Morning light peeps through the windows, filtering into the halls of the theatre. A faint silver in color, fogging the path from the dorms. Merrill sneaks to the dressing room, unsettled with her every step. Marianna never returned to their living quarters, never made it to her bedside. And Merrill fears the worst. Her search for Hawke begins in the last place she saw her 'sister.'
She had found the key, discarded on a table in the near by foyer. Recognizing it, she had taken it with her to the door. She enters quietly, whispering Marianna's name. Wishing with every breath there would be a response. But silence blankets everything around her, and Merrill begins to feel dread reckoning in her shadow. She does not abandon the chase even so.
As she wanders deeper into the chamber, she comes to note that something is not right with the mirror. It is not as it appears. It thrumms with an energy that starts her skin into goose bumps, a knowledge of what she sees piqued in her expression. It is an eluvian.
Her mother, her 'real' mother, had told her daughter all she knew about them. Marethari had taught her many things, and she had often warned Merrill of ancient relics like the eluvian before her. Her people, the infamous, wandering, gypsies, had a vast history that had been forgotten through the ages. Only a select few still remembered all that the people once were, and the magic that used to run through every gypsy's veins.
Merrill had been separated from her mother. There was a hunt to find Marethari, and the results as to where she had vanished were never clear. And she had not turned up after all this time. Thus, Merrill became Elthina's only child, a beloved daughter. Taken in after the Lady had found her as a poor child walking, lonely, through the streets. And Marianna had come to live with Madame Elthina a few years after. Hawke had become her sibling, both under the care of their proclaimed mother here in the opera house. It was certainly not the worst fate that could have befallen them.
Despite the threat of danger resounding in the form of her mother's long lost words, Merrill reaches forth her hand. Slipping it through the glass of the eluvian. She retracts it to ensure she has not been harmed, and drops the key on the vanity table, pressing fully through. Determined to find Marianna no matter what courage is required. The portal leads her to the under theatre. Passages that have been blocked off, unused for several generations.
She picks her way along cautiously, alert for anything that might be lurking. Her heart thunders in her chest, every sound spooks her into near panic. And she can't help but give a cry as some rats scamper over her feet. Taking a deep breath and moving further when she regains her composure. She only makes a few paces before a hand snags her shoulder.
She gasps, nearly ready to faint, her nerves straining to keep her from bolting. The captor swivels her around to bring them face to face. And she finds Madame Elthina looking back at her, unhappy with what she has done. Grasping her hand tightly, Elthina leads her back through the eluvian. Back to safety.
Merrill tries to explain, but a rigid look hushes her every excuse. Elthina promptly tells Merrill not to ask questions and to keep what she has seen between them. She cannot understand why, and Elthina feels sorry for her. But, Elthina will not have her daughter placed in jeaprody for her discoveries. She commands Merril never to do it again and restricts her to the theatre halls and dormitories. And Merrill submits to her mother's wishes, letting it all go as she turns her back to the room and the eluvian, and follows to greet Varric and Donnic.
Elthina takes charge in explaining that Hawke is missing, Merril keeping silent as she was told. It starts the second uproar the pair has shared since being appointed the new managers.
Beyond their reach, Marianna wakes to a music box ringing shrill and silly notes into the air in a playful song. And she is ushered into the new day still lost inside mystery. She stretches slightly, and rises to find the masked apparition that has lead her here. He is spotted writing melodies on paper at his piano just around the bend.
She draws closer to him, curious as to who has carried her off so far from home. He turns to look at her, his eyes golden, but heavily cloaked by the shade of the mask he still adorns. Ever hiding from her clarity. He turns again, away from her expectant irises, feeling excited and nervous all at once. And utterly flattered that she still bears interest in him, and is not riddled with fear.
He lets her approach, touch his face with her hands that define him further as they caress, as though her eyes are blind. It is a thrilling experience, her hands so gentle just as a healer should be. Their smooth surfaces rub ecstasy into his skin. It goes unseen, but a tear escapes, trailing across his lash and falling to the mask's ceramic cheek. And then, his veil is taken from his face and he shoves her away, covering it again with his hands. Concealing the glowing blue tendrils beneath. A visage that confesses posession by a spirit.
Against his will, that ghost breifly takes over. Lighting his eyes with the same blue and cursing her coldly. Scolding her with a wicked sneer and a thirst for vengeance seething through the host. But, Anders will not succumb, fighting back the urges of his corruption. Encouraged to hold against the waves of anger by her shaken cowering.
He claims control again, calming his voice, but ranting on how loathsome he is. Despair wracking his bones with conviction that his chance to be loved has been forsaken. Pacing with the pain as he mourns his condemnation. He pleads with her to withhold judgement, like a sinner might beg the Maker. He promises there is more to him, that there is worth.
"Marianna," he sighs under the weight of perceived rejection, "You'll learn to see the man behind the monster."
He almost weeps.
"Oh, Marianna."
She lifts from her coil on the floor and looks to him, gaining confidence again. Her face still flawlessly sweet, no darkness in the amber gems of her soul. She reaches out her hand, the mask in her grasp, undamaged. Letting him take it from her fingers without struggle and replace it over the Fade poisoned streaks. And they sit in silence for a time, allowing peace to wash over them once more.
At last, the Phantom stands looking down at her, "Come. We must return."
He straightens his coat, smoothing the feathers that had been made hagard in his outburst.
"Those two bigots who run my theatre will be missing you."
Indeed, Varric and Donnic are livid with her disappearance. Concerned for what has happened to her. They conduct a sweep of the entire establishment, only to turn up cleverly placed notes meant for each of them. With no other evidence to support a theory, they come to assume the Viscount has sent them. Refusing to even consider it a sign of the supposed Phantom. Hawke must have been swept off to spend the night with him. Perhaps, this was their idea of a joke.
Their conclusion proves false when Chagny bursts into the theatre impatient to have a word. He demands to know Marianna's whereabouts, terrified for her sake. He had only just got her back. The thought that she has now slipped from his grip is disasterous. And he has come to conclude something quite similar to their ideas, as he too holds a letter.
"How should we know?" Donnic questions back.
"I want an answer. I take it that you sent me this note."
"Of course not." Varric assures him.
"She is not with you then?" Fenris breathes hard, burdened by what is at stake.
"Of course not." Donnic repeats.
"We are in the dark." Varric confirms begrudgingly.
They take the card from his palm, and Varric reads it aloud. Tapping Bianca anxiously as he does so.
"Do not fear for Miss Hawke. The Angel of Music has her under his wing. Make no attempt to see her again."
"If you did not write it," Fenris glares, "Then who did?"
They are interrupted by Isabela who marches is before either man can ponder who gave the message to Chagny.
"Where is he!" She fumes.
"Welcome back," Chimes Varric sarcastically.
"I have your letter!"
She confronts Fenris, not the least bit intimidated by his intense gaze.
"A letter which I rather resent," she growls.
"Did you send it?" Donnic inquires.
"Of course not," Fenris denies.
She shoves the paper in his hands and he struggles to read the scrawl over the wrinkles and creases made in her frustration.
"Your days at the Opera Populaire are numbered. Marianna Hawke will be singing on your behalf tonight. Be prepared for a great misfortune, should you attempt to take her place."
Isabela burns beneath her dark skin, her curves shifting like those of a snake. Her earthy eyes poised like fangs which sink, deeply, into his.
"I did not send this," he refutes again.
She twirls her back to him, flicking out the ends of silken hair with a flit of her hand. A strong musk of vanilla perfume drifting on the current of air it creates. He stares after her in irritated intrigue. Such an odd way to offer a cold shoulder. No one can tell if she is disdained or flirting.
"Far too many notes for my taste." Donnic drawls, taking place beside Isabela.
"And most of them about Marianna." Muses Varric.
Madame Elthina suddenly reappears, slightly out of breath as she steps up.
"Miss Hawke has returned."
"I hope no worse for ware."
Varric stills his tapping, and waits, hopeful, for confirmation. And Fenris shares in his hopes, holding a breath.
"Where is she now?" Donnic asks her.
"I thought it best she were alone."
"She needed rest," Pipes Merrill, appearing at her mother's back.
"May I see her?" Chagny presses with a plea.
"No, Messere. She will see no one."
Elthina insists she is not to be disturbed, fervent in her decision. She does not want Marianna to be vexed by his concern or flooded with questions as to where she's been.
"Will she sing?"
Isabela smirks with some hope of her own.
"I have a message," Elthina responds keenly.
"Let us see it," Fenris orders.
She surrenders ownership of the card in due course.
"Gentlemen, I have now sent you several notes of the most amiable nature, detailing how my theatre is to be run. You have not followed my instructions. I shall give you one last chance."
The Phantom listens from a concealed sanctuary as they repeat every direction he has scribed for them to know. His thoughts slinking like smoke through the air, determination set on furthering Marianna's career.
She is not a creature of darkness, a rose needs light to grow vibrant. He cannot merely steal her away and shelter her with him inside the catacombs of an old opera house. But, her secret places her in dire need of protection. Fame and riches can shield her. Their 'enemy' cannot touch someone with coin and status easily. 'They' will have to turn a blind eye to her existence, should they come across her abilities.
He fades away, a black cat in the rafters that had been stalking mice, but never caught in a glimpse by his prey.
"It's all a ploy to help Marianna," Isabela scrutinizes, "Devised by her lover, the Viscount."
Fenris offers nothing in his defense, knowing it shall do him no good. The diva is strictly convinced that it is he who is creating this charade. When, in truth, all he wants to do is make sure Hawke is safe and sound. He thinks better of simply taking Marianna far from here. She might not be content to leave this terrible drama behind, unlike himself. Not because she adores the fuss, he is well aware, but in due respect to her love of singing.
Here, she has the chance to make a name for herself, a life all her own. And not just a luxury of what he can offer her as a contender for her love. She was not one to be swayed by petty gifts, but by consideration and vera. Honesty in one's character. And as tender a flower as she is, Hawke is free spirited. She would want to prove her mettle. She would want purpose. The opera house can provide it. His wealth cannot.
There is a fit as Isabela cusses and plunders the theatre for all her lingering possessions. And the managers follow in her wake, trying to soothe her temper and slow her rampage. Leaving the Viscount to ponder over what he has power to do to help his beloved friend.
Her displeasure is drawn out long and fiesty. The hurricane of her mood turning her grace into the wild tangent of a raging sea. Her waving hair splashing about her shoulders in violent protest. Marianna's success is not a sure thing, her desire to perform could die off before they can secure another to take the role. And so, if Isabela walks away, intent on never looking back, their ship will undoubtedly sink. An incident they cannot afford.
Finally, Varric announces that Hawke will not get the lead, but the diva. He gives a nod to Donnic as he worries his staff like usual in thought. Donnic has been his business partner for many years and has often been the one to set things in motion, while Varric applies his clever mind into a plan. It seems he would like to test just how far this 'Phantom' will go, he wants to try their limits. Maybe find a way to drive this pretender out.
This settles Isabela, calming her currents of emotion and giving her what it is she wants. She does adore the crowds and the attention, the undying affections of men at her whims. Yet, she is like any siren. Her greatest weapon is her voice, next to her wit. And she truly does enjoy using its effects to enchant audience after audience with her charm. A passion for song as true as Marianna's, even if there are other motivations behind it.
The preparations are made, and they proceed as planned. Dressing the cast, and setting the stage for the battle that is to come. Everyone feels the charge of a cloud line about to break, anxious and wary.
The curtains part away to give voice to the play. The scene in view for all to see and progressing without hindrance. There are entrance bows and the music boasts gayly. There is delight and dance, humor and starlit eyes. Every motion plotted and every song placed with care. It is everything attendants can ask for. And in their eager feast in the glamor of the stage, no one sees a meddler draped in black replacing the bottle of spray for the diva's throat with a pretender. A trap to be sprung at a later time.
There is applause at the portrayed scandal of a faithless lady, Isabela, indulging in the kiss of her mute pageboy lover, Hawke. A tryst broken apart by her husband coming through the door, his replacement disguised as a maid. He is no more valliant, tapping a servant girl, Merrill, on her behind, something that earns a laugh. His attendant taken with the curves of his wife. So naughty and wonderful to see for fans of the opera.
Above their heads, a different story is playing out. Samson catches wind of the Phantom's presence and goes seeking for trouble. His intentions are to secure the act and reveal the devil that has been wreaking havoc with performances. But ends up in a game filled with taunts and twists. Nothing more than a toy in the poltergeist's claws.
The melodies continue to stream and flow, and the stage is set in more ways than one. A menagerie of wild sounds in good taste, lively and torn apart by a gruff voice from overhead. One part the host and the other the spirit in vocal range.
"Did I not instruct that box five was to be kept empty?"
Fenris snarls from his perch there, just every bit as inclined to draw him out as the Varric and Donnic. His mockery is bait for this vermin's removal.
"It's the Phantom of the Opera," squeeks Merrill.
"It is him..." Marianna agrees, bewildered.
His position is revealed to Samson through this display, and he comes upon Anders' perch. But it is abandoned by the time he reaches it and he is forced to rethink tactics.
Isabela lubricates her throat with the spray in the fray of confusion. A habit of nerves one might suppose.
The act presumes, no sign of ending. Guests have paid to be here, and the cast must deliver. But, tragically for the diva, the false solution is taking effect, straining her voice into gasping croaks. The audience is sent into a mess of laughter, but the opera must be put on hold.
Donnic attempts to avert obvious problems and entertain them with the ballet that was to come further in. And the disaster continues. The stage hands are thrown into chaos, the dancers doing their best to keep smiles on the faces of those who watch. Sebastian does all he can to keep up, keeping the band steady, even while the action is not.
Up in the catwalks, there is a struggle mounting. Samson is no longer chasing the shadow of the fiend, but being chased. The eyes of the hunter glowing blue coals of vehemence and lethality. He dodges and weaves, but has no hope of escaping. With a shock of magical force to cut off screaming, he is tied by the throat to strangle. And then dropped, hanged, amid the ballerinas as they twirl. And panic immediately ensues as the life twitches free from Samson's body.
Fenris dashes from box five, diving through screaming revolts of mortified people. His eyes track every person he passes until he finds the only one that matters this very moment. Marianna. Caught in the stampede and trying to get away. He comes to her rescue, pulling her free from the mass and pressing her safely against a wall as the public runs past.
"Are you alright?"
She is not comforted by his appearance, trying to dart away and throwing a reply over her shoulder.
"We are not safe here!"
He takes pace at her heels, following her up and out of the turmoil to a balcony on the roof. Only then does she pause in her flight to catch a breath. He looks her over as she stands, tracing her curved edges for injury.
"We can't go back there."
Her voice sounds faint and far away.
"We must."
"He'll kill you. His eyes will find us there."
Silence blows in the wind between them.
"Maker, who is this man?" Hawke sighs, eyes alight with terror.
No longer does she want to know who has been singing to her as the angel she's always imagined. She doesn't want to learn more of the creature who poses as both a phantom and a savior. Her pity is drowning in the fear Anders did not want to inspire within her.
Fenris is still skeptical of this lurking killer, unbelieving of the concept he is paranormal while Hawke is unsure. He imagines a man. One who most definitely has a few hidden talents, much like Danarius. And an evil will to match. He looks her in the eye.
"There is no 'Phantom' of the Opera."
"Fenris, I've been there," she replies in defiance, "I've seen him. Could I ever forget that face, so distorted and twisted? It was hardly a face. Exuding such darkness."
His brow furrows, his heart heavy. Mages are succeptible to the torment of demons that try to ensnare their sanity and take it away, so they are left vulnerable. Easy hosts to lay claim to. And the way she speaks is telling him of her suffering that must be brought on by these gruesome abominations. Terrors that have somehow found a way to get to her. And this murderous pretender is their servant, sent to aid in their assault.
The line from a previous note 'the Angel of Music has her under his wing' comes into focus. He can recall all the stories Malcom used to tell her. He heard often the promises that an angel of melodies would always watch over her. An extension of his spirit and will. He used to think nothing of it. They were just sweet words to soothe a child, so he had thought. But, she had believed them, trusted them. And now someone was poisoning her with that trust.
They will have to fight much harder to have any chance of reaching her. As long as he is present, he will not let them claim her. Not this mage. Not his healer.
"Yet, in his eyes, was all the sadness of the world," she muses, losing her thoughts to the image.
They were breaching her defences by using her unfailing mercy against her. He could see it now. And it changed nothing, only gave him direction as to what he must do.
"Marianna," he takes hold of her, "No more talk of darkness. Forget these wide eyed fears. I'm here, nothing can harm you."
He wraps her carefully within his arms, warming the chill from her, aquired while standing in the nighttime air.
"He is no angel or phantom. He is but a man, corrupted and sick. He is a fake. I'm here," he repeats, "With you, beside you. To guard you. To guide you. Block these shadows from your mind. Let them be forgotten. Give them a grave to die within. Your father is gone, and cannot come back. But I am here."
"Fenris?" She speaks at his ear.
"I love you, Little Mari. And, if, perchance, you love me... Forget these devils. Push them away, keep fighting. Find me when they chase you. Let me aid you."
He tightens his embrace, constricting it and pressing her closer.
"Love me. That's all I ask of you."
"I do," she smiles gently, "I have missed you."
Fenris draws back to touch his lips to hers, reaching up a hand to stroke her bangs from her face. Neither of them are aware they are being watched by golden eyes flashing with blue like lightening. Body trembling in convulsions of misery and blood lust. All safe from their sight beneath the cowl of a pegasus wing. The statue a brace for his agonizing form. His irises trail after them as Fenris takes her by the hand and leads her gently back into the theatre.
"I have been here with you, singing for your comfort. Yet, you betray me... He was bound to love you, when he heard you sing. Just as I was."
Anders falters to his knees.
"Marianna..." He whimpers.
Tears fall, only dried by the madness swirling inside.
"You will regret this."