Accepting Consequences

[Morven]

The hotel stood like a glittering titan on the edge of the Red Square, flanked by immaculate doormen who escorted her entrance into the grand foyer. Morven took in the pale marble tiles, the gild and gilt of a sculptured ceiling, and found it incongruous with the man she had imagined Sören to be.

The receptionist ran curious eyes from the curly mass of her hair to the scuffed leather of her boots, lips tugged down with displeasure. Fresh from travel, her bags dumped at her feet, Morven was hardly in the mood for judgement. She was expected, and the faint rise of the women's brows suggested her assumptions as to for what. Morven collected the keycard from the shiny desk with a roll of her eyes, and forestalled the porter who made to scoop up her bags. From the scandalous look on his face, he considered it the height of rudeness. She was too tired to care.

Sören was ensconced on the very top floor of the hotel, a laborious elevator ride with a crisply uniformed young man who insisted on operating the buttons and stared dubiously at the bag slung over her back. When she finally keyed open the door to Sören's suite, she soon realised the reason for the ostentatious choice. He stood by the magnificent floor to ceiling window, a monolith against the bright stream of sunshine. In the distance rose the Ascendancy's Arch, gleaming black in the afternoon light. Crowds milled like ants at its base.

She hadn't seen him in the flesh for years, but little had changed -- aside from the obvious. He'd not professed his injury over the phone, and she had not known what to expect beyond an assumption that it could not be dire. A rough patch covered one eye, stark against the diamond edge of his cheekbones. He was sparse with his emotions at the best of times, but severity held his features like a pall now. A heavy coat draped his wide shoulders. He looked ragged.

Morven dropped her bag inside the threshold, eyeing the heap of his own luggage in the room's corner, dusty and worn, wound with superstitious tokens and talismans she'd teased him about once. And only once. So he'd been travelling. No reason he couldn't have come to her in London then. A frown stung her expression as he turned his head minimally to regard her.

"I require that you see if there is anything you can do."
He made a weary gesture towards his face. Barely an inflection to his tone. He sounded tired.

"I've been travelling since the early hours, Sören. That--"
she made a flippant gesture to the monument scarring the skyline "--has played havoc with airport security. Not to mention how many tourists are flocking to see the damn thing."
She scooted unselfconsciously onto the plush bed, commandeering the room service menu. "I am exhausted. And you've ruined my summer. The very least you could do is buy me dinner first."


"Ruined."
The repeated word barely inflected into a question. In fact it seemed the roots of it thrust far deeper than her playful jab; she had been (mostly) joking about her summer, but the sunken expression on his already gaunt face echoed a far more meaningful loss. His lips tilted down, a gruff sound vibrating from his throat. He turned away from the window, sought one of the luxurious chairs and lowered himself into it.

He sat stiffly, and briefly she wondered when he'd last slept. Shadows hollowed the eye she could see, and his hair flicked haphazardly around the ties keeping the patch in place. The way he sank into the chair was not to seek the comfort of cushions, but a support to keep him upright. As much as the man irritated her - and he really did - she was not heartless. Her glare softened its edges. That, and he'd helped save Lyall; a debt that tied loyalty around her heart and tied it neatly with a bow. Morven sighed. He took it as permission, flipping off the patch with a scowl, awaiting her judgement.

The skin beneath was sore, the furious pink of healing flesh. But of his eye there was only a filmy cloud. Her own eyes widened, and curiosity got the better of her; she shuffled off the bed to get a closer look, gripping his bristled chin to an angle. Even up close she could see precious little of his iris, just a pale blue veneer where once had been a mild brown. Chemical burn? She shifted his chin to meet the gaze of his functioning eye. Her expression softened. "What happened?"


The stone of his expression did not shift, and neither did he answer. Morven frowned. Fine. "Can you see anything at all from it? Is there any pain?"


"Little. It burns to look at light. They cleaned it in New Delhi. Gave me antibiotics."


She waited impatiently for an explanation, knowing full well he would not offer one. For a moment, meeting wills with that deceptively mild stare, she considered withholding until he offered more than cryptic secrecy. For a man who purported to champion the freedom of knowledge, he kept much close to his chest. In the end it was only the stillness with which he regarded her that swayed her. He was not armed with the arrogant demand that had sparked her ire during the phone call. He was just waiting to see what she would do.

She swatted his hand from the arm of the chair, and perched herself there. Her fingers brushed the sides of his temples. "It's cold, I'm told.
" It was the closest to a warning she offered. The power bloomed beneath her fingertips, and began to thread through his skull.