Will Stutely (sly_stutely) wrote in nevermore_logs, @ 2022-01-17 15:24:00 |
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Entry tags: | arthur a bland, will stutely |
WHO Will Stutely
WHEN Saturday 8th to Saturday 15th January
WHERE Brooklyn
WHAT Will and his usual coping mechanisms
WARNINGS Some descriptions of wartime horrors
He never knew how Robert fell. There was a time, back in the dark days after Crimea, when he’d tortured himself with wondering. He scarcely needed to stretch his imagination. He’d been there as well, after all. Balaklava. Will Stutely had thought he knew violence before he shipped off to the Peninsula. He knew what it was like to see his fellows cut down on either side of him, and to be set upon by a half dozen men and have nobody raise a voice or hand in protest, and to be flogged and starved and hauled to the gallows in the name of so-called justice. Knew, too, how to fight dirty, with blade and fists and boots and teeth, how to strike a man where he was vulnerable, and how to put an arrow through an eye at two hundred yards, and how to cut a sentry’s throat swiftly and noiselessly before he could raise an alarm. All these things, a man learned in the greenwood. Balaklava was different. Balaklava was cannons booming and shells bursting, riding blind into the billowing smoke and dust as bullets flew and sabres flashed. Balaklava was grey-faced men huddled filthy and shivering outside overflowing hospital tents, was the pervasive stink of sickness and shit, unwashed bodies and rotting horse carcasses. Will had seen death in his day, brutal, senseless death, but in Balaklava, he saw men reduced to unrecognisable hunks of meat and bone. He never knew how Robert fell. But he remembered the young lad, seventeen years if he was a day, sweat-drenched and scarcely able to hold himself upright against the trench wall, let alone hang onto a bayonet. Two days shitting and spewing his guts out in a hospital tent, and they’d pronounced him fit for duty. Another two days and he’d be gone. Will remembered the crunch of his blade finding its mark in a Cossack’s chest, how the boy had died with an expression permanently frozen in terror; remembered the gurgling shriek of an infantry lad brought down by shrapnel and drowning in his own blood. Will remembered, and when he remembered, each one of them had his son’s face. He never knew how it happened, whether it had been a bullet or blade or shell, whether death had come of an instant or whether it had taken the lad slowly through blood loss or infection or fever. He never knew whether Robert had died still believing he was serving king and country, or in despair knowing it was all a pointless bloodbath. All he would ever know was that it was his fault. Took him better part of a hundred and seventy years to even begin to forgive himself. Will never thought he’d bring another child into the world. The world they lived in, it wasn’t a place for children and it never would be, no matter the deluge of cartoons and picture books that pretended otherwise. In their world, there was no room for new stories: it was only the same old tales repeated over and over, where even the big wins only presaged a fresh cycle of bloodshed and violence. It’d be a folly – it’d be an unforgivable greediness – to bring a kid into all that. And besides, what did Will Stutely have to offer a son or a daughter? What could he ever teach them but lies and fairytales that could and would only lead to disaster? He had a family, anyway. Robin and Marian, Tuck and Johnny and all the lads. Best brothers and sister a man could ask for. Selfish, really, to ever want more. So he told himself he’d never needed any home save the forest. He was happier drifting town to town, cos he wasn’t the kind to set down roots, didn’t need any anchor but his crew. He was happier that way, really. After a certain point, he even began to believe it. Will had never meant to be a father again. Then one day, a year and a half past, a brown-eyed child wandered into Tuck’s kitchen. Walked right up to him without a flicker of shyness and told him, You’re tall. But I’m gonna be taller. That was only been the start of it. It’d take a little longer (though not much longer) for him to fall for the kid’s mother, and a little longer for him to realise just how deep both mother and child had worked their way past the carefully-guarded walls of his heart. But even before Ella had begun calling him Dad, Will had known he’d face down Lucifer himself to keep that child happy and safe. Still, nothing had changed: their world wasn’t safe. He wasn’t safe, and didn’t it just prove his every fear when the Sheriff took Clio hostage to lure Will into a cage? He’d thought that, but everywhere their world seemed determined to prove him wrong. Thirty-odd years after losing his own kids, Tuck got them back. And they were brilliant: kind, clever adults who’d toughed it out against the odds to build a life on their terms. Will Scarlet had a daughter. Little John had a bride. Slowly, his brothers were making families of their own, and the truth Will had buried became ever harder to deny. Will was exactly the kind to set down roots. He’d never avoided it cos he didn’t need it or want it. He’d avoided it cos he was scared shitless of being uprooted again. I want this, he admitted at last in September. They’d been talking about it off and on. About the practicalities and contingencies as much as anything else. Michael could offer protections, Elaine too. Hecate had offered to keep Clio safe in the past; she might be willing to pitch in. On one thing Will had been firm on from the first: if he did have another child, he was going to do right by them— them and Ella both. He had to be sure they’d be safe from— his kind of dangers. At least as sure as anyone could be. They had allies now as they’d never had in the past. Friends with the power to keep a child from harm, and— well, and there was Clio’s family, too. He mightn’t like all of ‘em, or trust all of ‘em as far as he could throw them, but even Will had to admit that Apollo and Artemis would move mountains to protect a kid of Clio’s. They talked out risks and safeguards in quiet late-night conversations. I want this, he said, not without a flutter of fear, or mayhap guilt. Wanting was a dangerous road, and undercutting his every thought was the silent doubt— is this reasonable, or are you just looking for excuses? Truth is, there’s not one word Marian said that Will hasn’t thought himself. That’s what makes it cut so deep. You are being selfish, she said, and the fear in the pit of his stomach agrees. You’re being hasty and reckless. Thinking only of your own gratification and nothing of the hell this child’s going to be put through for being your daughter, the hell we’re all going to be put through trying to protect her from the men who’ll surely torment and hurt and kill her. You’re selfish, Will Stutely, and now, like before, the people you love will suffer for it. You think your daughter’s going to thank you for bringing her into this shitty world? You think Robert would have? Or Christopher? They knew, like she’ll know, that they were a mistake. She’s a mistake. Marian didn’t say it in those words exactly, but that’s how it lands on Will’s ears. You know me, he told her. You know my history and you damn well know what I’ve lost, and you still think I’m gonna be reckless about bringing a kid into the world? You think we took any part of this decision lightly? And her answer, like a musket ball through the guts: Yes. Clio would know the words to ease his guilt. She’s got the wisdom of millennia and the empathy of someone who holds the entirety of human history in her heart, and she’s miles more patient than Will deserves. She would tell him the things that he already knows: that Marian loves him and she’s speaking from a place of a trauma he can’t imagine, that he’s never taken the dangers lightly and he didn’t rush into anything, and nor, by the way, did he make this choice on his own. That they both decided to do this because they believe they can make a better world for their children, which— after all, wasn’t that always the reason he’d decided to follow Robin in the first instance? She would tell him, he knows, that he deserves to be happy. And she’d be right, but that wouldn’t make Marian wrong. Everybody deserves to be happy; not everybody gets to be. And how’s he to justify stealing a smidge of happiness for himself if it brings misery on the people he cares about? Clio would have a counter for that too, probably. She’s cleverer than he is. Whole thing’s moot, though, because Will hasn’t told her about the conversation with Marian. He isn’t going to tell her, because he doesn’t want to repeat those words. He doesn’t want Clio to hear them from his mouth: This baby is a mistake. Robin’s talked to Marian. Will’s pretty sure of that, because some ten minutes after she told him he was selfish and reckless and cruel, some ten minutes after she told him he was hurting her and hurting his family and hurting his unborn child, she posted another message. I’m sorry, it said, and I shouldn’t have said anything, and of course you’re allowed to be happy. He believes that she’s sorry. She wishes she’d kept it all to herself. Doesn’t change the fact that it’s what she thinks of him. Selfish. Greedy. Reckless. Like with Robert, like with Christopher, and like with every blasted time he’s got himself nicked and the others’ve had to risk their hides to save him from the gallows: he always bites off more than he can chew and it always falls on somebody else so no, Will Stutely, you’re not allowed to be happy, not the way you want it. You ought to be damned well content with what you’ve got. You’d think he’d be hardened to it. After all, it’s nothing he’s not told himself a hundred times over. He shouldn’t be letting it get under his skin so, letting it fester. Thing is, though… thing is, even when he didn’t think any better of himself, he always believed that Marian did. He refuses to bring his feelings home and he refuses to say a thing to the lads – to Marian least of all – so instead he stews in the privacy of his workshop, venting his frustration in the splitting of wood and the buzz of the sander and the furious working of the hand saw. She’s a hypocrite. All that holier-than-thou shit about accidental pregnancies being a blessing from God as though he’d have been less selfish or careless if he’d gotten lazy about protection. Tuck chose to have kids forty years ago and Marian’s never said a word against his character, hell, she was the one offered to help find them again! Never a word about Scarlet and Tuck sharing the raising of Evie with her mother, either, never a word about the dangers they might be exposing her to by selfishly choosing to be a part of her life. So why’s Will different, what makes his child so great a burden? She’s hurting. She’s fucking hurting, you prick, and he’s been too bloody preoccupied playing happy families to think how this would land on her, on Much, on the others, so maybe she’s right that he’s selfish. And maybe she’s right to think Will in particular shouldn’t be having kids, god knows he’s got a real consistent fucking track record of getting ‘em killed. Tuck would have something to say about bottling up so much anger and guilt. So would Clio, come to that. They’ve both been trying to bring him round to the talking thing. But the habit of a half-dozen mortal lifetimes is hard to break, so Will saws and he stews and he bottles the fuck out of that self-loathing. It’s mid-afternoon on a Saturday when Will hears the jackdaw call out in the alley. Without raising his head, he hollers back, “Door’s open, Art!” There’s a long, long silence before the door cracks ajar. Art brings an eye to the opening, scans the room with an edge of wariness before finally throwing it wide with a reproachful sigh. “Stoots, old buddy, we talked about this. Treecreeper call for the all-clear, right? Otherwise, how’m I to know you ain’t being held at gunpoint?!” The mood he’s in, Will could near be of a mind to be affronted that Arthur thought he was so easy to get at gunpoint, or to ill-temperedly own that why wouldn’t they all assume he’d be the hostage, ain’t that the thing he’s known for? Except, of course, this is Art, and Art is liable to think any of them’s in strife if they forget the right bird call or code phrase. Will gives a weary shrug instead. “Sorry, mate. Forgot.” “Huh.” When he looks up, Art’s got him fixed with a scrutinising look. “You been doing that a bit lately. Lunch? Tuesday arvo at the Fox? And you skipped out on Friday knock-off drinks. What’s that about, eh?” Another shrug. “’S nothin’. Been busy, is all.” “Aw, come off it.” Will’s returned his gaze to his work, to the timber he’d been measuring and marking, but Art, unfazed, rests his elbows on the work table and leans in close, forcing eye contact. “What is it, is it the trip wire? Cos you know, Marian made me nix that one. And the cornflour bomb was a joke mostly. Ain’t summat I said, was it?” Ah hell. Will just figured he knew. Despite having been at a twenty-one-year disadvantage, Art knows his way around a smartphone better than Will does. He took some warming up to it (Will was woken more than once in the middle of the night by Art aggressively interrogating the Google voice assistant), but after that (after Marian introduced him to activist TikTok and Much introduced him to photo filters) he took to it all like a duck to water. He’s all over the internet. But apparently he missed this particular online conversation. “Nah, mate, it’s… ah, Marian, actually. We had some words. I’m… I thought it best to stay clear of the Fox for a bit.” “You and Marian?” Art’s eyebrows climb, incredulous. “She’s never crook at you.” “Nah, she’s… it’s more…” Hell. Will pushes back from the work table, from Art’s questioning look, and pinches thumb and forefinger against the bridge of his nose, feeling monumentally tired. He’s got absolutely no desire to talk about this. Except— Except it occurs to him that Arthur might be the only one of the lot of them who wasn’t privy to that entire shitshow of a conversation. And maybe Will’s curious, in a masochistic sort of way. Not like he hasn’t considered that mayhap some of the others feel. Mayhap Marian was just the only one game to say it. But Art, god knows, never shies from speaking his mind. And he’s more paranoid about security than even Will. “Okay, lemme ask you summat. And answer me true, yeah? You think this baby’s a mistake?” Art wrinkles his forehead. “Baby’s a baby. You want it, right? Thought you was rapt.” He’s not getting it. Will shakes his head. “I do. I am. But… lives we lead, enemies we’ve made… you don’t think it’s selfish? What happens if they come for her?” “Well, we fuckin’ let ‘em have it both barrels, don’t we?” Art says reasonably. “Family of ours? We won’t let that shit happen, mate.” “It’s a danger, though,” Will finds himself pushing back. “We always got someone’s target on our backs, there’s no escaping that.” “Says who?” “Says— Art, I’m bein’ bloody serious—” Art’s already rounding the table towards Will, and Will still isn’t expecting it when the man claps a hand on each of his shoulders. He’s not expecting that expression, either. Art’s face has always been an open book, and right now his smile is uncommonly tender. “Listen, Stoots. I spent twenty-odd years on me lonesome in a shithole cabin, safe as fuckin’ houses from Sheriffs and Princes and the like, and what’ve I got to show for it? Not even a bloody t-shirt. Y’ask me, the more of us, the merrier. Hah!” He barks a laugh and withdraws his hands to point finger-guns at Will, the smile splitting into a wide grin. “More the merrier, get it? Cos we’re Merry.” Will lets go of his breath. “Yeah. I got it. Cheers, Art.” More the merrier. Hell, if only. |