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Old Gold
by SantaCrux
Old gold
It knew
Knew of the coming chaos, the maelstrom, the storm
Old gold
Awake now
Touched by ritual, touched by fate, touched by her
Old gold
Born here
In the Andes, mother mountain, sweat of the Sun God
Old gold
Hammer-beaten
Into an idol in the Inca’s palace
Old gold
Object of greed
Pillaged and melted and carried off to Spain
Old gold
Forged in fire
Into a ring, signet of the proud Castilian race
Old gold
Spoils of war
Plunder, its Latin heat cooled in English mist
Old gold
An heirloom
Passed down through generations of Roxtons till now
Old gold
A talisman
Of aristocratic right and privilege and noblesse oblige
Old gold
Freed
And fired and brought to life once more
Old gold
Breathing
Nestled in her pocket, touched by her power
Old gold
The healer
Mystical balancer of power, purifier of the heart
Old gold
Awake now
The time is near, the stage is set, the players chosen
Old gold
It knew
She had given it life, but its place was not with her
Old gold
Roxton’s soul
The ring would seek him, find him, protect him
Old gold
Once cold
Now ablaze with necessity, pulsing with destiny
Old gold
Whispering…
Marguerite stood on the balcony, listening to voices, real ones in the treehouse and distant ones in her head. Roxton’s ring and all that that meant was in her pocket. All the hope of future happiness and all the despair that she could ever be a part of the kind of life it represented. She pulled it out, the worn device giving only vague clues to its original design.
It lay in the hollow of her hand, warmed by her touch. It had been cold before, cold and heavy. During her experience in the cave, it was the anchor holding her steady in the madness of the ritual.
She stared at it, overwhelmed by the Roxton history therein.
A voice - his voice - a quiet drawl as he approached in the darkness – she turned. And as she turned, a pulse of heat from the ring made her gasp.
The ring slid from her palm and rolled, faintly glittering in the light from the treehouse. It stopped with a clink at the edge of the plank.
“Careful now, you’ll lose your newest trinket.” Roxton bent to retrieve his family heirloom. He offered it back to the heiress, hand outstretched.
She frowned, rubbing her palm. The lamplight washed her features with gold but shadowed her sea green eyes. When she answered her voice was low, thoughtful.
“I think you should keep it, John. When I hold it all I feel is the weight of history - your family and your duty. Maybe I’m crazy but I feel like it just needs to be with you.”
She reached forward with both hands and curled his fingers up, enclosing the ring in the embrace of a strong masculine fist. Suddenly Marguerite longed to be held by him just as much as the ring did and she leaned into him, her face against his chest.
Roxton freed his hands and embraced her, his ring safe in his palm, his love held tight in his arms. It felt right. Maybe she had returned his ring, but it was no refusal, just a hesitation. Soon, soon he’d tell her how he really felt. She couldn’t refuse him after that.
Old gold
Home again
Ready now, for the storm will come
The end
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