A Quiet Crossroads (Lake Baikal, Siberia)

[Sören]

Kemala did not exactly answer the question, though he hadn’t expected her to do so. Roles reversed he doubted he’d have answered it either, at least not with full disclosure. She said enough in what she didn’t say though, and it satisfied the raw edges of his curiosity without diminishing the hunger. If anything it sharpened the attention he laid upon her. People usually sorted themselves into categories with little effort on Sören’s part; which was to say even those he found useful were rarely of actual interest to him beyond that use.

She made an assumption of his intentions at the lake, but he didn’t deny it. It had been the point of his storytelling, after all. The conversation slipped to mutual shores, and he let her steer it there despite so much mystery still shrouding her own story. Meanwhile she amused herself at his expense, but he didn’t appear to mind. His lips quirked into half a smile. “I think I would not drown,” he said. Little changed in his expression, but perhaps he did not only mean swimming. 

Sören’s competencies had breadth if not necessarily expertise, but his truest skills lie in orchestration -- as befit a true king. He tipped a shoulder, leaning onto his forearms. He did not drop her gaze, wondering if she would offer the bargain of her aid herself or if he might need to reel a little tighter. “However I would prefer not to be so ill prepared this time.”

[Kemala]

Kemala’s lips pursed briefly into a smile. None could be sure if the pleasure of her amusement derived from the acknowledgement of being baited, and willfully allowing herself to be snared, or that if she gloated over her own success. Regardless, the emotion betrayed her, but she didn’t care more to linger over the reveal for more than a few moments. Sören was handsome in a way she’d never before recognized. He was like one of those transparent fish that dwelled in darkness at the bottom of caves. His eyes were pale as theirs, and she had the distinct feeling of sadness for the pathetic little creatures. But for all her knowledge about dark-dwelling marine life, this little fish would prove to be slippery if she did not watch the nets closely.

“You should probably find someone to accompany you. Someone who is a keen swimmer,” she toyed with the suggestion just as she twined the fabric of her skirt laying loose upon her lap.

“No need to beg me, though. I’ll go with you just for the amusement of swimming. Although these icy waters may freeze me through to the bone. Best to take a boat and hope for calm weather, ay?”  

[Sören]

He catalogued the brief smile as a victory. Not one he had intended to win, and he was uncertain of its value, but winning was winning and Sören would hoard every prize. Especially when the opponent was interesting.

The lure drifted loose for a while, and he allowed Kemala all the time she wanted to toy with it. He was prepared to drive a bargain if she required more of him, and his attention was devoted to the task of awaiting her answer. Whether it was truly her help he wanted, or simply the opportunity to win the rest of her story, he was unsure. For now it didn’t matter. Though he knew she had teeth, and sharp ones, she did not show them.

Instead she teased her answer in the same manner in which she had made him wait for it. Talk of freezing waters drew his attention upon the warm, dark skin so unaccustomed to it, or perhaps to the tattoo so deftly tantalised and hidden. The curve of a smile rose briefly and faded, though not without riposte in kind, as he lifted himself from his chair. “Now you’ll never know if I would have begged.”

Truth was: nothing was beneath him, if he wanted it badly enough.

He stood, empty teacup in hand, and held a palm to retrieve hers if it were likewise finished with. Otherwise it was only her gaze he held before departure. “Then I will see you in the morning.”

[Kemala]

Kemala was used to men groveling after her. Missing out on another one was not a disappointment. She tipped a shoulder in gesture of good night and watched Soren depart. She was not sleepy despite the muddiness lurking in her mind, and instead opted to read for a while.

The next day, Kemala was dressed for a boat ride. She wore long pants cuffed at the ankle, sturdy shoes, a brightly colored blouse and navy blue jumper. It was the kind of hiker’s athletic material that folded into tiny square. Given that all her worldly possessions were stuffed into a single travelers bag, she did not have a variety of wardrobe options to select. This was her sole cold-weather outfit, and Kemala assumed the farther she journeyed, the need to purchase heavier outfits would increase. For now, the chilly breeze off the oceanic-like lake Baikal cut straight to the skin. She’d trailed fingers through the water, which the local docks listed as an icy 15 degrees (59*F). She couldn’t imagine what sort of marine life thrived there, but some must. Fishermen proved as much with their daily catch on display.

She waited outside for her companion. A small walk-about satchel was slung across her shoulders and her hair was pulled up at the sides, loose at the back.

[Sören]

He woke drenched in sweat, heart pounding. The dream’s remnant clung to him like a cold second-skin, as terrifying as the nightmares he hadn’t had in earnest since the seer read his fortune as a boy. Sören peeled free of the damp blankets and shoved himself up, arcing his legs out of the bed and planting them firm on the floor to stop the trembling. The dorm was still quiet, bathed in the grey light of obscenely early morning. His hand shook before he balled it tight, wrenching the runes into his charge. The power fed his sense of control, flooding him calm like the first hit of a most potent drug. Ragged breathing stilled, slowly.

As the panic began to recede, details of the dream firmed, and he parsed through it all doggedly as he stared at empty shadows. Not a recollection of the images he had seen in the swirling waters, which drained the blood from his very soul. He didn’t know how Nimeda had done that. He didn’t know she could do that.

And he didn’t want to think about it now.

The rest, though.

He’d explored the island’s dream visage for much the same reason he had visited Roopkund on the flight to India. For thought, solitude, and perspective. What he hadn't intended was to risk reminding Thalia of his face. They’d never met this side of the dream, despite that his support carved the bedrock of her career -- to her he was just a name, and an alias at that -- but he knew how she reacted when the ink of her sketches revealed itself in flesh and blood realness. He’d do what was necessary to retrieve what she had stolen, and with no compunction to conscience if it proved the only path. The threats he made to Nimeda were not idle. He preferred efficiency, though. Scaring Thalia was a careless bridge to burn. Fear complicated things exponentially. 

It wasn’t the only complication, of course. It wasn’t even the first one to plague his waking thoughts.

A hand scrubbed his face.

Would Nimeda hurt a child? He didn’t know the answer to that. Not intentionally, perhaps, but very little of her vague nature ever seemed intentional. It wasn’t a comfort.

He plucked his phone into his grasp. Marked the time, then admitted the gesture for a lie. No one had returned his call. Perhaps Zhenya grew wise to the tactic. Not that she had ever stopped him. Not that she even ever would. If he called her now, she would answer; he knew that as sure and true as he knew his own bones, but he did not like how it made him feel.

Stalemate, then.

Sören dropped the wallet onto the sheets, pressed a hand over his damp hair, and tore his thoughts away.

He considered that Thalia might be hurt. Blood coated her face in the dream, and he had never seen Nimeda so attired, so incorporeal, or so powerful and reckless. Even if he was so minded, by the time he crossed the lake to the island and hunted down the rock by which the dream had taken place, the time for help would be long since past. A shame in a way. She might have looked kindly on a saviour, solving at least one problem, though perhaps only the least of them.

His options narrowed, and with it the way grew clearer.

Truth was he’d chosen this hostel because he’d seen Kemala talking to the artist at the lakeside; knew they had exchanged contact information. At the time it had seemed a fair gamble while he deliberated which path to chase at the crossroad. Elias was here somewhere too, hounding his own spectre; another resource to be wrung if needed, but also a source of competition. Sören knew for a certainty now that the water creature was here, and with it the object it guarded. It called to him, and strongly. To ignore it would be a mockery of Declan’s ghost; solving this riddle was the sinew of Sören’s very soul. And for now, he realised, Kemala was the key to either path. Thalia or the creature.

A shower woke him up, though darkness still chased the hollows beneath his eyes. A razor cleaned the lines of his jaw, and his hair was yet damp when he emerged, tracing faint trickles into the collar of his shirt. His bag was slung loose over one shoulder, leaving nothing behind for later retrieval. The hostel had facilities to safely leave valuables, but Sören made no assumptions of returning here. The cool slap of air greeted beyond the threshold. A new day unfolded. Given the night’s frustrations, he welcomed it.

Kemala was already waiting outside. Sören did not find the punctuality surprising, but it was gratifying not to be kept dangling on the promise of aid for mere sport. She was smaller than he had really realised from her curled perch the previous night, which perhaps accounted for the sweep of his gaze. For a moment he recalled the story she had told, of one lone figure stood against the rage of an ocean. Whether he believed or not was immaterial. Either way, the resultant smile was brief. He did not pause for niceties. He expected that she would follow.

“Have you eaten yet? I plan to purchase supplies enough for a daytrip before we look for boat hire, so we have time if you wish it.”

[Kemala]

Kemala’s foot tapped impatient until she realized the habit broke free of her iron will. It promptly fell to stillness. Regardless, she siphoned the energy of restlessness into watching a bird diving after its breakfast. It plunged beneath the surface of Lake Baikal in one dark swoop, swinging upward with a tail of water streaming down after it.

The sight of a predator snatching its breakfast reminded her of her own empty stomach. Tea was the extent of her sustenance that morning, but the warmth it infused long ago dissipated. Her hands were in her pockets, fingertips already icy, when the looming Northman emerged.

She fell into step alongside him, but for all their difference in height, she was no less diminished for it. If anything, he should feel strangely self-conscious for the bizarre stretch of his skeleton.
“Good morning to you, too,” she rebuffed. Kemala wasn’t always the chattiest, but she did demand to be treated with civility.

“I have my own food for when I need it,” she said, thinking of the bars and breads in the bag, but as she thought back to the hawk, she realized she could catch and cook her own fish anytime she wanted. Whether or not she offered to share would depend entirely on Soren’s behavior throughout the morning, she thought wryly.

[Sören]

He glanced down at her as she fell into step, the first words out of her mouth those of a grumpy combatant.

“Did you sleep well, Kemala?” he asked mildly, either unperturbed or simply uncaring of her prickly greeting, but apparently acquiescent enough to indulge in what he considered polite nothings, if that’s what she wanted. Though there might have been some vague amusement if she happened to look up to catch his expression then, and she wouldn’t be wrong to suspect the remark was actually quite pointed, no matter how pleasantly spoken.

If, he decided, she proved utterly insufferable company, he could simply pitch her over the side. It wasn’t like she couldn’t swim.

“If you don’t wish to share breakfast, would you rather procure us a suitable vessel while I organise the things I will need? Of boats I have no great experience. Funds are not an issue, and just as well; I pity the man who crosses you in a barter, I think.”

[Kemala]

Sören proved himself capable of civil conversation, Kemala noted. It made his chill behavior from before all the more apparent now. Between him being a northman and a just a man in general,  Kemala should have known better to expect good manners. It didn’t mean she couldn’t set an example, however. So she nodded and responded, even if frost nipped at the edges of her voice. The more people pushed her away, the harder she pushed back.
“It was a cold sleep. Even with all the blankets that could be spared, I shivered most the night,” she said, tucking her hands in her pockets even then.

Not that he would care, she thought, jealous of his obvious acclimation. “I’ll find the boat for hire,” she said, glad for the delegation. Not only would she find herself distracted from the temperature. In short order, she practically scavenged a flat-bottomed fishing boat. She wasn’t a pretty thing to look at. Any paint on the aluminum sides was long worn off. The ribs were exposed on the inner hull and the seating were two bare benches. But upon inspection, the construction was tough and thick. The motor was gasoline-powered, which wasn’t the luxury it sounded like it was for the CCD, and generated 5.5 HP. That would carry them at a cruising speed across the water for the day. Not to mention any extra power that Kemala herself generated to give the boat an extra nudge.

She was sitting on the bench near the engine when Sören found her again.

[Sören]

Sören glanced down at her like the answer mystified him. If she felt the cold so keenly, why was she so poorly dressed for the climate? She sounded genuinely annoyed too, like the perfectly ordinary weather itself was an affront, and he decided it made him in good company for her derision. His lips quirked a little in response, but if he had an answer for her complaints he clearly thought better of sharing it. Doubtless, she would not appreciate where his mind went.

“Det finns inget dåligt väder, bara dåliga kläder,” he said instead, aware that (unless she happened to speak Swedish) the fact he did not speak English was only likely to irk her further. He shifted the bag on his back, and headed to complete his business. With any luck her mood would have improved by the time he returned.

Sören did not generally journey with much. Despite a vast amount of wealth to his name, his tastes for travel were usually basic, informed mostly by need, and generally that need was a nomad’s desire to move quickly. He ate a brief breakfast on the move, browsing the local market while he tallied his requirements for the day, and packing everything neatly in a water-tight bag bought just for the purpose. The supplies were not exhaustive, of course, but he didn’t want the excuse to break the excursion early should something be forgotten, so he planned for several eventualities.

Afterwards he found her at the water, in a vessel he tried hard not to frown at. “Is this to be a lesson on how appearances can be quite deceptive?” he asked. His tone was mild, sure she would miss the joke and assume he was instead casting doubt on her expertise. Perhaps she would use it as an opportunity for a lecture. Either way, Sören proceeded to load his things.

“There's no such thing as bad weather, just bad clothes,” he added, translating his earlier comment as he joined her on the opposite bench. Amongst the top layer of precisely packed purchases was a large shawl knitted from Buryat wool, brightly patterned, that he handed out to her now before closing the bag up. It was traditionally crafted, but most importantly it was warm. And hopefully it would stifle her complaining.

[Kemala]

“Are you talking about the boat or about me?” she said in return, tongue sharp as the rocky banks on which they were perched. He climbed in without the additional thought to shove the boat off shore, but before Kemala could call upon the energies of the wind, she was presented with something.

She blinked at the gift, gently stroking the cloth as one would a cherished prize. She had to assume it was a gift, since after several seconds he did not seek to retrieve it. The gift had to come with a quip of course. It wasn’t as if she could travel with a load of match luggage. What did he expect?

“I doubt all the shawls in the world can chase away this chill,” she muttered, unfurling the shawl. It was warm and snugged tight to her shoulders, but she did seem to relax a little afterward.

To push out, she called momentarily upon the energies of the wind, and with a nudge that may be mistaken as coincidence, the boat was freed from the shore and began to rock gently in the water. She would manage the engine so long as Soren gave the direction. The motor smelled of burned oil, but at least the heat exhaust thawed her fingertips.

“What heading?” she asked.