Dragon Ball/Z/GT Fan Fiction ❯ To Root a Saiyan ❯ Trials and Truth ( Chapter 2 )

A/N: Who says you can't do so many things at once? I read 5 books at the same time in 3rd grade, which I was able to keep the stories in all the same order, so I can write…let's see her…3, no 4…well, a bunch, since I do parodies when I'm bored. Moving on, I do not own anything, except my ideas and free will. YOU WILL NEVER TAME ME!!! MUWHAHAHAHA!!!!! *dashes off to her rock*

~Jameta

To Root a Saiyan

Chapter 2: Trials and Truth

"True love never wavers."

The flame-colored warrior moans. He cannot remember how long he has been asleep, or has been lying on his stomach. In an odd way, the position isn't so bad, even if he is only on top of material and not his enchantress's body. Rolling over onto his back, he yelps in pain and rolls back over.

"Jeice?" calls a voice nearby.

"Kerri?" he answers, "Luv, come 'ere."

"Kerrigan, you have been well taught the rules!" yells another set of vocals, "Go now, silly girl! You will be with him soon enough!"

"Yes, father…"

"Kerrigan!" cries the young man, "Come back!"

"Boy, hold your horses!" orders the same voice that told the maiden away as something blocks his light, "You're just as impatient as my daughter! Now, focus your senses and I will explain everything."

Obedient, he starts with the simplest perception: touch. His fingers grip the surface of the soft cushions beneath him, while supple feather-down, silk, and cotton blankets with velvet pillows lay under and beneath him, all warming his frozen body. The taste of burning timber filters through the air, along with dead embers of meat. A shudder runs down his spine, the air just above him icy from his still presence, and breathes deeply to get his blood moving. With the intake, he tests his smell. Aromas of mint, cinnamon, fresh water, dark earth, and swear blend amiably together around his head; the dirt and perspiration make the surroundings more masculine, relieving some unknown tension from within. Light and dark are finally defining themselves clearly to him, though color is still meshed. He yawns, propping himself on his elbows to get a better view of the world around him.

"Take your time, young Jeice," encourages the individual with him, "Don' rush yourself. You have gone through much lately."

He breathes slowly, taking in as much air as his lungs can with each inhale. The scene his eyes finally center on is vivid and astounding; rare cloth drapes most of the deep orange tent and a crackling hearth in the middle casts a strong glow on the encampment. Beside him sits a large, broad shouldered man with a brawny and handsomely tanned face, divulging his age and experience with battle scars and gray whiskers. Navy paint decorates his head and chest, while long, colorful feathers, bleached and blackened bones, and strands of beads hang from the belt that is looped through his dark leather pants. In a mission, he would be considered a ruthless barbarian, but the grin stretched between his nose and chin make him appear more of a protector than an oppressor.

"Good evenin'," the warrior greets with a Scottish accent, "How ya' feel, boy?"

"I'd feel better if my Kerri was 'ere," blurts the still-groggy Ginyu, not thinking of the consequences.

The elder roars with laughter and slaps him on the back, knocking him back into the bed.

"Come now," the man continues, "You can keep your snake in its cage till t'morrow, can't ye?"

"Why do I have to wait till then?!" he yells, "I can't wait! I'll get Kerri myself!"

With that, he attempts to rise, but falls back down, and grumbles a few choice words out of hearing volume.

"Rest now, boy," instructs the other, "Growing a tail has taken much outta' you and your strength will be greatly needed for t'morrow's rituals."

"A…a tail?! But…oh, never mind. Just who are you, anyways? And what type of rituals will I have to go through?"

"I am Raynor, Chief of the Klax Clan. M' daughter, and only child, has brought you here t' prove y'self worthy of her hand. Half of the rights are tests, and during this time, you two will be separated. In the afternoon, depending on how the tests go, you and Kerrigan will be reunited and perform the final customs together."
He pauses, chuckling to himself, then finishes:

"Then, and only then, will I approve of you sharing a bed with th' princess."

Groaning, the young man throws his face into the mattress, and sighs. All of it would be done for Kerrigan, and he would pass each trial, no exceptions. With this set in mind, he yawns again and drifts back to sleep.

"There, there, young Jeice," smiles the chief, "I am sure you will become what you wish."

With that he rises and exits, leaving the orange fighter to his dreams. Raising his sights to the stars, the leader soughs, the pending tension washing away…for now.

"No…" mutters the sleeping alien, "No, Kerri…come back to me…" His hands grip the bed, his breathing quickening from the running adrenaline.

"Wake-up!" an unfamiliar voice shouts, flipping Jeice off of his bunk.

"OWWW!" he yells, scrambling to his feet.

"Will ye hurry up?" angrily asks a young Saiyan male, "There be no time to waste!"

Grabbing him roughly by the arm, the escort drags Jeice out of the tent into the bright daylight. All men of age and size are rushing about, all carrying the same expression of joy and stress. Many camps are pitched, some in groups, others stand alone, but all in the same dusty brass color. Coming to a large domed shelter decorated with ivory paint, he is drawn forcefully inside. Others shove him into a tub of steaming red liquid.

"ARE YOU DRONGOS A FEW KANGAROOS LOSE IN THE TOP PADDOCK?!?!?!" he screams as the fluid burns his skin.

"'Drongo'?" repeats one of them.

"'Kangaroo'?" another follows.

"'Paddock'?" pipes a third.

"Never mind!" he hisses, "Just forget it! Oh, how I hate being a blow-in! Now, what is going on?"

"Cleansing, boy," answers one, "Preparin' ye for thee tests."

"And what is my first test?"

"Trudging through th' fire pit," another replies, "Now, do you want us t' wash y', or can the young suitor soap himself?"

"Well, I, uhhh…"

The men laugh humorously, give him an encouraging slap of the shoulders, and leave together while conversing in their native tongue. Bewildered, the Ginyu just sits in the hot mixture for a minute, trying to piece what had happened. Shaking his head, he climbs back out, removes his soaking black shorts and briefs (where had the rest of his attire gone? Grinning , he hopes a certain beauty removed them while he was asleep), placing them on a nearby rack, and steps back into the bath. A jade cake set beside the basin easily lathers in his hands, the suds smelling of fresh pine as he washes his body and hair, though the color reminds and generates longing of the one who had brought hi here. Oils and spices in the liquid soak into his tangerine skin and shines his lengthy white locks, which are beginning to curl, as he rinses the soap off, while delicate gold towels hung over a velvet chair wait patiently for him.

Finally, the courter rises out of the tub and thoroughly dries himself off. Wrapping a towel around his waist, he starts to search the tent for an outfit, as his other clothes are still drenched and he would think that he would wear something different for such a vital ceremony. He curses after looking everywhere and not finding a shred of clothing, but eyes an odd parchment resting on the chair. Picking it up, as it has caught his interest, he studies the paper over, eager to find something to answer at least one of his inquiries on the situation. His eyes widen as he realizes the drawing beneath the foreign text is a depiction of the first tribulation: first, a young man is shaved of all his hair, excluding his tail, then the same individual walks through a trench filled with a raging inferno, the blazing flames licking above his head, while wearing nothing but his own skin!

"Sir?" calls an aged voice from outside, surprising him.

"Come in," he responds, looking down at his feet as the elder walks in.

"Boy, what be thee matter?" question the elderly Saiyan, but then spots the vellum and grins, "Do not fret. You are strong, and the only shaving that is publicized is that of thou'st head and eyebrows. Thou will have to remove the rest."

With that, he hands Jeice a small wooden box and strides back out. Sighing, the orange warrior removes the dark maroon lid, finding a gleaming blade with amber handle. Biting his lip, he tosses the towel away and carefully removes fine ivory pubic hair. The customs of Kerrigan's people may be strange, but he will do anything to have her, even if it means humiliating himself in front of her entire tribe.

"Jeice?" the chief beckons, "Boy, are you ready?"

"Comin'," he answers, throwing the drying cloth around his hips and striding out.

"What are ye' doin'?" questions Raynor, raising an eyebrow at him, "Take that thing off."

"But-"

"No one will mind, and there's no females around to see you. Do as yer told."

Dismally, the Ginyu goes back into the tent and removes the towel, placing it on a chair, and returns to the open. Suppressed laughter of younger males drifts through the area, and his orange cheeks turn a bright shade of red. He hurriedly follows the elder through the camp, desperate to get some dignity back.

The sand beneath his feet stings his soles and scratches between his toes uncomfortably as he walks into a sweeping region apart from the rest of the settlement. Dark crimson ribbon circles around the ground, designating the land from the rest. Gently, elders push him into the center, each smiling with assurance, for all of them can feel is tension and worry. A crowd gathers on the fringes of the ring, causing his nervousness to escalate, and he shifts uneasily in place. Someone begins to speak in a tongue unfamiliar to him, so he closes his eyelids and concentrates on his goal, trying desperately to surmount his fear of failure and loosen his body.

A rough hand taps his cheek. The tangelo shades flick open, his onyx eyes starring into the deep-oak pupils of an aged warrior leaning down to look at him. He then straightens and stands nobly above the suitor, but the ravages of time have also afflicted him by revealing his weariness and stress in the many wrinkles of his face. Something about this Saiyan, though, is different from all the other he has encountered. AS the elder removes his lengthy cape and draws a long, arcked sword from a hidden sheath, it dawns on the young man: the individual's skin would be exactly like his own if it wasn't for the constant sun. All the others, excluding Kerrigan, are dark browns, varying from youth to adult, but this one is of a burnt mandarin. Smiling slightly, he remembers his heartthrob's perfect shade of light cinnamon blended beautifully with a dash of white sugar crystals.

Suddenly, the cold mineral blade presses against his shoulder. It feeling startling him, the grin quickly slips away. Slowly, the rapier ascends to his head and curtails a small portion of his hair off the side. Swallowing hard, he gnaws at his lower lip as the rest of his prided mane falls away. When nothing but short wisps remain upon his skull, the sharp edge is drug across his scalp, cleanly shaving him bald, and then ever so gently over his brows.

"Boy," whispers Klax leader in his ear as the other superior paces away, "As you are not of a Saiyan family, and you need a father of our race to complete the ritual, I, ummm, took the liberty in making an arrangement for that dilemma."

"Yeah?"

"Well, the man who just purified you had to be your legitimate sire, and, uhhh, he accepted the honor of, ummmm, in a sense, adopting you as his son…"

"Is there something wrong with that?"

"He's, well, he's the chief of my clan's great rivaling tribe. But because you are strong, look like him, and are seeking my daughter's hand, he has taken you as a child of his. If you succeed, peace will be permanently established between us."

"If? Oh great, there's a catch."

"Quiet, boy! If you fail, not only will you be disowned and be a given a fate crueler than death, but our peoples will go to war because they will wish to regain their pride after having it so humiliatingly taken away in a union ceremony by an outsider."

Jeice gulps uneasily; suddenly, so much lies upon his shoulders, not simply loosing himself in the princess's embrace. He just has to keep his mind focused on his aim, just as he had had to do when he was younger and just learning to become a warrior. Those days seem so long ago, the time of play and no cares. Yet, inside, he feels that a similar time is dawning. What is in store, he cannot tell, but there is no turning back, anyway. Moving forward is all he can do to survive whatever awaits him and his blooming essence, held back when he developed into a soldier under Freiza and King Cold's name to show but a mask of maturity. The time of coming of age is now, set before him by the people that are know his own. Raising his head high, letting the noon sun glaze over his complexion, he follows the pious procession onward out of the circle, toward the bleak desert around them that holds one's future or end and its individual mysteries.

To either awakening or eternal sleep.

A/N: I would like to take this time to state something I am very proud of: I am the author of the first non-yaio Jeice romance to FanFiction.net! And you, my readers, especially reviewers, are taking part in the revolution of more! *sighs, wiping a joyful tear away* Yeah, I know, it's so beautiful and magical, and I won't you all to know that I am planning on another, though the orange Ginyu will not be alone! ^.^ Well, back to my rock! Til the next story or chapter! Ja ne! *runs away*