Fireworks light the sky like shooting stars bursting as they fall. Shimmering sparkles rain down, fizzling out before reaching the ground. A shower never drawn into the furrows of the earth. Or weathered by the crowd below.
It is a time for celebration, and all are in good cheer. The theatre is in chorus, lively and bright. Boasting intricate costumes all alight with glitter and jewels. Fancy stitch work and luminous fabric. And, every pair of eyes peek from the windows of a mask. Some stark, some delicate, some shiny, and some dainty. All elegant, the colors a smattering rainbow to dawn the glorious spirit of their party. Their voices a harmony to be reckoned with, heard for quite the distance down the alleys and lanes outside.
"Masquerade! Paper faces on parade," they prance in unison, "Masquerade. Hide you face so the world will never find you."
The dance steps are complex, but each dancer knows their place. And the enjoyment of such a display is evident in a mass of smiles.
"Masquerade! Every face a different shade. Masquerade. Look around, there's another mask behind you."
Ladies stretch their fans to flit in rhythm with their steps.
"Flash of muave, splash of puce. Fool and king, ghoul and goose. Green and black, queen and priest. Trace of rouge, face of beast. Faces! Take your turn, take a ride. On the merry go round in an inhuman race."
Dips and bows accented with turns and twirls, spinning all around the opera house.
"True is false. Who is who? Curl of lip, swirl of gown. Ace of hearts, face of clown. Faces! Drink it in. Drink it up. Until you drown in the light, in the sound. But, who can name the face?"
A slide to the left or right, a parting of the moving cast.
"Masquerade! Grinning yellow, spinning reds. Masquerade. Take your fill, let the spectacle astound you."
Partners join again and continue their prancing.
"Masquerade! Burning glances turning heads. Masquerade. Stop and stare at the sea of smiles around you."
A break in uniform for solo performances.
"Masquerade. Seething shadows breathing lies. Masquerade. You can fool any friend who ever knew you."
They all fall into place once more.
"Masquerade! Leering satyrs, peering eyes. Masquerade. Run and hide but a face will still pursue you."
There is a dip forward to bring masks to mirror each other. And, among the disguises, Varric, Donnic, Isabela and Castillon, Merrill, even Madame Elthina. All taking part.
Just arriving, Fenris and Marianna breach the doors, ready to join in. His suit a dark finery bedecked in emerald hues her dress a blazing scarlet in satin. Their masks complimentary in essence. At a chain around her neck rests a ring. A testament to a near future that will keep the pair together for a lifetime. She insists on keeping it secret a while longer still, trace amounts of fear lingering in the back of her mind. Hence the reason she does not keep it around her finger. But, she is well.
The 'Phantom' has fallen silent, making no appearances for some time nor calling for her. And Hawke has vastly improved. To Fenris' relief, her terrors of darkness have all but vanished. Her thoughts on angels and ghosts quieted, abandoned. He has provided something new and much more real for her focus to hold. He has given her a world of fresh memories to cradle in her heart. Making it easier for her to let her father go and the aching loneliness that had followed. In fact, Fenris has spent all this time tending to his healer, reviving her has she had done him. And he is content to have her with him in peace, with a happy ending before them.
He takes her to dance with him among the others. Leading her merrily across the floor with fluid direction. Drinks are being passed, there are toasts and much laughter. And neither he nor Marianna can think of any better way to usher in the new year. Their hearts soaring to a perfection rarely found in the moments of life.
"Masquerade! Paper faces on parade. Masquerade. Hide your face so the world will never find you. Masquerade! Every face a different shade. Masquerade. Look around, there's another mask behind you. Masquerade! Burning glances turning heads. Masquerade. Stop and stare at the sea of smiles around you. Masquerade! Grinning yellows, spinning reds. Masquerade. Take your fill, let the spectacle astound you."
The candles flicker out, their sparks dead. Leaving everyone lost within the dark. Hawke draws in a sharp breath, already certain of what they face. Fenris feels her tense against him and wraps a sheltering arm around her shoulders. A reminder of strength to keep her from plumeting back into the chasm he has spared no effort hoisting her free from.
Some of the wicks sputter back into a blaze, offering dim illumination as the Phantom slips into the festivities. Draining them of joy and vibrance with every step. His eyes blue sparks of hate, glowing with far more heat then the flames of the candle bras.
"Why so silent good Messeres? Did you think that I had left you for good?"
The hiss with which he speaks drip enough venom to bathe in.
"Have you missed me? I have written you an opera. Here I bring the finished score," he sneers, throwing a black leather binding down the steps.
On impact it slips the papers within about the floor. The music notes scratched upon them menacing in concept.
"Don Juan Triumphant!"
Anders draws forth a staff, one clearly meant for more than walking or display. It hums with his energy, pricking the hairs on the back of Marianna's neck. Magic, poised for attack.
"Fondest greetings to you all," his teeth bear in a smile with no mirth, "A few instructions just before rehearsal starts."
Fenris slowly slips his arm away from Hawke who is too distracted to notice. She feels a need to summon her own magic, call it forward for defense. But she is surrounded. A mage revealed is abducted to the Circle. She would be taken from the life she knows, from the arms of her lover to a relentless prison to await the end of her days. The risk is too great. Silently, he sneaks off, away from her side.
"Isabela must be taught to act," Anders growls, "Not her normal trick of strutting round the stage."
She stares at him, daggers in her eyes, but makes no quip in light of his insult.
"Our Don Juan," he continues, poking Castillon in his gut with the bladed tip of his staff, "must lose some weight. It's not healthy in a man of such an age."
He steams beneath the threat, not particularly bulky in demeanor, but holding his tongue also.
His eyes flash to Varric and Donnic, who have been inching closer with every word. Turning to boast his weapon and stilling them.
"And my managers... They must learn that their place is in an office, not the arts."
At last, it is the turn of his muse to suffer his complaints.
"As for our star," he turns to burn her with his gaze, "Miss Marianna Hawke..."
He places his staff in a hold against his back and stalks her way. Hands empty of a visible weapon, but aura still in tact.
"No doubt she will do her best. It is true, her voice is good. She knows. Though, should she wish to excel, she has much still to learn."
She stands rigid under his chastening. Merrill finches forward, preparing to use her own magic in Hawke's name if she must, but Elthina holds her back. Keeping her safe within her reach.
He smirks, "If pride will let her return to me. Her teacher."
The blue of an alternate will fades to dying embers, replaced by coins of gold I'm the sockets of his mask.
"Her teacher," he repeats softly.
Their eyes meet and she is witness to his misery. The suffering born of her choice to leave him behind. Her heart aches, the eyes of the man far more poor and wretched. Those irises are too gentle for the malevolence that hides under his skin, taking over despite his protests. But, in the dulling light of his eyes, she can see the exhaustion from all his effort not to let it rule him. She can see him fighting it. And she feels sorrow for the poor soul suffocating in a choke hold of a will not of him.
Fenris reappears in the distance, his sword in hand, catching sight of how close Anders stands to Marianna. Their gazes locked. He makes haste to keep her from those evil hands, pushing through the frightened patrons to reach her. To face this enemy.
The Phantom's line of sight drops to the ring tied to her neck. In that instant he is lost again. Eyes blazing azure as he rips the trinket from her throat. Shaking it in a fist before her face.
"Your chains are still mine! You belong to me!" He roars.
He sends it crashing to the floor and retreats up the steps. Fleeing from Fenris' approaching challenge. With a flash of fire he sinks within a trap door in the tiled floor at the landing, and Fenris dives after him. Dropping into the abyss before the entrance can close again.
He finds himself trapped in a ring of darkness and mirrors when he rises up from his fall. The air knocked from his lungs, but still prepared for battle. Utmost alert.
The face of his opponent flashes here, and there. He strikes out in an arching swing, missing. Again and again as the masked villain plays with him. He will not be deterred, but fares no better no matter how he strikes at the movement he glimpses. A noose is tossed at his feet. A bold inference that his end is near and Fenris knows he is at a disadvantage. He will not fall easily, but he has little hope of deciphering this barrage of tricks before the enemy makes his all or nothing move. The tactics currently superior to his, and the battlefield on the Phantom's turf.
He is grabbed at the shoulder, turning to find Madame Elthina behind him. She jerks him away from the collection of mirrors, dragging the Viscount out of danger. Then, takes him through the passages to an exit. Leading him back to the familiar halls of the opera house.
She doubles back to return to the dormitories, bidding him a good evening. But, Chagny keeps on her heels, begging her to wait.
"Please, Messere, I know no more than anyone else," she disregards.
"That is not true," he reprimands.
"Do not ask," she pleads, "There have been too many accidents."
"Accidents," Fenris scoffs, "Madame, for all our sakes, please tell me what you know."
She freezes in place with a heavy sigh.
"Very well."
They make way for a room that is safe from unwanted ears and she beckons for him to have a seat. She locks the door before joining him, taking to a chair opposite of his.
"It was years ago. There was a traveling band of Templars in the city. Members of the Circle."
She motions to old portraits, grey with dust.
"I was very young. Studying to be a ballerina. One of many. Living in the dormitories of the theatre."
She perches at the edge of her cushion in discomfort. Disturbed by her recollections.
"They sometimes send a compliment of guards and a fraction of their magi to earn coin while hunt for more mages hiding within the city. They put the mages they bring with them on display, working them to woo crowds and convince others of their cause," she explains, trembling.
"One of the mages they held captive in a small and thick barred cage. A young boy about my age. Ser Meredith, their Commander, would enter his cage and beat him until his eyes..."
She steadies herself.
"He had been possessed by a spirit, we were told, and they used him as an example. Lashing him until he lost himself to the ghost inside."
Her voice drops low. As though, if she speaks it too loud she will be subject to torture.
"Everyone left, I lingered behind. I turned for one last look at the boy. He had grabbed the whip from her hand and began strangling the Knight Commander. In her shock, she was left helpless long enough for him tho choke the life out of her. But, then... The blue left his eyes. He began weeping..."
Tears streak her own cheeks.
"I helped him to escape. I could not bear to see him caged and at their mercy. I brought here, showed him a way into the under theatre. I hid him from the world, and its cruelties. He has known nothing else of life since then, except this opera house."
She shakes her head with regret.
"It was his playground and... now his artistic domain. He's a genius. He's an architect and designer, he's a composer and well trained mage. A genius, Messere."
"But clearly, genius has turned to madness. He has succumbed to his demon. It is all that is left of him now." Fenris counters when she is finished.
His distaste is as strong as it ever was for Danarius. His only thought now, to put an end to the monter's chaos before more lives are lost. Before Hawke can be lost.