Guardians of Treasures Untold

Part One: 4/10.

Author: Nefret24

Disclaimer and notes, see parts 1-3.

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"Ugh."

Marguerite groggily regained consciousness and found herself in the same weird wooden hut. Obviously the "it was only a dream" explanation was not going to work, she thought wryly.

The angry welt was still there; she felt as if it protruded about a foot off her head, with a second foot added on because of the copious bandages that red-haired man had wrapped around her head. Frustrated with them, she unceremoniously removed them.

It was much darker in the room now- apparently she had been out for some time. She approached the dresser again and lit a small oil lamp, reseating herself in front of the mirror.

There I am, she thought, looking at her reflection. Marguerite Smith, same as always. Same gray eyes, same curly hair. Her brow crinkled in frustration. But why the hell can't I remember where I am and who all these people are? Am I a prisoner, a visitor, a spy?

She curled her hands into fists and decided that it was finally time to do some exploring- if whomever those people were hadn't locked the door.

Relieved at the ease with which the door slid open, she tentatively stepped out of her room. No one seemed to be about. All the better, she thought.

She entered a large room, decorated in the same sparse wooden style. There seemed to be several other rooms adjacent to it- what was this some sort of hostel in the woods? It couldn't be Germany- it was never this hot there

She turned and saw the wide expanse of window, stopping dead in her tracks. The jungle. She was in a jungle bungalow with other marooned lunatics! Maybe her ship had veered off course and she had landed on some odd, undiscovered shore? Captured by pirates and rescued by a kind missionary doctor and his scantily clad daughter?

Her imagination conjured up thousands of bizarre scenarios as she approached the balcony, belatedly realizing that the wooden hut was in fact

"A treehouse. I live in a treehouse. Great," she said aloud without enthusiasm. "Absolutely bloody wonderful."

She turned and entered the common space again. Feeling a bit tired, she sat down on the couch and stared at the walls. Someone's an artist, she deduced from the scraps of sketches tacked to a wooden pier. I know it's not me, she thought and considered it the handiwork of the indecent blond. Though I don't know about that portrait, she thought, squinting at the drawing in the dim light, that is definitely not either one of the men I've seen. Or she's absolutely horrible at working from life.

Hmm Lots of guns in a rack on the wall. Seems an awful excess simply for protection's sake

Her thoughts were interrupted as she belatedly realized she was being watched. Remaining absolutely still, she waited him out to see what he would do next. But nothing happened.

He was still standing there, in the shadow of a doorway, when she finally addressed him, "So are you going to join me or not?"

Roxton cleared his throat self-consciously before slowly approaching her seat. "I take it you're feeling better?"

"Better? My head feels like it's been run over by an exceptionally fast carriage. Twice," she said, rubbing her eyes. Removing her hands, she leveled her gaze at him. He didn't flinch under her steely stare. Obviously she could not succeed in intimidating him in her current state, so she looked away. Her mind was teeming with thousands of questions left unanswered but she'd be damned before she admitted to him that she didn't know everything that she was supposed to. Like where the hell they were. And who he was.

"Do you remember me?"

She forced a haughty laugh while still refusing to look at him. Damn damn damn. "Do you always ask such stupid questions?"

"If you remembered me, then you'd know, wouldn't you?" he said with a sad little smile. Sitting more forward in his chair, he spoke louder and commanded her attention. "Do you know my name, Marguerite?"

"A rose by any other name" she said, still trying to quip her way out of the conversation. He had blocked her only escape route by taking the wicker chair next to the couch. Unless she wanted to acrobatically climb over the endtable she was going to have to stay there and answer him. His eyes locked with hers and he watched her carefully. She could feel her cheeks warm under his intense consideration.

Pursing his lips, he steepled his fingers and drew his eyebrows together, the very portrait of intense thought. "Let's see if this rings any bells George" he trailed off, watching her reaction expectantly.

She raised an eyebrow at him and tried to decide what to do with this tidbit of information. George. Was that he? Was she on such good terms with him that she addressed him by his Christian name? Her eyes narrowing, she scanned his face. He didn't look like a George. Something in the back of her mind told her it didn't fit- but what was the alternative? Rumplestiltskin?

"George," she said experimentally and with the skills of years of training in espianoge, watched the man's reaction. He seemed to be cultivating a blank face to spite her. "Doesn't sound right," she added, and to her immense satisfaction, saw a glimmer of hope in his eyes. "Not for you anyway."

He grinned- a terribly captivating sight, that, Marguerite mused. "Not for me," he agreed. "But you don't know what my name is, do you? Only that it's not George."

"Why should you care if I know your name or not? Really, this is not a matter of life or death!" she said, exasperatedly.

"Because you should. Because we've known each other and lived in this house with the others together for three long years. And because you seemed to have forgotten every bloody minute of it!" he finished rather exasperatedly himself. After a deep breath he continued, "You suffered two successive blows to the head. You have amnesia, Marguerite. That's why you can't remember me- all of us."

She snorted derisively at this but did not look away.

"What is the last thing that you do remember?"

She searched her memory and found it lacking. She remembered what must have been earlier in the day, staggering to her dressing table, seeing that blond girl and him before that nothing. Absolutely nothing. She felt her eyes closing as she tried to visualize her arrival at this bizarre place nothing. A ship the Shanghai port Xian the ouroboros

Marguerite's eyes flew open as her mouth formed an "o" shape. "This is the Plateau, isn't it?"

"Yes! Yes, Marguerite- can you remember anything else? The apemen attack? Assai maybe? Bochra?"

Her eyes narrowed again at his torrent of names and places he shouted excitedly at her. None of them meant anything. It was only logical, was it not, that if her last memory was stealing the medallion from Xian, the medallion whose other half was said to be halfway around the world in the middle of the Amazionian jungle, that she should be there, right?

All perfectly plausible except that Roxton had said she had been there three years. Had she had difficulties in finding its resting place? Did she give up? What the hell was going on?

"Look, I don't know what you're talking about but I'm getting tired. You know better than I what a day its been," she purred persuasively and rose, as if to retire.

"Of course, yes, you shouldn't overdo it in one night," he said, getting up to his feet with the alacrity of a gentleman. "Do you need anything- tea? Hot water?"

She smiled and shook her head "no." Oh, would he just leave her be so she could figure out things on her own?

"Fine then. Good. I'll just um," he pointed over his shoulder. "I'll be in my room- it's over that way if you need anything. Anything."

"Alright then. Goodnight- what did you say your name was again?"

"Roxton. Lord John Richard Roxton," he said with a bow, and gave her hand a chivalrous kiss.

"Goodnight, Lord Roxton," she said and turned on her heel to go back into her own room. That suited him much better, she thought, her lips curling into a grin. Much better.

TBC