Qebhet (coolwaters) wrote in nevermore_logs, @ 2021-03-14 17:15:00 |
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Qebhet’s been wrestling with what to do for Kaden ever since that night nine days ago, when Vincent called her out. She knows where he goes to school. She could try speaking to him there. Or she could leave a message somewhere he’d find it. She could tell him the truth: I’m a friend of Hecate’s. I’d like to help you, if you’ll let me. But Vincent’s words chase her every thought. Gods who have everything and still wanna take. Gods treating people like pets. She’s still not sure what gods he was referring to. Ares? Aphrodite? How many gods already have their hooks in these Murphy children? Will you give him a choice? From the little she knows of his home – choked by swamp and blackened by the twin shadows of poverty and violence – Kaden has few enough choices as it is. The last thing she wants is to take away what little he has to call his own. Once again, it’s Vincent who spurs her to a decision. He slouches through her wall late on Saturday evening. That’s not unusual in itself – this makes the third time he’s visited since he announced he was quitting. They’re settling into a new pattern. She still offers him libations of beer, but in the same way one would offer tea or coffee to a living guest. He still tells her about his spectral explorations and he’s still full of questions, though these days they’re less pointed, more openly curious. He asks her about her family and about Egypt and about mummies. Especially the mummies. What’s unusual is the way he’s wringing his hands, the way his eyes skitter away from her gaze. Qebhet pours him his libation, because it’s part of their familiar ritual, and because he looks today like he needs the drink to bolster him. And while he shuffles on his feet, she fills the silence with idle talk about her day, about the weather, about whatever comes to mind. Vincent nods and he shrugs and he makes the occasional wordless noise, barely seeming to hear a single word of it, before he abruptly cuts her off mid-sentence: You still got Kaden’s back? You gonna talk to him? Qebhet leans back in her seat carefully, brows drawing together in concern. “Has something happened, Vincent?” The young shade wrings his hands again and looks away, his jaw tight. Vincent has never fully trusted her. There’s a wariness in him that’s been ingrained, she’s fairly certain, through painful and repeated experience. She’s not a cop or a social worker or a security guard, but she has power over him, because she had a voice where he does not, because she can see him where others cannot, because she is undying and he is dead. It wasn’t until nine days ago that it dawned on Qebhet how vital a thing that wariness was. Even when Vincent had been reporting back to her, his instinctive loyalty had always been with Kaden. She can see him grappling with that loyalty now. Finally, he says, Just— you should go talk to him. Soon. Kid needs someone in his corner who’s not gonna fuck him over. On Sunday, Qebhet trudges through the damp and the gusting winds to the wire fence where she knows she’ll find Kaden’s shrine to Hecate. It’s looking a little worse for wear – the wind has been doing its best to claw apart the twisted willow wreath – but it’s still holding together. That’s good. She has her own addition for it. The gift is concealed in a single rolled-up sheet of white notepaper, itself protected from the elements by a clear ziplock bag. Tied to the bottom of the wreath, it’s hopefully mundane enough to avoid the notice of any except those who know what the shrine is supposed to look like. She’s been thinking about the nature of gifts. About Aphrodite showering Kaden with expensive phones and promises of protection. About Ares bestowing favour and status on Kaden’s brothers. Sizeable gifts entailing sizeable obligation. Will you give him a choice? When a person is desperate, they’ll cling to anything that’s offered them. When they believe it’s a matter of grabbing hold or drowning, there is no choice. Qebhet is a small god; what blessing she can offer is a drop in the bucket compared to the favour of Ares or Aphrodite. But between her and this mortal child, she is still the one with the power, and she doesn’t want to use it to tower over him. So the amulet she’s chosen from her collection – a faience scarab, glazed deep blue – is not a potent one. It’s a focussing tool, the power in it as much psychosomatic as it is magical, perhaps more so. The notepaper rolled around it bears the legend of the Western Funeral Home, the address, phone number and website printed beneath. Below this are a few short handwritten lines, in Qebhet’s careful hand: The glyphs on the underside translate to ‘clear thought’. I have found it a useful focus, to help me know my own mind. I thought it might do the same for you. |