Guardians of Treasures Untold

Part One: 10/10.

Author: Nefret24

Disclaimer and notes, see parts 1-9.

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"Be careful, Roxton," Veronica said, closing up his knapsack and handing it to him. "I still don't trust that man."

"Don't worry— neither do I," he replied with a thankful grin, slinging the pack onto his pack. His expression quickly turned solemn and he searched her face with concerned eyes. "If there's any trouble"

"We can handle it," Finn replied for Veronica, brandishing her crossbow.

"Silly of me to think otherwise," he mumbled gruffly, smiling weakly as the tip of Finn's weapon swung in his direction. "Just the same"

"We'll be careful too, promise," Veronica said, before enveloping him a hug.

Roxton was touched at the openness of her concern and found himself relishing their short embrace, oddly reminded of his mother. This was his family, there was no other. He pulled away quickly, remembering himself, and clearing his throat loudly, adjusted his hat.

"Best be going then."

Veronica hid a smirk, finding humor at the hunter's embarrassed sentimentality.

Challenger came into the room, bearing a set of their signaling mirrors. "Just in case," he said, transferring them to Roxton. "I hope you know what you're doing. Supernatural or not, something foul is afoot."

An impatient shout reverberated from the other room. "Roxton!"

"She's been ready to leave for the last ten minutes," Challenger said wryly, shaking his head. "You'd better not keep her waiting."

They shook hands formally and then the younger man headed towards the shrill commands emanating from the other room.

"Geez, guys, don't look so gloomy. It's not like anything's gonna happen to him!" Finn scoffed, tossing aside her crossbow, newly polished.

"Finn, I devoutly hope you're right," Challenger said with a solemn nod to the open doorway.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

"What the devil was taking you so long?" Marguerite stomped her way through the underbrush, trying to control her increasing exasperation with her traveling companion.

"I was saying goodbye. I noticed you didn't bother to take the trouble"

"Why should I? Who are they to me?" she flippantly returned, inwardly cursing herself for negligence. She might be coldhearted, but rag-tag family or no, she at the very least owed them a simple 'thank you' before departure.

"I'm going to pretend that I didn't hear that considerably conceited and callous remark."

"That would be unworthy of them," she nodded in agreement nastily.

"No, that would be unworthy of you," he replied sternly. "Not to mention ungracious, unkind--"

"I get it, all right? I get it," she conceded angrily. "Here," she stopped abruptly and thrust Bochra's staff at him. "You deal with this. I'll take the rifle."

"Hardly a fair trade," he mumbled, exchanging his burden for hers. As he accepted the staff, he looked at it. Curious. To be wrought from gold and yet be so light

They made their way slowly westward, not making much conversation. Roxton remained wary of the Shadow Men and kept careful track of his surroundings and the trail. He requested that Veronica take extra precaution when she left the treehouse if she left the treehouse. He'd prefer to quarantine all of them, including his temperamental lady love and her fantastical ideas of destiny, until he was certain that those things had disappeared. Or he had shot them all. As it was, their supplies were still low. How long they could last and in this weather

The heat was becoming unbearable. His shirt stuck to him and he could see Marguerite's forehead was slicked with sweat. And yet, he was the one who had to force her to rest periodically. She had that same determined glint in her eye that brooked no argument and all argument, especially when it was employed in her recent past pursuits of gemstones. It took a long harangue to convince her to camp for the night.

He had gone to fetch more wood for the fire and found Marguerite sitting on a fallen tree trunk nearby. He smiled and sat down close to her, only to have her inch sideways in the opposite direction and the smile disappear.

He shot her a sideways glance. "Room enough for two, I'm sure," he said blithely.

"Close quarters," she returned in kind.

"And what's wrong with that? You didn't mind last night" he goaded her, dipping his voice seductively.

"I don't know anything, John!" she burst out, releasing all the bottled up emotions and confused thoughts that had tormented her in the past few hours. She wrung her hands in her lap and concentrated on them as she continued, "Last night was an aberration in so many"

"It was wrong?"

She winced at his word and the hurt tone that had pronounced it. "No. But it wasn't right," she said softly.

"Well, I think that about exhausts our options!" Roxton retorted loudly, rising from his seat. Not to mention my patience, he thought angrily to himself. "What do you want from me, Marguerite?"

She said nothing in reply, her head still bowed over her hands.

"One minute you're inviting me into your bed and the next, I repulse you! There's just no pleasing you, is there? I don't care how hard you hit your head, you can't treat people this way! Especially when all they want to do is help!"

She still did not look at him.

"I'll make your decision easy for you. I'll take you to your precious altar and make sure you get back to the treehouse safe and sound- I promised Bochra I would and you certainly do trust him, don't you? And then you do as you wish. You always do- without any consideration for anyone else," he ended bitterly.

He strode to the opposite side of the fire and laid a blanket down, shaking it out of his pack with vehemence. Then he arranged himself atop it, giving Marguerite the full view of the back of his head, fairly radiating anger, hurt and disapproval with her.

Marguerite visibly shook from head to toe and was both immensely grateful for and terribly depressed by his disdain. The dream was a warning, she had determined. Whether or not it was the actual events of the future, well, that remained to be seen, didn't it? But it was a probability and that scared her. And what scared her more was the possibility that she had caused it— a proposal only slightly less terrifying than her sudden altruistic fervor to somehow stop it, even at the threat of her own life.

If it's your time to go, it's your time to go. That's what they said during the War, didn't they? She couldn't have him try and save her— she knew what she was— and it would go against every principle she had to surrender up her life for a man. Learn your lesson from Shanghai, girl, and disentangle yourself now, she told herself. With every step westward, the more resolved she had become. Easier for all involved if we were at odds safer

It had been so much less painful when she had worked it out in her head.

Two single tears managed to escape down her cheeks before she managed to control her convulsions. Her head ached, along with other portions of her abused anatomy, most notably that which had been rubbing up on a rather gnarled tree root for an extended period of time. Gingerly rising, she made her own bed and fell into a fitful sleep.

The fires raged on and the dark night sky became obscure with smoke. Swift winds whipped around, howling, fanning the flames higher and higher. Wooden beams cracked and fell to the earth; houses tumbled to the ground in ashen rubble.

She couldn't see, her eyes stung from the smoke and her hair danced around her face, enchanted by the wind. She could hear them cry out in pain. Children, there were children crying

She ran, ran as fast as she could, her lungs protesting at the effort there were more of them, faces dark with soot, blurred- running, running, running, fleeing for their very lives- their faces the portrait of terror. She could not stop to help could not stop until she saw him.

A faceless man dressed in black who seemed to mock her by his very presence, standing by an altar. He twirled a knife idly with his fingers as if it were a child's toy. It swung precariously back and forth, back and forth over the altar over the body of a man hovering ever so close to his throat a foreigner with foreign clothes and plunged a dagger into his heart as she screamed—--

Marguerite jerked awake. The dream was becoming worse. Thankful for the hint of light just peering over the horizon, she let out a thankful sigh. Too late to go back to sleep and have it repeat itself. Might as well get up.

She made coffee and drank it slowly as sunlight began to creep in through the trees. Roxton stirred and she froze, ashamed to have caught herself contemplating his sleeping form with more intent than her now cold coffee.

He shifted and rolled onto his opposite side, now facing her. Moments later an eyelid opened and shut again. Then both eyes opened and subsequently closed.

"I must be suffering from heat stroke. Before dawn and Marguerite's awake?" he said disbelieving.

"Unless you'd like your coffee poured down your shirt, I propose you get up as well," she retorted before retreating behind her mug.

He did as he was told, slowly rising from his blanket and stretching his stiff limbs, obscuring his smirk from her view.

She watched him over the rim of her mug, appreciating how his muscles pressed against his thin shirt as he stretched. She gave herself a shake— how did she know what was real in her past with him? She watched him curiously as he raised his arm and rolled his shoulder, warming up the muscles. He rubbed it with his other hand- had it been sore, she wondered. A scar, some part of her brain fired off. He had been shot there once

Roxton chanced a glance over at Marguerite. She had a faraway look in her eyes, blinked once, and then, noticing him, indicating his cup at the fireside with a raised brow and slight nod.

They drank their coffee in silence, the only noise the slight rustling of leaves and the gentle early morning calls of various species of birds.

Roxton emptied the dregs of his coffee into a nearby bush. "We better get moving. It's gonna be another scorcher, today. We won't be able to travel in the afternoon."

"Let's get going then," she agreed heartily, pulling on her knapsack with one hand and picking up the rifle with the other.

Without prompting he lifted Bochra's staff once again and followed Marguerite's lead. Why was she letting him carry it? It surely must be expensive- and it wasn't that heavy, awkward a bit but not when used as intended- as a walking stick- why wouldn't she covet it? Bloody mine it, like the old Marguerite would have done. He couldn't figure it out. He thought she had regressed back to her old self, the Marguerite that had made those first weeks of the expedition such an exasperating adventure. But then she did things that didn't fit

It was just like Marguerite. Just when he thought he had her figured out, amnesia! There had been no "old" Marguerite or "new" Marguerite- she was the same, always the same, just hidden underneath so many protective layers that the real her couldn't be seen. And now he had to re-learn all the tell-tale signs of the layers (the tricks and the sighs and the subtle inflections) all over again, though now twice as confusing because even she didn't know what they all meant.

After his outburst last night, he considered giving up but he couldn't do it. He knew as soon as the words left his mouth that they were empty threats. He was a goner now. He had always been— though now at least he could admit it to himself. He loved her— but God Almighty, she was a challenge.

A strange noise from Marguerite stunned him out of his reverie. She pointed at a clearing up ahead.

"Look!"

"I don't believe it," he muttered. There stood a stone altar surrounded by a ring of five pairs of large standing stones, each pair topped with a massive stone lintel.

Marguerite was first to reach the site and stood tentatively outside the ring awaiting Roxton's approach.

"Well, what are you waiting for? This is it, isn't it?" he said close to her ear.

She shot him a glare but her eyes quickly returned to the altar. She seemed focused on it. When she spoke, her voice was soft and shook. "Can't you feel it— it's like the stones are alive"

"Fairy tales and hokum. You put too much faith in that bedridden old man," he scoffed, stepping into the circle carrying the staff. "See- nothing at all---"

He broke off as a gust of wind blew outward from the center of the ring. Marguerite felt herself straining against the force of the air, firmly digging her heels into the ground lest she be brought unwillingly into the circle.

"Margueeeerrrriiiiite!" Roxton cried out. The wind howled mightily around him and the ground began to shake.

She looked uncertainly at him. The power, the force she felt it frightened her. She knew that once she entered the circle their fates were sealed— they would have to go through with it

Then she heard it. A faint whisper at first, growing steadily louder. A song the lilting female voice that she swore she had heard somewhere, sometime before calling her

She stepped into the circle. The winds grew stronger as she came to Roxton's side.

"What's going on? How do we get out of this?" he shouted to be heard over the noisy gale.

"By going forward," she shouted back, as before the altar a light began to appear. It grew into a large portal, glistening with light and vibrating with wind and pure energy.

"I hope you know what we're getting into!" he said, squinting against the strong glow.

She took his empty hand into his and interlocked their fingers. Their eyes met for an instant— each knew what to do.

They stepped through the portal and did not look back.

END PART ONE.

More to come!

A/N: As a side note, I'd like to mention that I've just seen Travelers (finally!) and gosh darn it! Hiding the jewels in the flour jar, yeah, okay, but the ice box! My hats off to the writers and my sincere apologies for unintentionally ripping off the concept — I steal for good, a Robin Hood of fanfic, if you will ;P

Another A/N: Major thanks to all who've reviewed as well as those who have read and have not. All feedback remains sincerely appreciated and coveted. Not to mention an effective tool for getting more chapters more frequently