MERCURY
𝚃𝙷𝙴 𝙱𝙰𝙻𝙻
𝙼𝙴𝚂𝚂𝙴𝙽𝙶𝙴𝚁 𝙾𝙵 𝚃𝙷𝙴 𝙶𝙾𝙳𝚂
One of Mercury’s favorite things to do is drive. He likes watching the scenery whiz by, the low rumble of tyres on asphalt, but most of all, he loves the wind in his hair and on his skin, how it roars in his ears to deafen him to the rest of the world. It’s why he always drives with the windows down, arm hanging out the side as if to catch the breeze with his fingers.
It’s times like these that almost make him miss being a god.
What would it be like, he wonders, to finally see his pantheon and pantheon returned to their former glory? To once again walk upon the air as Mercurius? And what of Rome? It’s been a long time since he paid any thought to his former existence, and a longer time yet since he felt anything for it but indifference, but tonight seemed… distinct, somehow. A strange buzz in the air. He’s not sure why.
When Mercury received the invitation, he’d simply sneered and banished it to the trash without a second thought. I mean, come on, what did Jupiter expect? That he was going to run right back the second he called for him? The old Mercury would have. Going here, doing that. Always the dutiful son. Always there to answer to his father’s beck and call.
Without him, Aeneas of Troy would never have made his destined pilgrimage to Italia. Without him, Rome would never even have existed.
Maybe he should pretend to be dead, go into hiding until this whole mess was over. He’s done it before, and it’s actually a whole lot easier than most people think —– at least when you take into consideration the alternative.
You see, the Roman god of commerce was easily bored. Like a shark, he had to keep moving lest he sank to the bottom of the ocean, choking on the very seawater that was meant to keep him alive. He’d always prided himself on being two steps ahead of everyone, on his ability to know exactly how far to push it before he got in trouble, but… maybe that was the exact reason why he did these things.
He hated predictability, and he found the stillness of tranquility all the more unbearable.
There was one time in Florence, Italy where he had to take a dive into the Arno after stealing the ducal crown of Cosimo I ‘de Medici. And when he disappeared into the frozen tundras of Siberia with the imperial jewels in tow.
But Paris is what Mercury remembers the most, with its cobblestone streets and sprawling cathedrals; it was there that he stole and broke the heart of a handsome young gendarme. They’d first met in a gambling den in Montmartre. Mercury was losing big but winning bigger at the bassette table, and the officer had all but stumbled into the room, smoking and laughing with the rest of his regiment. His shiny black hair, twinkling eyes and sharp-cut jaw caught Mercury’s attention instantly, and so, the Roman god of commerce took it upon himself to get to know him.
He poured the officer a drink as soon as he sat down at the table, dealing him into the game and allowing the first few rounds to go his way. With his lips loosened by wine and the warmth of victory, it was an easy enough matter for Mercury to find out more about him. He first learned his name: Nicolas de Voyer, and how he was the second son of a comte, a count. It was his first day in Paris after a long journey back from a skirmish on the Franco-Belgian border.
For the rest of the evening, the two spent more time talking than playing. And as the hours passed in a blur of wine, hushed conversation and the smoke twirling from their cigars, it soon became time for each of them to take their leave.
Mercury, however, could not abide. He knew he needed to see him again, touch him, speak with him and so much more. He still bid his farewells, of course, shook the hands of his opponents as he congratulated them on their winnings or commiserated with their misfortune, but for Nicolas, he allowed his grip to linger, tracing a finger against his palm when he finally let go.
He knew the officer understood when he stepped out of the cool air of the streets and saw him waiting there.
They had their time together, stole whatever moments they could between their respective duties, and for a time, Mercury was satisfied. He didn’t think about what he could gain from their liaisons or how he could make off with the Voyer fortune. Instead, he just… lived in the present, basking in Nicolas’ adoration like a cat does the sun.
It felt almost idyllic, a little slice of heaven just for the two of them, but Mercury was never one to be satisfied with the status quo.
Their relationship soured just as quickly as it’d began, and Mercury would be the first to admit that he was the salient reason behind its slow, grueling march towards death. More and more often, he began to go out drinking and gambling; and while he was usually alone, other times he brought Nicolas along with him. On such occasions, the god would do everything he could to stir up trouble, to act like he no longer cared —– all to see the anger flash black in his lover’s eyes.
Mercury didn’t let him try and fix things. He didn’t want him to. But even after all the fights they had, all the shouting, the bruised knuckles and bloodied teeth, Nicolas wasn’t prepared to let go, and maybe he wasn’t, either.
That was when he knew he had to leave.
On their last night together, Mercury waited until Nicolas was asleep to slip the signet ring from his hand. It was heavy, cast from pure, solid gold and engraved with the Voyer coat of arms. Mercury took it for himself. Not as a keepsake, but a prize. Something to justify all the time they spent together, or at least that’s what he told himself. And after taking one last look at the sleeping form of his lover, he went back home and did the only thing that made sense at the time: he burned it all down.
By the time the inferno finally died down in the wee hours of dawn, nothing remained of the house but its charred, crumbling bones.
After that, it was easy enough to pretend he was dead. Everyone already assumed that he’d perished in the blaze —– how could he have not? Everything in the house had been reduced to ash, spread across the atmosphere as atoms. But all Mercury had done was acquire a new identity for himself. A new name. A new life. Growing richer with every suckered victim he left in his wake. But one day, out of curiosity, or maybe some sick, masochistic attempt at closure, Mercury found his way back to where he knew his former lover would be; and as he watched him from across the street, he felt something akin to guilt, a sort of regret that twisted painfully in his chest.
Barely a year had passed since the “tragedy” that claimed his life, but the officer’s hair was now streaked with silver, graying at the temples, and there were lines in his face that hadn’t been there before. He looked older, sadder. There was a certain melancholy to him, his movements, even as he walked arm-in-arm with a smiling woman with pretty, flaxen hair.
Mercury hadn’t known what to think, but it was what he wanted: a clean break. With how he’d involved himself in the comings and goings of the city, he knew from his contacts that the Colossus was about to be moved again, and he didn’t need any loose ends coming back to haunt him.
That wasn’t the only time he’d been forced to resort to something this drastic, and now, he’s beginning to think that it might not have been the last.
…Gods, he really needed to stop being so dramatic. He’s only going to see his family, not stick his head in a guillotine, though it sure as hell felt that way sometimes. So, with one long exhale, he wills the memories to leave him, letting them be carried away on the wind before they began to grate, and starts rummaging through the glove compartment for a fresh pack of cigs.
His arrival at the event is heralded by the telltale roar of a Ferrari. It’s loud like thunder, or perhaps the cry of a great, mythical beast, and does its job turning the attention of the media from whoever they’d been gawking at onto him instead.
Mercury wasn't not exactly thrilled to be here, but he figured that as long as he was, he might as well make an entrance.
As he rolls up to the red carpet, Mercury pulls one last drag from his cigarette before dropping it into an empty, blue-and-silver can in his cupholder: Red Bull. It had to have been his sixth —– no, seventh one for the night, and he was finally starting to feel its effects, a syrup-sweet shot of pure caffeine buzzing its way through his system.
Of course, he was going to need something a little stronger than Red Bull that to deal with Juno, but it was a start.
Stepping out of the car, he passes his keys to a waiting valet who, quite impressively, manages to keep his expression neutral even when he climbs inside.
Compared to the expensive, immaculate gleam of its exterior, the inside of the vehicle was nothing short of a mess. It smelled of cheap coffee and even cheaper cigarettes, every inch and crevice of the upholstery infused with their sour, smoky terroir. The floorboard was littered with fast-food wrappers and half-empty rolls of breath mints, a savaged 12-pack of Red Bull in the passenger seat, and to top it all off, he had one of those novelty air fresheners shaped like a palm tree dangling from his rear view mirror —– Tropical Breeze™.
Mercury thought the whole thing a fitting tableau of his current state of being.
He doesn’t let the flash of the cameras bother him, nor does he stop to offer anyone an answer more in-depth than the standard niceties. On another night, at another place, maybe he would have ignored them altogether, but he was still the face of Argentum, and he knew the rules he was meant to play by.
So he smiles, entertains whatever questions that come his way with as much false modesty he could muster. One particularly courageous reporter even questions him about Argentum’s alleged dealings with a Turkish smuggling ring, though he waves them away with nothing more than a bland statement of denial, making a mental note to remind his associates of the importance of circumspection.
By the time he finally makes it into the building and away from all the hubbub, Mercury has worked up quite a thirst, and he snatches a flute of champagne from the tray of a passing waiter. His eyes scan the room as he takes a sip. Most of the men here were dressed in dark colors, mostly black or gray, but he had decided on something a little different for the evening. It was a cream-coloured ensemble, more suited for a trip down the French Riviera than Seattle in October. All he needed now to complete the look was a straw boater.
Then, he catches sight of a familiar figure, perched atop a magnificent flight of stairs across the room. Even this far away, there was no mistaking that stiff posture and furrowed brow.
…Oh, well. Might as well rip off the band-aid and get it all over with.
Mercury navigates the floor with ease, pausing every now and again to extend his greetings to anyone who recognized him. Some of them were associates, even more of them rivals, though he shakes their hands all the same, offering each of them the hospitality they were due, and snags himself some rings, watches and cufflinks along the way. After all, it’s only fair that he received some form of compensation for playing host in the stead of the King of Gods.
As he approaches the stairs, he sees Mars and Juno there as well, locked together in an embrace —– mother and son. A touching reunion, to be sure. It was almost enough to bring a tear to Mercury’s eye, though he held no delusion that his own appearance before his father would be anywhere as poignant.
“Well, you look happy,” Mercury begins, briefly allowing a smirk to cross his lips. Of course, he knew better than anyone that making fun of Jupiter was akin to poking a nest of very angry hornets, but he couldn’t resist, it was second-nature to him; and he kind of wanted to see that ever-stoic facade crack, if only for a moment. “Woke up on the wrong side of bed today?”
He moves to lean against the banister then, shooting a pointed look at his father before nodding towards all the people milling about the ballroom.
“You should be out there, you know? Mingling with the commonfolk. I mean, what kind of host leaves his guests knocking about like a herd of lost sheep?”
It’s times like these that almost make him miss being a god.
What would it be like, he wonders, to finally see his pantheon and pantheon returned to their former glory? To once again walk upon the air as Mercurius? And what of Rome? It’s been a long time since he paid any thought to his former existence, and a longer time yet since he felt anything for it but indifference, but tonight seemed… distinct, somehow. A strange buzz in the air. He’s not sure why.
When Mercury received the invitation, he’d simply sneered and banished it to the trash without a second thought. I mean, come on, what did Jupiter expect? That he was going to run right back the second he called for him? The old Mercury would have. Going here, doing that. Always the dutiful son. Always there to answer to his father’s beck and call.
Without him, Aeneas of Troy would never have made his destined pilgrimage to Italia. Without him, Rome would never even have existed.
Maybe he should pretend to be dead, go into hiding until this whole mess was over. He’s done it before, and it’s actually a whole lot easier than most people think —– at least when you take into consideration the alternative.
You see, the Roman god of commerce was easily bored. Like a shark, he had to keep moving lest he sank to the bottom of the ocean, choking on the very seawater that was meant to keep him alive. He’d always prided himself on being two steps ahead of everyone, on his ability to know exactly how far to push it before he got in trouble, but… maybe that was the exact reason why he did these things.
He hated predictability, and he found the stillness of tranquility all the more unbearable.
There was one time in Florence, Italy where he had to take a dive into the Arno after stealing the ducal crown of Cosimo I ‘de Medici. And when he disappeared into the frozen tundras of Siberia with the imperial jewels in tow.
But Paris is what Mercury remembers the most, with its cobblestone streets and sprawling cathedrals; it was there that he stole and broke the heart of a handsome young gendarme. They’d first met in a gambling den in Montmartre. Mercury was losing big but winning bigger at the bassette table, and the officer had all but stumbled into the room, smoking and laughing with the rest of his regiment. His shiny black hair, twinkling eyes and sharp-cut jaw caught Mercury’s attention instantly, and so, the Roman god of commerce took it upon himself to get to know him.
He poured the officer a drink as soon as he sat down at the table, dealing him into the game and allowing the first few rounds to go his way. With his lips loosened by wine and the warmth of victory, it was an easy enough matter for Mercury to find out more about him. He first learned his name: Nicolas de Voyer, and how he was the second son of a comte, a count. It was his first day in Paris after a long journey back from a skirmish on the Franco-Belgian border.
For the rest of the evening, the two spent more time talking than playing. And as the hours passed in a blur of wine, hushed conversation and the smoke twirling from their cigars, it soon became time for each of them to take their leave.
Mercury, however, could not abide. He knew he needed to see him again, touch him, speak with him and so much more. He still bid his farewells, of course, shook the hands of his opponents as he congratulated them on their winnings or commiserated with their misfortune, but for Nicolas, he allowed his grip to linger, tracing a finger against his palm when he finally let go.
He knew the officer understood when he stepped out of the cool air of the streets and saw him waiting there.
They had their time together, stole whatever moments they could between their respective duties, and for a time, Mercury was satisfied. He didn’t think about what he could gain from their liaisons or how he could make off with the Voyer fortune. Instead, he just… lived in the present, basking in Nicolas’ adoration like a cat does the sun.
It felt almost idyllic, a little slice of heaven just for the two of them, but Mercury was never one to be satisfied with the status quo.
Their relationship soured just as quickly as it’d began, and Mercury would be the first to admit that he was the salient reason behind its slow, grueling march towards death. More and more often, he began to go out drinking and gambling; and while he was usually alone, other times he brought Nicolas along with him. On such occasions, the god would do everything he could to stir up trouble, to act like he no longer cared —– all to see the anger flash black in his lover’s eyes.
Mercury didn’t let him try and fix things. He didn’t want him to. But even after all the fights they had, all the shouting, the bruised knuckles and bloodied teeth, Nicolas wasn’t prepared to let go, and maybe he wasn’t, either.
That was when he knew he had to leave.
On their last night together, Mercury waited until Nicolas was asleep to slip the signet ring from his hand. It was heavy, cast from pure, solid gold and engraved with the Voyer coat of arms. Mercury took it for himself. Not as a keepsake, but a prize. Something to justify all the time they spent together, or at least that’s what he told himself. And after taking one last look at the sleeping form of his lover, he went back home and did the only thing that made sense at the time: he burned it all down.
By the time the inferno finally died down in the wee hours of dawn, nothing remained of the house but its charred, crumbling bones.
After that, it was easy enough to pretend he was dead. Everyone already assumed that he’d perished in the blaze —– how could he have not? Everything in the house had been reduced to ash, spread across the atmosphere as atoms. But all Mercury had done was acquire a new identity for himself. A new name. A new life. Growing richer with every suckered victim he left in his wake. But one day, out of curiosity, or maybe some sick, masochistic attempt at closure, Mercury found his way back to where he knew his former lover would be; and as he watched him from across the street, he felt something akin to guilt, a sort of regret that twisted painfully in his chest.
Barely a year had passed since the “tragedy” that claimed his life, but the officer’s hair was now streaked with silver, graying at the temples, and there were lines in his face that hadn’t been there before. He looked older, sadder. There was a certain melancholy to him, his movements, even as he walked arm-in-arm with a smiling woman with pretty, flaxen hair.
Mercury hadn’t known what to think, but it was what he wanted: a clean break. With how he’d involved himself in the comings and goings of the city, he knew from his contacts that the Colossus was about to be moved again, and he didn’t need any loose ends coming back to haunt him.
That wasn’t the only time he’d been forced to resort to something this drastic, and now, he’s beginning to think that it might not have been the last.
…Gods, he really needed to stop being so dramatic. He’s only going to see his family, not stick his head in a guillotine, though it sure as hell felt that way sometimes. So, with one long exhale, he wills the memories to leave him, letting them be carried away on the wind before they began to grate, and starts rummaging through the glove compartment for a fresh pack of cigs.
His arrival at the event is heralded by the telltale roar of a Ferrari. It’s loud like thunder, or perhaps the cry of a great, mythical beast, and does its job turning the attention of the media from whoever they’d been gawking at onto him instead.
Mercury wasn't not exactly thrilled to be here, but he figured that as long as he was, he might as well make an entrance.
As he rolls up to the red carpet, Mercury pulls one last drag from his cigarette before dropping it into an empty, blue-and-silver can in his cupholder: Red Bull. It had to have been his sixth —– no, seventh one for the night, and he was finally starting to feel its effects, a syrup-sweet shot of pure caffeine buzzing its way through his system.
Of course, he was going to need something a little stronger than Red Bull that to deal with Juno, but it was a start.
Stepping out of the car, he passes his keys to a waiting valet who, quite impressively, manages to keep his expression neutral even when he climbs inside.
Compared to the expensive, immaculate gleam of its exterior, the inside of the vehicle was nothing short of a mess. It smelled of cheap coffee and even cheaper cigarettes, every inch and crevice of the upholstery infused with their sour, smoky terroir. The floorboard was littered with fast-food wrappers and half-empty rolls of breath mints, a savaged 12-pack of Red Bull in the passenger seat, and to top it all off, he had one of those novelty air fresheners shaped like a palm tree dangling from his rear view mirror —– Tropical Breeze™.
Mercury thought the whole thing a fitting tableau of his current state of being.
He doesn’t let the flash of the cameras bother him, nor does he stop to offer anyone an answer more in-depth than the standard niceties. On another night, at another place, maybe he would have ignored them altogether, but he was still the face of Argentum, and he knew the rules he was meant to play by.
So he smiles, entertains whatever questions that come his way with as much false modesty he could muster. One particularly courageous reporter even questions him about Argentum’s alleged dealings with a Turkish smuggling ring, though he waves them away with nothing more than a bland statement of denial, making a mental note to remind his associates of the importance of circumspection.
By the time he finally makes it into the building and away from all the hubbub, Mercury has worked up quite a thirst, and he snatches a flute of champagne from the tray of a passing waiter. His eyes scan the room as he takes a sip. Most of the men here were dressed in dark colors, mostly black or gray, but he had decided on something a little different for the evening. It was a cream-coloured ensemble, more suited for a trip down the French Riviera than Seattle in October. All he needed now to complete the look was a straw boater.
Then, he catches sight of a familiar figure, perched atop a magnificent flight of stairs across the room. Even this far away, there was no mistaking that stiff posture and furrowed brow.
…Oh, well. Might as well rip off the band-aid and get it all over with.
Mercury navigates the floor with ease, pausing every now and again to extend his greetings to anyone who recognized him. Some of them were associates, even more of them rivals, though he shakes their hands all the same, offering each of them the hospitality they were due, and snags himself some rings, watches and cufflinks along the way. After all, it’s only fair that he received some form of compensation for playing host in the stead of the King of Gods.
As he approaches the stairs, he sees Mars and Juno there as well, locked together in an embrace —– mother and son. A touching reunion, to be sure. It was almost enough to bring a tear to Mercury’s eye, though he held no delusion that his own appearance before his father would be anywhere as poignant.
“Well, you look happy,” Mercury begins, briefly allowing a smirk to cross his lips. Of course, he knew better than anyone that making fun of Jupiter was akin to poking a nest of very angry hornets, but he couldn’t resist, it was second-nature to him; and he kind of wanted to see that ever-stoic facade crack, if only for a moment. “Woke up on the wrong side of bed today?”
He moves to lean against the banister then, shooting a pointed look at his father before nodding towards all the people milling about the ballroom.
“You should be out there, you know? Mingling with the commonfolk. I mean, what kind of host leaves his guests knocking about like a herd of lost sheep?”
