Dragon Ball/Z/GT Fan Fiction / Crossover With Non-anime Series Fan Fiction ❯ Remembrance ❯ Part I ( Chapter 1 )

Disclaimer:  I do not own the rights to any of the DBZ characters contained within.  The Greek Myth of Helen of Troy is public domain, so yay.   I have made no money in the making of this story, well actually that's not true.  I was at work when I wrote part of it but I made no money off of this story, it just kept me occupied for long hours.  This story also contains scenes of sex and death.  Please be mature in reading this.

A Big thank you goes out to Mia Skywalker for beta'ing this.

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::Text here.:: = Character's direct thoughts
*Text here.* = thoughts that are not coming directly from the character themselves.
 
 

Remembrance

Part I

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She stood on the battlements silently.   The wind whipped her long, unfettered hair wildly, giving it life of its own.  Her flawless face was stony; her lips pressed tightly together.  Night was falling, as Helios completed another circuit of Gaea.  With grave, sad eyes she surveyed the tableau before her.   Hundreds of men lay dead or dying on the approach to the city's high walls.  Broken and discarded weapons littered the battlefield, and the ground itself was scarred from repeated running assaults on the gates.   Behind the wasteland that surrounded the city, she could see the tents and fires of the army which encircled the town, besieging it.

She sighed sadly, pulling her rich cloak tighter around her shoulders.  All of this death, all of this suffering was because of her.  All because she had the unfortunate luck to be born the most desirable woman in a generation.  Because of her beauty, thousands of men had died.  Because of her beauty, thousands more were injured.  Because of her beauty, the citizens of the city behind her suffered and starved.   Because of her beauty, she was beloved of two stubborn, proud men each vowing to possess her.

She stepped to the edge of the battlements and placed her hands on rough grey stone.   There, behind the first few rows of tents, she spotted the flag of the commanding monarch, her first husband, King Meneleaus of Sparta.  She closed her eyes to keep the tears that threatened in check.  Meneleaus -- the battle scarred warrior who had been her betrothed since childhood.  Meneleaus -- the man who had worshipped her body but never appreciated her quick mind.  She had loved him once, she supposed, in the childish fashion of a first love.  But now she didn't know, she thought to herself, as she assessed the ruined battlefield. She was as torn and battle-scarred as the fields in front of her.

“You should not be up here, woman,” a deep voice from behind her rumbled quietly.

She turned away from battlefield startled, the evening wind whipping her hair into her eyes.   Lifting one slim hand, she pushed the long tendrils of hair out of her face and regarded the speaker solemnly.

He was short for a warrior, but carried himself proudly, giving him the appearance of greater stature.  While he was heavily muscled like the majority of Trojan men, his body had a compact fluidity to it that most Trojans lacked.  He was poetry in motion, moving with a catlike grace.  His face was finely chiseled.  When she had first met him nine years ago, he had seemed quite young, almost boyish.  But the interminable war had changed that; his eyes had hardened and he rarely smiled anymore.  Except around her. Only when he was in her presence did he let the walls he had been forced to construct drop.  He loved her, she knew, with his body and soul.  And because he loved her, he could not send her back to Sparta and thus end this horrible war.

Shaking her head, she turned back to regard the Spartan camp.  “I need to be here, Paris.   I need to see all of this,” she said quietly, motioning with a ringed hand towards the ruined earth below.  “It's not right for me to be happy when so many people are suffering and dying because of me.”

The compact warrior came up behind her and encircled her waist with his arms, drawing her to him.  He buried his head in her dark curls and inhaled her scent.

“Are you happy here?” he asked softly, his voice betraying his insecurities.

She leaned back into his embrace and stroked his forearms gently.  “With you, always,” she replied in an equally quiet tone.  “But I wish that your people weren't being made to suffer for my happiness.”  She sighed then. “Why won't he just go home!  Why is he continuing this pointless war?” she despaired.  “I don't love him anymore.  I think I stopped loving him long before you came.”  Tears started streaming out of her clear, bright eyes and down her flawless face.

He turned her in his arms and raised a gloved hand up to smooth away her tears.  “Hush, my love.  Hush,” he murmured soothingly.  He then leaned in to her and captured her lips into a soul-searing kiss, taking her breath away.

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Bulma sat up in bed, shivering violently.  The dream she'd had was so vibrant, so vivid.  It was as if she had been standing on the very walls of the besieged city only moments before.  She looked down at her hands; she could still feel the cool, rough surface of the stone walls on her fingertips.  She could still taste his lips.  With a trembling hand, she pushed her sweat soaked bangs back from her forehead.

Where had the dream come from?

She glanced over at the clock on the messy nightstand next to her bed.  It was 4:50 in the morning, too early for her to normally get up.  But she was too shaken to sleep.  She rubbed her hands up and down her upper arms, trying to calm her rapidly beating heart.

Who was the woman in her dream?

She unclasped her arms and looked down at her hands again.  Her skin was darker in the dream.  She continued scrutinizing her hands, turning them over and over.  She shook her head slowly then stopped.  Lifting her left hand up to her hair, she clasped one azure tendril between her fingers and pulled it forward to examine it.  In her dream, she had had long midnight blue hair, with a hint of curl. Her natural color was much lighter, more of an aqua color, and straight unless she permed it.

This was odd.  Why would she dream about a woman that wasn't her?

She pushed off the covers and got out of bed.  She slipped into a soft terry-cloth robe and slippers.  Since she was awake, she might as well do something, Bulma thought to herself.

But she couldn't shake the images and feelings that the dream evoked.  Where had she heard the name Paris before?  And why did the very thought of his touch send a little thrill through her body?

She sighed as she softly padded across her room and opened the door.  Since she was up anyway, she might as well get started with her day.  Which meant fixing a pot of coffee.

Silently, so as not to wake anyone, she went downstairs to the kitchen.  She rummaged in the cupboards hunting for her favorite flavor of coffee: cherry vanilla.  Finding it, she started the coffee maker to brewing and sat down at the table to wait.  She wasn't terribly hungry, so she decided to forgo breakfast.  Instead, she started to think about some of her ongoing projects.

Vegeta had requested an upgrade to the gravity room and her father was too busy fixing the drones the Saiyajin prince continually destroyed.  Apparently training in three hundred times Chikyuu's gravity wasn't good enough for him, and he had requested a new machine that could reach over 500 times Chikyuu's normal gravity.  She knew how to make the current machine reach that level of gravity; the issue was in finding materials that would stand up to the increase in pressure and the strain it caused.

The coffee machine sputtered, interrupting her thoughts.  Rising from the kitchen table, she pulled out the largest coffee mug she owned and filled it with the hot, fragrant brew.

She lifted the mug to her nose and inhaled, savoring the scent of cherries touched with a hint of vanilla.  Unbidden, an image flashed in through her brain:

*A short, powerful warrior ran a cherry across her smooth skin.  Holding the fruit by its slender stem, he teased her lips with it.  Holding her eyes with his, he sliced the fruit open and removed the hard stone in the center.  Then he coated her lips in the sweet-tart juice, enhancing their fullness.  Finally he allowed her to eat the fruit, leaning in to kiss her.  She could smell the sweet scent of cherries intermingled with the heavy musk of the warrior prince.  His lips and teeth nibbled at her lips entreating them to open.  She complied, surrendering herself completely to him.*

Bulma gasped as the image faded and looked down suspiciously at the mug cradled in her hands.  ::Great.  Not only am I having dreams about being another woman, but I am also having erotic daydreams that include her.  What's next?:: she thought to herself grumpily.

She took a deep breath and sipped her coffee, half-waiting for another image to assault her.  When nothing happened, she sighed softly.  She needed to get to work.

Taking the coffee cup with her, she walked out of the kitchen and headed back upstairs to her room.  She was determined to put these disturbing dreams behind her.

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