Dragon Ball/Z/GT Fan Fiction ❯ Unfaithful ❯ Part One: 4 ( Chapter 4 )

[ Y - Young Adult: Not suitable for readers under 16 ]

..................................U N F A I T H F U L

................................................................ ...................Rhapsody~*



________________________~* Part One*~: Memories
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The next morning, at precisely six o' clock, Bulma stood before their great ship at the loading docks. The ship was truly a modern marvel. Her father had drawn up the plans for the machine years ago, while he had been on his spacecraft-design kick. Bulma could remember sitting beside him, peering over his shoulder as he sketched the long, smooth lines that would eventually make up the greatest piece of traveling equipment that Earth had ever seen. It was a shame that he had never lived to see it put together.

Nataliah examined the ship from beside her queen with wide eyes. It was a rare occasion for her to be admitted to the loading docks, especially when one of Yamcha's royal ships were present. As it was, the docks had been cleared of all traffic, to reduce the risk of assasination. Bulma thought that Yamcha was wise to worry.

Yamcha was currently standing a short distance away, barking orders at whoever would listen. The ship was not clean enough, the captain's credentials weren't nearly good enough to allow him to take off properly, and where the hell was their baggage? He had rarely said a word to Bulma all morning because of it, so she really didn't mind.

She had been expecting Lady Briefs to ambush her on the way to the ship earlier in the morning with a million orders and warnings to relate, but she had been surprised when her mother hadn't so much as sent a note. So far. It wasn't that Bulma wanted her mother to come see her off, it was more like she was suspicious of why she hadn't. Ever since she had married Yamcha, he and Lady Briefs had been whispering behind her back. As far as she knew, they had plans to do away with her once and for all.

"Have you received word from my mother?" Bulma asked Nataliah quietly.

The handmaiden tore her eyes away from the ship with some difficulty and shook her head. "No, my la-- Bulma. I have not heard from her all week."

"That's strange," Bulma commented, scanning the area with narrowed eyes. "Its not like her to miss an opprotunity like this."

Then, as if on cue, Lady Briefs emerged from the palace, flocked by a nervous-looking maid and another one of the court's ladies. She had spoken with the other woman a few times, but she could not recall her name. It hardly mattered-- the woman wisely stayed back as Lady Briefs approached.

Bulma felt her lean muscles tense up as her mother came closer. Most girls felt happiness when they were in the presence of their mothers, but not Bulma. All that Bulma felt was fear.
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In all of Bulma's memory, she could recall only one incident where her mother had voluntarily extended what the creative-minded could call maternal love. Pathetic, but one could not miss what they had never had.

They had been sitting in Bulma's room one night when Bulma was about twelve years old, before the crackling fire that her father's manservant had concocted, and Lady Briefs had been brushing out Bulma's hair. She did this, two hundred and fifty strokes total, every night, convinced that it would result in luxurious, shining locks. She had been right, of course. Bulma's hair was the envy of every girl in town, to be sure.

"Don't worry, dear," her mother had said, her voice uncharacteristically light. "Soon enough you'll be married to an important noblemen and I'll be out of your hair." She tugged a curl teasingly. "Quite literally, as a matter of fact."

Bulma, inquisitive for her young age, frowned. "Mother-- why must I marry a man that I do not love? Lady Rosaline said that love is the essence of life, and that there isn't nearly as much in the world as there should be. Is that true?"

"Its rubbish," Lady Briefs scoffed. "Love spelled backwards is evil misspelled. Your marriage is the essence of your life. Lady Rosaline is your governess, not your mother."

"I-- I am sorry, m'lady," Bulma responded meekly. "I shall not speak unless prompted."

Lady Briefs stopped her brushing and smiled warmly. The expression looked strange on her face. "That is hardly necessary, child. Don't look so gloomy! Come here and embrace your mother."

Bulma, eager for any sort of affection she could get, jumped into her mother's arms, grinning with all her might. "I love you, Mother..."

The memory was a sweet one, but as with most in Bulma's life, was vanquished by another one. The next morning, Bulma was shipped off to finishing school without so much as a farewell.
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Lady Briefs stopped in front of her, looking her daughter up and down critically. She hadn't changed much over the years. The lines around her eyes and between her brows had deepened slightly, and she seemed skinnier than she used to be, but besides that, makeup and skillful tailoring hid all signs of aging. Even her perfect hair was dyed, without any evidence of a gray hair. Bulma envied her mother's ability to always appear as beautiful as she could possibly be.

"What is that awful thing that you're wearing?"

Bulma looked down at her dress. It was a traveling outfit-- designed two-parts comfort and one-part style, a combination that her mother would have never allowed. The soft blue material of the dress was unpatterned and unembroidered, and the cut was very basic. The neckline was high enough to cover the tops of her breasts, also a change, and her corset wasn't nearly as tight as it normally would have been. She did not look bad, just comfortable. Her extraordinary beauty outshone the outfit, as usual, so it hardly mattered to everyone else but her mother.

"Our trip will last three days, Mother," Bulma reminded her, fingering the soft material. "I would prefer to be comfortable while I can. Don't worry, nobody important will see me."

"That is hardly the point." Lady Briefs cringed, as if the dress were painful to look at. Bulma seethed-- a first class girl would be lucky to have a dress of this quality, even if the cut wasn't as provocative as it could have been. "I certainly hope that King Yamcha selected your arrival outfit, if this is what we can learn to expect from you."

"He did not even notice." Bulma turned to Nataliah. "Please go and find out when we will be leaving."

Lady Briefs watched the handmaiden scurry off, then put her hands on her hips angrily. "Yamcha told me about what you did last night. I do not approve!"

Bulma was hardly surprised. It was just like Yamcha to deal with his anger in such an immature way. She was sure, however, that he 'accidently' left out the remainder of the previous night, the part where he had violently raped her, taking all of the pleasure for himself. Rather than burst out with this little piece of information, she took the high route and maintained her composure.

"This might be the last time you ever lay eyes on me," Bulma began. "And all you're going to do is critique me?"

Lady Briefs studied her daughter, her stone face emotionless. "I am merely trying to improve you, Bulma. A queen must always strive for perfection."

Bulma sighed, then began to turn and head towards the ship. No good-byes would be spoken between mother and daughter this trip. Then her mother reached out a hand to stop her. When Bulma turned back around, ready to dismiss the woman coldly, she found herself looking into her mother's sharp blue eyes, not unlike her own.

"How dare you turn your back to me!" Lady Briefs snarled, gripping Bulma's wrist with all her might. "I've told you once, and I will tell you again-- you would be nothing if it weren't for me! Do you hear me, girl? Nothing! Just because you have a pretty face does not mean that you can hypnotize everybody."

Bulma searched the woman's face for any sign of motherly compassion. This woman spoke to her like she was nothing but her little slave, the vessel through which she could acheive her own selfish dreams. If this woman before her were a true mother, she would be whispering her good-byes as she embraced her daughter, rather than telling her how worthless she was. She snatched her white hand back, cradling it by her side, then beckoned to Nataliah.

"We will be getting on the ship now, Nataliah." Her blue eyes remained locked her mother's stricken face. "Good-bye, Lady Briefs."

She turned on her heel and hurried closer to the ship, ignoring Nataliah's concerned looks as she went. She felt as if she were walking away from a piece of her childhood-- a painful one, to be sure, but a piece of it nonetheless. She supposed that she had always known that there was no hope for her mother, but she had always hung on to a foolish dream of domestic happiness... But she had been stupid, she decided numbly. People could not be trusted. Not by her, not by anyone else.

Yamcha noticed Lady Briefs storm angrily away from the loading docks and back into the palace. He hurried over to Bulma, his dark brows drawn together in ignorant accusation.

"What the hell did you say to her?" he demanded of his wife. "She is your mother, Bulma, you must learn to respect her wishes."

"I said nothing," Bulma said, her gaze locked on the ship in front of her. "She came to make me feel guilty about last night."

"As well she should!" Yamcha exclaimed, throwing up his hands. "Now stop standing around-- get your ass on the ship, its time for our departure!"

Bulma glared at his back as he walked away, then turned to Nataliah with a fake smile on her face. "Well, here we go."

Nataliah did her best to smile back. "Yes. Are you frightened?"

Her mistress' eyes darkened. "I am more afraid of the trip to come than our destination."

Nataliah eyed Yamcha, waiting impatiently for them on the ramp, and found that she understood perfectly.
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Bulma and Yamcha's chambers on the ship were quite luxurious, and far more comfortable than Bulma had imagined. Her father had done his job well. But no matter how nice the rooms were, how smoothly the ship rode, it could not chase away the foreboding feelings that were beginning to stir within Bulma as they got closer to their destination. She could not explain why she was feeling the way she was, but she did know that if she voiced her concerns, nobody would listen. So she remained silent, and contented herself with the fact that Yamcha was, for the most part, occupied during the trip.

The first night was uneventful. They had been shown around the ship and instructed on emergency procedures and the like. Bulma's heart flip-flopped as she imagined the million ways that one could be killed out in space. That is, until she found herself in a large, circular meeting room that she had not been shown to before.

The ceiling, as well as an entire wall, consisted of windows. All around them, stars and strange, faraway planets twinkled. Bulma's heart leaped into her throat at the beautiful sight. She immediately took a seat the head of the long table in the center of the room and commenced stargazing.

It was there that Yamcha found her on the second night of the trip, her head resting on her outstretched arms that stretched over the long table. He could have been considerate and let her catch up on valuable sleep, but this never once crossed his mind.

Bulma lifted cloudy blue eyes, causing him to lose his breath for a moment. No matter how many times he shared a bed with her, studied her from across the dinner table, he could never get fully accustomed to her strange beauty. It was quite disturbing, the power that she possessed in those big blue cat-eyes.

"Yamcha?" Her eyes struggled to focus tiredly. "Hmmm?"

He grinned and waved to her. "I want to talk with you about our arrival tomorrow afternoon."

Bulma lifted herself off of the table, suddenly wide awake. The gleam in Yamcha's eyes meant that he had something in store for her, and she was willing to bet that she would not like whatever it was.

"The key goal of our entrance is to impress and intimidate," her husband explained, reaching out to run a finger through a strand of her hair. "You'd best behave yourself, darling-- the Saiyan women are not very attractive, so I want you to be the one that stands out in their simple, unevolved minds. When we arrive, I'll be sure to have you dressed in the most stunning dress you own, and I expect you to perform."

Bulma was silent for a moment, trying to absorb this. Then she frowned. "If your only purpose for a wife is to use her as a method of negotiation, then you'd better find another one."

Yamcha chuckled smugly. "I admire your spirit, though it will get you nowhere." He leaned forward to kiss her, then pulled away and left the room. He was off to congratulate himself on dominating her once again, no doubt.

The sleepy Queen sighed and shifted around in her chair so that she was facing the windows. The stars beckoned to her, like a million miniature, glowing heavens awaiting her arrival. Bulma stood and slowly paced to the window, reaching a hand out in front of her, as if she were preventing herself from walking straight through.

When her hand met cool glass, she closed her eyes and imagined that she was dead, floating among the stars, peaceful at last. The stars would welcome her, she was sure of it, and her father would be there waiting for her...

She was jolted back to reality when the ship lurched. It wasn't the first time-- apparently the journey to Vejitasei took them right on the outskirts of an astroid field. Bulma shook her head to clear her thoughts, then opened her eyes again. The stars were still there, but they seemed so far away now. What had she been thinking? She was bound to Earth by Yamcha; as long as he lived, there was no escape.

The ship passed through another tricky spot. Bulma gripped the panes of the window and did her best to hold down her small lunch. When the ship steadied itself again, she sighed and turned away from the window. She nearly fell over in surprise when she came face-to-face with Nataliah.

"Kami!" she exclaimed, taking a few steps back. "You frightened me. I thought that you were..."

Nataliah smiled sympathetically, her hazel eyes sorrowful. "I... overheard you and Yamcha quarreling the night before we left, and--"

Bulma shook her head. "What you overheard was hardly quarreling." She wrapped her arms around herself and smiled weakly. "I still have bruises on my thighs. What are you doing here?"

The other girl looked to the windows curiously. "I suppose that I wanted to see what was causing you to spend all of your time here."

"Its better than spending my time with Yamcha."

"I have been talking to some of the other servants on the ship," Nataliah began, tearing her eyes away from the windows. "They have traveled to Vejitasei before."

Bulma took a seat and beckoned for Nataliah to do the same excitedly. "Really? This is fantastic! What did you hear?"

The handmaiden, still a bit uncomfortable being so casual with her royal mistress, did her bidding and clasped her hands together tensely. Bulma, in her anxiousness, did not seem to notice. "They say that it is mostly a desert planet, with red sand and a hot sun." Bulma's face fell. Nataliah hurried to comfort her. "But they have several beautiful, perfectly turquoise oceans and oasis's that they have turned into retreats for the first-classed. The palace and capital city are built right on the coast of one of them, and there are jagged rocky mountains nearby. The servants say that they would make a perfect painting, if you so wished to create one."

"How wonderful," Bulma breathed, already imagining dangerously beautiful mountains, churning blue waters, and the cries of seagulls overhead.

"The palace is surrounded by some of the galaxy's most beautiful gardens, courtesy of their queen. They have magnolia trees, marble fountains, and every kind of exotic flower you can imagine," Nataliah continued. She was bathing in her lady's undivided attention, and absolutely loving it. "The people favor war and are no doubt bloodthirsty, but they do not always let that govern their lives. Many of them are even approaching friendly."

"I am not surprised," Bulma said bitterly. "Yamcha has a tendency to discriminate."

Nataliah knew this, but did not acknowledge it. "The Saiyans are extremely strong and dedicated to their training-- even the women. They have tanned skin and dark eyes, with rare exceptions. The queen herself is one; she has green eyes, they say. Yamcha was correct about their clothing. Men wear their armor and women wear wraps similar to yours, though not as... revealing."

This also did not surprise Bulma. She sighed contentedly. "I am so glad that you've researched this, Nataliah. I wonder what the palace will be like? Do you suppose that they have the severed heads of their enemies mounted on their walls, like the people back home say?"

This earned her an amused giggle. "I would guess not, m'lady."

"Do you think that we will be missed?" Bulma asked quietly, tracing circles on the table with one finger. "I mean, as rulers."

Nataliah hesitated to answer. "They will miss the order that you two keep on the planet, I am sure."

Bulma half-smiled. "I thought as much." Earth's Queen glanced over her shoulder at the windows. "What I would give to be able to say that my people respected me..."

"I think that they respect you, but not your husband," Nataliah said. "And a woman's reputation is based almost solely on her husband's, therefore..." She trailed off, but Bulma already knew what she meant.

"You are who you marry," she commented, summing Nataliah's explanation up perfectly. "I suppose that the Saiyans' philosophy will be much the same."

"Let us hope not, my lady," Nataliah replied with a frown. "I wish that I could finally see you happy."

Bulma smiled in reply, but inside, she very much doubted that Nataliah would ever get her wish.
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The beginning of her unhappiness seemed to have started when her father, Lord Briefs, passed away when she had been about eleven and a half years old. One morning, while engaged in his beloved work as an inventor, he had died of a severe and unexpected heart attack. At the age of thirty-six, his death was premature.

Lady Briefs took his death hard, but not nearly as much so as young Bulma. With her father gone, she now hadn't a single friend in the world. And with her father dead, there was no one to protect her from her mother's harsh word. She would be completely at the woman's mercy.

The funeral took place in the first-classed elite cemetary, though her father was to be cremated instead of buried. It was the tradition that counted, Bulma supposed. It was a brisk fall afternoon, and the leaves had just changed color. It was a beautiful day. Bulma remembered hating Kami for allowing it to be so. If she was so unhappy, then why shouldn't the weather reflect her feelings?

Her mother had made an occasion even out of this depressing event. She had spent hours selecting their outfits and hairstyles. She herself was dressed in a black velvet gown that buttoned all of the way up to her neck, as was customary on a mourning widow, and had dressed Bulma in a breezy silk gown that made her look ghostly pale and sickly. Her father had always hated the damned thing. He had only allowed Lady Briefs to have it made just in case an acquaintance passed away. He had probably never imagined that she would end up wearing it to his own funeral.

There was an exceptionally impressive turnout. Nearly the entire court attended, much to her mother's sadistic pleasure. Bulma received many comforting words, but they meant nothing. She moved around in the shadow of her mother, and didn't say a word the entire time, nor for the rest of the day.

The priest made a stiff, over-rehearsed speech about Lord Briefs' accomplishments in life and the ones he would now be making in the afterlife, and Lady Briefs said a few words about how she and her daughter would overcome this with all expected dignity and grace, don't worry about a thing.

Then a torch was offered to Lady Briefs. Bulma was confused at first-- wasn't the priest the one who was supposed to light up the coffin? But no, her mother was the one who approached the wooden box, touched the torch to the smooth wood, and then stepped back as the thing roared up in flames. Bulma later overheard her mother tell her handmaiden that she had requested the privledge-- she had wanted to be the one to send her father to hell for spoiling their daughter too much.

Bulma remembered shrieking in panic at the sight of her beloved father being reduced to ashes before her, and being restrained by her mother and someone else, probably her governess, Lady Rosaline. Lady Briefs had severely punished her later, but Bulma hadn't even been able to remember for what. Later on, someone had told her that her screams had echoed all of the way up to the palace, and that her mother had been horribly embarrassed. Embarrassed!-- over her own daughter's understandable grief.

As the coffin and her father's body slowly burned, the nobles drifted back to the palace to go on with their lives. Soon only she and her mother remained, standing before the growing pile of ashes.

Lady Briefs watched the dark smoke curl up into the sky with an emotionless face. She did not even appear to be sad, merely humbled for the moment. Bulma, however, yanked her hand out of her mother's grasp and approached the pyre slowly.

She fell to her little knees before it, submerging her hands in her father's ashes. She wept at the thought that she would never see her father's cheery face again, nor be protected by his kind words. The ashes were hot, and they burned her fingers, but she hardly noticed. When her sobs became loud and uncontrollable, Lady Briefs stepped forward to pull her back.

"Stupid girl!" she had scolded, dragging her by the hand away from the ashes. "Look at what you've done to your hands! You'll have to wear gloves for a week before the marks go away!"

Bulma said nothing, did not struggle against the woman-- she merely cried.

Her mother had quickly moved on with her life as usual, as if her husband had never passed away, or even exisisted. Bulma never once witnessed her cry. She doubted that she had even shed a tear. But Bulma, however, had never fully recovered.

To this day, she could still feel the smoldering ashes of her father between her fingers, could still smell the burning flesh. The memory haunted her dreams every fall, unfailingly.

Her mother had had the ashes put into an attractive, sky-blue colored vase.

"It matches the color scheme of the room perfectly," she had commented cheerily when the coroner had placed it on the mantle. "Don't you think?"
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Rhapsody~*
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