Chapter Text
“Is it just me, or did he seem way too happy to hand the place over to us?”
“It’s not just you,” sighed Kanan Jarrus in answer to his wife Hera Syndulla’s question; the two had just taken possession of Lothal’s opera house, and the previous owner had had an air of anxiety throughout the entire transaction, nervous and unfocused. He hadn’t given a clear answer as to why he wanted so badly to wash his hands of the opera, either. As soon as they had signed their names and received the manager’s ring of keys, he seemed to relax, and as he quickly retreated they heard a stifled laugh. That boded well . . . “I’m starting to get the feeling that something fishy’s going on here.”
As soon as he said that, a note was slipped under the door, which Hera picked up and examined while Kanan opened the door to see who had delivered the message. “Huh,”
“What’s up?”
“Nobody’s there,” Kanan stroked his chin, then closed the door again and turned back to Hera, now more suspicious. “How about that note?”
“It’s pretty weird,” she shook her head and passed it to him.
The note, written on sturdy cream cardstock, displayed a somewhat shaky and erratic yet elegant hand in red ink. It read:
To my new managers:
I write to you to welcome you to my opera and inform you of what your cowardly and incompetent predecessor likely failed to mention. You see, I am very particular about how I like my opera to be run; for your convenience, I have listed my rules below:
- The managers, directors, etc., may choose what productions they will, provided they be of fine craft and artistic merit, except on the second weekend of every month, when The Nightbrothers must be performed.
- The managers must provide me with 20,000 credits a month, paid on the first of the month.
- These shall be paid via Box Five, which is to always be kept empty for my use.
Know that I consider myself a reasonable woman, though you would do well not to cross me; if you disregard these or any other instructions I give you, I will be very displeased indeed. But you seem like fine people; I trust that our business will be amiable.
Maul.
Kanan sighed. “You gotta be kidding me.”
“This has to be a joke,” Hera shook her head. “It seems like a pretty elaborate scam to me; probably someone thinks we’re vulnerable since we’re new and wants to take advantage of us. Maybe it’s even the previous manager.”
“Well, we’re smarter than that,” Kanan ripped up the note and threw it away, and they moved on; they had a lot to do.
The next day, they decided to sit in on a rehearsal session, though they caught everyone at an awkward time. As they entered, the sound of a scream met their ears: this turned out to belong to the lead soprano, Arihnda Pryce, on top of whom a set piece had just fallen; she was unharmed but incensed at this accident, indignantly brushing herself off as she stood, only to step on the back of her skirt and nearly fall once more. “Oh!” she stomped, gathering up the fabric in her hands. “Where is Lyste? There! Why did you make my dress so long, you fool, it’s like you’re trying to kill me!”
Hera gave Kanan a look; they both sighed and progressed further into the room as the director attempted to placate the disgruntled prima donna with an apologetic, “These things do happen.”
“These things do happen?” Pryce narrowed her eyes. “These things do happen! Do you care so little for my safety? How many months and these things keep happening! You!” she turned to Kanan and Hera. “You are the new managers, are you not?”
“We are,”
“You had better stop these things from happening, because if you do not, this thing” (gesturing to herself) “does not happen! Hmph!” and, still cradling her skirts in her arms, she stormed off of the stage.
“Fucking fantastic,” the director muttered under her breath, and went to chase after Pryce. “Take five, everyone. I’ll be right back.”
Hera looked at Kanan, and Kanan looked back. “Well, this should be interesting.”
“For sure.”
~
“No way,” Ezra Bridger’s eyes went wide. “Is that who I think it is?”
Ezra Bridger had spent her entire life on Lothal, in varying conditions. While her early childhood had been a dream, she lost both of her parents when she was just ten years old; she spent six years wandering the streets until Hera and Kanan found her, took her in, and gave her an education, and now, not quite two years later, here she was, settling into a small but comfy room in the dormitories of the Lothal Opera House, where the lead soprano was none other than — “Arihnda Pryce?”
“And who are you?” the woman sneered. With her hair slightly messy and her long costume dress gathered to her knees in her hands, Ezra had to fight not to laugh at her.
“Ezra Bridger. You don’t remember me?”
Pryce’s eyes narrowed, then widened; her lip curled in distaste. “That brat! How could I? What do you think you’re doing here?”
“I live here now. The new managers are my guardians.”
“Well, this should be fun,” Pryce mumbled under her breath as she pushed past the girl, soon followed by a frazzled-looking woman holding what looked like a datapad of some king.
“Yeah. Loads of fun,” Ezra said to the air, then headed into the auditorium from which Pryce had just exited.
Pryce and Ezra had gone to school together; Pryce’s younger sister was in Ezra’s class. Pryce had tried to bully Ezra once, and Ezra responded by filling Pryce’s backpack with Loth-worms; they had antagonized each other back and forth until the very day Ezra stopped going to school. She couldn’t believe such a stuck-up idiot like Arihnda Pryce could have made it as the lead soprano in the Lothal Opera House . . . unless her mommy and daddy bribed the previous owners to hire her. Although, Ezra supposed you didn’t really need brains to sing, so maybe this job was perfect for her after all. She snickered, already planning pranks to pull on the prima donna — but that would have to wait. “Ezra,” Kanan smiled as he spotted the girl. “What are you doing here? Is everything okay?”
“Yeah, everything’s fine, I just wanted to see how you and Hera were doing.”
“Drama already,” Kanan sighed. “Our lead soprano — ”
“Pryce. I saw her on the way in. You know, she and I went to school together. Back when my parents were still alive.”
Kanan raised his eyebrows in surprise. “Really? She doesn’t look as young as you.”
“No, she’s a few years older,” Ezra corrected. “We saw each other on the playground, mostly.”
“I see.”
“It’ll be just like old times,” Ezra grinned.
But it was better. Ezra got to work, pranking Pryce right away: she filled her shoes with mud; she put Loth-frogs in her bed; she switched her juice at dinner with vinegar; she sent her “gifts” from “secret admirers” that exploded into sticky, slimy, or smelly substances; until one day she went too far by balancing a bucket of glitter and sludge above her propped-open door, so that it spilled on her when she entered her dressing room. A costume gown got damaged in the process, and Ezra got in trouble for that one. Kanan and Hera warned her not to prank anyone anymore; she apologised, but still continued, albeit more stealthily, by doing things like releasing stink bombs or playing strange sounds to make Pryce think she was going mad — things that couldn’t as easily be traced back to her.
All else aside, Ezra settled into her life at the opera house rather nicely; she had a warm bed, good food, and plenty to occupy her — she couldn’t complain. One night as she sat combing her hair before bed, she sang to herself, as she usually did, a lullaby that her mother used to sing to her. This night, however, something happened that had never happened before — a voice joined her in her song.
She stopped — stopped singing, stopped brushing, even momentarily stopped breathing — and the voice continued. She looked around, but couldn’t find where it came from; it seemed to come from everywhere at once. It was deep, and velvety, and hauntingly beautiful, and when it finished the lullaby, it said, “You have a beautiful voice, Ezra Bridger.”
“Umm . . . thanks?” she stood; the voice seemed close, almost as if it was coming from inside her room, though she hadn’t noticed anyone enter. She looked behind furniture, in closets — nothing. The voice continued:
“Your natural talent is impressive. Your gifts, I dare say, may even be stronger than those of the singers employed by the opera. I can teach you to hone your skills, and if you submit yourself to my teachings, I can give you a fruitful career.”
Ezra’s brow furrowed as she opened the door and looked around, determining that nobody stood outside her door or in any of the adjacent rooms. “Who are you?” And where are you?
“You may call me . . . Old Master.”
“Well, Old Master, what’s your deal?”
“You don’t need to trouble yourself with such things right now, my dear; content yourself with the assurance that I mean well. I ask that you let me come here every evening to give you singing lessons, and that you tell no one of our visits.”
“But why not?” Ezra bit her lip; she didn’t like keeping secrets.
“Because my knowledge is only for you, my dear Ezra,” Old Master answered. “Now, what do you say? Shall I train you?”
Ezra shrugged. “I don’t see why not.”
So she did. At the same time every night the voice would come, have Ezra sing, give her pointers, give her new material to learn. Sometimes these lessons even lasted well into the night, alternating between singing and talking, and Ezra soon grew close with this mysterious Old Master, who took Ezra’s promising but underdeveloped vocal skills and taught her to strengthen her voice, to project, to master her full vocal range. These late-night visits enveloped Ezra in a fire of inspiration, awakened in her a kind of life she had never known before; she lived in an ecstatic dream where her Old Master was in command. After a few weeks, she could hardly believe that the melodies which entered her ears issued forth from her own mouth with how good her voice had become; it almost frightened her.
“Good, my lovely little pupil,” Old Master would sigh, her gleeful smile evident in the sound of her voice even if Ezra couldn’t see her. “You have progressed so far. Now your voice may even surpass your face and form in its beauty; you have taken well to my instruction.”
“Where are you? How can you see me? Can I see you?” Ezra had explored every nook and cranny of her room, but couldn’t see any possible hiding spot for her strange invisible teacher.
“Never mind that, my dear,” Old Master would always say, and then go on with the lesson; Ezra learned not to push it, for if she did, Old Master would become angry, and her voice would fill the room, shaking the walls and sucking the warmth from the air. No, it was best not to fight her, not to question her.
One day Ezra happened to be taking a walk along the perimeter of the orchard behind the opera house, singing her mom’s lullaby to herself, when Hera overheard her. “I didn’t know you could sing like that,” she smiled. “It’s beautiful.”
“Thanks,” Ezra blushed. “I’ve been practising.”
“I can tell. Say, how would you like to sing in the choir?”
Ezra beamed, though her response was a shy, “I don’t know . . . ”
“Come on, it’d be fun.”
“Maybe,”
Hera smiled. “Think about it and get back to me, yeah?”
“Sure thing,”
That night, she told Old Master what Hera had said, and the voice was very pleased with this development. “You have the voice of an angel, my pupil,” she purred. “You deserve a spot on that stage. You deserve the spotlight, in fact — but a position in the ensemble is an acceptable place to start.”
“You think I should accept Hera’s offer?”
“Certainly.”
And so she did.
Old Master had quickly become Ezra’s closest confidant, her only friend; she looked up to her, looked forward to their nightly tete-a-tete. She liked the sound of her voice, the things she told her, the way she taught her. She was an excellent teacher — Ezra got better, and better, and worked her way up in the choir. Old Master had her memorize multiple parts outside of her own for the upcoming opera, and she did well in all of them. This turned out to be a valuable exercise — it just so happened that Pryce and her understudy both fell ill the day before opening night, causing an uproar in the opera house. “What do we do?” Kanan asked Hera, who sat pinching the bridge of her nose at the sound of the choirmaster and director in the other room bemoaning that everything was ruined.
“I don’t know,” Hera sighed. “I guess we have to postpone the show until one of them is better. Nobody else is prepared to sing the part . . . ”
The sound of paper sliding against the floor drew both of their gazes to the door, where, indeed, a note had been delivered. It was still weird, but it has lost its novelty, as they had received several since their first day, mainly requests for money. One time they had sold tickets to Box Five, thinking nothing of it, only for the party to run out of the box in a panic mid-performance. One of the guests had collided head-first with Kanan, who after some interrogating of the hysterical group discovered that they claimed to have heard voices in their heads threatening them, telling them to leave; one of them said they saw glowing golden eyes in the darkness, and they demanded a refund. Kanan sent them to the lobby to wait and entered the box to investigate, finding it entirely empty, though he took a low growl seemingly near his ear as his cue to leave. He helped the group get their refunds and sent them on their way, and after the performance he informed Hera of what had occurred. She insisted on checking things out for herself, so they returned to the seating area now illuminated by the house lights, on for the cleaning crew. They found no traces of a golden-eyed individual, heard no voice, but they did discover a note set on one of the seats: it was made of the same cream cardstock as before, written in the same hand. Hera read aloud:
“Dear managers,
“Did I not request for you to leave Box Five empty for me? I am disappointed that you have chosen to ignore my wishes. Should you show me such disrespect again, I am afraid that I will have to provide a harsher demonstration of my displeasure — so ensure that you do as I ask.
“Please remember that the first of the month is nearly upon us and that I shall require my salary. Furthermore, something must be done about Arihnda Pryce — an opera ought to give such a prominent position as lead soprano to a being who can actually sing. I urge you to consider recasting her.
“Maul.”
Hera and Kanan became more cautious after that. They had received several more notes since then; they sent no money and left Pryce alone, though they were sure to keep Box Five empty lest they get more angry — or worse, injured — guests.
And now this note. “What does she want now?”
Kanan picked up the note and read:
“Dear managers,
“It seems that your lead soprano and her understudy are both indisposed. A misfortune, indeed. However, I would not fret — there is someone who can save the show, if you give her the chance: Ezra Bridger can sing the part. You would do well to heed my advice and allow her to perform tomorrow night; if you do so, I may consider forgiving some of the debt you owe me in unpaid salaries. I look forward to seeing her onstage.
“Maul.”
Kanan’s brow furrowed. “Ezra hasn’t practised the part.”
“Maybe she has,” Hera shrugged. “It wouldn’t hurt to ask, I suppose,” so they called Ezra into their office and showed her the note. “Can you do it?”
“I’ve learned every part. I can do it.”
“Let’s test that out . . . ”
They called a rehearsal posthaste, inserting Ezra in Pryce’s place; she sang it perfectly. Everyone was impressed, even awed by her skill; Pryce, upon hearing that the show would go on without her and who would sing in her stead, was convinced that Ezra had somehow sabotaged her for her own gain. Ezra just rolled her eyes at that and found her way to Lyste’s workroom to see about altering the lead’s costume so that the dress originally meant for Pryce would work on her smaller frame.
That afternoon and the next day were a whirlwind for Ezra; a dress rehearsal and a half later, crowds filled the auditorium, and Ezra stood in the wings, running her hand through her hair nervously. She could do this.
She could do it. Her heart thundered as she took the stage, but not with fear, with . . . a thrill. Before the crowd, the music flowed from her lips as naturally as laughter, and she couldn’t help a smile. This was fun.
Everyone loved her. She was dragged offstage after curtain call by a gaggle of jumping and squealing chorus girls, and Kanan fought his way through the throng of people and to his ward. “Good job, kid,” he smiled, ruffling Ezra’s hair, and Ezra smiled back. “Go get changed and then Hera and I will take you out to dinner, yeah?”
She skipped her way giddily to her room and danced as she took down her hair and began removing her costume jewellery, erratically humming the opera’s main melody — and then she stopped.
“Well done, my pupil,” purred a familiar voice.
“Thanks,” she blushed as she kicked off her fancy high-heeled shoes and loosened the back of her dress, though she didn’t take it all the way off.
“I am very pleased with you, Ezra Bridger. You have proven yourself a worthy student.”
“I couldn’t have done it without you,” she blushed deeper.
“This is true,” the voice seemed to smile. “Nevertheless, I believe a reward is in order for your excellent performance tonight. I have a surprise for you . . . ”
Ezra perked up. “What’s that?”
“Come toward the mirror,” she instructed, and Ezra complied. She approached her own reflection, getting closer and closer at the voice’s urging, until she made contact with the class; her head spun suddenly, and a cold wind bit at her flesh. She saw herself multiplied four, eight, twelve times, her own image spinning around her —
Darkness.
Slowly her eyes adjusted, and around her she no longer saw the trappings of her own room; rather, a bare hallway stretched out before her, illuminated by a faint red light in the distance. She blinked. “Hello?”
She felt hands on her, lifting her off of the ground. “Hey!” she struggled, but whoever held her let out a soft “shh,” and that sound had an almost sedative effect on her; she threaded her arms around strong shoulders, now calm. A curious clicking sound met her ears; Ezra had heard it before. “Old Master?”
“Yes, Ezra,” click-click-click, like someone tapping their fingernails on a table. “We will continue to sing our strange duet . . . ”
“Where are you taking me?” she was not afraid.
“To the seat of sweet music’s throne . . . ”
Ezra laughed. “Where’s that? Are we going to your home?”
They reached the end of the hallway, and Ezra determined that the red glow came from a row of torches along the shore of a lake; between the two torches stood a little hovering platform, which transported them across the water; the light slowly faded, leaving them in darkness. The voice cut through: “Ezra, since the moment I first heard you sing, I knew you and I would be bound by destiny. All of our months of work have led up to this very moment . . . ”
They alighted on solid ground once more, and suddenly a bright light blinded Ezra; she shrieked and grimaced, falling out of her teacher’s arms. When she could see again, she looked up to behold a magnificent sight: a woman from the waist up — though not human, judging by the long knobbly horns which protruded from her hairless scalp — she hid her face behind a plain black mask, as plain and black as the cloak and gloves which covered her neck, her torso, her arms, her hands; protruding out of the bottom of the cloak was the form of a spider, and it looked mechanical. That explained the clicking. She gasped as she took it all in.
The woman knelt down. “Do not be afraid, my dear. You are in no danger.”
Without thinking, Ezra reached for the woman’s face — she hissed and pulled away.
“You are in no danger as long as you do not touch my mask!”
“I’m sorry,” Ezra stood. Then, “You’re Maul, aren’t you?”
The woman bowed her horned head. “I am. Does this disturb you?”
Ezra shrugged. “No,”
“Good,” she approached once more, stroking Ezra’s cheek with her gloved hand. The leather was cool and smooth against her skin, and Ezra closed her eyes and leaned into it with a little sigh.
“My darling girl,” Maul whispered, reaching her other hand up to rest on Ezra’s other cheek. Her hands were big, encompassing more than half of Ezra’s face in sweet-smelling leather, and her thumbs slid smoothly under Ezra’s eyes. They swayed gently, and Maul began to hum; the song grew louder and more coherent, until eventually she sang aloud:
“Nighttime sharpens, heightens each sensation
Darkness stirs and wakes imagination
Silently the senses abandon their defenses
Helpless to resist the notes I write
For I compose the music of the night,”
Music came from somewhere that Ezra couldn’t see, and as it swelled through the haunting and graceful melody, Maul moved herself behind Ezra with the soft click-click-click of her spider legs and ran her gloved hands along Ezra’s shoulders, along the bare skin of her back exposed by her half-undone costume. Her touch was light, almost teasing, and yet Ezra felt the hunger in it, the desperation. There was a force in this feeling which gave her pause, but she made no resistance, turning slightly to look at the barely perceptible movement of her lips beneath the mask.
“Slowly, gently, night unfurls its splendour
Grasp it, sense it, tremulous and tender
Turn your face away from the garish light of day
Turn your thoughts away from cold, unfeeling light
And listen to the music of the night,”
Maul stroked Ezra’s hair with one hand and ran her other hand across the young woman’s belly, pressing in closer behind her.
“Close your eyes and surrender to your darkest dreams
Purge all thoughts of the world you knew before
Close your eyes, let your spirit start to soar
And you’ll live as you’ve never lived before,”
Her hands roamed lower, a leather-clad finger parting her pink lips, the other hand patting her thigh through her layers of skirts.
“Softly, deftly, music shall surround you
Feel lit, hear it closing in around you
Open up your mind, let your fantasies unwind
In this darkness which you know you cannot fight
The darkness of the music of the night,”
Maul pressed Ezra to her, a hand on her chest and a hand on her belly; Ezra’s head was filled with the sweet scent of her leather gloves, the taste still on her lips; she felt her eyes begin to droop.
“Let your mind start a journey through a strange new world
Leave all thoughts of the life you knew before
Let your soul take you where you long to be
Only then can you belong to me,”
They rocked slowly together, Ezra lulled by Maul’s warmth and the heady vibrations of her otherworldly voice.
“Floating, falling, sweet intoxication
Touch me, trust me, savor each sensation
Let the dream begin, let your darker side give in
To the power of the music that I write
The power of the music of the night,”
The accompanying music swelled through its final chords, and Ezra felt that smooth leather dip below the neckline of her dress; she couldn’t help a little shiver of pleasure at the feel of it against her skin. The music ended, and then Maul began singing again — this time Ezra’s mother’s lullaby. She had heard her sing it several times before, but it never failed to dumbfound, to move, to utterly encompass her. Her eyelids drooped, and drooped, and she began to relax, and then the world went dark.