Will Stutely (sly_stutely) wrote in nevermore_logs, @ 2020-10-23 20:35:00 |
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Entry tags: | athena, will stutely |
WHO Will Stutely and Athena
WHEN Tuesday evening, after CRIME
WHERE Diogenes Club
WHAT These darned Olympians just won’t leave Stoots alone
WARNINGS None
Will wasn’t in any particular mood for company. But Much was working the bar tonight and, after Tuck, Much was the one most vulnerable to retaliation from the Sheriff. They’d poked the bear today, and even if the Sheriff appeared to be in temporary retreat, Will wasn’t taking the chance that their foe wouldn’t hang around outside Diogenes looking for a bit of quick revenge when Much got off shift. So he’d slipped quietly into the bar with the evening crowd and he’d found himself a discreet corner that gave him a clear view of both the entrance and the kitchen door. It was a quiet night, and after he’d frittered away a couple of hours flicking through messages on his phone and slowly demolishing a plate of nachos, he’d pulled out his book. It was a book of Icelandic family sagas, purported histories of the country’s early settlers. Not the kind of thing he usually went in for, but, like most of the reading he did these days, he’d picked it up off the top of a stack at Clio’s and found himself weirdly engrossed by it. The tales were compelling and off-putting in equal measure and despite the disquiet they gave him, he kept going back. Tonight, there was one particular story that got to him. He found himself flipping back the pages, trying to wrap his head fully around it. There was a man called Gunnar, who was skilled in combat, and who hated it. The more his reputation as a warrior grew, the more challengers arose to provoke him, the more he found himself forced to kill in self-defence, and thus his reputation grew all the more. A prophecy warned him that this vicious cycle of violence would be his doom. But the attackers kept coming, and Gunnar did not know how to do anything but fight. The prophecy came true. The killing, though not unjustified, nonetheless saw Gunnar sentenced to a term of exile, and he accepted the punishment. But as he rode away from his farm, his horse tripped and he was forced to jump clear of it. He looked back at the farmhouse in the distance and home tugged at his heart. He said, “The slopes are beautiful. I will not go.” Again he was warned. Again he failed to heed it. His enemies, given full licence to attack, besieged his home, and there he made his fruitless last stand, and there he was killed. Gunnar was a fucking idiot, Will thought savagely. He whined about how much he hated killing, but he never looked for any other solution to his problems. He was a dick to his wife and he ignored his friends’ warnings. And when he was given the perfect out, saving himself and his family from the cycle of death, he was too damn stubborn to take it. Gunnar deserved his stupid, pointless end. The slopes are beautiful. I will not go. But then he thought of his own stubborn refusal to take the out the others were pushing for. He thought of Much’s hurt incomprehension, and the awful prophecy that hung over Tuck’s head. His mouth twisted bitterly. In truth, it wasn’t the story he was angry at. “Njáls saga. Heavy reading for a bar.” He hadn’t even notice the woman slide into the seat opposite him. She was a goddess, Greek; he’d been around enough of them at this point to recognise that straight away. She was crisply dressed in a dove grey waistcoat and trousers, matched with a light blue shirt. Her eyes were bright and sharp. Will considered her guardedly. “It passes the time.” “Have you ever been to Iceland?” Curious, conversational. Why had she sat down here? He gave a loose shrug. “Can’t say I have. You?” “Not for a long time, regrettably. But it’s not a place that’s easily forgotten.” The goddess crooked a small smile. “Fögur er hlíðin. The slopes are beautiful.” Will’s skin crept. She was referencing the saga he was reading, obviously. Probably it was a well-known line. She might have even glimpsed it on the page that lay open. But with those pale, watchful eyes on him, he couldn’t escape the feeling that she’d peered directly into his mind. With the Greeks, it was a real possibility. Her next words did nothing to alleviate his unease. “You’re Will Stutely.” Fuck. Carefully, Will closed the book. “Have we met?” “We haven’t. You’re dating my sister.” That didn’t tell him much. Clio was related to everyone in the Greek pantheon. Will gave the woman an appraising look. She had a poise that spoke of control and precision, and her face revealed nothing (he suspected) that she didn’t want him to see. Her fingers curled around the stem of her wine glass, perfectly nonthreatening, but when his senses brushed up against the invisible hum of her divinity, he thought he felt in it something hard and imposing. Maybe it was only his natural suspicion. But he was struck with the distinct impression that those hands would be just as comfortable wrapped around the hilt of a sword. Wary, he asked, “How’d you pick me?” The goddess tilted her head. “Simple deduction. Your presence says British Isles; your bearing says folk hero. You’re friendly with Much the Miller’s Son,” she glanced with a nod toward the bar, “so it’s a fair assumption you’re connected to the Merry Men. And Artemis described you as tall, red-haired and over-serious.” …huh. “So everyone’s talking about us now, is that it?” She flashed another smile. “Gossip does tend to travel quickly in my pantheon. But I also happen to know the right people.” “You’re an Olympian.” “Yes.” “Athena.” It was the only option that fit. The smile crept wider. “Nicely deduced.” Will was at once acutely aware that he’d allowed himself to become cornered. His back was to the wall, the exits still in clear view, but between them and him was the goddess of war and wisdom. With a moment’s inattention, he’d surrendered the advantage of his position. And what the hell did she want from him, anyway? “You’re not going to threaten me as well, are you?” It was the logical guess. He’d already been loomed over by two Olympians, and a third was demanding he present himself for inspection. Why not make it four? But Athena only eyed him with amusement. “Would you like me to? A threat of vivisection from Artemis is usually more than enough for most people.” Well, okay. Fair. But then, what? And also, the fuck? “Why’d you sit down here, then?” He tried not to make it sound like an accusation. “Call it curiosity.” Athena leaned forward, propping her elbows on the table between them. Still casual, still conversational, but those eyes were steel-bright. “Clio posed an interesting non-hypothetical a couple of months ago. A malicious immortal who preyed on a specific group of individuals and wasn’t deterred by death. I assume now that she was asking on your behalf.” Fucking hell. Will’s expression turned to stone, the walls drawing up. “You can assume that.” He kept his voice carefully neutral. Giving nothing, he hoped. But Athena nodded thoughtfully, as though this confirmed much. “What course of action did you decide on, in the end?” Cool as anything, as if she was only picking up an old point of discussion and not inserting herself directly into their affairs. (Which… alright, all fairness, she had been part of the discussion with Clio, and one of the only useful parts, at that. But she understood full well that Clio had left the names out of it for a reason. She was clever enough to get that. Jesus Christ, these fucking Olympians and their audacity!) Neutral, he reminded himself. He rubbed the knuckles of his healed fingers absently. “Don’t mean to offend, but I can’t see that it’s any of your business.” Athena studied him, unblinking. “You’ve made my sister a part of this fight. She doesn’t seem to believe she’s in any danger from it, but I think you know better. And if I’m not mistaken, my niece Marcella has already placed herself in danger on your account. So I don’t mean to offend you, but I see it as somewhat my business.” She said it all in the mildest of tones, and the words struck him squarely in his guilty conscience. Clio was formidable, but it didn’t mean she wasn’t vulnerable. All the hurt she’d been dealt in recent years, the scars of Lucifer’s whip that covered her back, the nine months of her life and Ella’s and of history that had been snatched away from her by a careless driver, Hermes. She knew the risks, she’d told him. She knew the risks and she chose to stay and to help. And, god, he loved her for it, but that didn’t mean it didn’t scare the shit out of him, the thought that the Sheriff could one day darken her door. Athena must have seen something of it flicker behind his eyes, because she nodded again. “You made a move today, didn’t you. I saw your Sheriff’s outburst. He wasn’t expecting it.” Straight back to the questions, as though he hadn’t just given her the brush-off. “But you don’t think it will be enough,” she added, thoughtful. Will gave her a sharp look. Do you really care about Clio, or are you just interested in watching us flail? (Could be both, he supposed grudgingly. Melpomene seemed to manage both. He wasn’t sure if that made it any better.) “Whatever you did,” Athena mused, “you have him on the back foot. He’s caught up in damage control and he’s not being discreet about it. Now would be the time to ready your killing strike.” Will snorted at that. “He doesn’t die.” He knew she wasn’t speaking literally. Neither was he, really. Athena quirked an ironic smile and took a slow sip of her wine. He couldn’t get a read on her, and it was fucking infuriating. She’d offered her advice readily, and thoughtfully, when Clio had asked for it. Maybe she really was just following up out of concern for her family’s safety. (He didn’t think it was just concern.) Impulsively, he found himself asking, “What would you do?” Athena set down her glass. “What I would do is immaterial. I’m not a target. Even if I were, the Sheriff of Nottingham would never get close to me. The question is, what will you do?” Irritation flared in him. “Nah. Nah, hang on. You don’t get to have it both ways.” He jabbed an accusing finger toward her. “You just said you were making it your concern, now you want to say you’re not involved?” The goddess raised an eyebrow, quizzical. “Would you accept my help, if I offered it?” That gave him a moment’s pause. Athena answered for him, her eyes bright and penetrating. “I think perhaps you’d have more trust in a threat.” Well, she wasn’t entirely wrong there. But she was also yet to give him any reason to trust her. (Clio trusted her. But when it came to Olympians, Will didn’t always share Clio’s faith.) Her advice before had been good. Her motives, though… what was the motive here? Finally, cautiously, he said, “Depends what kind of help you’re offering. If you’re offering.” He thought he saw something like approval in her expression. He wasn’t sure what to make of that, either. “I’m the goddess of wise counsel. I have a good many resources at my disposal. And I have a certain interest in heroes.” Vague, yet enticing. He was starting to suspect it was so by design. The same way she had, he was pretty sure, intended to play on his fears for Clio before. What kind of resources? Did it matter, if they came with strings attached? (Did the strings matter, if the alternative was a private prison cell, either Marian’s or the Sheriff’s?) Instead, he asked, “What kind of an interest?” Athena’s smile was — did he imagine it? — gentler this time, almost soft. Almost. “A patronal one.” She slid a business card across the table, and stood. “Talk it over with your friends. Don’t take too long, would be my advice. I would suspect your instincts about the Sheriff are correct.” And she turned, and she walked away without a backward glance, leaving Will Stutely with a head swimming with questions. |