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Tweak says, "DO YOU LIKE UPSIDE DOWN"

Pallas Athena (polymetis) wrote in nevermore_logs,
@ 2021-01-04 00:12:00

Entry tags:

athena, the moirae

WHO Athena, the Moirae
WHEN December 31 – January 1
WHERE Athena’s apartment, Manhattan; the Fates’ shop, Brooklyn
WHAT Wisdom does not enjoy being in the dark
WARNINGS Some talk of death

On the final evening of the year, Athena stood on her balcony, watching the darkening sky with a glass of crisp Vermentino in her hand and the faintest of frowns creasing her forehead.

She had allowed herself to become distracted.

She’d spent the fortnight before Christmas on the west coast, attending to the family’s business affairs, renewing contact with a couple of former proteges and putting the screws on an obstinate daimon who’d been making too many waves for her liking. She had returned to find both Hecate and Apollo dead, only one yet returned, and Artemis spitting vengeance against both her twin’s unknown killer and the Sheriff of Nottingham.

It concerned her a little to find her family again embroiled in feuding and bloodshed. It concerned her much more that, this time, she hadn’t seen it coming.

Hecate’s message, received hours before, had crystallised it. She’d reached out seeking answers, but in her questioning had unwittingly revealed yet another gap in Athena’s knowledge, something that intrigued and infuriated Wisdom in equal measure.

(She had a healthy enough ego to own that she didn’t know everything all the time, but that didn’t mean she was happy about it.)

War and Tragedy. She’d thought it had flamed out months ago. She’d neglected to consider that some seeds would only germinate in the scorched earth after the wildfire had passed through. Just as Melpomene’s belly swelled with Ares’ seed, it seemed she had planted something of her own within his ranks. Ares disavowed all knowledge of the hit on Hecate, but it could surely be no coincidence that – of all his hard-bitten, bloodthirsty men – it was Melpomene’s chosen who had fired the killing bullet.

And then there was Marcella. Marcie, who not four months ago had sat across from her at Diogenes and hopefully, anxiously called Athena ‘mother’. One to watch, she’d thought then, curiosity roused by the girl’s keen ambition and dogged resourcefulness and yearning to belong. And, indeed, Marcella had made her mark, had thrown herself into the middle of a war between immortals, had gained Aphrodite’s favour and protection; and, impossibly, had earned Ares’ grudging recognition as his daughter. She’d been right to want to keep an eye on Marcella. The mistake had been in letting her attention wander.

I have heard, Hecate had said, something that will put her in danger if certain members of this pantheon were to find out.

I think in days to come she may need your protection.

The elder goddess was careful in what she revealed, even privately, and that in itself spoke volumes. It suggested that Hecate was not altogether confident that Athena would come down on Marcella’s side if she said more, or at least that she was not prepared to trust in Athena’s silence.

It suggested Marcie had done something to anger Olympus.

Athena could think of only one outrage that had shaken the Twelve in the weeks she’d been away.

The murder of a god. It would explain Hecate’s concern. But that, in itself, was not evidence, only a loose correlation. She wasn’t even sure if Marcella had met Apollo. She didn’t know what other affronts might yet be waiting to bob to the surface. (And, by the primordial, what else didn’t she know?)

She needed to speak to the girl, that much was clear. But first, she needed more information.

On the first day of the New Year, Athena went to see the Moirae. Over tea and the rubble of a gingerbread house, she studied Atropos, whose undiscriminating shears could mark a god’s doom as easily as a mortal’s. “I don’t suppose you know who killed Apollo?”

Atropos snorted in faint derision. “Oh, I know. His own stupidity, that’s who.”

Lachesis said nothing, but Athena caught the widening of her eyes as she looked at her sister in askance. Athena merely smiled wryly. “I doubt he stabbed himself in the stomach.”

“Nope. Just shot himself in the foot.” The Crone looked rather pleased with herself over that one. Clotho frowned into her tea.

Athena felt a sharp stab of annoyance that, in truth, had nothing to do with Atropos.

(It had a little to do with Atropos. There weren’t many who could make Athena feel like an ignorant child if they wanted to, and Atropos had the irritating honour of being one of them. What was more, she knew it.)

She didn’t let the polite smile slip, kept her voice pleasant. “Perhaps I should have asked,” she said, “what you can tell me?”

It was Lachesis who answered her, in words careful and measured and threaded with sympathy. “Artemis is wasting her time. There’s nothing she can do that hasn’t already been done. It will bring her no satisfaction.”

Athena nodded, considering that. “And me?” she ventured. “Am I wasting my time?”

The Crone smiled crookedly. “Gotta spend some more time tending your own garden, bright-eyes. You’re getting careless.”

Athena’s fingers twitched, and the delicate piece of gingerbread she held between thumb and forefinger snapped abruptly in two.