Qebhet (coolwaters) wrote in nevermore_logs, @ 2021-05-01 22:20:00 |
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It wasn’t an ideal end to the affair by any means, but it was about as close to a win as could have been hoped for. Ares had not spared the boy, but he hadn’t let his blood-thirst overwhelm all good sense, and Telos had been returned unharmed. Apollo would no doubt be smarting over having been beaten to the target – it was always a competition with those two – but with the baby safely back in Melpomene’s arms, he could not lay claim to any slight. These weeks would leave their mark on all of them – on Melpomene, on Ares, on Apollo, on Marcie. On Telos, who slept peacefully in his crib, with no notion of how the course of his life had changed or the ripples of destruction that radiated out from him. Melpomene had envisaged her son at the eye of a storm, and Athena suspected the winds of discord were far from blowing themselves out. She would have to keep an eye on the boy. For now, though, her first priority was tying up loose ends. She had sent messages to Melpomene, expressing her relief and offering her support; and to Marcie, expressing her sorrow and offering her support. She had sent Hecate a short query and Ares a short congratulation. Apollo, she had left alone. I told you so never went down well with him. She had settled the cost of Tragos’ retrieval and cremation, and through her web of connections within the NYPD, had satisfied herself that neither his nor Cy’s death’s were under any suspicion. She was still keeping a close watch over police and media reports for news of any grisly discoveries along the Canadian border, though she judged the chance of the murder being linked back to Ares fairly minimal. He had been in the killing business a long time; he knew how and when to cover his tracks. There was one other loose end, but Athena had thought it prudent to let it lie for a time while the dust settled. Qebhet was an uncertain quantity, but the impression she had formed was that the Egyptian’s sympathies lay with the mortals entangled in the affair. Sympathies that no doubt would have been strengthened when she had discovered Athena’s lies of omission. Better, perhaps, to wait until emotions had cooled and the initial tempest had passed over. Anubis and his daughter were useful contacts; she didn’t want to burn their goodwill over something as petty as a dead cultist. She knew better than to think she wouldn’t need to call on their services again in the future. Qebhet had arranged to meet Genesis outside work, so she was standing by the door, soaking in the scant rays of sun when the low buzz of divinity invaded her senses, like a note just below the range of human hearing. Startled, she cast a darting glance across the street, her eyes settling on a tall, fair-skinned woman crossing the road towards her. Greek, Qebhet thought. The way the woman’s presence fizzed and prickled against her bare skin reminded her of Artemis and Apollo, of Hecate. The realisation sent another brief flash of panic through her: Did they know she’d been in touch with Hecate? Did they know about Kaden? What if they were hunting him still? But when the woman caught her eye, she smiled and raised a hand in greeting, palm open and unthreatening, and Qebhet found herself reflexively raising her own hand in reply. “Lady Qebhet. I’m glad I could catch you.” She was dressed in autumn colours, a burnt orange pant and blazer paired with a shirt of soft white cambric, the gentle fall of the fabrics a startling contrast to the firm line of her jaw and the uncompromising grey of her eyes. The sunlight caught on the gold of her pendant, an exquisitely worked piece of jewellery depicting a monstrous creature, teeth bared, tongue protruding. The contradictions felt familiar, if not the face. “Athena…?” Qebhet couldn’t disguise the quiet wariness in her voice, and it was only after she’d spoken that she considered perhaps she ought to have used an honorific, too. She might be thousands of years older than Athena, but where she had spent most of the past twenty centuries slumbering near-forgotten, Athena had been wide awake and holding determinedly to her power. Her stomach clenched with consternation, but Athena appeared to take no offence. When she inclined her head in acknowledgement, it seemed to Qebhet that the warmth of her smile thawed her glacial eyes. The smile faded when she spoke, her voice dropping to a quiet, sombre tone. “I wanted to thank you again for taking such good care of Tragos,” she said. “His death was a terrible tragedy, one I wish I might have prevented – but because of you, he was laid to rest with respect and Marcie was able to farewell him as she deserved. That is no small thing.” Qebhet looked at the goddess, meeting her peculiar silver gaze with a furrow in her brow and a dozen questions in her eyes. Do you wish it? she wanted to ask. Did you know he couldn’t run when he plunged the knife into his throat? Did you know how your people hurt and twisted those boys? Do you wish he had lived because he deserved to, or because his dying made a mess? There was an earnest intensity to Athena’s voice that she wanted to believe, and the regretful cast of her expression felt like the truth. Perhaps Athena had never meant to lie. Perhaps she had only relayed what she’d been told. But dared Qebhet trust that, when Athena’s brothers had been the ones to hunt Kaden down like an animal? The questions clamoured, but as usual Qebhet shied from the thought of confrontation, saying only, “He had so little peace in life. I hope he has found some in death.” Athena gave a solemn nod. “That is your specialty, as I understand. Bringing peace to troubled souls.” She reached into an inner pocket of her blazer, withdrawing a flat, square box, which she offered to Qebhet. “I picked this up at an auction some years ago. It was removed from a late New Kingdom-era tomb during the twenties. I thought perhaps you might know of a better place for it.” Qebhet could feel the amulet within even before her hand closed on the box. Heka had a pulse to it, like a living thing, and this magic lived still: magic carved in stone to preserve a soul for eternity. A heart scarab. The heart was the seat of thought and emotion, the key to the afterlife, the only organ too precious to trust to a canopic jar. The heart was preserved inside the body, ready for weighing in the Hall of Ma’at. The heart scarab, bound firmly within the mummy wrappings, an assurance that the deceased’s heart would testify true, a promise of life eternal beyond the trials of death. It should never have been removed from the body. Scribe of the Mat, Na-her-hu, the inscription read. Qebhet felt the stir of soul as her thumb traced the hieroglyphs – not so much a person as an echo of a memory of one, a spark kept alive by the magic in the amulet. Qebhet looked back up at Athena, not knowing what to say, what to feel. It was a gift, a priceless one. She couldn’t undo the desecration of Na-her-hu’s tomb, but with the heart scarab, she might help that tired scrap of a soul find rest, maybe even find a way to return it to his home soil. So, then, why did it feel uncomfortably like blood payment? Athena smiled, gentler this time. “You have my gratitude, Lady Qebhet.” With a final companionable nod, she turned, leaving Qebhet staring at the box. |