Chapter Text
The air was electric as the 1164 Adrestian Choir Festival Gala came to full swing. Music bounced off the imperial ballroom’s high, gilded ceilings and couples young and old filled the dance floor. The ballroom glistened with floating light from above, cast there by careful mages no doubt, that reflected through the immense crystal chandelier featured at the center of the hall.
The room bustled with noble men and women, full of mirth, merriment, and wine. And in the middle of it all was Manuela Casagranda.
The Choir Festival has always been, for as long has she could remember, her absolute favorite day of the year. Even as a small child, Manuela remembered watching with awe as the noble men and women from all over arrived in Enbarr, each more elegant than the next; all arriving to celebrate the beauty of song. It was the one day a year that beautiful voices danced in the open streets of Enbarr, and the one day a year that Manuela could listen to them without hiding. It was what allowed her to fall in love with music in the first place. But now the festival was nearly over, and all that was left was tonight, an evening of drink and song for only those deemed worthy.
It was not Manuela’s first year invited to the gala, of course. Her status as the star of the Mittelfrank opera house had allowed her invitation to the festivities for several years now, but her first steps into the ballroom still filled her with a silent thrill all the same. She herself had spent most of the week performing for these same nobles in the Opera’s special Choir Festival Performance of “Le Savant et La Chanteuse”, but now that the curtain had fallen, it was her time to celebrate.
Manuela’s heels clicked on the hardwood floors as her legs wobbled slightly in them to keep her balance. She had spent a pretty penny to have her new shoes imported from Dierdru, but while they were incredibly fashionable, the heels were far higher than the ones she wore on the stage. With them, she could finally meet the gaze of the men she met, and she found the height to be a thrill of power she didn’t expect. Along with these new shoes, Manuela took care to dress in her favorite gown, one found deep in the basement of the Mittelfrank costume storage from a performance long forgotten. It was one that Manuela had dreamed of wearing since her days as a choir girl, a large ball gown embellished with thousands of small pearls and gemstones that trailed behind her as she walked and dyed the most perfect shade of jade green. The color had always been her favorite. Her gown bore no sleeves, instead opting for a fichu made of thin lace to hang over upper arms, leaving her neck and shoulders exposed to the eye and her bosom cresting over the confines of her corset. Was it provocative? Maybe, but it certainly did the trick of bringing all eyes on her the moment she entered the room.
She wasn’t one of them. She was not foolish enough to believe this invitation was because of something like status or refinement. She was invited to this gala because she had worked her way to be here. She practiced tirelessly for years, singing alone in the empty opera hall until her throat refused another note, working her way from a simple chorus girl to the star of the Mittelfrank Opera house. People traveled the world to see her perform, some saying her High D was the sound of the Goddess herself. But even after the years of struggle, she was painfully aware of how it was to be a commoner brought into the world of nobles. The noble young women sneered at Manuela, whispering to one another about her clothes, her hair, her common blood. The older men stared openly at her, their mouths salivating as if she were a piece of meat that they could sink their putrid fangs into. Their noble wives scorned her, dragging their husbands away as if she were the reason that their husbands were slobbering mongrels. And the young men, well… The young men were Manuela’s favorite.
Some of them stared like their fathers, tongue hanging in the wind for all the hall to see. Some of them shied away from her, like shrinking violets, and afraid of what their parents would say if they meddled with the likes of her. They were laughable, really. And then there were the few who made it their mission to woo Manuela with their greatest ability, quite obviously with no intention courting her, their main goal to have her warming their bed for the night. These men were the greatest fools of them all, and easily the most fun to engage with. It was something she had discovered about herself not too long after her rise to stardom, that she loved to play her mind games with these men. She would ask them questions, all under the sultry gaze she knew so well, to find out who these men really were.
Manuela strutted her way through the hall, the scroop of her gown following behind her with a soft swish, until she settled to stand by one of the many serving tables around the room. She reached down and picked up a flute of champagne, swirling the liquid a moment before taking a sip. The bubbly liquid slid past her lips and she swallowed quickly, allowing the bitter taste to linger on her tongue for as short a time as possible. It was not that the campagne was not good. It was certainly of high quality, possibly even imported, but the taste was something Manuela never truly enjoyed. She believed she never will.
She took another sip from her glass, the bubbles fizzing down her throat and bringing a faint warmth inside of her chest, as she glanced out to the dance floor at the hall's center. Couples of all ages waltzed together there, hand in hand. It was certainly graceful, the thing young children dreamed of, like Cinderella at the Ball. Young men and women held each other as they danced, easily dreaming of the day they would wed. Their feet looked as light as air as they spun in the arms of their partners, living on a cloud of joy and mirth. But amongst all of the dancing, one couple caught her eye.
In the back of the ballroom, out of the way of the excitement, were an older man and woman dancing. They certainly were doing the same steps as the younger ones, but something was… different. The way they moved was slower, more tender. Their gaze was unbroken, locked in the other’s eyes. Something about them made Manuela wish that she could have what they had. She could only assume they were husband and wife, hardened together after years of love riddled with struggle. The man’s hand rested itself on his wife’s lower back, holding her steady and safe in his arms. She sighed into her glass, taking another sip of the fizzy drink without tearing her eyes away. Someday, that would be her, she just knew it.
“Did you know, it’s pretty rude to stare.” Manuela jumped as a voice emerged from behind her, nearly spilling her glass in the process.
She quickly turned, only to come face to face with a man she had never seen before. He was clearly older than her, but not by more than ten years or so. By how he was dressed, it seemed clear he was a noble’s son, a grey suit with an emerald cravat, both made of the finest of silks and wool. At the lapel, the man wore a silver pin emblazoned with some sort of crest. She had no idea which one, she never paid attention to those things. His hair was a dark brown, but it was clear that grays were creeping in early giving his head a mature, silver sheen. And below his nose was a well groomed moustache.
“I-I was not staring!” Manuela asserted, clearly still thrown by the surprise of being caught. “I simply was watching the festivities!”
“Oh yes..The Festivities..” the man leaned in slowly to reach behind her, grabbing a glass of champagne from the table. He was close enough to her that she could smell his cologne, a wafting scent of pine and tea. A strange choice, surely, but one that Manuela didn’t experience often. He took a sip of his champagne before speaking again. “I take it that you are enjoying yourself, Ms. Casagranda?”
“Funny..” Manuela paused. “You seem to know of me, and yet, I don’t have the pleasure of knowing you.”
“Oh, my apologies… Allow me to remedy that.” The man’s voice was smooth, clearly not stirred by Manuela or her appearance. He was an interesting one indeed. He turned, and held out his hand for Manuela to take. “I am Hanneman von Essar, son of Lord Hamilton von Essar. I hope that this makes us even now, Miss Casagranda.”
Let the games begin, Manuela thought to herself as she placed her hand in his, allowing him the moment to lean in, but pulled it away before he could do something like kiss it. Some of these nobles found it to be charming, Manuela was not one of those people. “Yes, I believe it does, Lord von Essar. I am pleased to make your acquaintance.”
This, for some reason, made von Essar chuckle before taking another sip from his glass, this one much longer than the previous. “Not quite Lord yet, Miss Casagranda. You may simply call me Hanneman, for your convenience.” A noble not insisting on being called by his title? That was a switch. Interesting, indeed.
“Alright then, Hanneman. Then for your convenience, you may call me ‘Manuela; Songstress of Mittelfrank’ or, ‘ Manuela’ for short.” At that, Hanneman gave another chuckle, but this time it rumbled in his chest in a way that Manuela didn’t quite know how to describe.
“ Well Miss-- Manuela. May I ask you for this--” Hanneman was never able to finish his question, however, as another voice carried through the hall.
“Hanneman!! There you are, you cad!!” Another man pursed his way through the crowd. This man was height as Hanneman, and seemingly the same age as well, but unlike Hanneman, this man was far leaner, almost skin and bones. His black hair was combed back and pulled into a small ponytail with an ivory ribbon, and his eyes shone a bright citrine that envied gemstones. His suit was all varying shades of black, even down to the tie and was tailored to fit his lean physique. While he was smiling, the man still seemed to emit a gloomy air about him, possibly from the tired bags under his eyes and pale complection.
Another Noble’s son, Manuela assumed. Either way, Hanneman greeted the man with the grin of a young schoolboy, so she could only assume they were close.
“Hugo von Vestra!” Hanneman holds out his arms and pulls his friend into a brief embrace in greeting before releasing him again. “How have you been? It has been ages!!!” The man Manuela assumed to be Hugo grinned before putting his hand up to stop his friend from speaking any further.
“Upupup! That’s Marquis von Vestra, now. I have finally proven myself worthy of his majesty’s service and taken my rightful place.” The man gestured to the large black brooch pinned to the center of his shirt collar. As Manuela looked closer, she saw that it was not merely metal, but the largest obsidian piece she had ever seen. It was certainly impressive alone, though it’s significance seemed to mean a great deal to this Hugo gentleman.
“And how is my dear Cecily? Is she with you this evening?” Hanneman’s grin grew wider as his eyes started to pan across the ballroom. Hugo did not move.
“Alas, my wife was unable to accompany me this evening, as she had suddenly taken ill before my departure. The healers have assured me it is nothing worth fretting over, though.” The marquis consoled his friend, but seemed to speak with much less emotion than he had a moment ago over the chunk of Obsidian pinned to his throat. “Anyway, Have you seen Ludwig? I hear he has been making a pig of himself all night and I want to rub his fat nose in--”
It was then that Hugo noticed Manuela, his attention immediately turning to her. His eyes scanned over her, slowly moving upwards, drinking her in. She could see the hunger in his stare, and it made her feel uneasy. This was the gaze she was used to from nobles.
“And who is this?” Hugo asked, a starving hunger dripping from his words that was not present but moments before.
“A-Ah.. Hugo! This is Miss Manuela Casagranda, the famous songstress of Mittelfrank. She is the one that performed in today's showings of Le Savant et La Chanteuse. Surely you saw it.” Hugo did not face Hanneman as he introduced him. He simply replied with a low hum as he continued to stare at Manuela, mainly at the point just below her throat. Oh, yes. This was a gaze she knew very well. But familiarity did not settle the terrible feeling that churned in her stomach.
“Manuela, this is Marquis Hugo von Vestra. He just recently has taken his role as Minister of the Imperial Household, and spends his time nowadays advising Emperor Ionus IX, but I know him best as my brother-in-law.”
Sometimes it was easy to forget the powers that these nobles held, and then someone drops the Emperor’s name as if they were a work colleague, and the shock sets in all over again. Manuela's eyes turned from Hanneman to look over the Marquis once more, letting it sink in that this man was the one to advise the Emperor from day to day. It was also this man that refused to look away from her breasts for the entirety of this conversation.
“Nice to meet you, Marquis von Vestra.” Manuela said begrudgingly. “It is a pleasure.” She held out her hand for the Minister to take, but as she did, he took a step closer, almost closing in on her. He took her hand in his, bringing head down into a bow, and parsing his lips to place a kiss. Manuela tried to pull her hand away as she had done earlier, but as she tried, her hand was only pulled into a tighter grip.
“Oh no..” The minister chuckled into her hand before placing a kiss on her skin, releasing her and taking another step closer. She could smell him now, and unlike Hanneman, this man smelled of things she found most unpleasant; harsh chemicals, ash, sulfur. Manuela could feel the Minister’s breath on her neck, he was so close. “The pleasure is all mine, Manuela.”
The way the man said her name dripped with lust and venom, it was enough to make her feel ill. Manuela held her breath, as the minister started to loom over her like a dark shadow. She wanted to run, but making a scene was not what she wanted to be remembered for. It was then that Hanneman’s voice broke through the cloud around them, calling Hugo back to the conversation at hand.
“Hugo! Tell me! How is your boy! Little Hubert?” Hanneman interjects, and Hugo’s attention is caught again. He turned away from Manuela to face his friend, and she breathed a sigh of small relief.
“Oh yes.. Hubert is doing quite well. ‘Tis a pity that he has shown no crest, of course.. But he has excelled otherwise. The child has shown an aptitude for reason, just as expected, but it has become obvious that we will need to use proper motivation for the child to show any proclivity in combat.” The Marquis spoke as if his son were a misbehaving dog over a small child, but Manuela couldn’t easily say as such. Luckily, it seemed Hanneman could.
“ Combat? But Hugo.. the boy is only four years old! Certainly you couldn’t be training a child so young.” At this, the Marquis merely smiled, creepily Manuela might add.
“Ah But Hanneman.. The world we live in now is not the one of our youth. Times have changed. The Empire has great things in it’s future and I simply wish for Hubert to be…. Prepared.”
It became clear that Hanneman did not agree as his expression contorted from one of mirth to cometempt.
“What are you saying, Hugo? The Empire is a great standing, currently. There is no war, and certainly no need for combat for a boy so young.”
“Oh Hanneman, for a famed scholar, you surely can be naïve. Even when we were boys, you seemed so sure of things you have not an inkling about..” The Marquis chuckled at his friend, emitting an aura that one could only describe as smug . “The task of protecting and serving the Emperor is the duty of a Vestra, and a Vestra alone. The boy must be prepared to throw his life on the line for the crown, and he must learn now.”
“As for the Empire…. Sometimes in life, there are moments that escape our grasp ,” at the word grasp Manuela jumped, as the hand of Hugo von Vestra had slipped it’s way behind her and was now pushing through layers of petticoat to grab her ass with a tight squeeze. “ and to ensure the empire’s future we must simply seize our moment--Augh! .”
The Marquis did not say another word after that, for it was the exact moment that Manuela jammed her imported Leicesterian stiletto heel into Hugo von Vestra’s foot . He pulled his hand away as he let out a shout in distress, but before Manuela could turn to leave, the marquis reached out and grabbed Manuela by the wrist and pulled her back towards him, hard.
“Why you little trollop! How dare you lash at me!” Manuela tried to pull herself from the Marquis’ grip, but the man was stronger than she had expected. As she squirmed to get away, the Marquis’ free hand rose open face, But before he could strike down, the force of Hanneman rushing in, broke Manuela free from Hugo’s Grasp.
Suddenly, Manuela realized that for the first time that evening, the hall was dead silent save the rush of murmured whispers. Every pair of eyes in the room fell to her, and the dramatic scene carefully unfolding. She could feel their stares pour into her and knew their thoughts before even being said. Like a deer surrounded by wolves, Manuela slowly started to back away, eyes wide in fear.
“Manuela..” A calm voice tried to reach out to her, Most likely Hanneman. She knew he was saying something, but all she could hear were the voices of the nameless faces surrounding her. The whispers grew louder, leaving her able to hear segments, things like who is she? And what happened? She knew that before she could explain herself, the crowd already knew what they wanted to believe. Within a moment, the reputation Manuela had worked years to achieve was shattered. Her vision started to blur in the edges of her sight, as tears threatened to fall.
“Manuela.. Please.. Are you alright?” Hanneman reached out his hand this time, but Manuela turned and fled, her heels pounding against the floor. She could feel the tears treading hot as she fled, knowing that her makeup was soiled in the process. She wanted to be gone, somewhere she could be safe, but all she could see around her were people of another life, one where she would never belong.
Just before the door to the ballroom slammed behind her, Manuela could hear the voice of a young woman, laughing between her words.
I told you she was just a whore.
----------
8th of Garland Mood, 1180
Manuela woke up to the world spinning. Her head pounded like pegasus hooves into her skull as her bedroom came into focus. Another rough night it seemed, though this was enough of an occurrence that she should probably be used to it. Goddess. . Another day, huh.
Manuela shuffled in her bed, slowly gaining the volition to rise. Thankfully it was a Sunday, at least she hoped it was a Sunday, so no classes today. Manuela shifted to sit on her bed, pulling her legs over the side, trying to pull whatever memory the night before she could, but all she could find was an even harder slam to her headache. A blackout was not something Manuela was unfamiliar with, but she was certainly less than pleased when it happened.
She pushed the heels of her hands to her temples, hoping the pressure would alleviate some of the pounding. It worked, but she knew she had but only a moment before the pounding came back. A fresh breeze blew in from her high open window, and with it, brought a chill to Manuela’s exposed skin. Oh no, she was naked. Again. But before she could go reach for her gown, the pounding returned to her head tenfold. Augh. Clothes could wait. Her search became for something far more important than clothes.
Manuela scoured her wardrobe, her drawers, and the pockets of her coats before finding what she was searching for; a small muslin bag containing the cure to all her woes. Just a little bit of this in tea would be all she needed, but in the meantime… Manuela then reached into another pocket of her coat before pulling out her small silver hip flask. A little hair of the dog would set her right for now. Taking a swig, she could barely taste the bourbon as it slipped past her lips and down her throat. That would be enough.
But as Manuela pulled the flask from her lips, she heard a strange noise. A sniffle? A cough? Oh no, is some sick student standing outside her door? They have been known to do that from time to time if Manuela is not at the infirmary. She tried to focus on the sound and quickly realized that it wasn’t a sniffle she heard, but a grumbling murmur, and it was nearby. She turned around quickly to the source of the sound, and dropped her flask to the floor with a loud clatter.
There, passed out in her bed, inches from where she was sleeping moments before, was a man. Normally, this would be a cause for celebration, but this wasn’t any man, because of course it wasn’t. Laying face down against her down-feather pillow was a head of silver hair, one that she recognized all too well. He moaned sleepily against the pillow, clearly fighting to consciousness before turning his bleary eyes towards the clatter that most likely woke him. It was then that Manuela remembered that she was still naked, and scrambled for her white coat that she had thrown to the floor. In a frenzy, she cursed herself trying to find the proper way to put on her coat, eventually opting to press it against her body like a kind of sheet and offer herself some kind of coverage.
Manuela looked again to the bed, now covered as best she could muster, and was met immediately with the striking blue eyes of none other than Hanneman von Essar, Father of Crestology, and the one man in all of Garreg Mach she did not want in her bed.
“M-Manuela?”
His hair was mussed, his normally well-groomed mustache was now surrounded by stretches of stubble, and without saying another word, Hanneman’s expression was enough to tell Manuela that he was asking himself the same question she herself demanded to know: What happened last night?