Guardians of Treasures Untold

Part Two: 1/? (11)

Author: Nefret24

Disclaimers and notes, see part 1, 1/10.

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PART TWO

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"What can you lose? Only the blues.

Why keep concealing everything you're feeling?

Say it to her, what can you lose?

Maybe it shows– she's had clues, which she chose to ignore.

Maybe though she knows, and just wants to go on as before.

As a friend, nothing more.

So she closes the door.

Well, if she does, those are the dues.

Once the words are spoken, something may be broken.

Still you love her – what can you lose?

But what if she goes?

At least now, you have part of her.

What if she had to choose?

Leave it alone – hold it on in

Better a bone don't even begin with so much to win,

There's too much to lose." ~ Stephen Sondheim, What Can You Lose.

"The tragedy of this world is that everyone is alone. For a life in the past cannot be shared with the present. Each person who gets stuck in time gets stuck alone." ~ Alan Lightman, Einstein's Dreams

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Light. Wind. Nothingness.

During an instant in time that felt like hours the only thing either one could trust implicitly was the sensation of the other's hand clutching their own, fingers interlocked tightly, reassuringly. Warm. Real.

An explosion of color. They fell forward together, stumbling, their bodies crashing hard onto cold earth.

Marguerite tasted blood. Gingerly, she shifted, pulling her hand out from underneath her and reached up to her face. Her fingertips revealed small red stains from contact with her lower lip. She grimaced, slowly raising herself to a sitting position.

Roxton fared little better. He rubbed his chest where he had fallen on Bochra's staff which had remained unbroken. The better to hobble with, he thought disgustedly, setting it aside. He rose to his feet with a grunt and outstretched a hand to Marguerite. She gratefully accepted it and came shakily to her feet.

They looked around them, surrounded in all directions by open fields and muddy, rolling hills. The sky was gray and overcast, and the horizon was free from marks. No trees. No animals. Nothing.

"Where the hell are we?"

"It's your destiny, Priestess," Roxton replied, readjusting his pack on his back. "Don't you know?"

"You're the one with the stick," she returned haughtily, scanning the horizon. "Why don't you do something with it?"

"I know what I'd like to do with it" he groused, stooping to pick the staff up off the ground.

"I'd like to see you try--" she snarled but quickly silenced herself. "Do you hear that?" she asked in hushed tones.

"It sounds like horses," he said, disbelieving.

"How many?"

"More than one," he said, reaching for his holster instinctively. Marguerite picked up the rifle from where it lay on the ground.

"Where are they? I still don't see anything," she said, a tremor entering her voice as she loaded the gun.

"There!" he pointed in the opposite direction, and sure enough, six men on horseback were headed their way.

"They look awfully close" she muttered warily.

"That's because they are awfully close," he replied in kind, not removing his guns just yet but with a hand at the ready.

"How did we not see them?!"

Roxton's reply was cut off by the riders' approach. They halted to a stop with one horse and rider foremost. All the men wore brown robes like Bochra's, their faces masked by drawn hoods. Their leader threw back his with a quick gesture to reveal a forbidding countenance with deep, inset eyes and thin lips set into an expression of distaste.

"State your allegiance!" he barked without introduction.

Marguerite and Roxton shared an anxious look before Roxton responded, protectively stepping in front of her, "We claim none- we are strangers to this land."

The leader slowly looked them up and down, grimacing. "Your garments are unfamiliar- from where do you hail?" he questioned suspiciously.

"Good question," Marguerite muttered under her breath as Roxton replied, "We have come from a jungle plateau"

At this the man laughed, a harsh grating sound. "Do you take me for a fool? Or do you wish for an early grave?" He drew a sword and held it before Roxton, the point aimed at his chest. "There are no jungles or plateaus in this part of the world. Again, I ask you: state your allegiance or perish on this spot!"

Marguerite glared at Roxton, who was fingering his holster warily. He had to be crazy- they were obviously itching for a fight and outnumbered them 10 to 2. A stand would be impossible, if not messy, painful and distastrous for them. Her nostrils flared with impatience as the two men settled for staring one another down, each refusing to budge.

She stepped forward, pushing aside the man's sword and Roxton's protective arm. In a swift stroke, she grabbed the staff from Roxton's opposite hand. "How dare you speak to him with such disrespect! Look at his staff- do you not know whose this is? We are allies of Bochra and we demand that you take us to the temple at once!" she ordered imperiously, wielding the staff in front of her as if it were a weapon.

The horseman started and murmurs arose from the throng of riders behind him. He called for their silence and observed the strangers again with a raised brow. "What are your names, strangers?"

"I am Marguerite Krux, and this is Lord John Roxton. You owe him an apology," she sniffed disdainfully as Roxton put a cautionary hand on her arm and spoke low in her ear.

"Don't overdo it."

Taken aback by her continued boldness, the horseman eyed her askance and nodded to Roxton, who replied with an inclination of his head. "I'll take what I can get," he murmured to her again.

"There is a village not far from here. You will come with us now," he said, and after letting out a shrill whistle, began to ride off towards the opposite direction from which he had come.

A rider from the back dismounted and led his horse forward for them. Roxton mounted and gave Marguerite a hand up to sit in front of him as the rider found a new companion. They followed the path of the throng, aware that a few riders had hung back for them, ostensibly to watch their behavior.

"So far I'm not impressed by their hospitality," she said, shifting in the saddle to get a better view of the land, still unmarked by monuments or wildlife.

"I don't think we impressed them much either," he said, making a half-hearted attempt to make light of their new situation.

"You told him we came from the jungle- he probably thinks we're the village idiots."

He merely grunted in reply and urged the horse slightly ahead to the nearest rider. "Excuse me er.. friend, but what land is this?"

The rider, taken off guard, muttered disdainfully with his nearest companion in a language Roxton couldn't understand before answering. "There are some who speak your tongue that call it England." He quickly rode further ahead of them, no doubt speaking ill of the over-curious foreigners.

"He said we were in England-- " she began hopefully as Roxton rejoined her side. before they were enveloped in a thick fog. She instinctively clutched at Roxton's shirtfront.

"This fog certainly reminds me of England," he agreed, slowing the horse to a trot.

They made their way uncertainly, having lost sight of all their traveling companions and barely able to see one another. And then, almost as soon as it came, it was gone. The mists lifted to reveal a series of wooden huts in the distance, and still further, a series of stone structures, half obscured by low-hanging clouds.

The riders dispersed in all directions, leaving Marguerite and Roxton alone in the midst of a village street with the head horseman.

"I will leave you here. That house," he pointed over his shoulder at one of the huts, "belongs to a very wise woman, Hatha by name. We shall see if your story is true," he ended darkly, and giving his horse a short kick, rode off.

They dismounted and scanned the streets, empty of all inhabitants. "A real hot spot," Roxton commented dryly.

"I don't like this," Marguerite said, a shiver running down her spine. The village looked so familiar exactly like her dream.

"Well, we're here- we might as well get this over with. Come on," he said, taking up the staff and the rifle and handing her the former.

They came to the door of the hut and knocked three times. "Hope someone's home," Marguerite whispered.

The door opened to reveal darkness within. Hesitantly they both stepped forward into the house. Seeing a light in the far left corner, they approached it, a fire with a black cauldron boiling a pungent soup.

"Dinner?" Roxton inquired softly, looking warily at the brownish liquid within the pot.

"I hope not," Marguerite replied, wrinkling her nose fastidiously. She turned to scan the room and gasped, involuntarily clutching Roxton's arm as she saw a bulky shadow shift in the light of the fire.

"So you've come at last," a coarse voice spoke from the dark. A woman stepped forward into the light, motioning towards two chairs near the fire with a gnarled finger. "Sit down, sit down."

Hatha lowered herself carefully into a chair opposite them. She did not look as old as she sounded- her face was almost free of wrinkles. Her hair was curly and gray, the bulk of it coiled at the base of her neck with unruly strands straggling onto her shoulders. She looked at them both intently, silently assessing, before she spoke.

"I thought you would be taller, Lord John Roxton."

"How do you know his name?" Marguerite asked defensively.

"My dear Marguerite, I know everything about you and your consort."

"My WHAT?" -- "Her WHAT?" Their voices simultaneously burst out with consternation, he at the inferior term, she at its implications.

"I was certain" the old woman began with a smile, waving a hand between the two of them.

"Madam Hatha he is NOT my we are good friends," Marguerite said pointedly.

Roxton, more confused by the minute, couldn't conceal the slight look of hurt at the comment from Hatha. She smiled to herself and nodded, feigning acquiescence.

"Yes, yes. The important thing is that you have come. I will dispatch Setes to find suitable quarters for you for the night."

"I assume that was the dark and brooding fellow who just left us on your doorstep?" Marguerite asked wryly.

"He is not perhaps the most outwardly agreeable, no. But he is loyal and a great warrior. I'm afraid, my dears, that you have come during perilous times," she shook head. "Decent men are hard to find. Many no longer support the old ways and would do anything to destroy them."

"And I take it you consider this Setes to be a decent man?" Roxton inquired.

"Yes, I do. If he has not made a favorable impression well, all I ask is that you both take the time to reassess him. And an additional caution to not make your judgements lightly-- no one is what they seem," she warned.

"Even you?" Marguerite ventured saucily.

Hatha laughed lightly but did not reply.

"If you know us so well, then, what are we to do here?" Roxton asked, unimpressed. "Your confederate was decidedly vague upon the subject."

"The fate of these people rests upon the edge of a knife. You've met Setes- how little do you suppose would incite him to violence? And yet he is one of the more level-headed. No one ventures from their homes, they are consumed with fear."

"Fear of what?"

"It is not easy to explain There is a power struggle of sorts throughout the land. Right now, we are leaderless, though there are many with ambitions. In two days time, however, a leader will be chosen."

"Let me guess- at a mysterious temple, location unknown," Marguerite interrupted wryly.

"It stands at the edge of the town," Hatha replied calmly with a raised eyebrow. "The thick mists of our land do tend to obscure things," she added, patronizingly patting Marguerite's hand. "Anyway, you can do little else tonight."

Almost as if it had been pre-planned, a knocking at the door sounded as the old woman finished speaking. "Ah. There's Setes now," she rose slowly to her feet, giving the couple an enigmatic smile before making her way to the door.

The two villagers spoke in low voices, inaudible to both hunter and heiress. She returned to them as the sullen rider stood fixed at the door. "Everything is arranged," she said cheerfully upon rejoining them. "Lord John Roxton, go with Setes- he will guide you to your new quarters and give you something more appropriate to wear. You will stay with me, my dear," she said to Marguerite with a mysterious smile.

Roxton reluctantly rose to meet his guide, his eyes fixed upon Marguerite's. He was loath to be separated from her but duly exited the small hut with the brooding rider.

"Just the two of us, now. How cozy," Marguerite said over-brightly.

"You have nothing to fear from me, Marguerite. Do not be anxious over him- I give you my word that he is in good hands," Hatha said, stirring her soup.

"I'm not"

"Your looks betray your feelings quite clearly my dear. As do his." She paused to taste the soup and grimaced. "Too hot," she mumbled and continued to stir. "What intrigues me is why you both chose to deny it."

"There is nothing to deny!" Nothing that I can remember, Marguerite amended silently.

The old woman chuckled once more and asked for a jar resting on a small table at Marguerite's side. Marguerite fastidiously wrinkled her nose as she handed the earthenware to the old woman; she never thought that any stew could smell worse than her own feeble attempts with raptor meat.

Hatha removed the top and began to sprinkle some of its contents into the cauldron. "I pity Bochra."

"Pardon me?" asked Marguerite, confused, her thoughts still preoccupied by the contents of the mysterious stew.

"The eternal optimist. He has been trying for centuries and several reincarnations now to get you two to set aside your differences. I always thought he was a fool for trying. Some people are just born contrary."

"A Druid matchmaker. Great, just great," Marguerite muttered, rising to pace angrily within the limited space of the hut.

Hatha laughed quietly to herself, stirring her stew. Marguerite's frustrate steps continued until she abruptly stopped in front of the fire again. "I'm sorry- what the blazes IS that you're cooking?!"

"Don't worry, my dear, I assure you it's not your dinner. In fact, there will be a reception for you and your friend this evening-- you ought to change."

"Change? Into what?"

"There are clothes laid out on the chair behind you just to your left. There you go," the old woman remarked as Marguerite held the garment out in front of her. "I knew you were coming of course "

As Hatha continued to chat pleasantly, mostly to herself it seemed, regarding the final preparations of whatever mixture she was concocting, Marguerite took refuge in the shadows of the room to get dressed. The long red dress seemed vaguely familiar it had a wide open neck and a belt that slung low over the hips and clasped in the center with gold hooks molded into snakes. At least it was somewhat fashionable, she thought as she adjusted her skirt.

The belt was curious, though Intertwining snakes It reminded her of the ouroborus- though why it should, she couldn't understand. The repetition of the snake or dragon in world mythologies was striking all the more reason that it didn't necessarily mean that one silly belt with a singular design should mean something out of the ordinary, she upbraided herself. Maybe they just like snakes.

She shot a glance over her shoulder at the elderly woman, still fussing with her cauldron. Batty old witch, Marguerite thought, pursing her lips. Why can't any of these silly people speak plainly? The fact that everything was buried under metaphors and veiled hints and curious coincidences sent off alarm bells in her head. Why the hell had she decided to do this? And bring Roxton into it too?

"Dearie-- come! The feast is starting"

TBC