Pitch black eyes studied him from beneath a lace-edged hood, as large flakes of snow kissed his eyelashes and slipped down his collar. He couldn’t say if Morgan was pleased or troubled to see him, the line of her mouth merely straight, without hint of either direction. Raising a gloved hand, she smudged the freckles of blood on his cheek, and made an ambiguous sound in her throat, as she eyed the remnants of violence on his coat.
“I had my reasons,” she said. Was there regret in her eyes?
“There will be war.”
“He left me no choice.”
(Written for The Prediction. Challenge words: pitch, reason, smudge)