The Guardians of Treasures Untold
Author: Nefret24
Disclaimer: The Lost World and all its inhabitants (and those who have been just visiting for the past three seasons) do not belong to me. They are the property of Newline, the Over-the-Hill Gang, Coote-Hayes, and Telescene. Not to mention Guy Muhally, who started all this Celtic stuff in the first place. :P
Category: An M/R Adventure
Spoilers: Out of Time, The Secret, Tapestry, Legacy, Trapped, and Heart of the Storm.
Author's Notes: This little ditty takes place in the end of Season Three between Trapped and HOTS post "I Love Yous" and pre- climatic separation Just clearing up something that Roxton said in HOTS that bugged me- he didn't know before about the "reincarnation" part of Marguerite's Druid connection; he didn't even remember Bochra at the end of OOT
This is for Carolyn's fourth TLW FanFix Challenge. Thanks to Leahna for the paragraph and the added inspiration. ;)
Please read and review!! All forms of commentary are accepted at nefret_24@hotmail.com.
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PART ONE
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"Serpens aut draco qui caudam devoravit. They guard the treasures: the tree of knowledge in the Garden of Eden, the apples of the Hesperides, the golden fleece They're the serpents or dragons that the ancient Egyptians painted in a circle, with their tail in their mouth to indicate that they came from a single thing and were self-sufficient. Sleepless guardians, proud and wise. Hermetic dragons that kill the unworthy and allow themselves to be seduced only by one who has fought according to the rules. Guardians of the lost word: the magic formula that opens eyes and makes one the equal of God." ~ Arturo Perez-Reverte, "The Club Dumas"
"Your ways of being are wondrous and mysterious. They are unique and particular to you. I would know you anywhere." ~ Maya Angelou
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Absolute silence reigned. No screech of birds, no monkey chatter, no dinosaur roars, no trickle of water, not even the gentlest whisper of the wind. The only sound was the muffled crunch of his own footsteps. In the lush, vivid jungle, the quiet was anomalous and sent an eerie chill racing down his spine. A sudden loud crack- so intense he could feel it in his bones- reverberated across the plateau. He turned, instinctively knowing where the sound had originated. Terror grabbed his stomach as he muttered, "the treehouse," and took off in a dead run.
It was no use, though. They caught up with him, wrenching his staff from his hands as he raised it to crack their skulls, a vain attempt at a last stand. There were too many of them and help was too far off. He was already tired from the long journey and couldn't continue much longer, not with what he had already sustained.
"This is not over," he croaked through a parched throat, and after seeing the nearest one raise a club, closed his eyes and succumbed to oblivion.
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"Can this day get any better?" Marguerite Krux surprised herself as she felt the well-worn phrase pass her lips and found that she actually meant it, sarcasm aside. It had been a wonderful day- by plateau standards, anyhow.
Lord John Roxton, who sat across from her on their picnic blanket, raised an eyebrow at this and grinned. "Why, Marguerite, I think that was sincere."
"Scared you too, huh?" she laughed it off, looking in the opposite direction at the rippling stream.
"Just affirmed an theory I've been forming," he chuckled back, stroking her idle hand resting in her lap.
"You? With a theory? Ye gods, and I thought Challenger was bad enough," she placed her free hand artistically on her brow, the portrait of suffering. "Care to share it with me?"
"I don't think you hate this place as much as you say," he said in reply, suddenly all seriousness.
She laughed, but the sound was harsh and forced. "Roxton, you're imagining things."
"Am I? Can you honestly say that this place doesn't have its merits? Look at this!" he waved a hand at their picturesque picnic spot. "You can't find a spot like this in London!"
"No- you can find real streets instead of messy trails, solid brick buildings at ground level, and civilization free from cannibals, dinosaurs, trogs, ape-men, time-portals"
"I'm sorry I brought it up," he muttered under his breath.
"Serves you right for theorizing without collecting all your evidence first," she said curtly and stood up, out of his grasp. The mood, so pleasant a few minutes before, wasn't nearly so nice anymore. She made her way to the water's edge and began to splash some water onto her face.
Roxton sighed at another missed opportunity. Though they had grown immeasurably closer in the past couple weeks, ever since their harrowing experience trapped in the cave, she was still the same skittish and moody Marguerite. They managed to go off on their own without receiving the same raised eyebrows from their housemates, but so far as revealing to them the very real nature of their relationship, the two remained daunted. How had Marguerite put it? "I never perform in public."
But here they were, all on their lonesome, away from Finn and Veronica and Challenger, who were also out and about somewhere nearby, helping to gather food to stock their supply closets at the treehouse for the upcoming week. The days were becoming increasingly hot and uncomfortable and today is no exception, he thought, squinting up at the blazing sun. The short forging expedition that usually only took a few hours had exhausted the greater part of the day. Thank goodness Challenger had been considerate enough to realize that the enforced togetherness of the treehouse had been a bit more than stifling to the two lovers and had graciously allowed them to go off on an afternoon break, all by themselves.
He stood up and dusted himself off, refusing to accept Marguerite's precarious change of mood. He was going to make the most of this time- she could too if only she would listen for two seconds
He approached her but said nothing, content to just watch as she ran her hands up and down her bare arms, slicking them down with the cool water, her shirt having been tossed aside in the heat.
"See something you like?" she asked, arching an eyebrow.
"Enchanted."
"Really. Well, isn't that your hard luck. The shops aren't open for business today, gov'nor," she returned harshly, not looking at him.
"Hm perhaps an exception can be made?" he asked hopefully, taking off his hat and wiping his brow.
"What exactly did you have in mind?" she asked, twisting her lips thoughtfully.
"Well, maybethis?" he said, as he bent his head down to kiss her. She held her head back and maintained that strategic couple of inches away. He stopped his advance, questioning, asking permission.
And then she grinned widely. "I accept," she said triumphantly, pulling away from him with a splash.
Only then did he realize that she had taken his hat from his grasp and was laughing merrily at his bewildered expression.
"Can I please have my hat?"
"No, it's mine now. An apology gift. It's the least you could do."
"Ah, I see. And would your Highness like anything else? The shirt off my back?" he asked, plotting his revenge. He approached her again, this time with both hands up and ready for anything. "How about a shower?" he asked, before administering a light spritz of water onto her face.
So maybe it was a splash, he thought grudgingly. It had done nothing to cool her off but rather the reverse. Angry at getting her precious outfit wet, she sought retribution by thoroughly drenching him, never mind that in the process of splashing him she also managed to get herself quite damp as well. She ended up having a gay ole time, laughing at his misguided efforts to persuade her to stop.
"Marguerite, I mean it, this isn't funny anymore!" Roxton protested, his hands in front of his face, defending himself from the splashes of water headed in his direction.
Marguerite only laughed harder and continued with determination to get Lord John Roxton soaking wet. It was more difficult than it seemed, for she had to administer his impromptu shower with only one hand. The other was still holding his hat.
"Just give me back the hat and I promise--" he tried again, holding out a hand.
"Too late!" she giggled, and let him have it.
Water dribbled down his face, his eyes squinting through water-laden lashes at the figure in front of him. Shaking his head, he managed to slough off some of the water, but in the long run it did him little service. He was dripping, head to toe.
Finally, she remitted, and stood triumphantly in front of him, turning his hat over in her hands.
"You look like a drowned dog," she giggled.
"You look-" he began to retort and stopped, his breath caught in his throat. Her camisole was molded to her chest, her trousers heavy with water, outlined every curve. Her hair fell in tumbled masses on her shoulders, and her eyes were bright with mirth. He couldn't remember when he had ever beheld a sight more beautiful in his life.
"Stunning," he finished hoarsely, and made a move to approach her.
She stepped backwards, eyeing him warily and clutching the hat now behind her back. "Oh no you don't, Lord Roxton; no amount of compliments will make me give up my trophy today."
"You sure about that?" he said huskily, his hands now on her shoulders as he looked down at her flushed face.
She licked her lips and smiled wickedly up at him, extending her long white neck. Now having the upper hand, she seemed to have regained her playfulness. "Well, I suppose I could be open to persuasion."
He chuckled and bent his head down to kiss her. She returned the kiss eagerly, reaching one hand up to caress his cheek. His arms snaked around her and made a dash for the hat, now loose in her other hand.
Her eyes opened wide and she immediately broke the kiss, wrenching the hat from his grasp again and began to wriggle out of his embrace. Taking a step backwards, her boot landed on a slippery rock and Marguerite found herself falling backwards, hat and all, into the water.
Roxton began to laugh. After all that trouble not to get wet and she ends up in it anyhow! He was about to say so before he noticed something was definitely wrong.
Marguerite wasn't getting up and was being slightly jostled by the current. He grabbed a hold of her waist and hoisted her up, one side of her face red with blood.
"Oh God, Marguerite!" Hauling up his precious burden, he moved to dry land and laid her down on the small shore, smoothing the hair away from her face. He began wiping the blood away with his sleeve and let out a relieved sigh when he saw the small rent above her eyebrow. It wasn't that bad, most of what he had wiped away was water.
She began to stir and cursed several times. "Dammit, Roxton, now I'm soaked!"
Roxton's profuse apologies died on his lips. He returned anger for anger. "Well, if you hadn't stole my bloody hat--"
"Some gentleman you are in trying to steal it back," she retorted caustically.
She slowly rose to a standing position and began to squeeze out the ends of her hair, before flinging the bulk of it behind her shoulders.
Picking up their rifles and handing one to her, he asked concerned, "Are you okay?"
She reached a hand up to touch her wound and winced, pulling back fingertips marked with blood. "I'll live. George can fix me up when we get back to the treehouse."
"Well, let's get back then. I'm sure they beat us home," he said resolutely, waiting for Marguerite to climb up the shore.
She gathered up their gear quickly, shoving everything into her pack and glaring, stomped past him. "Lead on, my lady," he smirked at her back.
Disconcerted again, she turned quickly on her heel and followed the path they had made. Two harmless words shouldn't make her stomach flip over like that. They had walked about half of the way home when Marguerite began to feel uneasy. She had a sneaking suspicion that they were being followed but everytime she turned around to look, there was no one there. Compounded with her throbbing head and a slight dizziness, she began to doubt herself to the point where she even went so far as to ask Roxton if he saw anyone in the nearby underbrush. He shrugged it off, looking at her as if she had indeed lost her mind and kept his quick pace towards the treehouse. She kept her distance and her silence from him for another good half-hour before quietly asking for a short rest. He complied with a nod of his head.
Marguerite found a suitable rock and sat down, deep in thought. Roxton was leaving her to deal with her own temper and she didn't know whether to love him or hate him for it. It frustrated her to no end. She looked up and saw that he was watching her out of the corners of his eye as he leaned against a tree, his rifle loose in his hands.
Damn that man! He really is too attractive for his own good. It's horribly unfair that he can stand there like that and make me less mad simply because of a muscular frame and handsome face. Determined to keep her grudge a little while longer, she rose abruptly and moved away to find another rock.
As she scanned the area for a passable seat, she stumbled. Cursing she turned back to see what had tripped her and involuntarily started.
"Oh my God." On the jungle floor lay a man whose brown robes were horribly discolored with an ominous red stain spreading along his stomach. His head bore the tell-tale signs of bludgeoning and as she knelt down and took the man's head in her lap, she began to shake uncontrollably.
She knew him.
She tried to hail Roxton but she only managed to make a noise that was half strangled cry and half shriek. It was enough; in seconds he appeared by her side.
"Marguerite!" he cried, concerned, seeing only her, sitting on the ground. As he approached he saw the man. "Is he alive?" he asked hoarsely, kneeling beside the two.
"Barely," she croaked, her eyes brimming with tears. "Can we- will he make it back- to the treehouse?"
"We can try," Roxton replied grimly, handing her the rifle and lifting the man into his arms with a grunt.
Marguerite scrambled to her feet behind Roxton. She was moving at a furiously fast pace, and Roxton struggled to keep up, weighted down as he was.
Finally, he called for a rest a couple miles from the treehouse. Marguerite went to the unconscious man's side. "He's still out," she said in a small voice.
"With a knock on the head like that," Roxton shrugged, taking a swig of his water canteen. He offered it to Marguerite, who just shook her head abstractedly.
She was busy pushing the man's hair off his forehead, her fingertips lightly brushing his temple like a caress. Roxton suddenly felt a stab of jealousy. Who was this man that Marguerite was moved to tears by his presence, that she would give him attentions such as these? She had never shown such concern over other native people they had found in similar dire straits.
The man seemed common enough, with coarse brown hair with streaks of gray and a finely clipped beard framing the lower half of his face. His dark brown robes were generic enough. Whoever he was, he had certainly offended somebody, thought Roxton as he eyed the man's wound, the dark red patch on the robe slowly growing.
"Please, Roxton, we have to get him back," she said in a worried voice. She scanned the surrounding jungle warily, frightened. The hair on the back of her neck stood on end. What the hell was going on? She tried to think but squinted with the pain of her aching head. Bloody hell, she thought, as Roxton lifted the man back onto his shoulders.
Marguerite hurried on, propelled forward both by the urgency to help the man and her own growing uneasiness. She looked back over her shoulder and saw Roxton laboring hard some distance behind her underneath the weight of his charge. Does he even remember the whole thing? How am I ever going to explain all this?
She reached the treehouse first and called out in a breathless voice. "Send the elevator down! And be quick about it!"
Finn rushed to the balcony first. "Hold your horses, Marguerite. We just got back. What's the big rush?" she asked, raising a skeptical eyebrow as Veronica joined her to look down on the heiress.
"We have a man who's hurt," she shouted back pointing at Roxton, just coming into view out of the trees.
"I'll be right down," Veronica said, already moving to the elevator. As she went down she called out to Finn, "Get Challenger and the first aid kit."
"Never dull 'round here," Finn muttered, and did as she was instructed.
Roxton and Veronica came up in the elevator first, with the man slung between them. They laid him down in the now empty bedroom Malone had occupied and Challenger was hot on their heels.
"What happened to him?" he asked, taking the man's wrist and searching for a pulse.
"I have no idea," Roxton said, mopping his brow, and moving over to the side as Veronica left the room to get a fresh basin of water. "We found him on our way back. Looks like he rubbed someone the wrong way."
"You could say that. This is a pretty nasty wound," Challenger said, lifting up the fabric of the man's robe. "A knife or spear did this, I would presume. Not to mention the head injuryHe's still breathing, at least," Challenger sighed, his mouth set in a grim line.
Finn entered the room with the first aid kit and promptly handed it over to Challenger. She eyed the stranger warily and was about to speak when she was rudely pushed to the side by Marguerite, forcing her way into the room.
"Is he going to be alright?" she asked, the concern evident in her voice.
"Let's hope so," Veronica added, setting the basin on the bed next to Challenger.
Challenger set to work to assess the damages the man had incurred and prepared sutures for his stomach wound, while Veronica and Marguerite, each taking one side of the bed, set themselves about cleaning up both areas in question.
Roxton had retreated into the kitchen. He stood at the table, a full glass of water in front of him. His throat was parched; he should have drunk its entire contents in one long gulp. His back, arms and legs tingled with a slight soreness and yet he did not sit down. All he could think about was the man and Marguerite's peculiar reaction towards him.
He had liked to think that the greater part of her secrets were behind them now. She had said that she loved him, didn't she? He knew about Xian, and Parsifal too many gaps were left. He gripped the sides of the glass and with one fluid stroke, raised it to his lips. She knows who he is, he thought grimly, contemplating the mostly empty glass.
Finn appeared behind him. "I think I was kinda getting in the way in there," she said with a sigh and flopped down into a chair. "So other than finding the half dead old guy, anythin' interesting happen?"
Oh, God, he thought, inwardly rolling his eyes. She's almost as clueless as Malone was. "Nope. Sorry to disappoint," he replied curtly.
Finn gave him a quizzical stare and opened her mouth as if to continue when Veronica emerged from the room. Roxton turned and raised his eyebrows.
"Challenger's almost done. The guy's been pretty lucky- we think he's gonna be alright."
Roxton sighed in relief and Veronica smiled benevolently at him. Then with an askance look at Finn, she took the younger girl by the shoulder. "We should go out and get some more plants for that botanical salve though. We used almost all of it up and that man, whoever he is, is certainly going to need more of it if he hopes to get better."
"I'll go get my crossbow," Finn said eagerly and dashed out of the room.
"And some torches- in case it gets too dark," Veronica called to her quickly retreating form.
Roxton felt a grin slide up his face and brought two hands to his face to rub his tired eyes. Even without Finn around, this night was going to be long, he had a feeling.
"Roxton, what's wrong? What happened out there?" Veronica asked in a quiet voice full of concern. "Marguerite's got a nasty cut on her head"
"That's nothing. Nothing."
"That's what she said and I don't believe her either," she said eyeing him curiously. "She waved me and Challenger off"
"It's not that serious- she just, um, tripped. Had nothing to do with the man."
"Did you see who attacked him?"
"No. That's what bothers me. He was just lying there- in the middle of the jungle, the middle of nowhere really. No animals, no people. Just him."
"Odd," she twisted her lips in thought. "There was no trail?"
"Just his footsteps- not too steady and not far from where he collapsed."
"He couldn't have traveled far with a wound like that."
"No," he agreed, his mouth set in a firm line.
Veronica inspected his face critically. He was unusually suspicious of their guest and seemed as if he was coiled up, ready to spring for attack. Roxton had always been uncommonly protective of them, even more so since they lost Summerlee and Malone, but the stranger was lucky he was alive- left alone to die in the jungle- where's the danger inherent in that? The man wasn't even conscious yet. Marguerite had said the man had been out since they discovered them
Ah. Marguerite. That's what this is really about, I bet, Veronica thought.
"Marguerite's still in there with him. Won't leave his side. You think she knows something she's not telling us?"
Roxton turned away abruptly as Finn reappeared, armed and ready for plant gathering.
"Vee, you ready?"
"In a minute. Roxton, look at me," she ordered, reaching out a hand to touch his forearm. "God knows I've suspected that woman of every dirty trick in the book. But," she said with a wry smile, "she's one of us and deserves the chance to explain herself- if she even has anything to explain."
Roxton turned and smiled down at the blond. She knew how to get at the meat of things, didn't she? "It's harder than it sounds."
"I'm sure you can manage," she replied and with an affectionate squeeze, she left to join an impatient Finn in the elevator.
The elevator rumbled down as Challenger exited the bedroom, wiping his hands on a dirty scrap of cloth. "There's nothing more I can do," he said professionally and lowered himself into a seat. "If he makes it through tonight, I'd say he has a very good chance of a full recovery."
"Well, George, I'd say he was pretty lucky to have stumbled into your capable hands," chuckled Roxton, clapping the older gentleman on the back.
"I daresay you're right. I suggest that we take turns watching over him- he isn't running a fever and hopefully we can keep it that way. Marguerite said she'd take the first shift- by the by, see if you can convince her to let me look at that bump of hers, just in case," he added over his shoulder, as Roxton made his way towards the bedroom. He stopped right outside the curtain and watched her from the shadows.
Marguerite sat by the bed of the fallen man, tossing a used rag into a nearby basin. Propping up her chin with her hands, she stared intently at the man's face. He had aged so much since she had seen him last, ever so much more than two years.
What was it that he had said? That he was traveling to a different time, a better time for him and his people. Some good ole days, she thought, twisting her lips into a grimace. She could still see his blood on her hands when she had found him earlier that day. Shaking off a chill, she sighed and took the man's nearest hand into hers.
"Bochra, what happened to you?" she whispered.
To her consummate surprise, he replied in a raspy voice. "Stabbed."
Almost tripping over her own feet, she inelegantly rose to her feet and grabbed the nearest pitcher of water. With shaking hands, she poured some into a glass, spilling a great deal in the process. She held the cup to his lips, his eyes opening half way.
"How do you feel?" she asked once she had removed the glass.
"Wretched."
"Better alive and in pain than dead. You had us pretty worried there for a while," she said with a smile, before turning to redeposit the glass on the dresser.
"Us? Oh yes, your friends. I presume I am at your treehouse?"
"Yes," she replied and then turning back, continued in a quiet voice, "I thought I would never see you again."
"I suppose that I came as a bit of a shock," he said, trying to chuckle. As pain registered on his face, he soon stopped. "I would not have returned if it was not necessary."
Marguerite's eyes began to glisten with tears. "I can't Bochra, I'm not what you assume"
He shook his head vigorously, or tried to, but was mostly unsuccessful- the movement being altogether too painful. "You may have forgotten the old ways but they are always a part of you."
He seemed ready to continue when she silenced him with a raised hand. "No. No, we're not going to do this tonight, do you hear me?" she said, her voice rising with anger. Closing her eyes briefly, she continued in a more controlled voice. "You've had a rough day and need your rest. We'll decide the fate of the world tomorrow."
He closed his eyes and inclined his head slightly to demonstrate his compliance. She sighed and shook her head, approaching the bed one last time to lean over and place a kiss on his bruised forehead.
She hurried out of the room and right into Roxton. "How is he?" he asked gruffly, having heard all that had transpired between her and the man Bochra.
"He'll do, for now," she replied with the same curt tone and brushed past him to go out on the balcony.
He pulled back the curtain slightly with his finger, seeing the recumbent man, obviously now asleep. He drew his hand away quickly, as if it had been burned, and curled his fingers into a fist. He could not wait for her explanations any longer.
He found her leaning over the rail, looking out over the jungle tinted with the orange hues of the setting sun. He emulated her pose and, not looking at her, attempted to hide the anger rising in his throat. "Has he gained consciousness yet?"
"No."
That flat denial twisted in his stomach like a knife. For Marguerite's sake, she was only too glad that he did not look at her. She was struggling with every ounce of her composure and the strain was beginning to tell. The throbbing in her head didn't help matters, either.
Her eyes began to fill and she turned away from him, rubbing her forehead self-consciously. He'll think I'm crazy. He didn't want to go along with Bochra's plan the last time- and god knows what I'll be asked to do now. Obviously the stakes are higher than before and who knows how high? She couldn't let him risk himself again for her and she knew that if he had even the slightest inkling that she would be in danger, there'd be no stopping him, the stubborn man. The stubborn, foolish valiant, wonderful man She had to put distance between them before she became foolish too.
"Marguerite," he said, his voice deep with emotion as he shot out a hand to stop her flight. He gripped her upper arm and drew her back to him with a force he had not intended.
"John! This isn't the place for that!" she protested, struggling to break herself free, her eyes darting behind him for any sign of Challenger, Finn or Veronica. She didn't need to make herself a fool in front of them; her performance so far with Roxton was bad enough.
"What is it this time, Marguerite? Who is that man and what does he mean to you?" he said, loudly this time, his other arm taking her other shoulder holding her tightly. As soon as the words left his mouth and he beheld Marguerite's expressions of shock, pain, and anger, he loosened his grip and felt ashamed.
Marguerite placed both hands against his chest and shoved hard, sending him back up against the rail. "I don't believe it. Lord John Roxton," she intoned sarcastically. "Green with envy for a half dead elder of the tribe. Won't my journal entry for today be exciting? Yet another horrible misdeed another nasty little secret " she spat. "and be still my beating heart, the man's still jealous!"
She angrily stomped her way to the doorway when he finally spoke in a soft, controlled voice. "You know him. You can't deny that."
She stopped in her tracks, not turning around. "Yes," she replied, raising a hand to quickly wipe away a tear that had begun to run down her cheek. "I can't deny that."
"You kissed him."
She turned at this remark, surprise writ on her face. "On the forehead. Maybe if you had joined us instead of skulking in the shadows you would have gotten a better view," she added nastily, curling her lip.
He winced and held up both hands. "I'm sorry I shouldn't have I- I'm sorry."
"As well you should be," she haughtily replied, folding her arms across her chest. She shot him a sideways glare and her heart instantly began to melt. If ever there was a more penitent face or more handsome
"Oh John" she murmured, her arms falling to her sides and her eyes feeling dangerously full again.
One step was all it took. His arms wrapped around her and held her tight, his embrace warm and secure. She buried her head in his shoulder and squeezed her eyes shut, knowing that now tears were inevitable, the defensive walls were down and the story would have to be told.
She raised a tearful face to his and he kissed her tenderly. "I'm sorry if I hurt you. And even sorrier I doubted you," he said softly.
She managed a faint smile and rubbed at her eyes. "John- sit down. You deserve to hear this," she said in a small voice, turning away towards the window seat.
"Marguerite, I know you have your secrets and I realize I'm being completely selfish, but if it wouldn't be too much oh. You are going to tell me?"
"Yes, you silly idiot. Sit down," she repeated and this time, he complied. "The man's name, which you no doubt overheard," she said wryly, lifting up her head to see him turn slightly pink at the statement, "is Bochra. I met him two years ago."
"Two years but you were here. On the plateau"
"You met him too. And Malone. Though I'm pretty sure neither you nor Ned ever remembered it."
"Malone?" Roxton repeated, stunned. "I don't understand. How could we have forgotten everything and yet you remember? What about Challenger and Veronica?"
"They didn't come with us for that trip. They were somewhat preoccupied: Veronica had found a baby in the wilderness and Summerlee" here Roxton registered complete shock on his face again- "along with Challenger had set about to find its parents."
"I do remember hearing tell of that," he chuckled, putting his arm around her shoulders. Summerlee had talked of the apemen parents during several evening discussions with fascination and awe.
"I thought you would," Marguerite replied, a grin on her face mirroring his as she remembered their dear lost companion. "Do you also remember that it took us an unusually long time to make it back to the treehouse from that quarry? And did you ever wonder why?"
Roxton shook his head as he felt his face grow warm for a second time. There had been something odd about that trip and he had never questioned it. How could he have been so blind?
"So we met him then?"
"Yes. He's he's a kind of Bochra's a Druid."
"A what?" Roxton's eyebrows went sky high as he chuckled again.
"A Druid. A leader of a group of Druids actually," Marguerite added with a sigh. God, it sounds even more crazy than it is.
"A Druid?"
"Yessss," she hissed impatiently.
Roxton looked at her thoughtfully for a moment. "The cave. That's why you had the bad feelings about that cave, isn't it? You've been there before!"
"No! No. Well, at least I don't think I have Oh hell. Look: according to Bochra, and I'm not saying this is true, but according to him"
She paused, trying to find any way to make it sound less ridiculous as Roxton's impatience grew. "Come on, Marguerite according to him what?"
"He thinks I'm the reincarnation of one of his priestesses. Morrighan."
"You? A Druid priestess?" he echoed incredulously.
"That's what you said the last time."
"Excuse me?"
"You didn't believe it before either. Malone and I outvoted you into accompanying us to retrieve the lost emeralds of the tribe."
"Wait a minute, let me get this straight: you had to try and persuade me to help a Druid sect get their precious gems back while you handed them over on a silver platter?"
"I didn't expect you to understand before- why should now be any different?" she said bitterly, folding her arms across her chest.
"I'm sorry, Marguerite. That was unkind and unfair of me " he said tenderly, placing two light fingers underneath her chin to lift her gaze to his so that she could see the sincerity in his apology. "Why should you believe him? What proof can he offer you that what he says is true?"
"He knows about my birthmark. Knew exactly where it was and what it looked like. Ripped my shirt to confirm it- that's not how it sounds, John," she added, having seen his lips curl into a horrid frown that boded no good for Bochra.
Roxton unclenched his teeth. He stared at her for a long moment. It was ridiculous and utterly absurd and yet somehow he knew every bloody word was true. He saw her eyes glisten and her chin wavered a bit- she doesn't think I believe her.
"We'll get through this. Whatever this is," he added, stepping closer to her. "We'll get through this together."
His words washed over her and she felt suddenly secure and warm. "Together," she nodded weakly, looking up at him with amazement. Would he ever fail to astound her?
He brushed the hair back from her forehead lightly with his fingertips, and frowned upon seeing the now purpling bruise. "You know, you should really let Challenger or Veronica look at that."
"I'm not a child. It's only a little scratch. Let them poke and prod Bochra- he's the one who needs it," she said, wrinkling her nose.
"Does it hurt much?"
"A little," she muttered, and tried to shrug it off. Suddenly she felt very very tired. "I think I'll stay out here a little while longer. Fresh air and all that."
"I can stay with you if you like."
"No, no. That's okay. Go sit with Bochra. I- I'll be fine," she said reassuringly. She just needed to think things through, without virile distractions and her ever-present headache.
"I'll be just in the next room, if you need me," he said, placing a tender kiss on her forehead before he left.
Marguerite stared out into the night. So quiet A chill ran down her spine and she began to rub her arms. How had it been so ungodly hot mere hours ago and now so cool? Her feelings of apprehension hadn't waned. What was it she feared? Sure, Bochra had given her the Chosen One spiel before but she had never experienced such horrible forebodings
No. Wait, she had. Only once before, trapped in a cave with no way out
A rustling in the trees made her start and she scanned the surrounding jungle warily. What the hell was that? She squinted hard but saw nothing. Veronica had said something about going out for plants, but hadn't she come back yet?
She rubbed her hands over her face and sighed to herself. God help me, I'm losing it. She was about to turn from the rail when she heard it again, seeing a slight movement in the trees out of the corner of her eye.
"Who's there?" she called out authoritatively.
No reply.
"Veronica?"
"Yes?" The young blond appeared behind her, a dishrag in her hands.
Marguerite opened and closed her mouth like a fish. So it wasn't her. I'm just going crazy. Fine. Fine fine fine. "Uh, nothing. Just wondered if you were back, that's all."
Veronica shot the older woman a questioning look. Looking pointedly at her cut forehead, she replied kindly, "Maybe you should take it easy- you've had a hard day. Why don't you get some sleep?"
Marguerite looked down her nose at her. "I. Am. Fine. I just need to check on something first," she said, stomping her way to the elevator, grabbing a rifle, and pulling the down lever with more force than was strictly necessary.
Stepping off the elevator, Marguerite raised the rifle to her shoulder and started off in the direction from which she had heard the noise.
Absolute silence.
It was unnerving. How was it that after all those sleepless nights, kept awake by mating monkeys, birds, bats, and all kinds of other nasty creations of nature that liked to keep absurd hours, that she couldn't feel secure without them?
She raised the gate and took a tenative few steps past the fence. Then she saw it- only the barest, faintest outline of something, lurking, waiting in the lush underbrush.
"I can see you there. Come on out or I swear I'll shoot!"
Veronica, who heard the brunette's raised voice, came to the balcony just in time to see her rifle shots go off and watch horrified as she was out cold by something, invisible to the human eye.
TBC
