This is not a standalone; it follows two of my other stories, Promise Me and Fulfilling the Oath. Though if you absolutely insist on jumping right in you ought to be able to follow regardless, I would still strongly recommend reading one or both of them first to get the full context.

Disclaimer: If I owned Dragon Ball Z, Goku would have spent at least half the series in parenting class. But y'know, violent bloody battles make more money.

He was dying.

Of course, he hadn't realized it at first. The onset had been so gradual that it had taken him a long time to even notice that he was tiring sooner, or that his reflexes had slowed. As he wasn't a reader and tended to rely on his ki-sense and his ears in battle, even his deteriorating eyesight had gone unchecked for the better part of a century.

As a matter of fact, it wasn't until his final sparring match with Android 17 that Piccolo was finally forced to admit that even he had succumbed to old age. They had been in the middle of their usual weekly bout when 17, taking advantage of his lack of ki, had phased out of sight only to reappear right behind him. Normally Piccolo's sensitive hearing would have alerted him in time to counter, but this time he just hadn't been fast enough: he remembered beginning to turn around, only to find himself suddenly on the floor of the Lookout with Dende kneeling beside him, a look of immense relief on his face. He had, the younger Namekian explained, sustained a severe concussion, and was extremely lucky to have survived even long enough to make it to a healer.

Piccolo hadn't seen 17 since that day.

From then on he had lightened his training, sparring only with himself and keeping close to the Lookout. But even that hadn't lasted, and before long he had repeatedly found himself too exhausted to make the flight back up after even a relatively light training session. After several nights spent on the ground he had stopped leaving the Lookout altogether, and resigned himself to meditation as his primary outlet.

Eventually, however, the fatigue – and, by this time, the pain – had gotten to the point where even that had ceased to be pleasurable. When he found he could not even assume a proper lotus position without his knees feeling as if they were on fire, he had finally swallowed his pride and gone to Dende. The Guardian, after a brief moment of running his hands over Piccolo's body, had ordered him to sit.

Piccolo complied, not so much to mitigate the shock as because his knees were still killing him. Whatever news Dende was about to give him, he had already been anticipating it for a very long time.

"It's a disease," Dende said without preamble, "a progressive one. Your ability to regenerate is deteriorating, and has been for the past half-century at least. The pain is due to your body's inability to repair itself from the training you've been doing."

Piccolo knew that there was more. "What else?" he asked, crossing his arms.

Dende sighed. The younger Namekian had more than a few wrinkles himself, now. "I said that it was progressive, and it's only going to keep getting worse. I can keep you comfortable, but Piccolo – there is no cure. You have maybe a few years before it gets to the point where even the most minor injury becomes potentially fatal, and eventually not even I will be able to help you anymore. I – I'm sorry."

"I see." That he would die soon didn't bother him. The thought of going out like this, however, in near-constant pain and unable to care for himself, was not something that he had ever considered, or wanted.

From then on, the physical symptoms had only gotten worse. It wasn't long before Piccolo was spending most of his days in a chair in the library, watching the clouds roll by outside of the high window and trying to remember what it felt like to fly. Even though Dende healed him on a regular basis as promised, it was never long before the pain came back – and every time, it had spread a little bit further.

Then, it happened. He was returning to his usual place by the window with a glass of water – he refused on general principle to ask Dende or Popo to go and get it for him. He was also too proud to use the wall for support as he walked, which probably played a fairly large role in what happened next.

He was more than halfway to the library when his hand seized up for no apparent reason. The glass slipped from his fingers to shatter on the floor, and before he could regain his equilibrium one of his rebellious knees decided to give out on him as well.

He fell right on top of the broken glass.

Piccolo tried to push himself back onto his feet, but only succeeded in driving the glass shards deeper into his hands in addition to embedding a few that hadn't been there before. After a few more fruitless efforts to get to his feet he collapsed again, unable to do anything but watch the slow trickle of blood that seeped from the cuts on his hands and forearms.

Suddenly, he couldn't help but remember how he had found Pan, several months before her death: unconscious on the floor of her kitchen, grains of spilled rice scattered all around her body, her grayish-white hair swiftly changing color to red… Dende had barely gotten there in time to heal her. Even a few minutes longer, and she would have been beyond help.

When Pan had come to, she'd said that she had fallen.

Piccolo had thought, then, of the great injustice of it all: how a once-strong warrior, a Super Saiyan on the level of Cell and beyond, had been brought so close to death by an ordinary fall. Now, he was in the exact same position. The only difference was that he was aware of what was happening to him, and that, due to his inability to regenerate on even a human level, he would, over the course of the next several hours, be forced to watch himself slowly bleed out from the relatively minor injuries.

Thankfully, it never came to that. This thought had barely crossed his mind when two sets of running footsteps alerted him to the presence of Dende and Popo – the Guardian must have heard his fall. He found himself turned over and pulled away from the glass, and then the shards were gently removed from his skin as the cuts were healed one by one.

No sooner had the last wound closed than Piccolo was lifted from the floor, his arm draped around the shoulders of someone slightly shorter than himself.

"Mr. Popo, would you mind cleaning up here?" Dende's voice was coming from very close to his head.

"Of course not, Master Dende." The sound of glass shards clinking against each other immediately followed.

Piccolo growled as he found himself slowly moving back down the hallway with Dende's assistance. "I can walk by myself."

"Evidently you can't." Dende made no move to release him, and Piccolo realized with a shock that he no longer had the physical strength to resist: Dende, though not a fighter, was strong in his own right, and Piccolo's health had been in decay for quite some time. He had lost his choice in the matter.

Dende brought him to a bedroom. It was the same one where Pan had stayed during the last few months of her life, until she had fallen asleep in a chair by the window and never woken up.

Piccolo did not miss the irony.

From the second the door closed, he knew that that room was where he was going to spend the remainder of his life.

Weeks passed, and every day he felt worse. Soon, he could tell that he didn't have much longer. The simple act of breathing was getting progressively harder, and he could barely see. His entire body ached; even Dende's healing powers barely had an effect anymore.

The younger Namekian had been sitting with him whenever he was not sleeping or performing his duties, often reading out loud or talking quietly. Whenever Dende wasn't there Popo was, and Piccolo strongly suspected that the genie was hoping to get one last glimpse of Kami before he died.

This time, however, Dende was silent. He knew just as well as Piccolo did that his time was drawing near, and it seemed that he didn't want to upset the solemnity of the moment.

"Dende."

There was a sudden rustle of cloth as the other Namekian started; apparently he had assumed that Piccolo was too far gone to speak. "Yes?" He leaned forward, though all Piccolo could perceive at this point was a shadow over his head. "What can I do for you?" His voice was quiet.

"…leave me."

A few seconds passed in shocked silence: whatever last request Dende had been expecting, it must not have been that. Then, in a voice that was very small and quiet, "…what?"

"I… thank you." His throat had gone so dry and hoarse that he barely recognized his own voice. "But I need to finish this alone." Summoning up the last of his will, he added in the one word that, even after all these years, was still very foreign to him: "…please…"

"…okay." The legs of the chair scraped against the floor as Dende got up. His soft footsteps began their retreat across the room, but at the door they suddenly halted. "If you change your mind, for any reason, just call me telepathically. But if we don't see each other again… goodbye, my friend."

Apparently he wasn't expecting a response, for the door opened and closed again immediately after, and then Dende's footsteps retreated away.

With that, he was alone. Piccolo had been completely alone on the day he came into the world; it seemed only fitting that he should die in equal solitude.

He had never thought, however, that he would die in a bed. No, he had always thought – hoped – that it would be in battle.

A warrior's death…

Snarling, Piccolo threw the blankets from his body with a sudden burst of energy. It ebbed away as quickly as it had come, but he wasn't done yet: exerting all of the strength that he could muster, he rolled out of the bed.

He hit the floor with a sickening crash. It had taken a truly maddening amount of effort even to get that far, and for a few minutes he could only lie there, taking the air in great gasps as he tried to get his breath back. Dende must have heard him hit the floor; he would have to have been deaf not to. Piccolo strained his ears; that was the one part of his body that was still working exactly as it was supposed to. To his great relief, there were no concerned exclamations, no sounds of running footsteps.

It seemed that Dende was keeping his word. He would not return to the room unless called.

Knowing relief that his final wish had been honored further renewed his strength. It wasn't much, but even this slight energy was sufficient for his purposes.

His knees, hips, and back screamed out in protest as he repositioned his body, but Piccolo ignored the pain. Over the course of his life he had been repeatedly beaten to near-death by Nappa, Frieza, Cell, and several different androids, not to mention Goku. He wasn't going to let a few complaints from his joints hold him back now.

Finally, after a long and painful struggle that felt like it had lasted hours, he had managed to get himself where he wanted to be. Just one last thing, and then he could leave this world in peace.

Gritting his teeth in concentration, Piccolo exerted the last of his remaining energy.

Dende was making his usual evening rounds, circling the perimeter of the Lookout as the sun sank beneath the clouds. The day was a windy one; his robes flapped fiercely about his body, and the treacherous gusts threatened to blow him right off the edge of the Lookout if he wasn't careful.

Thankfully, the Earth was now at a time of peace and balance. At times like this, the Guardian's duties were minimal.

Dende supposed that it was just as well. Today, his mind was very far away from what he was supposed to be doing.

Staff in hand, Dende retreated in out of the wind. He was halfway to the library when his ears picked up a crash.

Piccolo…

Compassion compelled him to run to the room and check whether Piccolo was okay – but friendship stayed his hand. The crash was not followed by a call for help, and he had asked to be left alone.

Dende's ears flicked curiously, however, as he continued his walk. There was further movement – far more than anyone in Piccolo's condition should have been capable of achieving – but it told him, at least, that the older Namekian was still conscious, and did not want assistance.

He was getting ready to die…

He had reached the library. Sighing, Dende pulled out a book at random from the nearest shelf, and brought it to his usual windowside table. Pulling out a chair, he set the book down in front of him but did not turn the pages, only stared at the cover and the name that was written within.

This was one of the books that Gohan had left him, so many centuries ago…

His musings were interrupted when a mug of tea was set gently down in front of him. Raising his head, Dende met the eyes of the other permanent resident of the Lookout, who was watching him with an expression of concern.

"Thank you, Mr. Popo," he murmured politely, curling his fingers around the steaming mug as he smiled at his assistant. Tea was one Earthling custom he had rather gotten to like, so much so that it had become something of an evening ritual for him. Popo always remembered to bring him a cup.

Popo did not return the smile. "Is there anything else I can do for you, Master Dende?" He heard the concern in the genie's voice, as well as the unasked question.

Dende shook his head. "I thank you, but no." He knew that Popo's mind, like his, was not on his duties tonight. "Please, get some rest. I'm going to stay up a while longer."

Popo nodded. "As you wish." With that, he was gone, and Dende was alone in the library.

He opened the book, but could not seem to focus on the words. There was a sudden flaring of Piccolo's ki, followed by a rapid drop. Again, Dende resisted the urge to go in and check on him.

It wouldn't be much longer…

Sunset was long since past. Now the sky darkened from deepest blue to velvet black, and stars sparkled like diamonds outside of the window. Dende had always been fascinated by stars; they were never visible from his native planet.

Piccolo's ki guttered and winked out.

Even though he knew it the instant it happened, Dende forced himself to wait a few minutes before he went to look. He told himself that it was a safety margin, just in case, but also knew it was possible that he was just afraid.

After all, he had already witnessed more people die than he ever wanted to see again.

Finally, he decided that he could put it off no longer. He pushed out from the table, his untouched cup of tea long since grown cold, and made his way back down the hallway. Before long he was in front of the door once again.

He hesitated for only a second before pushing it open.

For a moment, Dende could only stare in shock at what he saw. Then, however, he had to press a hand to his mouth to cover a smile.

Piccolo was on the floor beside the bed, his eyes clamped shut, his arms and legs folded tightly in the meditative pose in which he had spent a good portion of his life. Though he was on the floor instead of in the air and he had leaned his back against the wall for support, his position was otherwise perfect, right down to the frown of concentration.

He had even managed to conjure himself a new gi, complete with training weights.

"Oh, Piccolo," Dende said out loud, still smiling even though he was now wiping his eyes. "It seems you managed to die as a warrior after all."

A/N: So, here it is: the final conclusion of the story that started with Promise Me. It took me so long to get around to this because I honestly wasn't sure whether I wanted to do it; though I had a few vague plans floating around in my head, it wasn't until I came up with the idea for Piccolo's death pose that the creative juices really started flowing.

Part II, which includes the long-awaited reunion scene, will be out as soon as I finish the revision. My original idea was for a single long story, but then I realized that this would work better as a two-parter. So, you'll just have to wait a little longer *evil grin*.