Fic: Fortune's Other Fool (Loki/Mercutio)
Jun. 13th, 2022 06:35 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
bookishwenchLoki rarely found humans amusing except as potential victims of his pranks, but this one? Oh, this one was perfection personified.
He kept his distance, remaining invisible and watching him with his band of friends, but the young man’s cleverness was so appealing that he was sorely tempted to reveal himself in some form or another. More times than he could count, he found himself doubled over with laughter at his puns and tricks, truly reveling in every moment he spent in his company. At last, he could no longer deny himself the pleasure of his acquaintance, and he cast aside his invisibility, pretending to be a merchant newly arrive in Verona from some far-off land.
By noon of that day, Loki was to be found lounging beside his beloved Mercutio next to the fountain in the town square, laughing so loudly and lustily together that they were both in danger of drowning. By nightfall, Loki had taken him into his bed, utterly entranced with him and drunk on his words and his sighs. When dawn found them, he was fondly ruffling the hair of the sleeping mortal, grinning with more happiness than had been his wont for ages.
“Good morrow, good Mercutio,” he said when the other finally opened his eyes.
“Good morrow, Lodovico,” Mercutio said, doffing an imaginary hat to his bedmate before greeting him with a kiss. “Slept you well?”
“Right well,” Loki said, grinning at him. “Tell me, how dost thou wish to pass this day?”
“In bed with thee,” he said with an answering grin. “What else could be more welcome? Yet, though it be my wish, I may not grant it.”
“Forsooth, why?” Loki said, pouting comically. “What could have more importance than seeing if we might yet break the ropes of this utterly hideous bed? I am fair certain the ancient innkeeper’s grandsire thought it too old, and his granddame was the last to air it out.”
“True, true,” Mercutio said, “but I regret I have agreed to meet with friends this morning, and there might be mischief afoot. I must see if I can stir it up to its greatest heights.”
“Mischief?” Loki said, raising an eyebrow. “Then I shall join thee. Together, we shall put into motion plans that shall be irksome to even the prince, if it please you.”
“Oh, the prince, the prince,” Mercutio said, waving the idea away. “No, he has no spirit for it and too short a temper. One day I shall press him too much and find my neck longer from stretching. Now Paris, he is one who could be a good mark for a prank or two. Gossip has it he shall be matched with rich Capulet’s pretty daughter, and he would first meet her this night at their accustomed feast.”
“Oh, that does call for some good merriment,” Loki said, laughing. “Yes, I shall join thee, if thou will have me.”
“Have thee? I have had thee, and thou hast had me, and the having was so pleasant that I shall have and be had as often as thou will.”
Loki laughed and kissed him, delighted with his clever mortal.
Loki followed along with Mercutio that day, listening to him chattering away with Benvolio and Romeo. Ludovico was a new face amongst their lot but, as a friend of Mercutio, immediately a welcome one. As the day wore on, the group split, with the apparently love-sick Romeo wandering off on his own. He and Mercutio, however, took it in hand to drive Paris to distraction, and by the time Capulet’s gala was near to beginning, Paris had managed to cover his doublet in mud, tear one of his sleeves to ribbons, lose a shoe in pig dung, and end with his cap and head doused in the excrement of a very large passing goose. Mercutio was suspicious of how Loki had managed some of his end of the tricks, but he wisely chose not to question him. The end result was good Paris sent his apologies to Capulet and did not attend the feast after all, leaving Juliet’s eye to wander wherever it willed.
Night fell. Romeo came again, and Mercutio began to berate him for his maudlin spirits. Loki listened enraptured as Mercutio spoke of dreams and invoked Mab, his fancy running wild, tipping betwixt genius and madness and back again, his skin glowing with thought. He had never seen another mortal so exquisite as this one, like a mad jewel flashing in the night. Romeo left to find his own pleasures, but Loki cared not a whit, grabbing Mercutio around the waist and pulling him backward into an alley.
“Thou hast made me so keen for thee,” he purred, his hands sliding over the other’s doublet, “I would take thee now and here without care of who might see us.”
“Lodovico,” he breathed, surrendering to him, and Loki wished it was his own name and not another damnable lie, but he covered Mercutio’s mouth with his own to stop the sound and fill the night air with other sounds instead.
Loki warded them, not wishing interruption, and they spent another night together, laughing as often as they moaned. But in the aftermath, something pulled in the back of Loki’s mind, a presentiment of trouble, and not the sort he relished. Mab’s name had been called, and though he had enjoyed the wild wanderings of his lover, it did not do to use that name lightly. She was too apt to notice, and the webs she spun were both beautiful and lethal.
He did not yet know he had already been caught in one, as had others this night.
The afternoon of the next day found Mercutio still doting on his new lover, taking him to an inn and plying him with the good, simple food and wine of the region, and Loki feasted upon it but even more upon the beauty and wit of his lover beside him, his hand blindly resting on his thigh beneath the table, both a claim and a promise. In the heat of the afternoon, they chanced upon Romeo near the church. His mood was much improved, and that alone made Loki suspicious.
What happened next was all too fast. That fool Tybalt, whose love of swords and vengeance Loki thought were too similar to his own brother’s, called out Romeo, but he would not fight and was likely to be branded a coward for it. The traded words became a point of honor, and Mercutio could not see his friend so ill-used and remain silent. Loki felt something in the air, a rush of dark fairy wings and fate, and all at once Romeo stepped between Mercutio and Tybalt, and Mercutio fell.
There was too much blood for a mortal, Loki thought. There could not be so much blood in one frail human, so much that it dyed the road and stained Loki’s boots and bubbled at Mercutio’s lips in a way that horribly mocked the fountain where they had first met. And through it all, Mercutio jested, pun upon pun, his brain tossing forth wit in its death spasms, until finally he could not deny death was coming any longer.
“A plague on both your houses!”
By now, Loki had taken him firmly into his arms, and as Mercutio begged to be moved to some nearby house, he half carried him there, ignoring the idiot Romeo and thunder-struck Tybalt, looking only at his poor murdered protege.
A door opened for them, and Mercutio was gently lowered onto cushions put upon the floor. Benvolio went for water as the servants of the house hovered near, unsure what they should do for the prince’s kin near death.
“All will be well, darling,” Loki murmured gently, taking hold of his hand and helping him to sip a bit of water that both knew would be his last. “Twas a battle that wounded you thus, so a Valkyrie shall sling you o’er her saddle and bring you to Valhalla. Tis a better place than heaven: wine and feasting, beautiful maids and men, ripe meat and the music of bards telling fine tales. And I shall see you there, my love, someday.”
Mercutio clung to his hand, gasping for breath, the sounds of blood gurgling in his lungs obscene, and Loki smiled down on him, his encouraging expression never flinching. The moment of death came, and Mercutio was gone. No sooner had the light left his eyes than Loki’s features changed, the smile vanishing and his eyes going hard and wild, making Benvolio and the servants creep back in terror as though before a wounded, rabid animal.
“On both their houses, I believe you said. Then shall my new name be Plague.”
Benvolio swore he never saw Ludovico move, only that he was suddenly gone, leaving behind Mercutio’s empty body. What precisely Loki did next was never seen by a human eye, but Romeo’s blade that should perhaps have only wounded Tybalt somehow struck to kill. The messenger sent to Mantua to warn of Juliet’s deception went astray. News came to Benvolio of the death of Romeo’s love through whispers Benvolio could never quite remember hearing. An unknown apothecary provided poison without question to a young man for a very small fee, that fool Paris was run through in a graveyard, and sweet little Juliet just happened to find her dead husband’s dagger a mere moment before someone could have come to stop her.
Perhaps it was Mab playing games.
But as the good people of Verona carried forth the bodies of the young lovers and Paris, it was odd no one in the churchyard noticed that beside a freshly covered grave knelt a figure in green, weeping silently over his own lost love.
He kept his distance, remaining invisible and watching him with his band of friends, but the young man’s cleverness was so appealing that he was sorely tempted to reveal himself in some form or another. More times than he could count, he found himself doubled over with laughter at his puns and tricks, truly reveling in every moment he spent in his company. At last, he could no longer deny himself the pleasure of his acquaintance, and he cast aside his invisibility, pretending to be a merchant newly arrive in Verona from some far-off land.
By noon of that day, Loki was to be found lounging beside his beloved Mercutio next to the fountain in the town square, laughing so loudly and lustily together that they were both in danger of drowning. By nightfall, Loki had taken him into his bed, utterly entranced with him and drunk on his words and his sighs. When dawn found them, he was fondly ruffling the hair of the sleeping mortal, grinning with more happiness than had been his wont for ages.
“Good morrow, good Mercutio,” he said when the other finally opened his eyes.
“Good morrow, Lodovico,” Mercutio said, doffing an imaginary hat to his bedmate before greeting him with a kiss. “Slept you well?”
“Right well,” Loki said, grinning at him. “Tell me, how dost thou wish to pass this day?”
“In bed with thee,” he said with an answering grin. “What else could be more welcome? Yet, though it be my wish, I may not grant it.”
“Forsooth, why?” Loki said, pouting comically. “What could have more importance than seeing if we might yet break the ropes of this utterly hideous bed? I am fair certain the ancient innkeeper’s grandsire thought it too old, and his granddame was the last to air it out.”
“True, true,” Mercutio said, “but I regret I have agreed to meet with friends this morning, and there might be mischief afoot. I must see if I can stir it up to its greatest heights.”
“Mischief?” Loki said, raising an eyebrow. “Then I shall join thee. Together, we shall put into motion plans that shall be irksome to even the prince, if it please you.”
“Oh, the prince, the prince,” Mercutio said, waving the idea away. “No, he has no spirit for it and too short a temper. One day I shall press him too much and find my neck longer from stretching. Now Paris, he is one who could be a good mark for a prank or two. Gossip has it he shall be matched with rich Capulet’s pretty daughter, and he would first meet her this night at their accustomed feast.”
“Oh, that does call for some good merriment,” Loki said, laughing. “Yes, I shall join thee, if thou will have me.”
“Have thee? I have had thee, and thou hast had me, and the having was so pleasant that I shall have and be had as often as thou will.”
Loki laughed and kissed him, delighted with his clever mortal.
Loki followed along with Mercutio that day, listening to him chattering away with Benvolio and Romeo. Ludovico was a new face amongst their lot but, as a friend of Mercutio, immediately a welcome one. As the day wore on, the group split, with the apparently love-sick Romeo wandering off on his own. He and Mercutio, however, took it in hand to drive Paris to distraction, and by the time Capulet’s gala was near to beginning, Paris had managed to cover his doublet in mud, tear one of his sleeves to ribbons, lose a shoe in pig dung, and end with his cap and head doused in the excrement of a very large passing goose. Mercutio was suspicious of how Loki had managed some of his end of the tricks, but he wisely chose not to question him. The end result was good Paris sent his apologies to Capulet and did not attend the feast after all, leaving Juliet’s eye to wander wherever it willed.
Night fell. Romeo came again, and Mercutio began to berate him for his maudlin spirits. Loki listened enraptured as Mercutio spoke of dreams and invoked Mab, his fancy running wild, tipping betwixt genius and madness and back again, his skin glowing with thought. He had never seen another mortal so exquisite as this one, like a mad jewel flashing in the night. Romeo left to find his own pleasures, but Loki cared not a whit, grabbing Mercutio around the waist and pulling him backward into an alley.
“Thou hast made me so keen for thee,” he purred, his hands sliding over the other’s doublet, “I would take thee now and here without care of who might see us.”
“Lodovico,” he breathed, surrendering to him, and Loki wished it was his own name and not another damnable lie, but he covered Mercutio’s mouth with his own to stop the sound and fill the night air with other sounds instead.
Loki warded them, not wishing interruption, and they spent another night together, laughing as often as they moaned. But in the aftermath, something pulled in the back of Loki’s mind, a presentiment of trouble, and not the sort he relished. Mab’s name had been called, and though he had enjoyed the wild wanderings of his lover, it did not do to use that name lightly. She was too apt to notice, and the webs she spun were both beautiful and lethal.
He did not yet know he had already been caught in one, as had others this night.
The afternoon of the next day found Mercutio still doting on his new lover, taking him to an inn and plying him with the good, simple food and wine of the region, and Loki feasted upon it but even more upon the beauty and wit of his lover beside him, his hand blindly resting on his thigh beneath the table, both a claim and a promise. In the heat of the afternoon, they chanced upon Romeo near the church. His mood was much improved, and that alone made Loki suspicious.
What happened next was all too fast. That fool Tybalt, whose love of swords and vengeance Loki thought were too similar to his own brother’s, called out Romeo, but he would not fight and was likely to be branded a coward for it. The traded words became a point of honor, and Mercutio could not see his friend so ill-used and remain silent. Loki felt something in the air, a rush of dark fairy wings and fate, and all at once Romeo stepped between Mercutio and Tybalt, and Mercutio fell.
There was too much blood for a mortal, Loki thought. There could not be so much blood in one frail human, so much that it dyed the road and stained Loki’s boots and bubbled at Mercutio’s lips in a way that horribly mocked the fountain where they had first met. And through it all, Mercutio jested, pun upon pun, his brain tossing forth wit in its death spasms, until finally he could not deny death was coming any longer.
“A plague on both your houses!”
By now, Loki had taken him firmly into his arms, and as Mercutio begged to be moved to some nearby house, he half carried him there, ignoring the idiot Romeo and thunder-struck Tybalt, looking only at his poor murdered protege.
A door opened for them, and Mercutio was gently lowered onto cushions put upon the floor. Benvolio went for water as the servants of the house hovered near, unsure what they should do for the prince’s kin near death.
“All will be well, darling,” Loki murmured gently, taking hold of his hand and helping him to sip a bit of water that both knew would be his last. “Twas a battle that wounded you thus, so a Valkyrie shall sling you o’er her saddle and bring you to Valhalla. Tis a better place than heaven: wine and feasting, beautiful maids and men, ripe meat and the music of bards telling fine tales. And I shall see you there, my love, someday.”
Mercutio clung to his hand, gasping for breath, the sounds of blood gurgling in his lungs obscene, and Loki smiled down on him, his encouraging expression never flinching. The moment of death came, and Mercutio was gone. No sooner had the light left his eyes than Loki’s features changed, the smile vanishing and his eyes going hard and wild, making Benvolio and the servants creep back in terror as though before a wounded, rabid animal.
“On both their houses, I believe you said. Then shall my new name be Plague.”
Benvolio swore he never saw Ludovico move, only that he was suddenly gone, leaving behind Mercutio’s empty body. What precisely Loki did next was never seen by a human eye, but Romeo’s blade that should perhaps have only wounded Tybalt somehow struck to kill. The messenger sent to Mantua to warn of Juliet’s deception went astray. News came to Benvolio of the death of Romeo’s love through whispers Benvolio could never quite remember hearing. An unknown apothecary provided poison without question to a young man for a very small fee, that fool Paris was run through in a graveyard, and sweet little Juliet just happened to find her dead husband’s dagger a mere moment before someone could have come to stop her.
Perhaps it was Mab playing games.
But as the good people of Verona carried forth the bodies of the young lovers and Paris, it was odd no one in the churchyard noticed that beside a freshly covered grave knelt a figure in green, weeping silently over his own lost love.
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Date: 2022-06-14 04:08 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2022-06-16 08:58 pm (UTC)