In Due Course

[Sören]

The closer they came to their destination, the more invigorated Sören felt. Though his lungs grasped for enough air to satiate an easy breath, though the cold chapped his skin and froze his blood until warmth was a distant memory. They were small prices; bodily pains barely worth acknowledgement. He surveyed the white landscape with the fevered gaze of the hungry, a king staking claim on new dominion. It would reveal its mysteries. He would make sure of it.

Declan sunk into himself on the morning's hike, a silence Sören ignored in favour of his own fervour. He had no comforts to offer, nor the time to waste on them even if he could lift that shroud. Better the man keep his own counsels and subdue his own demons. The hollowness of his eyes spoke of an uneasy night. As to what plagued him most, Sören did not enquire. If Declan sought to unburden himself with words, Sören would listen. But he would not seek the conversation.

He had no interest in the fresh bodies, though his gaze did flicker momentarily over the expression of his friend. His answering nod was unnecessary; Sören would have taken himself off to the lake with or without Declan's approval. But the gesture was acknowledgement, a binding of camaraderie that for a moment Sören's spirit had sought to shuck. The lake and its secrets would be his alone. He examined the possessiveness, then set it aside carefully. Ice crunched under heel as he trekked away as bid.

He had walked this dreamscape so many times. He opened his mind to it, tuned to the details that sung in his blood. The recognition gratified him, soaked into his being like a stranger welcomed home. The lake was deep and clear, radiating cold, the sweet promise of an icy death to those enticed to her embrace seeking answers. So many nights he had dreamed this place, it was like an old acquaintance. But a silent one. Its victims hung suspended at its heart, the only answer it willingly offered.

Sören pulled the scarf down from his face. Ice glittered in the unkempt beard of long travel, the sharp cheeks above chafed red and wind-torn. A serious gaze appraised the warning bodies, the fathomless depths of water and ice all open to scrutiny. The view pleaded, not innocence, but transparency. There was nothing to see, to the mortal eye, but its frozen grave. Piqued to the challenge, Sören knelt. He pulled loose a glove, stuffed it in a pocket. The cold bit anew into sensitive flesh as he reached to touch the glacial waters. When he lifted his hand, his aching fingers closed, one by one into a fist.

Need and inquiry quested into the water. The rune Naudhiz sliced clean and true, unfurling the desire to understand. Something shimmered in response, widening his eyes, but as he sought to claim the knowledge the brisk wind began to swirl a dervish. It howled an unnatural cry through the mountains. A warning.

At the call of the elements, Sören stood, hearkening back to the transmission Declan had shared. He snatched himself back from the edge, but a crazy, triumphant glint lit his eyes. The sharp edge of a smile fringed madness. His gloved hand sketched another symbol, one designed hastily for protection, but from what he was blind. It was a paltry defense. Arrogance warred with retreat, then something broke the water. Exhilaration woke him. His gift burned so bright it seared his soul with its heat and voracity, but he was unprepared. "Run!"