A Quiet Crossroads (Lake Baikal, Siberia)

[Sören]

She repurposed his own wording in a way that affected some amusement, or maybe just appreciation for the weaving parallels she made of their stories. Sören was not chastened by her sharp retort; rather he met it in challenge, not heatedly, but to offer further explanation. “The floor of that lake glittered like ivory. A coating of human bones. You could see them through the ice,” he said. “It was not an advantage, Kemala, but the bargain of a necessary survival. None other could use it. None other would have survived the deed.”

None other had survived the deed.

Sören didn’t refute the superstition of her statement, however. Rather, he meant to make it clear that the sacrifice had been made not in naivety or blind foolishness, but in understanding that sometimes victory demanded navigation by way of a path of poor choices. He would pay the cost, unrepentant, whether it was he who suffered or others in his stead, and he would surely pay again if there was no other way. He imagined she thought she could have done better. But she was wrong.

She once again offered so little that he might have found himself annoyed at the coyness, yet she did it so well it was not frustration that edged his gaze. His attention was usually a mild thing, but it was interested now, ignorant of the peripheral distractions to be found in such a communal area, like they were the only ones here. Kemala never questioned the nature of the creature he had described, as others had when they pored over the scale, imagining it the elaborate hoax he permitted them to believe because it pleased him to do so. The tattoo Kemala allowed a glimpse of had been serpentine. She wove mystery like a scent to lure closer, and he wasn't immune.

“The hook is through my cheek. You pull it sharply, but the pain is quite sweet. How does a king of a near extinct kingdom, who is not a god himself, aid against the wrathful vengeance of an entire ocean?”