TITLE: More than Greed: Lilies and Roses.
AUTHOR: Jo R.
CATEGORY: Introspective, short Marguerite piece set in early season one, most
likely an 'Alternate Universe' story (see Authors Notes).
RATING: PG.
SPOILERS: None really: just very basic knowledge of who and where the characters
are.
SUMMARY: Clutching to a dream, even if it's not true.
DISCLAIMER: 'Sir Arthur Conan Doyle's The Lost World' and its characters do not
belong to me. No money is being made and I promise they'll be returned almost
exactly the way they were when I found 'em.
AUTHOR'S NOTES: I wrote X-Files fanfiction a long time ago and have been
writing Stargate SG-1 fanfiction for two years now but this is my first venture into
LW territory.
This could possibly be the first part in a series, depending on how it goes. Please bare
in mind I've seen very little of the actual show and am basing this mainly on spoilers
I've read. I'm also aware it's probably 'Alternate Universe' but it's one of the theories
my mind came up with to explain why Marguerite was so cautious around the other
explorers at the beginning, and why she continues to pull away from Roxton even
after the events of 'Trapped' that I've read about thanks to California Girl on the LW
Boards.
DEDICATION: Traci for getting me hooked on TLW in the first place by sending me
her stories to read and Ruthie for encouraging me to try writing a LW fic.
Feedback of all shapes and sizes would be highly appreciated.
=*=
For as long as she could remember, Marguerite Krux had experienced the same
recurring dream. She'd welcomed it as a child, hoping it was a clue to the murky
infanthood and parents she couldn't remember. As an adult she clung to it, longing for
the dream to come at night if only because it kept the regularly array of nightmares at
bay.
She fought the urge to close her eyes as the sun beat down on her pale skin, her pace
slowing as her mind drifted, her thoughts wandering back to the hazy visions, back to
a past that may or may not be true..
Childish laughter and shrieks of joy escaped her as she skipped around in circles, the
soft grass beneath her cushioning her bare feet as she danced. The blades tickled her
toes, making her giggle even more as she skipped around the garden, picking flowers
to add to her collection.
There were two types of flowers in her hands. Big fragrant lilies with white petals
tinged with the palest of pinks were clutched tightly in one hand – but not so much
that the delicate stems would be damaged. Mama didn't like it when they were
snapped or bent out of shape, they had to be thrown away then. In the other hand was
a small, flat straw basket, with mountains of pink and cream roses gently placed
inside. She was just as careful with the roses as she was with the lilies – not only were
they fragile but they had thorns that could hurt. Papa had warned her once about them,
telling her to be careful if she insisted on collecting them unsupervised.
Finally content, confident that she had enough to make Mama proud, little Marguerite
skipped from the garden into the big white house with the red steps, pausing to inhale
the scent of the roses climbing up the walls. She eventually left the warmth of the sun
behind and stepped into the cool shade, slowing down so she didn't accidentally bump
into anything.
Inside of the house was strange and not as familiar. It would have been easy to get lost
but some deep-rooted instinct always led her through the numerous hallways and up
the gently curving staircase. Once on the landing, the sense of familiarity returned and
she followed the sweet fragrance assaulting her senses down the hallways and into the
last room on the left.
Her mother's room, the one she shared with her father. There was a woman sitting at
the ornate dressing table, a woman with big greyish-green eyes and wild brunette
curls she tried in vain to tame. Mama. The woman turned when Marguerite entered,
smiling so warmly it felt as though the sunshine had burst through the walls and
ceiling much in the way it burst through the clouds on a summer's day.
The basket of roses and handful of lilies were taken from her and put to one side, their
fragrances mingling and joining that of the various vases of roses and lilies scattered
around the room. Strong but slender arms lifted her into the air and gently placed her
on the big, soft bed. Mama joined her immediately and Marguerite cuddled up to her,
giggling when her mother's long hair tickled her nose and cheeks.
Her mother smelt just as wonderful as the rest of the room, the flowers scent clinging
to her hair and clothing. It was a familiar, welcoming smell. One that made her feel
safe and loved and wanted.
Mama spoke, she could see her lips move but she couldn't hear what was being said.
She could feel careful hands braiding her own wild locks, plaiting together strands of
silken hair with stems of lilies, making her smell just as sweet as Mama.
Her eyelids began to feel heavy and the panic began to set in. Marguerite fought as
usual, wanting to stay awake in her dream world, wanting to stay there for as long as
possible.
It didn't work. She fell asleep in the unconscious world and was brought back to
reality with a harsh jolt, followed by a small wistful sight that went unheard.
Blinking, Marguerite was startled to find she'd slowed to a halt and that her fellow
explorers were looking at her questioningly. Veronica Layton and Lord John Roxton
appeared vaguely annoyed when they realised their steady pace had been interrupted
once again by the mysterious heiress – and for a daydream! Shooting her looks that
showed their frustration, the hunter and the huntress were off again, neither bothering
to see if she or the others were following.
Perhaps predictably, Ned Malone followed their example, appearing more curious
than annoyed by then he was a reported and she knew for a fact he thought her to be
as uncaring and manipulative as the rest of them. They probably thought she'd been
fantasising about gems and jewels and things that sparkled and Marguerite found she
couldn't blame them.
George Challenger lingered behind, concern in his eyes until his attention was caught
by Malone calling to him, excitement and awe in the journalists voice. Marguerite
sighed to herself as he left and blinked back the unexpected moisture that sprung to
her eyes.
Why would them turning their backs on her affect her so much? She was used to it,
after all. So many people had done it during her lifetime. It shouldn't surprise her that
the other members of the expedition were just the same as the rest. As far as they were
concerned, she was the person responsible for stranding them here, the person she'd
let them believe she was: ruthless, selfish, uncaring, greedy..
If only they knew.
Only one person remained by her side and Marguerite turned to face him hesitantly,
unsure of what she'd see in his face.
Warm, knowing eyes met her own and Arthur Summerlee smiled at her –
sympathetically or tolerantly, she didn't know. He didn't speak but then the white
haired man didn't need to. In his case, actions spoke louder than words.
Giving her arm an affectionate squeeze, Summerlee ushered her on from where she'd
been stood, still without speaking, and the two stared in the direction the others had
gone.
He didn't chide or scold her for her daydreaming, or tell her how dangerous it was to
do something so frivolous out in the open of the dangerous jungle. He seemed to
know what she was beating herself up about it enough angry with herself for letting
her guard down even if just for a few seconds. The reactions of the others were
punishment enough.
When she glanced at him from the corner of her eye, she was startled to find he was
looking back. He smiled again, affectionately it seemed – perhaps knowingly – but
certainly with a hint of understanding.
Was it possible he knew?
In a blink of an eye, the smile was gone and Summerlee was once again looking
ahead of them to see where they were going. Following his lead, she saw the others
were waiting ahead, all seeming impatient.
Squaring her shoulders, Marguerite picked up her pace and locked the dream away in
her subconscious where it belonged. There'd be time to relive it later when she was
alone at the tree house. Time when she could try to remember.. and try not to cry.
=*=
The End.
AUTHOR: Jo R.
CATEGORY: Introspective, short Marguerite piece set in early season one, most
likely an 'Alternate Universe' story (see Authors Notes).
RATING: PG.
SPOILERS: None really: just very basic knowledge of who and where the characters
are.
SUMMARY: Clutching to a dream, even if it's not true.
DISCLAIMER: 'Sir Arthur Conan Doyle's The Lost World' and its characters do not
belong to me. No money is being made and I promise they'll be returned almost
exactly the way they were when I found 'em.
AUTHOR'S NOTES: I wrote X-Files fanfiction a long time ago and have been
writing Stargate SG-1 fanfiction for two years now but this is my first venture into
LW territory.
This could possibly be the first part in a series, depending on how it goes. Please bare
in mind I've seen very little of the actual show and am basing this mainly on spoilers
I've read. I'm also aware it's probably 'Alternate Universe' but it's one of the theories
my mind came up with to explain why Marguerite was so cautious around the other
explorers at the beginning, and why she continues to pull away from Roxton even
after the events of 'Trapped' that I've read about thanks to California Girl on the LW
Boards.
DEDICATION: Traci for getting me hooked on TLW in the first place by sending me
her stories to read and Ruthie for encouraging me to try writing a LW fic.
Feedback of all shapes and sizes would be highly appreciated.
=*=
For as long as she could remember, Marguerite Krux had experienced the same
recurring dream. She'd welcomed it as a child, hoping it was a clue to the murky
infanthood and parents she couldn't remember. As an adult she clung to it, longing for
the dream to come at night if only because it kept the regularly array of nightmares at
bay.
She fought the urge to close her eyes as the sun beat down on her pale skin, her pace
slowing as her mind drifted, her thoughts wandering back to the hazy visions, back to
a past that may or may not be true..
Childish laughter and shrieks of joy escaped her as she skipped around in circles, the
soft grass beneath her cushioning her bare feet as she danced. The blades tickled her
toes, making her giggle even more as she skipped around the garden, picking flowers
to add to her collection.
There were two types of flowers in her hands. Big fragrant lilies with white petals
tinged with the palest of pinks were clutched tightly in one hand – but not so much
that the delicate stems would be damaged. Mama didn't like it when they were
snapped or bent out of shape, they had to be thrown away then. In the other hand was
a small, flat straw basket, with mountains of pink and cream roses gently placed
inside. She was just as careful with the roses as she was with the lilies – not only were
they fragile but they had thorns that could hurt. Papa had warned her once about them,
telling her to be careful if she insisted on collecting them unsupervised.
Finally content, confident that she had enough to make Mama proud, little Marguerite
skipped from the garden into the big white house with the red steps, pausing to inhale
the scent of the roses climbing up the walls. She eventually left the warmth of the sun
behind and stepped into the cool shade, slowing down so she didn't accidentally bump
into anything.
Inside of the house was strange and not as familiar. It would have been easy to get lost
but some deep-rooted instinct always led her through the numerous hallways and up
the gently curving staircase. Once on the landing, the sense of familiarity returned and
she followed the sweet fragrance assaulting her senses down the hallways and into the
last room on the left.
Her mother's room, the one she shared with her father. There was a woman sitting at
the ornate dressing table, a woman with big greyish-green eyes and wild brunette
curls she tried in vain to tame. Mama. The woman turned when Marguerite entered,
smiling so warmly it felt as though the sunshine had burst through the walls and
ceiling much in the way it burst through the clouds on a summer's day.
The basket of roses and handful of lilies were taken from her and put to one side, their
fragrances mingling and joining that of the various vases of roses and lilies scattered
around the room. Strong but slender arms lifted her into the air and gently placed her
on the big, soft bed. Mama joined her immediately and Marguerite cuddled up to her,
giggling when her mother's long hair tickled her nose and cheeks.
Her mother smelt just as wonderful as the rest of the room, the flowers scent clinging
to her hair and clothing. It was a familiar, welcoming smell. One that made her feel
safe and loved and wanted.
Mama spoke, she could see her lips move but she couldn't hear what was being said.
She could feel careful hands braiding her own wild locks, plaiting together strands of
silken hair with stems of lilies, making her smell just as sweet as Mama.
Her eyelids began to feel heavy and the panic began to set in. Marguerite fought as
usual, wanting to stay awake in her dream world, wanting to stay there for as long as
possible.
It didn't work. She fell asleep in the unconscious world and was brought back to
reality with a harsh jolt, followed by a small wistful sight that went unheard.
Blinking, Marguerite was startled to find she'd slowed to a halt and that her fellow
explorers were looking at her questioningly. Veronica Layton and Lord John Roxton
appeared vaguely annoyed when they realised their steady pace had been interrupted
once again by the mysterious heiress – and for a daydream! Shooting her looks that
showed their frustration, the hunter and the huntress were off again, neither bothering
to see if she or the others were following.
Perhaps predictably, Ned Malone followed their example, appearing more curious
than annoyed by then he was a reported and she knew for a fact he thought her to be
as uncaring and manipulative as the rest of them. They probably thought she'd been
fantasising about gems and jewels and things that sparkled and Marguerite found she
couldn't blame them.
George Challenger lingered behind, concern in his eyes until his attention was caught
by Malone calling to him, excitement and awe in the journalists voice. Marguerite
sighed to herself as he left and blinked back the unexpected moisture that sprung to
her eyes.
Why would them turning their backs on her affect her so much? She was used to it,
after all. So many people had done it during her lifetime. It shouldn't surprise her that
the other members of the expedition were just the same as the rest. As far as they were
concerned, she was the person responsible for stranding them here, the person she'd
let them believe she was: ruthless, selfish, uncaring, greedy..
If only they knew.
Only one person remained by her side and Marguerite turned to face him hesitantly,
unsure of what she'd see in his face.
Warm, knowing eyes met her own and Arthur Summerlee smiled at her –
sympathetically or tolerantly, she didn't know. He didn't speak but then the white
haired man didn't need to. In his case, actions spoke louder than words.
Giving her arm an affectionate squeeze, Summerlee ushered her on from where she'd
been stood, still without speaking, and the two stared in the direction the others had
gone.
He didn't chide or scold her for her daydreaming, or tell her how dangerous it was to
do something so frivolous out in the open of the dangerous jungle. He seemed to
know what she was beating herself up about it enough angry with herself for letting
her guard down even if just for a few seconds. The reactions of the others were
punishment enough.
When she glanced at him from the corner of her eye, she was startled to find he was
looking back. He smiled again, affectionately it seemed – perhaps knowingly – but
certainly with a hint of understanding.
Was it possible he knew?
In a blink of an eye, the smile was gone and Summerlee was once again looking
ahead of them to see where they were going. Following his lead, she saw the others
were waiting ahead, all seeming impatient.
Squaring her shoulders, Marguerite picked up her pace and locked the dream away in
her subconscious where it belonged. There'd be time to relive it later when she was
alone at the tree house. Time when she could try to remember.. and try not to cry.
=*=
The End.