A Quiet Crossroads (Lake Baikal, Siberia)

[Sören]

Sören was largely unmoved by the life which was held in the balance, not through callousness, but because the destruction Elias wrought in his temper was likely to touch far more lives than the single one he appeared to care about. His eyes cast about the lake and the beleaguered shoreline. The damage was meaningless, and he did not like it. But more importantly, the power displayed was of a magnitude Sören had not before comprehended. It would require reassessment.

He glanced at Kemala, seeking her judgement, but only saw the ferocity of her restrained anger. Elias’s idiocy was hardly Sören’s doing, and he resented being categorised alongside such poor self-control. The child raged in a wild tantrum, while Sören had had complete mastery of their encounter on the lake. Yet he recognised the unresolved ill between them, frustrated that his own affairs would now have to wait. A muscle flexed in his jaw.

As Elias limped from the lake he barely looked capable of maintaining his hold on the girl in his arms, let alone carrying her all that way, but Sören did not offer his help. Let the boy feel the weight of that soul; let him feel every miserable, worried step, and perhaps think twice next time.

Kemala herself was soaked and trembling, and it earned a longer look from him as she began to orchestrate them. But he knew better than to say anything.

The inn was poor quality, even without the storm-damage. Kemala was a dervish; one that it was better to allow to run its course. Inside the damp room Sören’s fist tightened, lighting the fire as instructed. “Don’t forget to tend to yourself as well, Kemala,” he said. No doubt his only response would be the fiery arrows of her scorn, but she already suffered the cold of Siberia more than most. He dropped his bag by the door, containing the supplies they had had in the boat. Then he pressed a hand to Elias’s shoulder to guide him out, indifferent to whether he went easily or not.

The door closed. Elias was likewise drenched under his grip, his coat plastered to his scrawny form, and Sören let go before he could shake himself free instead. If he imagined a reckoning he would be disappointed. If anything Sören was pensive. He rubbed his face and headed back out to the inn’s foyer.