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. Men lay dead or dying on the approach to the cityís 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 about her shoulders. All of this death, all of this suffering was because of her. 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 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 didnít know, she thought to herself, as she assessed the ruined battlefield.
"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 lacked. He was poetry in motion, moving with 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. Except for her. Only when his was in her presence did he let the walls 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 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. "Itís not right for me to be happy when so many people are suffering because of me."
The compact warrior came up behind her and encircled her waist drawing her to him. He rested his head against her dark curls and inhaled her scent.
"Are you happy here?" he asked softly.
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 werenít being made to suffer for my happiness." She sighed then, "Why wonít he just go home! Why is he continuing this pointless war?" she despaired. "I donít 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.
Bulma sat up in bed shivering violently. The dream sheíd 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 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 tresses, 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.
This was odd. Why would she dream about a woman that wasnít 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, she thought to herself.
But she couldnít 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.
The heavy oak door swung open soundlessly, admitting him into the dimly lit bedchamber. He closed the door behind him carefully, mindful of the occupant lying on the bed. Methodically, his eyes swept the room. He noted the oil lamp burning dimly on the round table, the dull reflection of the room in the polished mirror, the drapes billowing inward with the evening breeze. With cat-like stealth, he made his way over to the bed and to the women sleeping there.
Greedily he drank in her slumbering form. She was lying on her side facing him, one hand tucked neatly under her cheek the other resting loosely on the bed. She had thrown off the bedcovers during her sleep and her nude body was clad only in stray tendrils of her long hair.
Enchanted, he carefully sat down on the bed and stretched forward a hand and softly brushed away a stray lock of hair from her face. She moaned softly in her sleep, shifting her head to allow him better access to her neck. A small smirk quirked his lips, as he once again stroked her face and now her neck.
She hummed again and sleepily opened her eyes, to gaze at a man who was not her husband. To her credit, she did not scream when she beheld his face. She did sit up abruptly and clutch at the discarded covers.
"What are you doing here?" she breathed nervously.
He said nothing, but reached forward with his hand to her face again. She flinched but did not recoil from his touch. His eyes met hers and he watched her eyes widen as he once again lightly touched her cheek and neck wit his fingers.
"You should not be here," she stated softly, her gaze held by his.
"No I should not," he agreed in a low, deep voice. His fingers moving softly over her face to trace the shell of her ear.
"But why are you here?" she asked breathlessly
He thought momentarily about her question before replying. "I am drawn to you," he answered simply.
Her eyes narrowed slightly and a flash of anger darkened the unusual blue orbs. "You are drawn to my beauty," she stated flatly.
He shook his head. "Not entirely. I am drawn to the fire that you try so desperately to hide. I am drawn to the genius hidden behind the guilelessness you project. I am drawn to you," he murmured softly.
She stared at him and he allowed a small smile to cross his lips. He could tell that she was stunned by his words. She pursed her lips in thought and he seized the opportunity. Bending forward, he captured her lips. She froze at his touch then began to melt into his embrace. He deepened the kiss, using his tongue to brush past her soft lips. She tasted of wine and honey, a heady combination. She moaned against his mouth as he sought her tongue with his.
Pulling back, he stared down at her. Her cheeks were flushed and her eyes were closed. Leaning forward, he placed feather-light kisses on her eyelids before moving to cover her delicate face in kisses. He felt her breath catch in her throat.
"I will stop if you wish me to," he husked softly moving to kiss the juncture of her neck and shoulder, as his hands moved from her back to stroke her sides.
"Unnmmmm," she moaned shaking her head. He smiled trimuphantly moving to plant kisses on her throat and collarbones. His fingers lightly tickled her ribs causing her to shift slightly. Noting her reaction, he changed to delicate touch and moved his hands upward to caress the undersides of her breasts.
She gasped and arched her back to allow him easier access. Not one to refuse so tempting an invitation, he moved his mouth lower to lick and kiss her breasts. Taking care not to touch her nipples, he covered them little butterfly kisses, while his hands migrated from the undersides of her breasts to explore her taut navel.
Her breathing was becoming deeper and he noticed that it was beginning to match his own. Snaking his right hand lower to barely touch the top of her curls, he bent forward and captured one nipple between his lips. She moaned softly in the back of her throat, arching her back. With her motion, he slipped his fingers into the moist junction between her thighs, seeking and finding the little nub that was the center of her being. Stroking it gently, he played with the little jewel while he moved his mouth over to the other breast to torture her other nipple.
"Please . . ." she moaned reaching down to capture his head between her hands.
He knew what she was asking, sliding his hand up her body from her slit, he grasped her head lightly and moved up for another kiss. This time she invaded his mouth with her tongue, moving her hands to caress his muscular back as he covered her with his body. Shaking her head, she pulled away from him.
"Get rid of that," she ordered passionately, referring to the half-chiton he wore.
He grinned at her words, and hastened to oblige her. Unbelting the garment, he drew the linen over his head and let it fall to the floor beside the bed. "Better, my little love?" he asked softly.
Nodding, she reached up and began to trace his chest with her delicate fingers. He gasped when her nails flicked his sensitive nipples. He burned for her, he had been ever since the first moment he stepped into the room and beheld her sleeping form. Pushing her back to the bed, he positioned his body over hers. Raising his head he looked into her eyes, mutely she nodded. He smiled and pushed into her warmth slowly allowing her to become used to his width. Her eyes darkened at the invasion and she raised her hips to meet his.
Slowly he began moving in her, deep thrusts that touched her very core. She gasped and wrapped her long legs around him, drawing him closer. He groaned and moved his head to ravage her neck with little bites and kisses as he moved with her in a dance as old as time itself. He could sense her nearing climax, her breath was coming in short little pants and her hands began clawing his back.
He felt the walls of her vagina contract around him, spurring him onward. Suddenly, she arched her back against him and cried out as she came around him. The sudden pulsing movement of her vaginal muscles pushed him over the edge as he too came in esctasy. Slowing his thrusts, he gently led her back from her climax. Raising his head, he turned to capture her lips as he pushed in for one final thrust. She moaned as his actions set off another series of orgasms.
Catching their breaths, the lovers looked at each other in wonderment. Rolling off of her, he reached up with one hand and began smoothing away her sweat soaked hair, as he gazed into her deep blue eyes. "Never, in all my years, have beheld one as magnificant as you, Helen," he breathed softly. "I think that the Goddess Aphrodite has blessed us."
"Hmmm," she moaned low in her throat as she turned to kiss the palm of his hand.
A sudden thought struck him, he could not live without her. The very thought of getting up and leaving her, wounded him to the heart. He needed her, and to get her, he would have to risk all. "Helen."
"Hm?" she responded drowsily.
"Come away with me," he voiced softly.
Her eyes snapped to his in shock. "What did you say?" she queried nervously.
"Come back to Troy with me, be my wife."
"But I already have a husband," she pointed out sadly.
"Pah! A puffed up fool who neglects you and spends all of his time focused on other goals. He is not worthy of you!" Paris snorted.
"But if I go with you, all of Greece will go to war with you to get me back," she said in a low voice. "It is part of a pact, all of my former suitors agreed that if I were to pick one of them that the others would support the victor. I picked Meneleaus, he seemed the best of the group, and the others swore that if anyone abducted me that they would aid my new husband. Gods, I was always the prize to be won. Well I am sick of it!" she said heatedly.
"Then will you come with me?" he asked intently.
She regarded him seriously, "Why? Why do you want me?"
He stroked her face gently as he formed his reply. "It is hard for me to put into words. I am a warrior not a poet, words do not come easily to me. I am intrigued by you. You hide your intelligence behind a mask of shallowness, yet you are able to govern a nation effectively. You are beautiful, that goes without saying, yet your beauty shines from within and merely highlights the beauty without. And there are things that are more intagible. I need you. You fill me, complete me. I am empty without you."
He pulled her to him, bringing her face next to his. "Will you come with me?" he questioned once more.
She blinked a few times and burrowed further into his arms. "Yes," was all she replied.
Vegeta woke up at his usual early hour, 5:00am. He shook his head to clear them of the cobwebs and stretched to loosen the sleepy muscles. This action revealed an embarassing fact, some time during the night he had ejaculated on his sheets.
Curling up his lip, he gingerly extracted himself from his bed and removed the soiled sheets, tossing them negligently on the floor. Grabbing a towel, he stalked out of the door and down the hall to the bathroom, neglecting to put on any clothes.
He didnít make it halfway before he heard the annoying womanís voice. "Just where do you think you are going completely naked?" she asked dersively.
"None of your business, woman," he replied coldly. He really wanted a shower, he could feel the dried semen sticking to his thigh.
"You could at least put something on. Itís not polite," she snapped in an annoyed tone.
Vegeta snorted, "Do not look if it bothers you." He turned around slowly allowing her a good view of his chiseled body. He felt her eyes roam across his skin. "Humph, I see that gawking is another of your bad habits."
A red flush stained her cheeks and she turned away quickly.
He laughed and stalked down the hall to the bathroom. Slamming the door behind him. Kami, he enjoyed baiting her. He loved seeing her eyes spark with anger. She reminded him of someone. Someone he couldnít quite remember.
Someone he longed to meet again.
Crowds of people milled around anxiously in the square behind him. But they were of no concern, only the approaching army mattered. The defenders had withdrawn completely into the fortified city, forcing the Greeks to come to them on the Trojan's terms. It had finally happened. The Greeks had hurled themselves against the walls of Troy for what appeared to be one final assault.
The attacking army advanced on the walls and front gate, desperately trying to gain a foothold. Foot soldiers ran carrying scaling ladders, while the defenders rains sheets of arrows down upon them. Those few who reached the walls were subjected to a rain of boulders and torches from the Trojans. The shouts of soldiers and the clash of metal filled the air and the stench of charred flesh assailed his nostrils. This would be the final battle between the warring nations; he could feel it in his bones. If his army emerged victorious, then she would be his for all eternity. Finally the suffering of his people would be eased and she could feel truly happy here with him. Indeed, this would be a momentous day.
He pulled his eyes away from the advancing army to glance behind him. He spotted her quickly; she was standing on the balcony off of their bedchamber her hand raised to shield her eyes from the sun's glare. He smiled and turned back to the battle.
He had decided to fight shoulder to shoulder with his men, joining the ranks of the archers. He loved being in the thick of battle, it enflamed his senses and caused his blood to race. Pikemen waited next to the archers, ready to push down the scaling ladders and assault towers. If he had any say, the pikemen would not have to perform their jobs this day. Effortlessly, he pulled back on the string of his bow and released it. The arrow embedded itself in the neck of a hapless Greek soldier. He smiled grimly, pleased with his aim. In one fluid motion, he pulled another arrow from the quiver at his side and nocked it. He held his pose, sighting down the shaft, his head tilted slightly to one side. He spotted one of the Greek commanders, Achilles. As if the Gods themselves were aiding him, he suddenly knew where the man was vulnerable. He smirked and adjusted his aim. Then he let the arrow fly. It sped straight and true towards its target, Achilles' left heel.
The arrow pierced the Greek's skin, wounding him mortally. Achilles fell. As one, the Greek army cried out in grief. Many soldiers fled the battlefield, while others gaped senselessly in shock.
The Trojans cheered wildly and Paris felt a huge surge of exultation fill him. He had done it. He had killed the supposedly immortal Achilles. He turned away from the battle, seeking his wife's eyes. He captured her gaze and gave her a triumphant smirk.
"Who?" she shouted down to him.
"Achilles," he mouthed back to her.
She smiled down at him and waved happily. Then, she gave him a fierce look and she gathered up the skirts of her chiton and raced off of the balcony.
The Trojan prince smiled smugly, certain that she was hurrying to him. He glanced at the Greek army beneath him. As he had expected, the majority of the troops were demoralized by Achilles death.
Out of the corner of his eye, he saw her emerge from the doors of the palace and stood on the wide marble steps, trying to reorient herself. Her eyes locked with his once again and she started across the crowded square toward the stairs leading up to the battlements. He wrenched his eyes away from hers forcing himself to pay attention to the army below.
He saw a Greek officer, his face twisted with rage and grief, nock an arrow and aim it. His mind and body froze. He watched detachedly as the arrow flew from the fingers of the Greek and embedded in his chest with a meaty thunk.
He felt the strength leave his legs, as he slowly collapsed to the ground. Through all of the cacophony of the battle he heard her scream his name. And he wished to all of the Gods of Olympus that he could spare her the agony of watching him die.
He shook his head. Somehow he had drifted off while in the shower. He had remembered or dreamed about some other life, he wasnít sure which. He reached his hand up to his chest, half expecting to see an arrow embedded there.
And the woman, she was magnificent. He remembered snatches of their life together, of them making love, while surrounded by a besieged city.
He shook his head again to clear it. He was the Prince of all Saiyans, he had better things to do than dream about some warrior and his mate. He snorted ::Next Iíll be seeking out that annoying woman and claiming her as my mate. Bah! I need to focus more.::
But he couldnít get his mind off of the woman, both of them. He kept comparing them in his mind and noting the similarities. He conceded that both the dream woman and Bulma were beautiful, like it mattered. Bulmaís beauty did nothing to hide that annoying and exciting personality. They were both strong-willed, although his woman was more stubborn and spoiled. Both were intelligent, but, he thought to himself, that other woman, Helen, had nothing that could rival the genius that resided in his Bulma.
He paused in his thoughts, reflecting on them. His eyes widened slowly with dawning realization. His thoughts were betraying him. He had been thinking of that woman as "his,í as if she were his prospective mate.
He didnít want a mate; they were only a distraction and a burden. A mate would keep him from realizing his true potential, that of the True Legendary Super Saiyan. And if he took that woman as a mate, she would most likely hound him until he went insane. Still, she did excite him with her courage and audacity.
Maybe you should seek her out.
The thought threaded through his musings to come to the forefront of his mind. But he disregarded them as the foolish meanderings of his lonely heart.
It was over.
Through deception and deceit the Greeks had won.
Hidden in the bowels of the large wooden horse given to the Trojans as a gift lay several Greek soldiers. When night fell, they crept from their hiding place, ambushed the gate guards, and let the waiting Greek army into the sleeping city. The surprise was total. The Trojans, suspecting nothing, put up little defense. And the Greeks, still enraged by the recent death of Achilles, showed no mercy. Women, children, young and old alike were slaughtered heartlessly.
She had awakened from her fitful slumber when the door to her bedchamber burst open. Framed in the doorway stood Meneleaus, her first husband. The short sword clenched in his hand dripped with blood. Stepping over the bloodied body of her serving woman, the Spartan King strode purposefully across the room to her.
"You are finally mine once again!" he growled as he grabbed her chin and roughly kissed her.
She recoiled from the kiss. Placing her hands on his chest, she pushed away from him while turning her head to one side.
A confused expression crossed his face as he pulled back from her. Taking her chin between his thumb and forefinger, he tilted it up so he could look at her better.
She glared at him icily. Slowly, he traced the dried tracks of tears down her pale cheeks. Tilting her head to the left, he traced the hollows in her throat. Carefully he turned her head back to face him.
"What has happened here? Has that disgusting Trojan harmed you?" he asked harshly.
She reached up and removed her chin from his grasp. Her expression remained unchanged, her unusual blue eyes snapping in anger.
"What has happened here?" she echoed softly looking down at her hands. She sighed once sadly, then met Meneleausí dark gaze. "You happened here. You were so full of pride that you couldnít let me go, could you? You couldnít accept that I didnít want you anymore. No! You had to go and embroil two nations in war for over ten years. And what have you accomplished? Nothing." She drew a breath and continued in a hard voice, ignoring the hurt expression on his face. "No, Ďthat disgusting Trojaní did not harm me! He cared for me. He respected me, not just my beauty. He loved me. And I loved him." She paused looking down at her hands once again. She studied her fingers and palms balling them into little fists. "Now . . . Now, he is dead. As is my heart," she said with a catch in her voice.
"You loved him?" he asked bewildered at her outburst.
She nodded, unwilling to trust her voice.
"But why? You were my wife and I cherished you. I gave you everything you ever asked for," he said softly looking to her for an answer. But she remained mute, staring down at her tightly clenched fists. He grabbed her chin once more and forced her to look at him. "You are still my wife," he hissed, "and I mean to have you, all of you!"
She smiled sardonically. "You canít have what isnít there," she pointed out coldly. "Youíre welcome to what is left though. I donít care anymore."
He stared down at her, trying to figure out her words. He shook his head and lifted her out of the bed. He set her on her feet. When she made no move to clothe herself, the Spartan king picked up a discarded white chiton and carefully pinned it on her shoulders. He then wrapped a thin gold belt about her waist. He stepped back, she hardly looked like a queen. She resembled a lost waif more with her midnight blue hair falling disheveled about her shoulders.
"Come, wife, we have a long journey home," he stated softly.
She turned her eyes to regard him sadly. She knew he still loved her in his fashion. But, she no longer had any feeling for him. She had been angry with him at first, however she realized her anger would do no good. It wouldnít bring Paris back, and that was all she desired now. Meneleaus still thought of her as the young girl she had been all those years ago. The young girl who laughed gaily and longed for nothing more than a new bauble or trinket. But that girl was gone long before Helen had fled with Paris. She grew up. She grew up into a woman who was forced to learn to govern a nation while her husband was away. She grew up into a woman who discovered that she had intelligence as well as beauty. She grew up into a woman who realized that the palace she lived in was little more than a cleverly glided cage. She grew up into a woman who longed for freedom.
"Yes, yes it is a long journey home," she replied in a contemplative voice, but her mind was not on Sparta.
Meneleaus offered her his arm, and she took it gently, letting him lead her out into the conquered city. She saw the dead staring at her with sightless accusatory eyes. She heard the screams of women as they were brutally violated by the victorious Greeks. She smelled the stench of burning wood mixed with that of charred flesh. The city that Paris had loved so much was destroyed; his people murdered or enslaved. She felt tears prick her eyes, but she ruthlessly supressed them. She had spent all of her tears when Paris died.
Now, now she would simply wait until death claimed her body so that she could rejoin her soul.
It happened again. She had drifted off into that dream world of Greeks and Trojans. She put her fists to her head, fighting the urge to scream. It was so frustrating. The dreams were so vivid, so disturbing that she started to avoid sleeping.
Kami, what should she do. Then, unbidden, a voice drifted through her head.
She straightened up abruptly, looking around her. There was no one in her lab with her and the air was filled with the hum of machinery. Find him, the voice said. Find who, she wondered.
Find your soul.
The voice once again intruded her thought. She pushed herself backwards and stood up, placing her hands on her hips. "Oh thatís great advice! Find my soul! Who and the hell is . . ." her voice trailed off. She knew. She knew whose soul completed hers.
"Oh Kami, itís him," she whispered. No one else fit the profile, no one else made her feel so alive.
"Ok, Iíve found him. Now what?" she continued.
Great, now she was getting romantic advice from the voices in her head. Love him. What kind of advice is that?
Do you need me to draw you pictures?
The voice in her mind sounded amused as little flashes of lovers entwined invaded her thoughts.
"Stop that!" she snapped, stomping her foot on the ground. She felt rather than heard the voice trill a little laugh.
She sat back down in her lab chair, leaning back in it heavily. If she were being honest with herself, she admitted ruefully, the thought of making love to Vegeta didnít bother her; it excited her.
Tomorrow. Tomorrow she would end these dreams.
She was one of the few who saw it happen. An arrow shot over the high walls of the city pierced the Trojan prince's chest felling him.
A sharp pain stabbed her heart, making it difficult for her to breathe.
"PARIS!!!" she screamed. "NO! Oh Gods, No!" She tore her eyes from Paris' crumpled form and ran heedlessly up the stairs, shoving soldiers out of her way. She reached the top and quickly threaded her way across the narrow stone walkway to where her husband lay wounded.
She knelt beside him, her hands held uncertainly in the air. She wanted to gather him in her arms, but feared injuring him even further. His hand had closed around the arrow and with a sudden motion, he ripped it from his body. Blood spurted from the wound, flowing out from under his armor to stain the stones beneath him.
Unable to restrain herself any longer, she threw herself atop him, clutching him fiercely. Tears flowed heedlessly down her cheeks as she lifted her head to look into his eyes. Her heart lurched when she saw the raw emotions mirrored there. He loved her, she could see that clearly, but he also feared for her.
Raising himself up onto one arm, Paris lifted his hand weakly to her face. Slowly, tenderly he brushed the tears away, crooning all the while under his breath, "Shhhhh . . . my little love . . . shhhh."
She sat up and clutched his hand to her face. She couldn't control the flow of tears streaming from her eyes, a part of her was dying and she couldn't stop it. "Why?" she asked with a broken catch in her voice.
He continued to smooth the tears away. "Hush, my love. Hush."
"You tell me that all the time!" she sniffed indignantly.
"And do you ever listen? No, you do not," he replied with a small chuckle. He then flinched and grimaced, looking down at his body.
She followed his gaze, noticing the blood pooling under him, before she turned back her eyes to him, stricken. "Paris . . ." she started.
"I know," he said leaning back once again on the walkway of the battlements. Abruptly, he turned his head and coughed into his hand. When he pulled his arm away, his palm was covered in blood and the thick liquid stained his lips. She lifted the hem of her chiton and wiped away the blood from his face, noting absently that much of the fabric was already covered with the substance.
"But why do you have to leave me?" she asked plaintively.
"I . . . I do not wish to. It . . . is the will of the Gods."
"Damn the Gods!" she cried heedlessly, throwing her body against his chest. "I need you."
"Hush . . . I will see you again," he soothed her, lifting his arms to stroke her back.
"When?" she whispered, burrowing further into his embrace.
"I do not know, my little one. But I swear on the Goddess Aphrodite that my soul will find yours once again. Just . . . just wait for me."
She lifted her head to appraise him. His obsidian eyes glittered fiercely with determination. "I believe you, my prince," she said slowly digesting his words. "I will have to wait for you. My soul is incomplete without you," she said simply.
He began coughing heavily as his lungs tried vainly to expel the liquid filling them, pushing her away from him. She thought she heard him say something, but she couldn't make out the words. When the fit subsided, he turned back to face her. His eyes filled with tears and he tried to whisper something. But his voice failed him. For the first time, she hushed him. Slowly she bent over and pressed her lips to his. When she pulled back to look into his face once more, he gave her a half smirk and breathed out raggedly. As the breath left his body, his eyes closed. And he was gone.
His final moment was so peaceful, that it took her a minute before she realized that her husband was dead. When she did, her body started to shake uncontrollably. With a trembling hand she traced the sharp contours of his face, feeling the baby soft skin beneath. Silently, she leaned forward once more and kissed the still warm yet unresponsive lips.
She felt strong hands clasp her shoulders and turned to look into the sad face of the bald captain of the guards. Brusquely brushing his hands from her, she stood. She looked up at the bright blue sky and whispered, "I will find you my love, my heart, my soul, again someday."
The dream tonight completely decided her. She had awakened from her sleep in tears. Even now, she could feel the incompleteness fueled by Parisí death.
Slipping from her bed, she made her way over to Vegetaís room, prepared mentally as well as physically to end these dreams. She slipped into Vegetaís room and shut the door behind her with a soft click. Slowly, she made her way over to his bed.
He lay sprawled on the bed, his brow drenched in sweat. He tossed and turned restlessly, occaisonally crying out in his sleep. She drew in a deep breath and touched his face with one trembling hand. Instantly, he quieted at her touch but did not waken. Slowly she stroked the sharp planes of his face. He shifted and awakened slowly.
His eyes widened when he saw her and he sat up in bed. "What are you doing here, woman?" he grumbled.
"Iím here to reclaim my soul," she said softly.
His eyes widened further at the half-forgotten memory, then narrowed at her. "What does that have to do with me?"
"Everything. I lost a part of my soul when you died during the Trojan War. Iím here to get it back," she murmured firmly, moving closer to him.
He inhaled her soft scent and looked piercingly at her, raising an eyebrow.
"I love you, Vegeta. I think I always have. Thatís why I invited you to stay here. Thatís why I think youíre able to make me so angry," she explained softer.
"Woman . . ." he growled at her.
"I need you, Vegeta," she murmured, moving in to kiss him. And suddenly everything felt right. Everything felt whole again. He must have felt it too, because he wrapped her tightly in his arms, pulling her closer.
They pulled away and looked into each otherís eyes, feeling their souls unite and become one.
Vegeta blinked and she saw tears fill his eyes, "My queen, I have found you," he whispered hoarsely.
"And I have found you," she murmured in return. She kissed him once breifly.
"That was too brief of a kiss, my little love."
She rejoiced at the endearment and breathed, "What do you plan to do about that."
He showed her what.
A smile touched the immortalís face as she looked down at the two entwined lovers and she turned to look at her companion.
"Thank you, Lord Enma. I owed those two souls. They should not suffer for my mistake."
"You were a good goddess, Aphrodite. Itís too bad that no one believes in you anymore."
The beautiful Greek goddess smiled enigmatically and replied, "So long as there are lovers, I have worshipers."
I deliberately did not identify which characters were which in the past-life regressions. But for those of you still confused here is the list.
Helen of Troy Ė Bulma
Paris Ė Vegeta
Meneleaus Ė Yamcha
I know I left out several key points in the story. One Helen has a daughter by Meneleaus and the other key issue I left out was Helen is an immortal. She is the daughter of Zeus and Leda and her twin brothers are Castor and Pollux.
This idea for the story came to me after reading three completely unrelated stories. The first is Mythic Descent by Dragoness Eclectic. This story reminded me of the whole idea of reincarnation, which happens in DBZ when a soul has not led a good enough of a life to warrant heaven but isnít bad enough to deserve hell. The second story is Remembrance by Jude Devereaux. A very sweet story about a romance writer who is looking for her true love and has to go back in time to right the wrongs done in one of her past lives. The final story is The Golden Drum by an author whose name I forget (itís in a book of short stories). It is also the story of reincarnation and finding your true love after fate cruelly separates you.