A/N: Once again, I'm going to apologize for my constant misspelling of Briseis. See? All good now. I also want to apologize to Lina, and explain myself. The concept of reincarnation isn't annoying. In fact, I find it a very cool idea and wish I knew more about it. The annoying part I was referring to was the constant incorporation of reincarnation into trashy romance novels and even trashier fan fiction (which I'm hoping mine will not be.) I also have a quick bone to pick with one of my reviewees (yes, immature I know, I could take the stiff upper lip, or turn the other cheek, or whatever, but I'm not that much of a mensch): I realize that an army officer wouldn't ever speak to their overseeing officer in the way I've portrayed Achilles/Alec of doing; however, I like to think I'm using my artistic license, just as I like to think Homer did when he wrote the Iliad: instead of being court marshaled, soldiers would probably get their heads chopped off for arguing with a king. Also, it's a possibility that Alec gets away with so much because, like in the movie, the government realizes he's indispensable. Just a thought. And if my chapters are short, well, I for one try not to care about "looking bad", but if it really is bothering you, I'll try to lengthen them. Otherwise, thanks for the advice, I tried to access that website but it didn't work, and I'll try to find out the proper rankings of army or Navy officials.
Anyway... thanks to all my reviewers! And to Picture Girl, for agreeing to beta this story for me, and in doing so, hopefully make it better. (Ha, ha ha, ha ha ha... sighs tragically at her lack of humerosity.) En garde! Here cometh the next chaptereth!
"Want of foresight, unwillingness to act when action would be simple and effective, lack of clear thinking, confusion of counsel until the emergency comes, until self-preservation strikes its jarring gong—these are the features which constitute the endless repetition of history." - Winston Churchill
I had expected dreams that night. Terrible, confusing dreams. Hot, sexy dreams. Dreams that I both dreaded, and strangely, craved. Since I had been daydreaming all day, why not at night? But no one visited me at night. No Trojan Man, no Trojan men, no men at all. My sleep was as bare as the white Egyptian cotton sheets I slept on. But not nearly as silky. I couldn't remember having a single dream. But then why did I keep waking up at random times: 2 am, 4 am, 5 am, disoriented as to where I was, and who I was?
Which was likely why I was so exhausted during Pointe. Monsieur Bergman ignored me, as per usual. I tried not to let his quick dismissal of me cut, but it always did. My insecurities usually grew around men. It was strange, because with two brothers, it would seem I would be comfortable around men, but in fact, they were the only two I felt I could be myself with. With Henry and Pierce, I was fun, open, funny, beautiful, and let myself be vulnerable. Strangely, that comfort level had never transferred to any situations with men. Pierce would tease me by pointing out the convenience of being in a career with so few men. The ballet, for some, can be another kind of nunnery. For me, it was an excuse to hide from vulnerability.
I quickly flashbacked to the weird non-memories I had been having.
She upset many young men when she took her vows as a bride of Apollo.
No, no. No more of that. Inhaling, I rose as far as I could on the vamps of my toe shoes. Copying the other girls in the class, I raised my left leg back in an arabesque, extending my arms forward. Air pulsed below me.
Off in the distance, beyond the Canadian Institute of Ballet in the streets of Ottawa, a siren sounded. Fear rose in flurries through me. I recalled the woman I had met the night before, the talk shows my brothers, Ellen, and I had watched, tense with the dread of an oncoming war with the United States, while Adrienne was upstairs, resting, and my father was at an important meeting with his cabinet members.
Anger began to ascend in my mind, and then dwindled. I could pretend to be angry at Pierce for taking Ellen with him and putting my country in danger, but I was a sucker for a love story. If he loved her, well, that was enough to get my pathetic, romantic heart flailing.
Monsieur finally took a notice of me, when my bodyguard rushed in. I glanced around at the other dancers who watched me with scorn. They all could stand on their own two feet. They did not need a large, hulking man in a black uniform keeping them out of harms way. For a moment, I wished I were as brave as them.
That moment of envy cost half the dancers in the room their lives. And almost cost me mine, if my bodyguard hadn't physically picked me up and ran out of the building.
I can't describe what actually happened. My mind, likely smarter than I am, turned off my conscious thoughts so that I didn't go insane with the memory of seeing my home destroyed. I'm lucky. I blacked out from the intense sound as the bomb hit that swallowed my home. When I came to, Ottawa lay in shambles. – Not an atomic bomb – I thought, immediately, frozen with shock. The city had not disappeared. And then a sick, half guilty half relieved feeling grew like nausea low in my stomach. I had survived, but so many had not. And my city...
Most of Ottawa was burning. Buildings looked as though they had been sawed in half, with their metal skeletons showing. Dust rose from the crumbled stone and cement on the streets. It was eerily silent and gray. The Dust Bowl has come to Canada, I mused for a moment, and then looked down to see I was trapped beneath my bodyguard's body. Cold body. A guilty mix of relief and fear sloshed around in me. Someone else had decided that their life was expendable in regards to mine. He lay dead on top of me, crushing me with his weight, yet he seemed at once minute and twiggish. Once an oaf, now a helpless dead... ...thing. Fear overrode the relief that I was alive, choking me. I was caught beneath a dead man. I could soon die too. I watched, helpless beneath the crush of the dead body, as Canadians silently shuffled on the street, attempting to pull people out of the rubbish.
No one could believe it had happened. The walls of the city had come pounding down, and our defeat and despair had crushed the color out of the place. My once blue skies and red and white flag were now gray and brown, the dust from the explosion hovering around me like a blanket waiting to suffocate me. Yes, red remained, but it was a rotted red, old and drying, and now brown-tinged.
I tried to push my way out under the dead body of my one-time guard. No luck. Dancers are strong, but we aren't Xena. I had no special powers to speak of, except the luck to have been the daughter of the Prime Minister. From that, a whole other crowd of fears harassed me. Where was my family? Had they survived? Distantly, I watched my own reaction, astounded by my clarity and calm. Where had this strong, no nonsense girl come from? The Brianna I knew -- and, if not loved, then accepted – would be bawling, running around in circles, inept and unable to function. But this other Brianna was strong. Later would be a time for breaking down, she told me. Now was a time for a clear head.
Finally, color and sound appeared in my capital's carcass. Green. Army green and roaring, in the form of a helicopter.. – How had a helicopter come so quickly? – Lord knew that my father was both too peace loving and too secure to believe that anyone would ever dare to attack Canada. It would take hours for our defense to get into action and send aid into Ottawa.
It meant only one thing. Americans.
Anyway... thanks to all my reviewers! And to Picture Girl, for agreeing to beta this story for me, and in doing so, hopefully make it better. (Ha, ha ha, ha ha ha... sighs tragically at her lack of humerosity.) En garde! Here cometh the next chaptereth!
"Want of foresight, unwillingness to act when action would be simple and effective, lack of clear thinking, confusion of counsel until the emergency comes, until self-preservation strikes its jarring gong—these are the features which constitute the endless repetition of history." - Winston Churchill
I had expected dreams that night. Terrible, confusing dreams. Hot, sexy dreams. Dreams that I both dreaded, and strangely, craved. Since I had been daydreaming all day, why not at night? But no one visited me at night. No Trojan Man, no Trojan men, no men at all. My sleep was as bare as the white Egyptian cotton sheets I slept on. But not nearly as silky. I couldn't remember having a single dream. But then why did I keep waking up at random times: 2 am, 4 am, 5 am, disoriented as to where I was, and who I was?
Which was likely why I was so exhausted during Pointe. Monsieur Bergman ignored me, as per usual. I tried not to let his quick dismissal of me cut, but it always did. My insecurities usually grew around men. It was strange, because with two brothers, it would seem I would be comfortable around men, but in fact, they were the only two I felt I could be myself with. With Henry and Pierce, I was fun, open, funny, beautiful, and let myself be vulnerable. Strangely, that comfort level had never transferred to any situations with men. Pierce would tease me by pointing out the convenience of being in a career with so few men. The ballet, for some, can be another kind of nunnery. For me, it was an excuse to hide from vulnerability.
I quickly flashbacked to the weird non-memories I had been having.
She upset many young men when she took her vows as a bride of Apollo.
No, no. No more of that. Inhaling, I rose as far as I could on the vamps of my toe shoes. Copying the other girls in the class, I raised my left leg back in an arabesque, extending my arms forward. Air pulsed below me.
Off in the distance, beyond the Canadian Institute of Ballet in the streets of Ottawa, a siren sounded. Fear rose in flurries through me. I recalled the woman I had met the night before, the talk shows my brothers, Ellen, and I had watched, tense with the dread of an oncoming war with the United States, while Adrienne was upstairs, resting, and my father was at an important meeting with his cabinet members.
Anger began to ascend in my mind, and then dwindled. I could pretend to be angry at Pierce for taking Ellen with him and putting my country in danger, but I was a sucker for a love story. If he loved her, well, that was enough to get my pathetic, romantic heart flailing.
Monsieur finally took a notice of me, when my bodyguard rushed in. I glanced around at the other dancers who watched me with scorn. They all could stand on their own two feet. They did not need a large, hulking man in a black uniform keeping them out of harms way. For a moment, I wished I were as brave as them.
That moment of envy cost half the dancers in the room their lives. And almost cost me mine, if my bodyguard hadn't physically picked me up and ran out of the building.
I can't describe what actually happened. My mind, likely smarter than I am, turned off my conscious thoughts so that I didn't go insane with the memory of seeing my home destroyed. I'm lucky. I blacked out from the intense sound as the bomb hit that swallowed my home. When I came to, Ottawa lay in shambles. – Not an atomic bomb – I thought, immediately, frozen with shock. The city had not disappeared. And then a sick, half guilty half relieved feeling grew like nausea low in my stomach. I had survived, but so many had not. And my city...
Most of Ottawa was burning. Buildings looked as though they had been sawed in half, with their metal skeletons showing. Dust rose from the crumbled stone and cement on the streets. It was eerily silent and gray. The Dust Bowl has come to Canada, I mused for a moment, and then looked down to see I was trapped beneath my bodyguard's body. Cold body. A guilty mix of relief and fear sloshed around in me. Someone else had decided that their life was expendable in regards to mine. He lay dead on top of me, crushing me with his weight, yet he seemed at once minute and twiggish. Once an oaf, now a helpless dead... ...thing. Fear overrode the relief that I was alive, choking me. I was caught beneath a dead man. I could soon die too. I watched, helpless beneath the crush of the dead body, as Canadians silently shuffled on the street, attempting to pull people out of the rubbish.
No one could believe it had happened. The walls of the city had come pounding down, and our defeat and despair had crushed the color out of the place. My once blue skies and red and white flag were now gray and brown, the dust from the explosion hovering around me like a blanket waiting to suffocate me. Yes, red remained, but it was a rotted red, old and drying, and now brown-tinged.
I tried to push my way out under the dead body of my one-time guard. No luck. Dancers are strong, but we aren't Xena. I had no special powers to speak of, except the luck to have been the daughter of the Prime Minister. From that, a whole other crowd of fears harassed me. Where was my family? Had they survived? Distantly, I watched my own reaction, astounded by my clarity and calm. Where had this strong, no nonsense girl come from? The Brianna I knew -- and, if not loved, then accepted – would be bawling, running around in circles, inept and unable to function. But this other Brianna was strong. Later would be a time for breaking down, she told me. Now was a time for a clear head.
Finally, color and sound appeared in my capital's carcass. Green. Army green and roaring, in the form of a helicopter.. – How had a helicopter come so quickly? – Lord knew that my father was both too peace loving and too secure to believe that anyone would ever dare to attack Canada. It would take hours for our defense to get into action and send aid into Ottawa.
It meant only one thing. Americans.