Chapter Text
Dende yawned, blinking hard at the parchment in front of him. The wind—gentler today than most—tugged at the flax drapes.
The Lookout had no electricity. Even the centermost rooms were illuminated by strategically placed windows and reflective tiling. This high up in the atmosphere, the sun was undiluted and inescapable. The sanctum in the very base of the Lookout was the only place it did not touch, and Dende avoided venturing down there if he could.
The library was his favorite place in the temple—which Dende supposed was a good thing, considering the amount of time he spent here. An arcade of windows on the south wall kept it bright and open enough that he often forgot he was indoors. It was peaceful.
And then, in an instant—it wasn't.
It registered only passively at first; a ripple of unease and disbelief from Piccolo, Dende’s mentor and the third resident of the Lookout.
Then the tension ramped, spiking into something else entirely. Dende only had a moment to process the snap in Piccolo's ki before the entire Lookout rocked from the shockwave.
Dende yelped as his staff along with half the scrolls on the shelves clattered to the floor. Every drape and plant in the windows snapped out opposite of Piccolo's room as if by a strong wind. Then as quickly as it came, it passed, and the curtains drifted lazily back to their former position.
When he was certain they were not about to be knocked out of orbit, Dende gathered his staff from the tile and turned to Mr. Popo.
"Should… we check on that?"
The djinn didn’t even glance up from the box planter he was tending to.
"No."
"No?" Dende echoed. "The whole Lookout just shook. It almost felt like something—something startled him. And he’s been in his room more than usual lately, too… What if something's wrong?"
Popo wasn't fazed.
"He is alright."
Dende bit the inside of his cheek. Sometimes he wished his omnipotence spanned the Lookout itself, and not just the planet beneath it.
If Dende was the guardian of the earth, then he supposed Popo was the guardian of the Lookout. The djinn was as ancient and mystic as the structure itself, but if he possessed some similar omniscience over it, he never let on.
Dende stood, rolling the scroll in his palms.
"I think I'm going to check on him," he said, taking up his staff.
"Young Kami."
He halted midstep. Popo never spoke harshly, but he only referred to Dende by his title when he was serious—and ‘young’ Kami was even worse.
"Sir?"
"Let it alone. He will come to us."
"… Yes sir."
As if nothing happened, his friend magicked away his pruning shears and began returning the scattered documents to their places. In turn, Dende stiffly sat down again and resumed his studies—or at least, he tried to.
What aren't you telling me? the young Guardian wondered, staring at the faded text without reading. He drummed a restless claw on the desktop.
What do you know that I don't?
Something echoed down the corridor, and Dende's ears pricked. He may not have omniscience here, but the curved tile halls of the Lookout funneled sound like a giant conch shell.
Dende quickly identified the disturbance as footsteps—and erratic ones at that. He expected to hear Piccolo leave his room next, but no doors opened. The steps just went on and on, punctuated by the barely-perceptible scuff of a heel turning.
Dende leaned back, straining to hear more with a pensive curiosity. Piccolo wasn't someone who usually paced. Why was he doing so now?
As if he'd overheard Dende's thoughts, the footsteps suddenly halted. Then came the familiar scuffing of Piccolo dropping into a lotus position—only for him to stand and resume pacing moments later.
Strange. Maybe it had something to do with Gohan. The mental link between Piccolo and his old student was nigh-unbreakable, no matter the distance. If something was happening to the man…
Dende disregarded the thought. No; Piccolo would be long gone by now if that were the case. But still, it was a possibility... The nervous energy pouring through the airwaves right now was enough to make Dende's palms itch.
"Eavesdropping does not become you."
He jolted, staff clattering to the floor again. All that listening, and he hadn't noticed Popo sneaking up on him.
"I–I'm sorry!" Dende sputtered, "but I just can't help worrying—Piccolo never acts like this. Surely you can see?"
The djinn's face was open as a brick wall, and twice as silent.
Dende sighed. Getting Popo to say anything he did not share outright was next to impossible. He thought he might have learned that after a decade of living here.
"You are patient, Dende," his friend chided, "and the only times when you are not is when you're concerned for your friends. At times, it is an admirable trait." He picked up the staff from the floor, pushing it into Dende's hands with just enough force to be notable. "But this is not something to concern yourself with—not yet. He is not ready."
Dende considered his words for a moment, sinking in his seat. He hadn't even realized how far he'd craned out of it to eavesdrop.
"And you're sure it's nothing dangerous?"
"I am the keeper of this sanctuary. I would act accordingly."
Dende winced. Popo had a way of making completely toneless statements sound chiding.
"Alright…"
"Just give him time."
Sighing, Dende nodded.
I guess I can do that...
The young Guardian laid the staff across his lap and leaned over the yellowed parchment, actually trying to focus this time. He listened to the wind in the palms outside rather than the clocklike pacing down the hall, and soon found himself wrapped up again in the life of a previous Kami. Some of Dende's predecessors were better storytellers than others, and this one's account of an ancient war was engrossing.
I wonder what I’ll write someday…
Dende didn't think too much about it. He wasn't expected to be fully versed in the Earth's history for several decades—let alone documenting his own piece of it. He just hoped he still remembered the details by the time he was old enough to pen them.
The Guardian was so absorbed in his work that he forgot all about Piccolo. Until a familiar voice suddenly broke through the border of his mind.
Dende.
He jolted in his seat with a gasp. The sky outside the arched windows was flame-orange, and Popo was no longer in the library. Dende hadn't even noticed the hours pass.
Ye–Yes? Is everything alright?
Nothing came through the airwaves for a moment. Then;
I'm not sure. Just get in here.
A tiny knit of tension loosened in Dende's chest. Piccolo's gruffness was still intact, at least. Filing the scroll as quickly as possible, he grabbed his staff and hurried out of the library.
Down the hall, Dende eyed the door to Piccolo's room warily. Nothing about it looked any different from the outside, at least.
The door blew open before Dende even lifted a hand to knock, revealing Piccolo in the middle of the room, arms crossed. He didn’t seem rattled—though his training gear was nowhere to be seen.
Glancing around, Dende saw nothing else immediately amiss, but then, there was also not much to look at. Piccolo brought his principles of scarcity with him when he moved to the Lookout. Other than a dusty mat and table, there was nothing to suggest anyone even lived here (if you ignored the framed photo on the windowsill, half-hidden behind the drapes).
Dende nearly quailed at the stormy look on Piccolo's face, but he resisted. He was not a child anymore.
"What is it?" he asked, not unsteadily.
Despite the hours he’d apparently spent holed up in this room, Piccolo didn’t answer immediately. Instead, he glared a hole in the ceiling, opening and closing his mouth before eventually pinching his brow.
"I need you to be as concise with me as possible," he grumbled, strangely hoarse. "That means no tangents—no questions, and no… flailing."
Dende blinked.
"I… Okay?"
What on earth..?
"Hrm."
Eyeing him like a hawk, Piccolo slowly stepped aside. Behind him was his cloak, lying in a heap on the floor.
"Alright. I need you to tell me two things exactly," Piccolo said, pointing at the pile. "One; how could… this… happen—and two, what am I supposed to do about it?"
Dende blinked at the heap of fabric, confused. He was about to ask what on earth Piccolo was talking about when he realized: the cloak wasn't thrown in a heap, it was folded around something. Something large and round and—
Oh.
"Oh!"
Piccolo winced.
"Piccolo, you—! How?! When?"
Dende flapped his hands, practically bouncing up and down with none of the decorum befitting his station. The excitement radiating from him must have been nuclear judging by how Piccolo's eye was twitching, but Dende didn't care. He was grinning so hard it hurt.
"Is this what caused that energy surge earlier? The egg? I've never seen an egg before; I was the youngest in our village! Well—actually Cargo was the youngest, but—yipe!"
Dende ducked just in time for a pencil-thin beam to whiz over his head and singe the wall behind him (He winced. Popo would not be pleased).
"Did you honestly hear nothing I said?!" Piccolo roared. "Because you just did exactly what I ordered you not to do!"
Dende shrank back, chin sinking into his collar. Just like that, he felt like a child again.
"F–Forgive me," he mumbled, overcompensating and unable to tear his eyes away from the egg. "I will—try to keep my commentary to a minimum."
"See to it!"
They steeped in uncomfortable silence while Dende scrambled to gather his thoughts. Piccolo was even more on-edge. He might have stopped pacing, but his eye was only twitching faster.
"Ah, so…" Dende began. "You clearly did not plan for this."
Piccolo’s voice was like a millstone dragging across cement.
"No," he growled though clenched teeth. "So I ask you again: how."
Dende swallowed. "Ah… Well, the only thing I can think of is…" He looked at the floor, rubbing the back of his neck. Kais—how was he supposed to explain this? "S-So, birds lay eggs, correct?"
Piccolo blinked like he was counting to ten, and Dende swore he could hear his jaw grinding. He evidently wasn’t going to dignify that with a response.
"Well, birds…" he continued, "If a bird lives in a harmful environment—a stressful one—they don’t produce any—ah—well, barren eggs, at least. But–but if they’re content—"
"Content?" Piccolo barked. "I assure you, I am the furthest thing from content at the moment!"
Dende raised his hands, taking a step backwards.
"That's not—"
Piccolo cut him off with an incensed growl, stepping dangerously forward.
"Okay, okay! Forget the analogy!" Dende squawked. "It's a bad analogy! The truth is, I–I don't know. Honest. It just happens sometimes! Rarely, but it does. I wish I remembered more, I’m sorry. You know how young I was when I came here…"
Piccolo groaned, dragging his hands down his face, and suddenly he was back to pacing. Dende watched him cross from wall to wall with a deepening frown; seeing his mentor so nervous was even more bizarre than listening to it.
"I'm… confused. You’re acting like this is the end of the world," Dende said. "Actually—no. You tend to take apocalyptic news better than this…"
"Get to the point," Piccolo growled through his palms.
"That is the point. Why are you not happy? This is a great thing! On Namek, it was seen as a mirac—"
"We are not on Namek!" Piccolo snapped, snatching his hands away so fast that he nicked his own face. "We are on Earth. Need I remind you of my origins? Of what the last Namekian here to do this—" he jabbed a talon at the egg, "brought upon the world? How many people he killed? His spawn killed?"
Dende looked at the floor, feeling much younger than he was.
"I… I have not forgotten," he mumbled. There were more than a few tomes in the library detailing the atrocities of Piccolo Daimao. "But I know this is different! He was a creature consumed by hatred and a lust for chaos; I hesitate to even call him a true Namek. He—"
Dende froze, averting his eyes again. This... was uncharted territory. Something not spoken of at the best of times on Namek. He had no idea how to speak of it right now—and to a fusion, no less.
"He was," the Guardian murmured, "he was a…"
He trailed off, falling silent when the words in his throat grew too big to come unstuck. The near-empty room suddenly felt claustrophobic.
"A what," Piccolo growled.
Dende sighed.
This man is not evil. He is not vengeful. He is my teacher and my friend. He may be frightened, but I have no reason to be.
Taking a deep breath, the young Guardian straightened to his full height and met Piccolo's eyes.
"There were stories, from home. You may recall them, and you may not—but I'll tell you as best I can. I was never even supposed to hear them. But I was a child, and I couldn't help but eavesdrop sometimes."
Piccolo's eyes narrowed, and he cocked his head to the side in a manner so reminiscent of Nail that it took Dende aback.
"They—" he began, voice cracking. "They called it fission…" the word felt sour on his tongue. "It's when a fused being… When part of a fused being drives another out. Or—" Dende swallowed, "or when an un-fused one... drives out part of themself."
Not even a breath of wind broke the silence, and Dende's eyes had long since sank back to their favored spot on the tile. He couldn't speak above a whisper.
"There were… There was this incident while I was just a hatchling—one of our farmers was killed by a monster. It took warriors from two other villages to take it down. I don't remember much, but I remember they kept calling it that name—fission. ‘M–Mearcstapa.’" Dende stammered as if saying something profane. In a way, it was.
Mearcstapa was perhaps the closest thing to the word 'demon' that existed in their language. Devil, monster, reaper—it encompassed all of the above.
"I—Cargo and I figured out years later that the 'monster' was really the... The excised half of a fused pair." His voice was barely audible now. "The nature of fusion is the creation of one mind, but when a single psyche—a single soul is forcibly ripped in two, there are…" he shuddered, "dire consequences. It's like ripping paper. There's always going to be a smaller piece..."
Dende straightened with a deep breath and laid a hand on his chest. He pressed his palm into the symbol embroidered there; the mantle he'd taken up, and imagined it bolstering him.
"I have never swayed from this: I love and respect my predecessor in all his forms. I would not be alive—let alone Guardian of this planet—if not for him. If not for you."
The only discomfort Piccolo showed was a subtle cringe and a glance at the far wall.
"I do not fault Kami for what he did," Dende continued, very quietly. "He had no way of knowing what would happen when he forced the corruption out of his soul. But the being that such separation created…"
Dende shook his head, swallowing hard.
"A fission is a creature so unstable and fragmented that it has no choice but to consume everything—by any means necessary, with no heed to anything else. That is the root of Piccolo Daimao's mania. That is why the only offspring he could bear were demons. He was a monster. A tragic monster who never should have existed."
Dende exhaled for several moments, winded as if he'd been flying for a long time. In the wake of Frieza's long and terrifying invasion, the memory of the rampaging fissile had almost been buried. It seemed strangely negligible in comparison to the years that followed—a child’s nightmare, and nothing more.
"So what," Piccolo muttered darkly. "Does that make me? Why are you telling me all of this?"
Dende met his eyes.
"It makes you whole," he implored. "You are not a clone—or a demon. I tell you these things to make you understand that you did the impossible. In all my time on Namek, I never heard any mention of mearcstapa re-fusing with their counterpart—let alone maintaining such self-control for years beforehand. By definition, you are not mearcstapa. You are whole, and any child of yours will be as well."
However miniscule the progress, this seemed to lower Piccolo’s hackles slightly.
"You’re sure of this?" he asked.
Dende touched his chest again.
"I swear it."
"… Hm."
Piccolo was clearly still agitated. Dende chewed his lip, trying to think of anything that would make the situation less bleak for his mentor.
"How is this different?"
Piccolo glowered at him. "What?"
Dende swallowed. Oh, he had to be careful with this…
"You’ve had a hand in many childrens’ lives over the years—including mine. So I ask you: how is this especially different compared to them?"
Piccolo’s recoil was subtle, but Dende could tell the question flummoxed him.
"What do y—how could it be more different? There’s always—I’ve never been—!" Piccolo broke off with a snarl, seething at his own struggle until it all rushed out in a fearsome bellow:
"They’ve never been mine!"
Dende flinched.
Hurt; sharp and quick as a sewing needle, slipped past all reason and pricked his heart.
Desperately, Dende tried to claw it back—to close his mind off before it could escape. But judging by his mentor’s echoing flinch, he wasn’t fast enough. Piccolo looked, truly looked at him for the first time since he walked through the door.
"Dende. I didn’t mean—"
"I know." Dende sighed, shaking the sting from his mind. "You didn't—you didn't mean it like that. I know."
Walls down, Dende telegraphed his forgiveness in a peaceable gesture of honesty. Of course, it was nothing Piccolo didn’t already know. The topic had been a subject of several exchanges throughout the years.
For a moment, neither said anything. Then, guttering, muted remorse streamed from Piccolo like a weak radio connection. Dende couldn’t help but smile shakily. Piccolo struggled with channeling emotions more than most—opting instead to telegraph his thoughts in full, rigid sentences—but for a chosen few, he tried. It was a rare and deeply warming gesture.
Dende had given up trying to see him as anything but family long ago.
"Thank you," he murmured, swallowing thickly.
Piccolo nodded, finally cutting his eyes away. His shared feelings dissipated like smoke; the moment was over.
"For what it's worth, I am sorry," Dende continued. "I may not understand, but I—I hate to see you this upset..."
Piccolo shrugged with a heavy sigh.
"It doesn’t matter," he grumbled, slumping to the floor with none of his usual purpose. He stared balefully at the egg, arms crossed. "There’s nothing I can do about it now."
Dende shifted uncomfortably, running his thumb back and forth over a burl like a nervous metronome. Something occurred to him, but he brushed it aside immediately.
No. He couldn't say that. Hastily, he changed the subject to get his mind off of it.
"R–Respect my asking…"
"I will not."
Dende sighed. Honestly... How could Piccolo seem almost easy to talk to one moment, and impossible the next?
"Alright. Well, I can’t think of a less blunt way to ask this, but… Piccolo, how did you not know?"
At this, his predecessor hunched forward with an annoyed huff.
"Pan had some kind of illness a few weeks back. Stib… strip."
"Strep?"
"Yes." Piccolo's voice lowered the way it always did when he was embarrassed. "I thought I caught it somehow."
Dende couldn’t keep the corner of his mouth from twitching up at that.
"Ah… That’s why you’ve been staying in your room more often."
Piccolo nodded morosely, and any mirth of Dende's deflated as well. He had never seen his mentor so thoroughly upset; not even when death struck. It was a strange, sobering sight. He hated it.
As one might to a wounded animal, Dende sidled up to his mentor and knelt beside him, laying his staff between them. Piccolo didn’t even look at him. For a time, both of them stared at the new addition in silent regard, until eventually Dende’s curiosity ran over.
The younger inched forward, glancing at Piccolo for permission—which the warrior granted with a dour shrug.
Namekians had a much lower body temperature than most Earth mammals, so the warmth radiating from the shell was a surprise. It was also smaller than Dende thought it would be: roughly the size of a cantaloupe and half as heavy. Careful not to lose his grip, he pulled the egg into his lap, enthralled. This was new for him, too.
At his touch, something suddenly pulsed at the edge of Dende's mind, and a thrill raced through him when he realized what it was. This early, ki signature and consciousness were virtually one and the same. Yet there it was; faint and shifting like smoke, but alive.
"I—I can sense him," Dende gasped, whipping around. "Piccolo, it's—I can sense his energy!"
Piccolo’s surly expression didn’t falter, but it also didn’t dampen Dende’s excitement. He wasn't sure anything could, at that moment. He turned his attention to the egg again, leaning closer to see if he could get a better read.
The humming presence was only slightly more focused despite the point-blank contact with his antennae, but Dende honed in on the tiny fluctuations with rapturous intensity, squeezing his eyes shut. His heart felt like a live hummingbird in his chest.
He had to. He couldn't resist.
Subtly raising a mental barrier between himself and Piccolo, Dende reached out for the little soul in their native tongue.
Hello, brother.
The pulses that followed weren’t overtly responsive, but Dende liked to think the budding life in his hands heard him anyway. How could Piccolo be so upset about this?
He turned, gingerly offering the egg to his mentor.
"Here." Dende said, hush with awe. "Just hold it for a second. It’s… pretty amazing."
Piccolo didn't try to temper his reaction, grimacing as if he were being given a live coal.
"No."
Dende frowned, suddenly defensive of the flickering warmth in his hands.
"Why are you being so guarded about this?"
"Why are you so obsessed with matters that don't concern you?"
For one brief moment, Dende had to actively force himself not to bare his fangs.
"Don't avoid the question! Tell me why you're acting so... so disgusted by this. Right now!"
Piccolo looked genuinely abased at that, but it didn't last.
"I don't have to tell you anything." All the fight in his words was gone—replaced by melancholia. "It's my business, and mine alone."
But you're not alone! Dende wanted to shriek.
Why, why did Piccolo hang onto such baffling delusions of individualism? It was anathema to everything the young guardian knew, and he could not understand it. He'd given up trying long ago.
What Dende could understand, however, was the stress and misery sloughing off his elder like ice from a branch. The light itself seemed to reflect Piccolo's mood; growing drearier by the minute as the sun sank towards the horizon.
It occurred to Dende that he wasn't sure how to keep an egg alive on a planet without endless sunlight—though it seemed to be faring well enough at the moment.
The thought of Namek brought to mind the very thing he'd been avoiding. It was becoming impossible to shove aside.
Wrapping the egg in its makeshift nest, Dende sighed and knitted his fingers together in his lap.
Say it.
He bit his lip just short of breaking the skin. The sting was only distracting for a moment.
If you don't say something now, it'll haunt you forever.
Dende took a deep breath and closed his eyes.
Moori, forgive me...
"You said... there's nothing you can do," he murmured. The words dragged from his lungs like a plough through gravel. "But that might not be the case."
For the first time in this exchange, Piccolo perked up. Dende didn't have to open his eyes to see it.
"What do you mean?"
He struggled not to wilt at the hopeful note in his mentor's voice.
"It's… taboo if you're not a Clan patriarch," Dende said. "But technically, there is a custom of surrendering eggs to other villages..."
The words tasted like ash in his mouth. It was a gratuitous summation of the practice. Only the grand Elder typically did so—and only after villages had been established. Dende himself had been one of the surrendered; along with the egg containing his twin, Cargo.
(Of course, it had been pure mishap that he ended up hatching on the way there—imprinting not on Moori, as intended, but the one transporting him. The same Namek sitting across from him now.)
"Wait," said Piccolo, "You're saying someone on New Namek would—"
"I'm saying there's a possibility," Dende interjected curtly. "There's no precedent for it. But..."
Piccolo raised a brow at his change in tone, but didn't ask, glancing at the egg. He looked as though he were sizing up an opponent, curdling Dende's mood further.
There was no word for 'orphan' in Namekian. Community and family were synonyms—without any qualms of 'us' or 'them.' Every child was yours. To reject one was to disown of your entire Clan.
It was unheard of. Sacrilegious.
It didn't help that Dende was intimately familiar with being parsecs on parsecs away from your kin. He didn't regret coming to Earth, but homesickness was a small, chronic ache that he'd given up trying to expel. He couldn't help projecting on the little one—who wouldn't even have a choice on the matter as Dende had.
And that wasn't all.
He opened his eyes, and as he met the quizzical gaze of his caretaker; brother; parent—his frustration ebbed. All that remained was sorrow.
"Piccolo," he said quietly. "I won't pretend to understand, but please," Dende's voice dropped to a whisper, "Please think about what you're doing. Goku is off-world for at least a few more weeks anyway—you won't be able to do anything until then."
"Wait. So you offer me an out, and then you lecture me about it." Annoyance dripped from Piccolo's words. "Explain that to me."
"I told you only because I care about you. I hate seeing you this disturbed, and I would rather see the hatchling surrendered than live an unwanted life."
"Don't put words in my mouth. You act like I've already committed to this." A silent warning edged Piccolo's voice.
"Piccolo. I know you," Dende sighed, rubbing his temples. "And even if you haven't, the idea—the very possibility vexes me. I've never met another Namek who wouldn't be elated at the idea of having a family."
"I have a family," Piccolo said icily.
Dende's jaw dropped.
"I have a family—and it's because I'm not their only family that they aren't worse off. I wouldn't subject anyone to that. Never again."
Never again...
Dende opened and closed his mouth like a fish, dumbstruck.
"I don't understand," he murmured. "I just don't understand…"
"Yeah, well—you wouldn't be the first!" Piccolo snapped back, equal parts bitterness and remorse. "I don't need blood to know what's mine, and if you're even implying—"
"No, never!" Dende crowed. Desperately, he all-but shoved his thoughts at Piccolo, who fell silent. Knowing Dende wasn't questioning his kinship with the Sons seemed to calm his fury, if only for a moment.
Dende hung his head, fists trembling at his sides. He couldn't ignore the elephant in the room anymore.
"You're still not seeing everything. You think I'm only saying these things for your hatchling's sake."
Piccolo flinched at the words.
"Don't act like you haven't noticed!" Dende continued, basically pleading at this point. His eyes burned. "Gohan and I are the same age—we've always been—but which of us is grown?"
It was true—he knew it was true. By all accounts, Dende was still a teenager.
Piccolo went very still. Judging by the literal and mental silence in the room, Dende knew his words were finally sinking in.
"I know you have a family—"
"Dende."
"And I know you love them! But that's why I—"
"Dende!" Piccolo stood, fists clenched. His ki soared, but Dende didn't care.
"They're going to grow up, Piccolo! They don't stop!"
Silence slammed down on them, sharp and heavy as an axe. A shudder ran up Dende's spine. He opened his eyes, unaware he'd even shut them.
When he saw the look on Piccolo's face, he went cold.
"Oh…" Dende gasped. It was all he could possibly think of saying.
His hand hovered in front of his face, but it was too late. Nothing could claw back his words, and no amount of telepathy could soothe them.
"Get out," Piccolo whispered. He never whispered.
Dende jumped to his feet, shaking.
"Piccolo," he breathed, reaching desperately for nothing in particular. "I didn't—I never–!"
"Get out..."
"I just don't want you to be al–ghk!"
Dende's diaphragm compacted as an unseen force seized him like a doll. The splintered roar that followed would haunt him for weeks to come.
"I said get OUT!"
Everything went blank, and suddenly Dende was lying against the far wall of the corridor. Piccolo's door slammed shut, and the Lookout quaked on its axis for the second time that day.
Then, quiet.
Dende didn't have a chance to process anything before bright, cutting pain knocked the breath from his lungs. He grunted, clutching his chest in panic.
How hard had Piccolo thrown him?
Then the pain shifted, and Dende sucked in a sharp gasp. It wasn't his ribs. In fact, the feeling wasn't coming from anywhere in his own body.
It was grief. The hard, heavy kind that sat like a ball of ice behind one's sternum.
Over and over, it bombarded Dende's mind in waves that streamed from behind the door like fallwinds on a taiga. He clapped his hands over his mouth, stricken by the full weight of what he just said; the tragedy.
This was Piccolo's heart breaking, and Dende had done it.
Oh Piccolo… he thought, eyes blurry with tears he wasn't even sure were his. Oh Piccolo, I'm so sorry...!
He was an idiot. A selfish, nearsighted idiot. He hadn't been thinking of Piccolo at all—he'd been thinking of himself and Nail and a distant home he could not return to. Dende had taken this personally; and cut his beloved mentor to the bone in retaliation.
Whether or not Piccolo heard his pleas for forgiveness, Dende couldn't say—because the strangling despair suddenly vanished behind the thickest mental blockade he'd ever felt. It was as if the room had been encased in a shell of lead. It even cut off Piccolo's ki signature, save the barest flicker.
Dende knew better than to reach out again—the damage was done. Any semblance of connection he had to Piccolo was almost surely destroyed. He would be lucky if his mentor ever spoke to him again.
Hands shaking, he grabbed his staff, but no matter how hard he tried, Dende couldn't make numb legs move. He hiccupped, face contorting in frustration.
What's wrong with me?
Unable to do anything else, Dende curled against the wall and wept like a child. He wanted his family. Other minds brushing against his own; reassuring him that he wasn't alone. He wanted sea and sunlight and Nail's arms around him like when he was still a hatchling—scared of the demon attacking their village.
He wanted to go home.
But here, in this dim corridor, Dende felt further from home than ever.
A heavy hand settled on his shoulder, startling him with another hiccup. Mr. Popo stood over him, expression as impassive as ever, but to Dende it looked downright accusatory. He was shocked at the bitter, watery laugh that burst out of him–quickly devolving into sobs.
"You were right," he cried. "You were right about everything—I never should have–have–!"
A storm of hiccups swallowed anything else he was going to say, but the voice that answered was calm as ever.
"Nothing spoken in that room just now was anything Piccolo didn't already know," Popo said. Dende scrubbed his eyes, struggling to get his breathing under control.
"Even if that's true, he... Oh, Popo, I said something horrible," he swallowed thickly, voice dropping to a shaky hush. "Those people are his world. And I just said..."
Dende hiccupped, unable to repeat it.
"You didn't see the look on his face! You didn't feel—"
The hand left his shoulder, and suddenly Dende was being pulled to his feet. He caught himself on unsteady legs—just in time for the djinn to firmly place the staff in his hand again. He didn't let go.
"Give him time."
Eventually, Dende managed a weak nod, and Popo let him go. As he passed, he touched the young Guardian's shoulder again. It was just one moment, but it gave Dende the strength to keep standing.
He turned to say something—and what it was, he wasn't sure—but the corridor was already empty.