Disclaimer: Once again, as stated many times before, DBZ is not a creation wrought from my own mind.

The Burden of Hope

CHAPTER TEN: "Tousan, Why Did You Leave Me?!" A Super Saiyajin Was Born!

Gohan cast his eyes downward for perhaps the hundredth time that hour; his mother and grandfather could not seem to stop staring at him, even during the pauses in conversation. He supposed that it was understandable---after all, he'd suddenly shown up at home after three years of being presumed dead---but that didn't mean that he had to like it. He had never been comfortable being the centre of attention.

Turning his head a bit, he saw Trunks sleeping quietly in the cushioned chair that he had stubbornly appropriated for himself, a few stray strands of lavender hair falling over his eyes; the child had long since grown bored of talk not centred upon him.

Sighing softly, Gohan looked up. "Uh… Kaasan, Ojiisan? If it's all right with you, I'd kind of like to get some sleep. It's been… well… sort of an exhausting day."

His mother smiled apologetically. "Of course you can, honey. Gomen nasai. We've just been so happy to see you that we never even thought you might be tired. You go on. You do remember the way to your room, don't you?"

"Hai, Kaasan. Thank you." Gohan nodded briefly and hopped off the couch. He was almost out of the doorway when his mother's voice stopped him.

"Gohan-chan, what do you think you're doing?" she asked sternly.

Confused, Gohan blinked. "What do you mean? You just said that I could…"

"So you're just running off without hugging your mother goodnight?" she accused, her voice obviously a little piqued.

He felt his mouth quirk. "Gomen nasai, Kaasan," he said, giving her a short, slightly clumsy hug; he was no longer used to expressing affection, and it felt strange.

"That's better. Now, off you go." As he left the living room, he thought he heard her whisper, "He's home. Thank you, Kami; my precious little baby is finally home."

Gohan's bedroom looked exactly as he remembered it. Nostalgically, he traced his fingers along the rough wooden doorframe, ran them over the smooth, cream-coloured walls. For a moment, he closed his eyes and smiled, memories of happier times seemingly drawn in through his fingertips. The window was open, allowing the cool night breeze to caress his cheek; strange how even the wind felt better now that he was home. Near the window sat his all too familiar desk, where he'd spent hours at a time studying geometry, and chemistry, and anything else that his mother ordered. It still boasted a few small stacks of textbooks and notebooks, as though it had been awaiting his inevitable return. Next to the desk was his bed, its blankets neatly draped over the mattress and its pillow generously fluffed, looking very inviting.

He let himself collapse onto the bed, revelling in its softness as his body sunk into it. He sighed contentedly; this was so much better than lying on the cold, lumpy ground that he had slept upon for the past three years and he found himself wondering how he had endured such a thing for so long. Turning onto his side, he idly lifted a notebook from his desk and opened the cover. Inside, he found the solutions to complex trigonometry problems, written in a childish scrawl; surprisingly, he still completely understood how he had arrived at them. Here and there throughout the book, he found a few poorly-drawn pictures that he had sketched when he hadn't really felt like doing his homework. Most of them were of his friends, or a beautiful place in the woods, and a few of Icarus. And on one page, there was one of his father…

Gohan slapped the book back onto his desk, tears stinging his eyes. Thinking about his father was a great mood-wrecker. For a few minutes, he'd been happy again, and now he'd gone and ruined it. The fact that all of his memories of his father were good ones did not help the matter; that only made Gohan miss him more, sent him longing for the days when they had been together. Shifting onto his other side, he willed sleep to come and thoughts of his father to leave. The first part was granted to him, but the second was not; the memories attacked him mercilessly as he drifted into slumber…

"Kaasan, are you sure you don't want me to help you?" Gohan asked, watching his mother clear the table after lunch. "It's really no trouble at all."

"I can handle it, Gohan-chan. You get back to your studies," his mother refused smoothly. "Don't you dawdle, young man; hop to it."

"Hai, Kaasan." He slid out of his chair and walked back to his room, closing the door softly behind him. For several long moments, he leaned his back against it, staring at nothing in particular.

He knew that something was wrong, but his mother wouldn't tell him what it was. Every time he had asked her about it, she had shrugged it off and told him to just mind his studies. He was well aware that she was trying to keep from hurting him, always turning back his questions, but…

But Gohan wasn't stupid; he knew exactly what was going on, and had for several days---he had just wondered if his mother would tell him. It had been nearly a week since his father had last had a meal with the family, and in fact had scarcely been out of bed in much of the same timeframe. Those would have been the first signs that something was amiss if Gohan hadn't already sensed an odd fluctuation in his father's ki; it seemed to flicker like a campfire trying to stay alight in a hurricane.

Even without any ki-sense, Gohan would have known. His bond with his father was always underestimated; it was at least as strong as the one he had with Piccolo-san, and perhaps even stronger. As such, he was always aware, on a purely instinctive level, of when something was wrong with his father. This time was no different, however much he might wish it to be. Knowledge was cruel sometimes, and he didn't want it right now. He didn't want to know that…

…that his father was dying.

A choked-off sob nearly took him to his knees, and he threw himself onto his bed, burying his face in the pillow as he wept. He tried to muffle the sounds of his crying as best he could; there was no reason to add to his mother's worries.

It's not fair. It's not fair, he thought for the two millionth time. Only nine years old, he would be losing his father for the second time---and it would be for good. No coming back, this time, not even with the Namekian Dragonballs; they couldn't reverse a natural death, and death due to illness was just about as natural as it could get. Gohan was beginning to believe that he was cursed. Was he not allowed to have a father? Had he done something so terrible in his life that he deserved this as punishment? If he had, he was sorry, sorrier than he had ever been for anything else, and would gladly pay any other price, but not… but not…

He started at a knock on his door. "Gohan-chan?" his mother called softly.

Gohan swiped his hands across his face and leapt into his desk chair, flinging open the nearest textbook; he sincerely hoped that she hadn't heard him crying. He looked over his shoulder as his mother opened the door, praying that his eyes weren't swollen and red from his tears. "Hai, Kaasan?" he asked innocently.

Thankfully, she didn't appear to notice that anything was wrong. "Honey, your grandpa and I are going to do some grocery shopping. You keep on working, and we'll be back in a couple of hours. And don't disturb your daddy, okay?"

Gohan had to swallow a sob at the mention of his father. "Don't worry, Kaasan; I'll be good," he said, somehow managing to keep the huskiness out of his voice.

His mother gave him a small smile before closing the door again. Alone once more, Gohan folded his hands on his desk and rested his head upon them. In actuality, he had "disturbed" his father on several occasions---always when his mother wasn't around, of course. Not once during his secret visits had his father been conscious, and Gohan had simply sat at the bedside, staring at him for as long as he could without crying---which was never more than a moment or two.

He waited for a few minutes, until he was sure that his mother and grandfather had left, and slipped out of his chair. Padding over to his parents' room, he opened the door a crack, peeking inside before quietly entering. Gohan didn't know why he bothered being quiet, what with his mother out of the house and his father nearly impossible to wake, but he felt strangely compelled to be silent, as one would be in a tomb. He shook his head furiously at that thought, trying to banish it from his mind; the last thing he needed to do was draw such a morbid comparison.

Gohan boosted his small body onto the bed, and scooted over to sit next to his father, eying him with concern that grew more powerful with each passing moment. At least his father seemed to be resting comfortably right now; his face, pale as it was, was completely relaxed. His chest rose and fell steadily, though at a decidedly slow rhythm. Such things made it easier to look at him, but not very much; his face blurred in Gohan's vision, and the boy realized that he was crying again. Rather than trying to fight off the feelings of fear and grief, he succumbed to them, and buried his face in his father's shoulder, just like he used to do when he had been little and some harmless thing or another had frightened him.

"G… Gohan?" He jumped at the sound of the weak, almost inaudible voice. Lifting his head a little, he found his father looking at him with hazy eyes, his perpetually gentle smile touching his lips. "Hey, why… why the… long face, kiddo?"

Gohan blinked. "… Tousan?" With a heart-wrenching sob, he threw himself onto his father's body, hugging him as tightly as he dared. "You can't leave me. You can't, Tousan," he managed huskily. "Please… don't leave me…"

"… Gohan." He ignored his father's voice. "Gohan… look at me. Look… look at me, son."

Slowly, Gohan did as he was told, and raised his head. "Tousan… please…"

"Shh," his father hushed him. "Now… listen, Gohan. Don't be… so sad… over this. You've dealt… with this kind of… thing before; you…can h… handle it. I… know you can…"

Gohan shook his head miserably; he didn't believe a word about being able to deal with this. The last time his father had died, Gohan had known that he would be back, but this time was forever. "No, Tousan, I can't. I can't do it. I…"

Feebly, his father chuckled, the same chuckle he always gave before he affectionately tousled Gohan's hair. The boy half-expected his father's hand to gently come down upon his head, but inwardly knew that no such thing could happen---his father did not have enough energy left to lift his arm. "Never… did believe in… yourself that much… did you?" His father's eyes closed almost completely, and his voice grew weaker. "I… never under… understood that. You're stronger than… than you think, Gohan. You'll be… be fine."

Terrified, Gohan watched as his father's face relaxed completely. Could he be dead, now? For a single, horrific moment, he believed this to be the case, but he mustered enough courage to press his fingers against his father's neck to feel for a pulse; the skin was unnaturally hot to the touch, but an irregular, sluggish throb existed beneath it. He was still alive---for now, anyway.

The last words he'd spoken before losing consciousness came back to Gohan. "You're stronger than you think, Gohan. You'll be fine…" His father was just trying to make him feel better---he always did that; the boy knew himself well enough not to overestimate his coping abilities.

"You're wrong, Tousan. I'm not strong enough. I'm not."

The next few days existed in Gohan's mind mainly as a blur. Consumed by sorrow over his father's quickly approaching fate, he felt as though a sledgehammer were poised above his glass-wrought heart, eagerly anticipating the delivery of that one great, shattering blow. And he knew, with dreadful certainty, that it would not be waiting much longer; his father had little time left.

While sitting at his desk---as per his mother's orders---he suddenly felt a cold emptiness in his stomach, which then spread through his veins, a replacement for blood.

No!

Gohan shot out of his chair, hurrying out of his room with speed he would have been amazed he possessed had he paid any attention to it. Stopping at the doorway to his parents' room, nearly breathless with panic, he took one look…

… and the sledgehammer struck.

His father lay in bed, stiller than the death that had claimed him. Even his hair, once always stiff and wild like all Saiyajins' hair, seemed to have gone limp and lay lifelessly across his forehead. Desperately, the part of Gohan that refused to believe that this had happened searched for his father's ki; it searched with an intensity that had never before been equalled, nor could be again, and found nothing. No fraction of his being could deny the truth.

Tousan's dead. He left me.

Gohan's vision blurred; his body shook convulsively. Grief blocked his throat, but not before a single, heartbroken whisper escaped: "… Tousan…"

He bolted. He couldn't stand to look at his father's corpse. His head light, heavy, dizzy, and throbbing all at once, he disorientedly fled the house. While his body stumbled, his mind did not; it was completely focused on two words, burning them into his soul in a malicious, heart-rending cycle.

Tousan's dead. Tousan's dead. Tousan's dead…

Gohan was vaguely aware that he knocked the front door off its hinges and noisily ran across the fallen slab of wood. A few of his friends stood outside, but he scarcely noticed them. He didn't want to notice them; seeing their reactions would only make him feel worse, if that were even possible---which he seriously doubted. What he did want was to be alone---as alone in body as he felt in spirit. Disdaining the use of his increasingly clumsy feet, he launched himself into the air in a pale blue nimbus of fire.

Flight had once exhilarated Gohan, had been a beautiful escape from any minor troubles in his life. The high-altitude winds toying with his unruly hair had once made him feel fresher, freer than he could ever be on the ground. Now, those sensations were gone. He couldn't escape the reality of his father's death. He was now drained and imprisoned by heartache, never to be released. This time, flight was merely a means to an end: to take him far from any living creature.

He flew until exhaustion claimed him, scarcely having enough energy to float to the ground instead of falling. His knees buckled and he sank onto the hard bank of a river, at the base of a roaring waterfall. The noise was nearly deafening, but it could not overwhelm the sound of his thoughts any more than the waters could wash the ugly stain of anguish from his soul.

How dare you leave me, Tousan! How could you? I told you not to leave me! Gohan balled his hands into fists, his fingernails cutting into his palms to create thin trails of blood trickling down his wrists. Tears gushed from his eyes in such volumes that the waterfall was put to shame. Throwing his head back, he wailed mournfully, his voice echoing on the rocks.

How could his father have done this to him? How could he have left? Didn't he know how this would make him feel? His father had swung the sledgehammer that shattered his heart and now wielded the pestle that was slowly grinding the fragments into an ultra-fine dust. A gaping void dominated his chest, demanding to be filled with something. To be filled with anything. It didn't matter what filled it, only that it did not remain empty.

Gohan felt it, then. Something, buried deep inside some undiscovered corner of his soul, was rushing into the empty space in an unstoppable, savage torrent. For a moment, he did not know what it could be, but then the answer came. Though the feel of it was new, it was also tinged with familiarity, something that had risen many times before, but never so intensely. Power. It was power, more than he had ever experienced in his short, yet violent life.

He wailed again, this time as much in physical pain as emotional. The power radiated outward from the place where his heart had once been, forcing its way into every nerve, every vein. It throbbed through his bones, pounded against the underside of his skin, threatening to tear him apart if he didn't surrender to it, yet not promising that it wouldn't even if he did. Every inch of his body screamed at him to give in, to stop the horrible agony before it could destroy him.

And give in Gohan did.

No longer meeting the tiniest hint of resistance, the power blasted forth from every pore. Bright flashes nearly blinded him, causing him to squeeze his eyes shut; on top of his head, he felt his hair lift and stiffen beyond what was natural. Another scream tore itself from his raw throat as his body seemed to feel like it was growing ever so slightly, adding a small amount of height and breadth to his lean frame. The ground beneath him shook violently, and a heavy blanket of water splashed over him.

Slowly, the ground settled, and the pain dissipated. Gohan cautiously lifted his lids, to find himself staring at the ground through a fiery aura that was not an icy blue, nor a warm white, but a brilliant, blazing gold. He could still see the bangs that perpetually dangled just above his vision, even though they had lifted, and found that they were no longer raven black; instead, they were sun-yellow. Gazing into the water to see his reflection, the boy discovered that his eyes were no longer onyx, but aquamarine.

Gohan trembled with disbelief. This could not have happened to him; he was only a child… What right did he have to such power? How did he even get it? It felt wrong to have this power; it was something that rightfully belonged to his father and, more lately, Vegeta. But not to him. Not to Gohan.

How on Earth had he just become a Super Saiyajin?

Astonishment, however, quickly gave way to harsh, bitter anger. Forget how he got the power and whether or not he had a right to it---what good did it do him? No matter how great it was, it couldn't have saved his father from whatever ailment had killed him; it was only effective against opponents that attacked from the outside rather than the inside, and there were none of those, now. That made the power one thing: worthless.

Another though struck him abruptly, and Gohan's rage dissolved into sorrow. His father would have been so proud of him---becoming a Super Saiyajin at the age of nine. His father hadn't lived to see it, though; it was because of that fact that Gohan had transformed at all. If he could, he would trade the power in less than an instant just to have him back; all the ki in the universe would never be a substitute for his father.

"Tousan." The word escaped his lips in the form of a choking sob, and Gohan bowed his head, shoulders shaking. "Why… why did you have to leave me?"

His new power throbbed painfully in his temples, bringing on dizziness, and wave after rippling wave of nausea. His vision hazed; the world around him began to spin. No longer able to sit upright, he collapsed onto his side. The golden aura faded just before he was enveloped by darkness.

Gohan blinked awake, confused for a moment about where he was. He had expected to be lying on the ground near a waterfall; instead, he found himself not only indoors, but in his own bed. Reason quickly reasserted itself, though, and he sat up, shaking his head to clear it. His Super Saiyajin powers were years old, not brand-new. And he was thirteen, not nine.

Wearily, he sighed, and wiped his hands across his face. He hadn't thought about that day in a long time; being home again had clearly triggered it. For obvious reasons, he preferred not to be reminded of the day that his father died. That had been the day that everything had started going wrong; only more sorrow, pain, and hardship had followed. Even after all this time, it still hurt him to think about it.

But maybe it shouldn't, Gohan thought. He may not have being thinking about it every moment, but he had carried it with him all the way, never trying to lighten the load. He should have recovered from the grief in perhaps a year's time---enough so that he could return his life some semblance of normality, anyway---but the deaths of his friends at the hands of the androids had ruined that. All those murders did was pile a greater burden upon his soul, one that he'd never thought would lift. Perhaps he just hadn't wanted it to lift; Gohan had always had a need to feel responsible for things---especially terrible things. After all, his friends' deaths were his fault. Weren't they? For the first time, he was beginning to doubt it.

Not thinking, Gohan climbed out of bed and moved to stand in front of his open window. It was still night, probably a few hours yet until dawn. The breeze was pleasantly cool on his face, and ruffled his hair almost affectionately. Taking a deep breath, he quietly crawled out of the window---no need to risk waking his mother---and jogged toward a predetermined point.

There was something that he needed to do.