. It suits your temper." She studied me carefully, until I squirmed uncomfortably under the intensity of her gaze. Then she sighed and smoothed down my hair, trying in vain to tame it. "You still look too much like me, but it will have to do." Leveling a serious gaze at me, she said, "You're only supposed to meet up with Goku, anyway. Contact with the others should be avoided if at all possible."

I didn't answer. She was right and I knew it...but the desire to meet my father was so overwhelming that I didn't trust myself to speak.

Then she turned away, and in a low, careful tone, said "If you do see him...don't expect too much." The undercurrent of pain in the husky timbre of her voice forestalled any questions I might have asked, to clarify that cryptic remark.

After a hasty shower and a breakfast I couldn't even taste, I kissed Gohan one last time on the forehead and hugged both of our mothers good-bye. Climbing into the machine, I spotted one last touch my mother had added after I'd gone to bed last night, a name she'd christened it with as I slept. It echoed through my mind endlessly as I blasted into the boundless blue of a sky that had no end, weighing me down with the full import of all that I carried upon my shoulders--

'Hope'.

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End Chapter 2

Sorry that this took so long. There is so much more to be written for this story, stay tuned...email me if you'd like to be notified when updates are posted:

Sango.