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ladivamagnifica · 11 months

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The Interview 💋

Urgh, she was going to kill Catherine. Oh joy of joys, to be awoken before the sun had arisen on her one and only day off, still sore and tender from the faculty drinks party the night prior, only to be dragged out of her bedchambers, still wearing last-night’s makeup and her dress stained with mustard and wine, and debriefed that in five minutes’ time she would be meeting with a fake newspaper journalist who was actually part of a thief group intending on scouring the grounds for some sort of lost treasure. It was up to her to stall for time, by any means necessary, and that everyone else of use was nowhere to be found or busy.

Bullshit.

Luckily she had been left alone for two frantic minutes in the audience chamber before the Archbishop had seen her; enough time to brush the noticeable tangles from her hair, smudge the eyeliner to make it somewhat decent, find the vial of perfume in per pocket to douse herself in it and spot two holes in her pantyhose tights, grumble about them and then reapply her lipstick. Goddess knows what she actually looked like- abyssal and clearly dishevelled, what with the look of disgust Seteth had cast her away, but even so, passing by a mirror on her way to the meeting room revealed that man oh man, she could make anything look good- especially when the stained dress in question was her old songstress dress, blood red with a black lace hem and plunging neckline. The knitted ebony shawl had also seen better days, but to her mind it all reminded her of her La Carlotta performances- hangover and all.

Her mood further lifted when the ‘interviewer’ had walked in, clearly nervous and out of his depth, and oblivious to the trap which had been set. Nevermind the remnants of her headache, or the ache of her bones. She set her shoulders back, assets in full view and watched him stumble to his chair. Since they wanted her to stall for time, perhaps she could have a little fun with him? It had been a while since she’d had this sort of opportunity, after all…

“What has led you to where you are today?”

“Oh, cute! Straight down to business, but clearly distracted.” She thought.

“I suppose that is the polite way of asking why the ‘Divine Songstress’, the Goddess’ incarnation of heavenly song who blessed the Mittelfrank Opera Company with her tenure, decided to leave her glamorous life of encores and roses for the… quieter halls of Fodlan’s monastery?”

Manuela cocked her head in her hands, leaning forwards, towards the interviewer before her. It was a practised motion which caused the table to pull down the plunging neckline of her dress just a little bit more, and as if on cue, his eyes flitted downwards.

She smiled.

“If it wasn’t such an interesting tale, I might have called you impertinent- presume what you will, but the life of a prima donna is a hard one to live, and harder still to maintain: your role doesn’t end when the curtain falls for the final time each evening; nobles will eek out of you performance after performance; you will be the talk of the town and host of every well-to-do dinner party, on the arm of a man each night…”

The tears welling in her eyes were part of the act, of course. How many times had she played this part before? Had not Duke Aegir once kissed her feet desperately to stop these tears? What of Count Hevring, who too was moved to tears and had carried her to his bedchambers not a single teardrop later? What of those standing ovations as her arias of La Rosina and Carlotta carried through into an endless night of rapture, ending with honeyed wine on her tongue and the ghost of a thousand men’s kisses. Those were the days!

And how marvellous those tears carried the black kohl from her eyes to add emphasis to the guise she was but a vulnerable woman! “Bellas always dream of that moment, stepping into the light and feeling as if the Goddess herself is watching you sing your heart out. They dream of the men that come afterwards, kissing her hands and lavishing her with gifts, roses and perfumes. They think they will beg her to be theirs; of nights far from the opera and singing songs in young mens’ beds but-”

She stopped herself and turned her doe-eyes towards the young man before her.

“… All this is to say, is that you’re going to have to buy me dinner if you want more. I could even tell you the whole story- of just what happens after the curtain falls for the final time.” She dropped her voice into a whisper. “Of what these men do when they have their divas in their arms and by their throats… What shall we say, on the eighth chime of the clocktower this evening?”

“What do you believe are your greatest strengths? Your greatest weaknesses?”

Phooey. He hadn’t taken the bait like he should… well no matter, as far as she was concerned, she had all the time in the world for this interview. “Weaknesses?” She clicked her tongue. “Ah, ah, ah, a woman never reveals her secrets without something in return.”

Despite her annoyance, she did try to stifle her sighs. She remained outwardly still batting her eyelids at the man before her, whom to no one’s surprise but his own was growing red in the face like a tomato. A boy, more like, barely even old enough to grow a full beard, and certainly while she liked them young and sprightly, this was a tad too young for even her tastes, but the Archbishop had commanded that they needed a great deal of time for the knights look around for his ‘associates’ somewhere in the monastery, no matter how much more interested she was in crawling back underneath the covers of her bed and sleeping like the dead.

The scoundrels had claimed they were part of a newspaper of the Empire, here to ask for an interview from Manuela herself, but the former prima donna would have been able to smell the lie from a mile away. After all, she had been featured on every last newspaper at some point in her life, to date, and still editors would beseech her in scented letters to return for interviews and private shows. Adorable really. And irksome, that lowly thieves would think their simple tricks would work on her of all people.

“Naturally my best features would be my good looks; my voice, which one starstruck suitor said was that of ‘one thousand songbirds singing in unison, ubiquitous to all of its majesty’, and the fact that I’m not just a deliciously gorgeous- and available- woman of stature. I’m also a physician and an instructor at Garreg Mach’s Officer Academy. That’s right, I guess you could say that I’m living proof that you can have it all…”

The subtle whistling through the doorframe of her quarters went unnoticed by her captive. To anyone else one might have thought it was the wind, for the monastery was incredibly old and awfully prone to wayward breezes, but to her trained ears, Catherine’s signal meant that the knights had apprehended the false journalists and were lying in wait for this last snake before her. Time to wrap things up, she just had to be careful of that knife he had in his jacket.

From underneath the table she extended her leg slowly, the tip of her heeled shoe finding his shin with ease and tracing it upwards until she felt the soft flesh of his thigh give in under the gentle pressure of her foot. He jolted from the contact, eyes widening and spluttering something incomprehensible. Not that she cared in the slightest, rubbing little circles where her shoe tip rested and smiling a smile that had taken the hearts of many men.

“Ah,” She sighed and cradled her head in both hands,” It truly is a pity though. When placed on a pedestal such as I, men seem just far too intimidated by me. Truly, it is enough to break this diva’s heart! - and now, look at me: it's been so long that I’ve forgotten what a man’s touch feels like.”

One of her shoulder straps fell, draping alongside her shawl to draw the eye once more to her bosom. Her foot reached higher and she pressed down.

“What I wouldn’t give to let someone touch me again. To give into that cardinal desire I so crave. To take me in his arms and mark me as his own- oh, if even just for one night!”

He audibly gulped them, and her lips turned wicked, “You don’t know what it's like. I’m so desperate these days, tired of having to swallow these feelings and sick of only my hands for company that I’d give just about anything to feel that way again, back when I was the starlight and moon on the stage!”

The best lies were half-truths barely concealed, and as she turned to shed more tears, letting last night’s makeup run down her cheeks and worrying her lip all puffy, she knew she had him. It was adorable really, how all it took was but a few words and some flesh shown for him to begin panting like a hound; he was doing an excellent job of keeping himself somewhat controlled, but she knew better than anyone that he had been ensnared.

“I-If a, err, story were to be, um, written about your life, what ro-role would you play?”

Ah, the finale was at hand- or, well, foot. After a few minutes of ‘trying to recompose herself’ in front of him, he was practically salivating and she was euphoric. Nothing like a good performance to raise one’s spirits, and while the knife in his pocket was certainly a worry, that was what coded messages and safewords were for. She was almost done with him- Catherine could stand to let her have a little more fun given she had ruined her post-hangover lazy day.

“Hmm, who else, but to reprise my role as Casagranda Magnifica! Oh, my you really are stupid aren’t you. Don’t worry, Handsome, I’d consider that a compliment.”

If only she could bottle up that pitiful, confused expression and drink it later. How delicious he looked at that moment.

“Hm? ‘What am I saying?’” Even to her own ears her laugh was callous.

“Ah, I apologise, I meant nothing by it. It is quite refreshing to speak to someone who knows nothing of the ways of the theatre.” She withdrew her leg from his person, and swore he almost followed it were it not for the table between them, “Boring old fools like Hanneman might be content to let others tell their story, but for all the highs and lows I have ever experienced; the passing of dearest friends and mentors, lovers long gone and fleeting… I have never, and will NOT ever, be relegated to the sidelines of my life, immortalised in opera or otherwise. When I first took to the stage, my mentor, the prima diva before me, gave me a piece of advice that I shall gladly impart to you now: ‘If you do not sing when the light is upon you, you will never sing at all.’

You see, I have always, and will forever, choose to sing. Be that an aria on the stage or a performance in the classroom… Opera and I, music and my soul; the stage and my heart, we are eternally entwined like lovers.”

Bam! A dozen knights burst in through the door to apprehend the thug, toppling the old table in the process. The look the man had cast her way was blacker than pitch, but where she should have felt fear, she only felt giddy- these days being able to exercise such power over the ‘stronger’ sex was few and far between, so caught up in craving an earnest type of love that she was, but oh Goddess, she felt drunk on it! Catherine herself was bodyblocking and escorting her giggling self away from the arrest; leading them towards the Archbishop’s chambers where Rhea awaited for them both.

“Brava, ‘Voca Divina’.”

She playfully slapped Catherine’s arm. Her smile was infectious and she stumbled. “Oh hush you. Now, I do believe that I have tomorrow off for all my trouble?”

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