Chapter Text
There is an odd rule in the City of Flowers’ Opera House.
Nestled in soft meadows brimming with flowers and lulled to sleep by the tolls of its bells, what the City of Flowers lacks in size it makes up for as the gathering point of all artistic production in the world. Its colourful streets teem with up-and-coming artists, so-called intellectuals loiter around cafés, patrons and merchants bustle in the streets with a loose purse to offer coins to the arts. The Opera House, rising tall and looming like an old church, dazzles the city’s eager visitors as its crown jewel where the three arts (music, theatre, poetry) join hands and glimmer in world-acclaimed performances. A holy temple in which its devotees sit on chairs of velvet, caught in the shimmer of the giant chandelier hanging from an exquisitely painted ceiling, revealing the glossy wood of an altar that is never unpolished—the stage.
This promised glory had been, after all, the reason why Jamil's parents had moved to the City of Flowers. Born and raised in the mild climate of the Scalding Sands though, the icy winter of the Shaftlands had proved too harsh for them. They had gotten ill by the first winds of autumn, and were dead before Yule.
Jamil had been fifteen.
His sister had been even younger. In spite of the fresh wound of their loss, they were to be separated: Najma would return to their remaining family in Silk City, but Jamil would stay to pay off what money the theatre had paid their parents in advance for them to settle in. The theatre manager, a young man not much older than Jamil, had laid out his options with an uncaring tilt of his voice that was frostier than the beating winter outside—and the grief in Jamil’s heart.
“You either work for us and pay off your parents’ debt or you doom yourself to a life in prison,” Leona Kingscholar drawled, propping his chin off his hand. For all intents and purposes, he’d looked like a beast languishing in an office, not even gathering the energy to gloat at Jamil’s misery. “Who knows what’ll become of your sister.”
Thus Jamil steels himself and holds his tears in, slapping his face and breathing in. He claims an alcove in the theatre, where he curls on himself and shivers after a day of the gruelling work of a stagehand. In spite of his limbs aching every night, hands burning with the whip of ropes he’s still learning to control, Jamil makes sure to practise what his parents had taught him.
His parents, he thinks numbly, the esteemed pianist Viper and his wife, an admired mezzo soprano. As he hums scales and sings half-remembered pieces after everyone has gone to sleep, Jamil remembers when they had all been together and huddled around the piano to sing, candles flickering around them and the echo of the desert’s song whistling with them.
Now the music is all Jamil has left.
Life in the theatre is not overly bad though, even if Jamil venomously glares at the incompetent replacements the Opera had hired in a hurry. He performs menial tasks as best as he can, follows instructions, gets treated like a page boy at best and a servant at worst. He grits his teeth and bears with it. His parents, reckless in their success, had used the advance payment to finance their move and new house. With Jamil's current salary, it'd take years before he could pay it back and be free.
But once he is... Jamil fantasises with it, in the solitude of his alcove. Returning to the Scalding Sands, seeing Najma again—perhaps even visiting that foolish, cheerful rich kid his parents used to teach in Silk City. And afterwards, free of any tether, Jamil could travel the world. Do as the artists and merchants of the City of Flowers did in their tales: jump from one place to another, live a thousand adventures, sing in every venue and street.
Jamil falls asleep to these thoughts, sweetly lulled by them. But then dawn comes, and with it the start of a new day and labour anew. The trickle of minutes is eternal, each day slipping by slow as molasses. The bronze coins of his salary seem too little whenever pay day arrives. Musicians and dancers come and go. Jamil learns the ins and outs of the theatre, growing familiar with its staff. Vil, the ballet choreographer, and his eternal rivalry with Leona. Rook, an opera enthusiast who (Jamil doesn't understand why) willingly spends all his leisure time on the stage, fluttering around Vil. Ruggie, Leona’s personal lackey who always sports an impish grin.
With this knowledge, there naturally comes learning about the theatre’s rules. Eating inside is not allowed unless you have enough money to bribe the ushers. The season’s diva is always right, even when they aren’t. You don't pick fights with the director. Never let Vil and Leona cross ways if one of them is on a bad mood.
However, there is one odd rule. And perhaps the oddest thing about it is that people always follow it to a rather superstitious degree. All the stage hands and backup dancers and orchestra musicians say the same, in hushed whispers, eyes bugging out as if something terrible had frightened them.
When you tread in the narrower corridors inside the theatre, you must put your hand at the level of your eyes.
No one can really give Jamil a straight answer when he asks about it in a roundabout way. The dancers diffuse into peals of nervous giggles. The musicians shrug as they take a cigarette, blowing a puff of smoke into Jamil's face. Vil wrinkles his nose and falls silent. Rook goes on a tangent about how the theatre is oh-so-beauté, skirting around the point.
The only one who offers an acceptable answer is Ruggie. "It's just a stupid tale. Some dancers started saying the theatre is haunted."
Jamil frowns. "Haunted?"
"Yeah," Ruggie shrugs, throwing his arms back and lacing his hands together behind his head. "A phantom with opal glowing eyes, I think they said? Silly if you ask me, but they say he strangles people. That's why people whisper that one rule—"
"Shut it," Leona growls, startling them both. He leans against one of the wooden walls, snarling. "I told you I don't want to hear that stupid gossip. Shut the fuck up."
Jamil and Ruggie obediently do. It's rare for Leona to be awake during work hours, and even more for him to listen to what his underlings are doing. To be frank, Jamil has no idea how the Opera is still standing. Yet it is, somehow, and Leona is not a person you'd want to piss off. Especially since he handles their salaries, and people have been fired for much less.
Once he's gone away, Ruggie leans towards Jamil though, offering a crooked grin. "I think it's nonsense, but be careful out there, Jamil. Even Leona gets weird about that rumour."
Ruggie's ominous voice spooks Jamil a little, but as the day progresses the rumour slips from his mind. Mind-numbing routine settles again.
Or at least it does, until a live-in dancer complains of noises of someone singing at night with enough vitriol that Vil sighs and declares with crossed arms that if he finds the culprit, he will personally kick them out of the Opera House. Jamil is forced to look for another place to practise, muttering curses under his breath and flickering candle in hand.
He's unwilling to let this go, even if he has to get into the narrower, less travelled corridors of the theatre. As grand as the Opera's front stage is, with its glossy wooden floor and glittering chandelier, the back stage is a maze of dressing rooms, offices, alcoves, and even a rumoured entrance to the City of Flower's catacombs. At night, the arched ceiling looks endless, the corridors cramped and suffocating. Every whistle of the wind is a ghost's cackle, every crack of the wood a step of someone hidden in the darkness.
Jamil is too old to be scared of the dark however. Music is everything he has of home: not the theatre's gaudy, over-the-top embellished music, but the warm and cosy songs his parents taught him. His father's hands gliding over the piano. His mother's voice guiding him to the correct notes. Najma's untrained melody fluttering over the harmony like a birdsong.
And so Jamil braves the darkness, and finds an ideal nook in a seemingly abandoned room. It's a little dusty, with old coffee stains and peeled off mirrors, but it's quiet and far enough from the other rooms for someone to hear him sing.
Or so he thought, at least. Unbeknownst to him, there is someone listening.
Tuning in from inside the walls and peering through the cracks of peeled off wallpaper, they listen to Jamil go over scales, warming his voice, and then lend their ear to the half-pieces that Jamil knows by heart. In their eyes, the young man in front of him glows warm with the candle's flickering light, dim yet searing in the darkness. Much like his voice. Rarely strained, never off-tune, silvery to the ears. Sweet to those unaccustomed to sweetness. Bright to those unaccustomed to the light of the sun. A comfortable dusk, a never-ending twilight.
They had never, in all their existence within the theatre, had heard such a captivating voice. Jamil is a foreign presence to them, one as fascinating as an unexpected treasure. Why would the theatre bother with third-rate singers when there was this diamond in the rough before them?
Jamil makes the discovered room his new practice nook and unknowingly gains a listener hidden in shadows. His uninvited guest soon grows bored with Jamil's limited repertoire though. As fascinating as his voice is, any performance grows stale if they only repeat the same four and five pieces.
When Jamil arrives in the deserted room one night like any other, there is a music sheet on the dusty table. Unlike the table, the sheet's parchment is new, still soaked with the scent of fresh ink.
Fear pierces Jamil's heart. He stiffens, whirling and examining the room for the shadow of a person. The candle reveals nothing. Jamil's gaze glosses over the eyes peering back behind the walls. He wills his heart to slow down, breathing deeply. He examines the sheet, slightly crumpled from the grip of his hand. The song is not hard, although it holds a simple beauty. Jamil goes over scales and pieces as always, but his attention strays to the music sheet. It's untitled and unsigned. He hesitantly sings it, wincing over small mistakes. When he reaches the end, he makes out a smudged note in the end.
From your angel of music.
Jamil's chest tightens, dread washing over him.
A few days ago, he'd dug up childhood memories when a rumpled letter from Najma arrived at the theatre. It had already been two years since their parents' deaths. She'd written about her life in Silk City, mundane happenings and a prospective job she had in a rich household. Jamil had drunk in the information, aching fiercely from his sister. The letter had been signed, I hope the angel of music guards you. Love, Najma.
"The angel of music?" Ruggie prodded, snooping. Jamil attempted to whack him. Ruggie skillfully dodged him with a snicker. "What's that?"
They had been in their lunch break, nestled in one of the furthermost corners of the dressing rooms. Jamil sighed, figuring Ruggie would stop pestering him if he gave in the information freely. "Just a stupid story my parents used to tell us kids. Me, my sister and my childhood friend. We'd listen to them speak of an angel who protected those devoted to music. A children's tale."
Ruggie shrugged, although his demeanour sombered and he quickly changed topics.
It was what Jamil liked about Ruggie. He was mischievous and a pain in the ass, but he didn't pry.
And it was good he hadn't, because Jamil had spiralled into the haven of his memories. Silk City's scalding streets. Towering domes reaching to the sky with its needle-like spirals. Music wafting throughout the bazaar and dancers spinning in the souk. The colours of the stalls and the mouthwatering waft of street food and spices. His childhood friend, sparkly-eyed, asking for stories and Jamil indulging in his games after lessons. His family singing together. Home.
Is this piece Ruggie's idea of a joke? Yet Jamil knows that Ruggie has just learnt to read and write. He barely has legible handwriting. He wouldn't be able to write a music piece no matter how basic, much less one with this elegant beauty. And he'd never waste money on paying a composer: he guards every coin even more zealously than Jamil.
Then who is it? And how do they know?
Curiosity ends triumphing over fear. Jamil keeps returning to the room every night to practise, and every night there is a new piece waiting for him. They are all different, with various melodies, themes and keys. And increasingly difficult. Still, Jamil steps up as well as he can, ending with a more or less good result every night.
And each piece is signed the same. From your angel of music.
It's not long until Jamil gets stuck in one piece, though. No matter how much he dissects the melody, or how much he tries to make exercises to get the phrase right, he still fails every time, far too chromatic and experimental. He needs a piano to listen to the melody. Scratch that, he thinks in embarrassed fury, he needs a teacher. His parents had always called him a prodigy, but there's only so much raw talent and his parents' old lessons can do.
When he's about to splinter the table in frustration, a melody drifts in from the walls.
Jamil flinches. He vaguely registers the melody is the same he's practising today. Settling in a defensive stance, he frantically scans the room. As always, there's nothing there, only the shadows cast by the candle's light.
"Who are you? Who goes there?" Jamil reprimands himself for the slight quiver in his voice. He balls his hands into fists.
The melody halts. "Why, I thought I was clear enough in my signatures."
Jamil freezes. "You're—"
"Your angel of music, yes."
"—the composer." Jamil corrects, narrowing his eyes. Where is the voice coming from? Where are they? It's low like a male's, with an edge of haughtiness that grates on Jamil's nerves. He opens the room's door. There's no one there. The peeled off mirrors reflect a room just as empty as the one the candlelight sheds light in. "How old do you think I am? Five? Of course you're not an angel."
The Composer hums. "Believe as you wish. I am only here to help you. You've been doing well, yet today I saw you having trouble. I was merely extending a helping hand."
Jamil bristles against all common sense. "Well, sorry I couldn't sing it well. I'm just a poor stage hand after all."
"You and I both know that's not true," the Composer says, "you have a voice more magnificent than half the singers that come here, and a talent that surpasses them all."
Jamil scoffs, internally floored at the Composer's sticky compliments. "Who are you to say that?"
"I told you. I'm your angel of music... and I have a proposal for you."
Jamil has half a mind to run away. Who the hell would listen to a voice coming from the walls? Jamil knows better than to trust someone he cannot see. Yet he is curious. This person has been providing him with free pieces for weeks. Jamil's loath to admit it too, but his praise hits where it hurts.
"What is it?" He cautiously asks, sneaking a swift glance to the door. He could always dash at it, if worse comes to worst.
"I know of your plight. Of desiring to go back home, and your staggering debt. I can train you to be the best singer of them all—a lead singer wins so much more than a stage boy, after all. You could pay back your debt."
"What about you?" Jamil asks, cringing at how his voice hitches with desire.
"Me?" The Composer parrots with faux benevolence. "I'm your angel of music, Jamil. I protect those devoted to music. True talents like you. There is nothing I want more than to see you succeed."
"...your music," Jamil reasons after a beat of silence. "You want me to sing your music."
The Composer doesn't answer.
It is enough of one.
"Are we in agreement?"
"I didn't know angels were so transactional," Jamil taunts with a smirk. He sobers quickly though, clearing his throat and crossing his arms. He should know better. For all he knows, this could be a demon in the darkness. Yet the offer is too tempting—getting out of the City of Flowers as a free, debtless man. What does he have to lose? "Fine. I agree."
The Composer doesn't reply anymore, but Jamil has the feeling someone (or something) smiles down at him victoriously.
The everyday routine in the theatre, then, sees the addition of nightly lessons. Once the entire city sleeps, Jamil slips out of his alcove and reaches the room, meeting with the Composer's voice. After a few nights, Jamil grudgingly admits to himself that the composer is a good teacher. He accurately points out his mistakes and gives him new exercises as well as pieces. In a few weeks, Jamil improves more than in the two years since his parents died.
The theatre's personnel are positively clueless to all of his night scapades. When Ruggie absentmindedly asks over the damson-coloured bruises under his eyes, Jamil just says he's had trouble sleeping since he found a really good book series in one of the theatre's many small libraries. When Rook points out how remarkable light his steps are, Jamil nods and offers him a bland smile. When Vil off-handedly offers that he should perhaps be part of the dancers, Jamil thanks him for the compliment. He feels slightly giddy at slipping through the cracks so easily, scheming to take over the most coveted male roles on stage. If he sang, he could pay his debt in a year—not to say months.
Only one interaction sticks out from the rest, though. One day, passing in front of Leona's office, he calls out to Jamil. Dusk pours in from the window, bathing him in a golden light that brings out the green in his eyes. In spite of his languid posture on his leather seat, Jamil tenses.
"Mind where you stick your nose in, and with whom you talk to in the dark." Leona's eyes narrow dangerously. "You're no longer a child. I'm not responsible for what you do with your time. When the time comes, you'll have to take responsibility for your actions."
Jamil stands on the doorstep, frozen. Leona closes his eyes. "What are you doing standing there? Get to work."
The conversation is quickly forgotten, though. The days stretch into weeks, the weeks into months, and the months into years. Before Jamil knows it, five years have passed since his parents died and he began living in the theatre, three years since he's been having lessons with the Composer.
It is then, after Jamil turns twenty years old, that the premiere of the opera Hannibal looms.