Operatic Tragedy | Mikael

Chapter Ten

 Mikael went back to his usual angry pacing across the floor of room. It was a wonder, he thought, that he hadn't caused the entire floor to collapse with the way his feet kept pounding against it.

 Did Marguerite have any idea that this Les Rochambeaus was clearly based on his own family's history? Anyone who knew the story of the Mikaelson family and had a brain in their head could figure that out. Who would do something like this? Why fictionalize the story for the entire public to see and hear?

 Who was this Pierre Blanchard? Mikael had seen him on stage with Marguerite many times before, but had never actually been introduced to him. Something about him had seemed familiar, like they had met before, but it hadn't seemed likely at all. Where would Mikael have met him?

 He finally collapsed onto the bed and stared up at the ceiling. Had he wrongfully blamed Marguerite during his anger and shock at the performance? Perhaps she hadn't had any idea. No, she probably didn't. She was too honest, too sincere. It was rather obvious she wasn't hiding anything. Perhaps that was why he was drawn to her; he had always been rather honest himself, feeling that he had nothing to hide, not really.

 But he was lying to Marguerite, wasn't he? If she didn't know the truth behind her friend's opera, than that meant she had no inkling of the truth about Mikael himself.

 Somehow, that seemed to bring him back to the same question: who was Pierre Blanchard, and why had he done what he did?

~~~~~~

1622

 Mikael had searched the entire manor. Everyone was dead; there were no survivors in the wake of the Mikaelsons. In a way, he felt bad for these people; they never asked for it. But he also didn't feel bad; if this was what had to be done to end Niklaus' reign of terror, then so be it.

 He caught something out of the corner of his eye. Movement. Someone was still alive.

 "Please," the man said. "Tell me what has happened. Am I dead?" He looked around the rest of the hall. "Oh, God. No. Not...my family was here."

 "If your family was here with you, they are dead," said Mikael. "They will not have survived."

 "Oh, God." The man brought his knees towards his chest and collapsed his head. "What is this nightmare? How am I still living if my family is dead? My parents, my wife, my children."

 Feeling a small amount of pity for this unfortunate man, Mikael asked him, "What is your name, sir?"

 "Armand de Rochambeau."

 "Well, Armand, there is nothing I can do to help you, so I must leave you. But I will give one bit of advice: do not any blood, whatever you do. It would be best that way."

 He walked out of the hall, leaving Armand de Rochambeau to weep alone.

~~~~~~

 Mikael bolted upright. He had pieced it together. That weeping and sorrowful face was the same one he had seen onstage many times within the last two months.

 Armand de Rochambeau and Pierre Blanchard were the same person.

~~~~~~

 Marguerite and Pierre went up to Marguerite's rooms together.

 "I don't understand him," Marguerite said as she lit up the parlor. "He will be kind and polite one moment, and then so strange the next."

 "The strangest of sorts," Pierre agreed. "What did you say his name is?"

 "Mikael Eriksson. I met him about over a month ago when I began seeing him at the opera house. He has always seemed quite interested in me. I believe we are friends, but I'm not even sure of that. And then he began accusing me of the most outrageous things tonight."

 "Outrageous things?" Pierre repeated. "What on Earth was he accusing you of?" 

 "He said that your opera was based on a true story and that I knew about it the entire time, and then he told me that even if I didn't know, there is a lot more to you than I know. It was more like mad blabbering than an actual accusation."

 Pierre nodded. "Strange. Well, there must be things about myself I haven't told you before."

 "And I am sure there are things I haven't told you," said Marguerite. "I don't know what he was trying to say, because he disappeared before I could an explanation out of him."

 "Well, I wouldn't go looking for him, especially not at this hour. If he wants to explain himself, he will come to you."

 She sighed. "Perhaps. If not, there is nothing to do but forget about him."

 "Well, you'll have me, my dear. Don't forget that."

 Pierre held out his arms, and Marguerite hugged him, feeling better knowing he was on her side of things.

 And then she felt a sudden, horrid pain in her back. Her spine was being pushed and twisted, and her heart was clenched, preventing it from beating.

 Pierre pushed her away, her heart gripped tightly in his hand.

 "I am sorry, Marguerite," he said to her lifeless body. "You were getting far too close."