A Quiet Crossroads (Lake Baikal, Siberia)

[Sören]

His fingers curved around the rim of the upheld cup, though he met the directness of her gaze and held it before he plucked it free from her grasp. “A good king,” he said, “knows he must be both.”

As he turned a grunt of laughter met the pearls of her wisdom, which he mostly found to be trite. Humanity was a flawed beast, and few earned such accolade in Sören’s estimation, and least of all on account of sex alone. Charm for the sake of ego had little value, unless the ego in question was a fragile one. He treated others as he felt they deserved, else as simply suited him. Usually it served a purpose. True equals were few and far between.

He retreated to the kitchen counter to prepare the tea. Such social rituals traversed the globe, and Sören was a worldly student. Hostels rarely catered for more than basics, of course. There wasn’t even a samovar, though that was the tradition here. They favoured black, sipped through chipped pieces of sugar, and often alongside kalatch. Mint he associated with Morocco, though he did not think that was where she was from. “Little in life is ever accomplished from the side of safety. Certainly nothing of worthy note.”

Amusement still touched the words. He did not think she had misunderstood the question, yet on the nature of women he did not deign to comment. He might not agree with such a platitudinous sentiment, but sometimes speech was silver to silence’s gold. While the tea brewed, he turned back to her.

“But, let us be tame, then, and err on the side of safety. Since you would have me assume us in the realm of equals, it seems to me I am owed a story in kind.”