FicWad

A/N: Be aware that in places where actual German is used, I used the proper spelling.

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 does not feel so bad, even if he is only on top of material and not his enchantress's body. Turning onto his back, he yelps in pain and rolls back over.

"Shhh..." coos a smooth, warm voice. A delicate hand strokes his cheek softly, comforting him.

"Kerri...?" he mutters in a groggy fashion.

"Kerrigan!" yells another set of vocal, the rustle of a drawn cloth proceding. "Verläßt du hier, du dummes Mädchen! Du weißt besser!"

"Ja, Vati..."

A previously unnoticed weight disappears from beside him; a few minutes later, the movement of hide slips through the atmosphere again.

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

"Hold yer horses, boy!" orders the same voice that told the maiden off as something blocks Jeice's light. "Yue're jus' as impatient as my daughter! Now, focus yer senses und I vill explain everything."

Obedient, he starts with the simplest perception: touch. His fingers grip the surface of supple feather-down blankets with velvet pillows lay beneath him, while a silk lies draped over 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 sweat blend amiably together around his head; the dirt and perspiration make the surroundings more masculine, relieving some unknown tension from within. Light and dark finally begin to define 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 yer time, young Jeice," encourages the individual with him, "Don' rush yerself. Yue hav' 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 upon is vivid and astounding: fine cloth adorns most of the deep orange tent and a crackling hearth in the middle casts a strong glow on the encampment. Beside him standts a large, broad shouldered man with a brawny and handsomely tanned face, battle scars and gray whiskers divulging his age and experience. 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 thick, German-like accent, "How ya' feelin', 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. "Yue can keep yer pants on till den, can't yue?"

"Why do I have to wait till then!" he shouts. "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 elder as he rests a hand on his back. "Growin' a tail has taken much outta' yue und yer strength vill be greatly needed for t'morrow's rituals."

"A...a tail!" the Ginyu's mouth drops agape.

"Ja, a tail," answers the other. "My daughter thought it vould ve visest dis vay. Deh tribe ist already uneasy wit yue being an outsider."

"But... how?" he questions, still wide-eyed with confusion.

The old brave shrugs his shoulders. "Something about deh hormones females carry. Yue'd have to ask a shaman about it."

"Oh... Wait..." Jeice cocks an eyebrow up to the man. "Who are you, anyways?"

"I am Raynor, Chief of deh Klax Clan," replies the aged male with pride. "My daughter, und only child, has brought yue here to prove yerself vorthy of her hand."

"Speaking of that, you mentioned somethin' about rituals...?"

"Half of deh rights are tests, und during dis time, yue two vill be separated. Depending on how yue finished deh tests, yue und Kerrigan vill be reunited und perform the final customs together."
He pauses, chuckling to himself, and finishes:

"Den, und only den, vill I approve of yue sharing a bett wit deh 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.

"Ein was für interessanter Junge, dieses Jeice," smiles the chief to himself. " Ich kann sehen, warum meine Tochter ihn mag."

With that he turns and exits, leaving the orange fighter to his dreams. Raising his sights to the stars, the leader sighs, 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 rushing adrenaline of a bad dream.

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

"OWWW!" he yells, landing face first on the dirt floor.

"Steht auf! Steht auf! Steht auf!" commands another voice, pulling him up by his forearms and forcing him to his feet as he coughs up a mouthful of dust. He lifts his eyes to see a band of Saiyan males within the tent, a stream of hot light streaking in.

"Come on, come on!" urges the owner of the first vocals. "Yue must fastly move!"

Grabbing him roughly by the arms, the escorts drag 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 standing alone, but all in the same dusty brass color. Coming to a large domed shelter decorated with ivory paint, he is drawn forcefully inside. Still 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. Each wears an expression twisted in confusion.

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

"Cleansing," answers one. "It ist... How say yue it? Preparations for deh tests."

"An' my first test is...?"

"Die Feuergrube," he replies non-chanlantly, then smiles. " Yue call it a fire pit. Now, want us to vash you, or can deh Auslander do it himself?"

"Well, I, uhhh..."

The men laugh humorously, slapping of the shoulders with a mixture of encouragement and chaff, 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 suitor 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!

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

"Uhh... Come in?" he responds, looking down at his feet as the elder walks in. The elderly Saiyan resembles a hunched ancient oak, with knarled hands grasping a worn cane as he slowly hobbles in.

"Was ist los?" he questions, but then spots the vellum and grins a toothy smile. "Oh-ho-ho, Fret not. Du bist strong, und deh only shaving das ist shown ist," a wise palm rests on his head momentarily, followed by an old index brushing his against his brows, "dein head und eye-brauen. Du vill remove deh rest."

With that, he places a small wooden box in the young male's grasp and shuffles 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 from outside. "Are yue ready, boy?"

"Comin'," he answers, throwing a drying cloth around his hips and rushes out.

"Vhat are you doin'?" questions Raynor, raising an eyebrow at him. "Take dat thing off."

"But-!"

"It ist tradition. No one vill mind, und der are no females around to see you. Do as yue're 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, while little faces peek around corners, 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. Scattered pine trees drift toward the horizon of the desert prairie. 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 the tongue still so 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 dark chocolate eyes starring into the deep-mahogany pupils of an aged warrior leaning down to look at him. He then straightens and stands nobly above the suitor; but, like Raynor, 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 tribesman removes his lengthy cape and draws a long, arced 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 arc 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 removes his brows.

"Boy," whispers Klax leader in his ear as the other paces away. "As yue are not of a Saiyan family, und yue need a fahter of our race to complete the ritual, I, ummm, took deh liberty in making an arrangement for dat dilemma."

"Yeah?"

"Well, deh man who just purified yue had to be yuer legitimate sire, und, uhhh, he accepted the honor of, ummmm, in a sense, adopting yue as his son..."

"You're beating around the bush- what's up?"

"He ist, vell, he ist deh chief of my clan's greatest rivaling tribe. But because yue are strong, look like him, und are seeking my daughter's hand, he has taken yue as a child of his. If yue succeed, peace vill be permanently established between us."

"'If'? Oh great, that's comforting."

"Quiet, boy! If yue fail, not only vill yue be disowned und be a given a fate crueler dan death, but our peoples vill go to var because dey vill vish to regain der pride after having it so humiliatingly taken away in a union ceremony by an aus-sider."

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, he reminds himself, just as he had had to do when he was younger and learning to become a warrior. Those days seem so long ago, the time of play and little cares. Yet, inside, he feels that a similar time is dawning. What lies ahead, he cannot tell, but there is no turning back. 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 now 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 landscape around them that holds one's future or end and its individual mysteries.

To either awakening or eternal sleep.


A/N: "Fahter" is spelled intentionally wrong to parallel the German pronunciation of the word, "Vater". This goes for other, more noticeable incidents.