I did not ask for my title; it was simply mine from the moment I was born. Saiyajin no Ouji. It is synonymous with my very name, and is grafted into every molecule of my being. It was mine from the beginning, and will be mine unto the end. This is merely a cold, hard fact. And one that I now cling to with all the tattered remains of my strong, inflexible will.

For it is all I have left.

The irony does not escape me, for it is this same cold, hard fact that has inexorably led me down this dark, inevitable path. A hundred-thousand possibilities, yet all of them would have eventually come to this same, inalterable conclusion. That has been made finally, painfully, clear to me now.

I fought so hard…

All in vain. Everything I tried. Everything I did. Everything I am. Kuso…

Far off in the hazy distance, a small, strangled moan breaks free of my bloodied lips, through my tightly-clenched teeth, and I mentally curse my lapse of control, my unpardonable exhibition of weakness. The pain has grown far beyond anything I have ever known, beyond what I had even believed possible. Jolts of indescribable agony tear through my broken body with every blow of the twisted sadist's fist, the unrelenting fire searing unbearably through my battered flesh and into my fractured bones. But there is no excuse available to the Prince of all Saiyans. And it is in this terrible, harrowing moment, that I finally lose my grip on the cold, hard reality that has sustained me all these long, onerous years.

What would my life be like, had I not been born prince? Had I been free to become something else… without the pressures of royalty and responsibility… or of attaining all that had been promised me by my blood? What if I had been born an insignificant boy on an insignificant planet, with all the latitude and freedom just to live… just to be? Like… like them… like him.

Him…

My eyes close in shame over the stinging heat of liquid anguish, yet my errant arms tighten further around his small, armored waist, my quaking fingers digging weakly, desperately, into his back. I now cling to him, to this young boy's bright, warm surrealism, tighter than I ever have to anything else before… and for the life of me I don't know why.

And, regrettably, there is little life left to examine it.

There is only pain and despair, and the deep, prolonged destruction of everything I hold dear. Madness looms within the dark and twisted corridors of my mind, temporarily held at bay only by the brilliant white light of a child's warmth and purity. The small, yet powerful arms encircling my neck, cradling me so very snugly to his breast, are both a blazing anchor for my cold, dwindling soul and a potent shield that shelters me from the anguish and blistering reality of my impending doom. Yet I find that all I can think of amid the scourge and torture that ceaselessly beleaguer me, is why?

Why?

Why this boy? Why anyone at all, for that matter? I have never needed anyone before. Yet, now, as I slide helplessly, hopelessly, toward the edge of death, I need him. Why? The question pierces my soul as I sift doggedly through the haze of pounding torment for answers. It is not the first time I have asked myself this about him. I did so earlier, after saving the boy's life… again. Why? What is it about him? Is it that I see myself in him? Or is it those differences that I endlessly fail to comprehend, yet still find so strangely intriguing?

No title. No expectation. And power… power surpassing my own at the equivalent age. The boy is so different… and yet in some ways the same. The power, alone, is an exacting responsibility. If that was spurious, the brat would have never come to this Kami-forsaken planet.

Is this why I trust him, this peculiar half-Saiyan child, as I have no other in my life? Why I am so drawn to him? Is it his strength? I know it isn't his power, though I can't help being impressed at the enormity of it. Yet the strength of his will, of his heart, impresses me far more. The boy fought just as hard, with equal courage and determination, as myself. He was beaten down, again and again, yet returned to the fight each time with renewed effort and resolution. I am not sure the precise moment, but sometime during the battle I ceased to regard him as my inferior. Perhaps it is simply the pack instinct inherent in all Saiyajin, although that has never had any real effect on me before. I would suspect some other deep-seated racial influence, but he is a mere child. No… more than a mere child.

My experience with children is undeniably lacking; in fact, I have only my own preternatural childhood to compare him to. Again, the numerous differences in the boy strike me as my arms tug him closer, realization dawning that it is those very differences that I find so singularly magnetizing. His outlook on life, his warm, lustrous spirit… he is just a child, but he has something… a certain wisdom that I lack.

I realize it was that difference, that warmth, that I had sought, that had made me reach out through the relentless, merciless pain of Frieza's onslaught, to latch on to his radiant spirit like a drowning man and cling tightly, ignominiously, with all my remaining strength. His surprise at my anomalous action had nearly rivaled my own, yet his shining soul had grabbed hold of mine without question, the pain and darkness fading slightly under the protection of his strong, benevolent will.

Hold on, Vegeta-san, he had said wordlessly, his thoughts a gentle wind chime amongst the roaring anguish engulfing me. My father will be here soon.

At that, the last vestiges of my decimated pride had reared up, my mind howling savagely in maddened rage and frenetic despair.

Stupid boy!! Can't you see that I am already dead?!!

To that, there was no forthcoming reply, and I have not heard from him since. Yet his mind hugs me closer, blessedly tighter, than ever before, lending me strength, giving calm, soothing comfort in the face of the agony, malicious and mordacious, now thundering through my being. And I…

I cling to him because he is letting me, because his spirit is holding me, because without him I will feel the abysmal depths of my eternal solitude. Without him I will have to face the dark, desolate void that dwells unexplored in the core of my corrupt soul. His brightness casts away the menacing shadows. His warm, unselfish sweetness thaws the chill of bleak despair.

The pain has become more than I can bear, and I squeeze the boy tighter as it rips agonizingly through me, again and again. He clasps me to him just as tightly, and I know it is his presence, alone, that is helping me endure this excruciating ordeal. The agony shakes and jerks me within its sharp, barbarous jaws, and my fingers claw at the boy's back in wild desperation. The air rushes from my lungs as I feel my splintered ribs push slowly inward, as if my chest is being crushed in an extremely powerful vice. Oh, Kami… please let this be the end…

Abruptly, the pressure comes to a halt. My shattered, aching body shudders uncontrollably as I wait for the seemingly-incessant pummeling to resume. Thankfully, it does not. Releasing a soft, tremulous sigh of relief, I sag against him, my tenacious hold finally slacking, and I simply lie there, gasping and wheezing pitifully within his luminous embrace. A moment later I feel the gentle breeze of his intellect glissade over me once again.

Vegeta-san, my father is finally here. Everything's going to be all right now.

How soft his thoughts are brushing against my own when tinged with foolish denial.

Hn… maybe for you, boy… maybe for you…

Breathing hoarsely, raggedly, I steel my soul against the deep, inescapable cold, and then let go.