Revelations
By Felicia Ferguson
Rating: PG
Disclaimer: Still not mine.
Summary: As the Chosen One is called forth, Marguerite must decide between what could be and what is.
Spoilers: Out of Time, True Spirit and a couple of others
Author's Note: This was conceived before The Secret aired, so any references that have since been dissolved by that episode are purely in line with what I knew to be true at the time.
1/?
The night lay still, shrouded in the ever-encroaching mists that formed off the rising tide of the Inland Sea and floated toward the tree house, normally never reaching the leafy trees which housed it. Tonight, however, was different. A curious coolness had engulfed the plateau over the last few days, and while Veronica had never witnessed a true changing of the seasons during her lifetime, it led Challenger to believe that snow was not too far behind.
The explorers themselves had all turned in for the night so none was witness to the eerie phenomenon. None save one heiress who had fallen asleep in an armchair while reading.
"Marguerite..." a hushed tone whispered, the syllables elongating in the mist as if traveling a far distance.
The heiress did not stir, though the book in her lap slipped to the floor, the soft thud equally unable to draw her attention. The cool mist wafted through the slats in the tree house creeping their way toward the sleeping woman. "Marguerite..." the voiced called again.
This time it was rewarded by a shift in position and a mumbled, "Not now, Roxton, I'm sleeping."
The mist slipped over her body and hovered. "Marguerite, we need your help."
Marguerite raised a hand as if the mist were an irritating bug bent on waking her from her dreams. It parted for a moment, only to coalesce into a figure. It seated itself on the arm of the chair and brushed away the tendrils of hair which had fallen against her cheek.
The heiress rubbed her eyes slowly, unwilling to awake fully, but realizing that some persistent thing continued to prod her. Opening her eyes, she prepared to give that person bloody hell, but was stopped before words could even form and jerked to an upright position. "Wha-what?" she began, rubbing her eyes again in the attempt to banish the misty figure from her sight. Surely it was just a dream.
The figure sat back, almost as if it were waiting for her to accept its reality. Marguerite pinched herself once then again harder and still the figure remained. "Okay, so I'm not dreaming," she murmured to herself. Surprisingly, it didn't occur to her to call the others who were at most a few feet away.
Instead she reached toward the figure, but before her hand reached the cloud, a voice whispered through the air. "Chosen One, your time is now. You must help us."
"How do I do that?" she asked, her hand retreating back to the arm of the chair.
"We will lead you when the time is right, but for now, trust yourself. You will know."
Without another word or admonition, the fog dissipated leaving only the echo of silence in its wake. Marguerite, bewildered, and yet, unafraid, watched as it disappeared, a sense of purpose settling over her. The time was now.
...to be continued...
By Felicia Ferguson
Rating: PG
Disclaimer: Still not mine.
Summary: As the Chosen One is called forth, Marguerite must decide between what could be and what is.
Spoilers: Out of Time, True Spirit and a couple of others
Author's Note: This was conceived before The Secret aired, so any references that have since been dissolved by that episode are purely in line with what I knew to be true at the time.
1/?
The night lay still, shrouded in the ever-encroaching mists that formed off the rising tide of the Inland Sea and floated toward the tree house, normally never reaching the leafy trees which housed it. Tonight, however, was different. A curious coolness had engulfed the plateau over the last few days, and while Veronica had never witnessed a true changing of the seasons during her lifetime, it led Challenger to believe that snow was not too far behind.
The explorers themselves had all turned in for the night so none was witness to the eerie phenomenon. None save one heiress who had fallen asleep in an armchair while reading.
"Marguerite..." a hushed tone whispered, the syllables elongating in the mist as if traveling a far distance.
The heiress did not stir, though the book in her lap slipped to the floor, the soft thud equally unable to draw her attention. The cool mist wafted through the slats in the tree house creeping their way toward the sleeping woman. "Marguerite..." the voiced called again.
This time it was rewarded by a shift in position and a mumbled, "Not now, Roxton, I'm sleeping."
The mist slipped over her body and hovered. "Marguerite, we need your help."
Marguerite raised a hand as if the mist were an irritating bug bent on waking her from her dreams. It parted for a moment, only to coalesce into a figure. It seated itself on the arm of the chair and brushed away the tendrils of hair which had fallen against her cheek.
The heiress rubbed her eyes slowly, unwilling to awake fully, but realizing that some persistent thing continued to prod her. Opening her eyes, she prepared to give that person bloody hell, but was stopped before words could even form and jerked to an upright position. "Wha-what?" she began, rubbing her eyes again in the attempt to banish the misty figure from her sight. Surely it was just a dream.
The figure sat back, almost as if it were waiting for her to accept its reality. Marguerite pinched herself once then again harder and still the figure remained. "Okay, so I'm not dreaming," she murmured to herself. Surprisingly, it didn't occur to her to call the others who were at most a few feet away.
Instead she reached toward the figure, but before her hand reached the cloud, a voice whispered through the air. "Chosen One, your time is now. You must help us."
"How do I do that?" she asked, her hand retreating back to the arm of the chair.
"We will lead you when the time is right, but for now, trust yourself. You will know."
Without another word or admonition, the fog dissipated leaving only the echo of silence in its wake. Marguerite, bewildered, and yet, unafraid, watched as it disappeared, a sense of purpose settling over her. The time was now.
...to be continued...