Chapter Text
Sheev Palpatine and Yan Dooku make their way slowly through the Opera house’s loud backstage, feet getting tangled between disregarded fabrics, beings bumping into them in scant outfits as they rush off to whatever next rehearsal calls for such a rush. Dirty costumes and a plethora of species’ scents mix into an unpleasant musk that permeates the backstage’s interior, making the two men almost regret their recent investment. Almost.
Yan sighs heavily as a dancer shoves past him without as little as a passing apology. They should’ve gone through the front.
She was heard long before she was even seen— Kuula Taa. The twi’lek, mediocre lead-diva with grating high notes and low ones that rumble unpleasantly. They enter just as she reaches the height of some piece that is dramatically retelling some long past galactic war that they haven’t yet to figure out.
The woman gives her signal, finishing her scene and waltzing dramatically offstage in a flowing, heavy gown that cinches much too tight around the waist— no wonder she has trouble singing— and a dazzling headdress that hangs uncomfortable over her green lekku. Dancers and assorted ensembles march onto the stage in a blaring choir to finish off the act.
Orn Free Taa— Kuula’s partner— starts off in his tenor, somehow doing much worse than his female counterpart. The composer visibly grimaces, his teal snout flattening, before waving his hands in a ceasing motion, “Taa, you must—” he looks even more displeased as the currently retiring manager speaks loudly upon seeing Sheev and Yan’s arrival, “Master Valorum, we are rehearsing!”
That, of course, goes completely ignored, and the Rodian slumps in irritation.
“Mister Reyar, Mistress Ti,” Finis Valorum gestures to the composer and ballet mistress before regarding everyone else rather rushedly, “Uh, ladies and gentlemen, if I could have your attention, please.”
What seems like a few dozen heads all turn to him at once, “Yes, thank you. As you know, for many rotations there have been rumors of my imminent retirement—” many go still, “I can tell you now that these are all true.”
Kuula exclaimed in victory, gabbing a finger in her partner's direction, assumedly having won some sort of bet.
He continues, “It is my pleasure to introduce the gentlemen who now own the Varykino Opera House, “the man extends his hand to the other two, “Masters Palpatine and Dooku.”
The taller one was all sharp angles and pointed disdain by the upturning of his nose, while the shorter one is a shriveled thing with an almost childlike forwardness that was very unbecoming of a man his age. The former ignored the prodding comment from Valorum about how the pair came about their monetary success while the latter rushed to defend in a way that further proved his lack of propriety.
Though, perhaps, being of higher status gave you that ability.
Dooku waited until all applause settled before speaking, seeming less than thrilled to have to even be there, “And I am honored to announce our new patron, Viscount Kenobi of Stewjon.”
Padmé Naberrie, who’d been all but ignoring the new visitors and feigning mild interest in the whole situation was immediately struck by the name— she knew that name— and then was immediately at a loss for words at the face who entered onto the stage.
“Obi-wan,” She whispered, staring in disbelief as the man stood a distance away, shaking hands with the new masters.
She hadn’t seen him in, well… a long time. Suddenly all the memories from their time as children entered her mind. The first summer they’d met, they’d been nothing but babes, schoolchildren who crossed paths while their families were on coinciding trips to explore the arts of Naboo. Padmé’s shawl had been ripped from her small shoulders by the wind and into the lake and Obi-wan had, without hesitation, dove in and retrieved it. Something about the way his then crooked teeth and sopping hair had shown in the midday sun as he crawled out of the lake had cemented itself in her mind until even now.
The Kenobi’s owned a house in Theed and would visit every summer, two of them disappearing for hours only to show up later, caked in mud and barring new scrapes from outside endeavors. Wide smiles had never allowed for either of their families to remain too disapproving for long. They’d gotten on like that until her father died and she was brought to the Opera House.
And to see him now…
Ahsoka Ti noticed and tried very hard not to focus on her friend’s parted lips and wide eyes as she stared at the man a few meters away. She gave into the urge though, of course. She bumped the other woman with a costumed hip, whispering with a smirk “He’s very handsome."
Padmé’s head snapped to hers in disbelief, and the Togruta laughed softly, careful not to interrupt the distant conversation. He was handsome, with auburn hair that curled away from his bright eyes and around his ears, and a dashing smile as he introduced himself, “You know him?”
“I-” Padmé cleared her throat, “Yes. In another life. ” She trailed off, looking back at the young man with significantly more composure.
Obi-wan's accented voice rang out loudly and with a confidence that only slightly surprised them. He was young after all, “My parents and I are honored to support the Nabooian Art Institute, especially the renowned Varykino Opera.”
Kuula made her way over to the man, hand held out with an expectant expression. Padmé couldn’t help the fond smirk that graced her face at the brief flash of uncertainty on Obi-wan’s face before he took the Twi’lek’s hand and pressed a courteous— and incredibly brief, slightly awkward— kiss to its knuckles.
“Miss Kuula Taa,” Valorum introduced, “Our leading Soprano for five seasons.”
Orn squawked a noise in offense at being forgotten— even if only for five seconds— before it was met with a roll of the eyes and a haphazard introduction from the retiring master who couldn’t seem to get out of there quick enough, “And Mister Orn Free Taa.”
An obligated round of applause sounded and Obi-wan dipped his head respectfully, “An honor, sir. I believe I am keeping you from rehearsal,“ He straightened, looking around to everyone within view in that way that made them feel seen. It seemed that that skill had been strengthened immensely in just a few short years, “I’ll be here this evening to share your great triumph,” a kind smile to the still disgruntled Rodian— Mister Reyar—, “My apologies, Sir.”
The latter seemed more than eager to get back to rehearsal, not even acknowledging Kenobi as he walked off stage in a beige and flowing overcoat.
Padmé didn’t even hear the fawnings of Kuula as she insisted that the younger man adored her, exaggerating in the way she waved him goodbye, her assigned help only nodding in feigned support as her makeup and costume were being touched up. All she was focused on was that he was walking in her direction. She kept her eyes trained on him, waiting for him to notice her.
She couldn’t help the flood of disappointment that he just walked past with downcast eyes and not even a hint of acknowledgment. Of course he wouldn’t have, it was foolish to think otherwise. It’d been so long.
Was that an excuse though? She most certainly remembered him.
It must have shown on her face if Ahsoka’s had anything to say about it. She was quick to brush it off despite how it hurt, a small smile on her face no matter how sad, “He mustn’t recognize me.”
“He didn’t see you—” her reassurance was cut off by Mistress Ti’s quick guidance onto the stage, groups of dancers chained by the wrists all flowing in tandem onto the platform to rehearse to the upcoming act.
Palpatine and Dooku walked idly around, watching the dancers as they swayed to the music, jumping into the air, moving their limbs in synchronized, fluid movements, and doing an array of other acrobatic moves that had them for a loss at how they didn’t get tangled into the costumes thick chains. Mistress Ti— noticing their stares at her girls— walked over to them with all the grace and serenity of a dancer, hands clasped in front of her and hidden beneath dramatic bell sleeves, “We take great pride in the excellence of our ballet, Masters.”
“I see why,” Palpatine said with a wide smile, still watching the act before pointing to an orange skinned togruta with intricate markings sprawled over her montrals, “Especially that one.”
“My daughter, Ahsoka Ti.” The latter moved gracefully, muscles straining and fabric dancing around her as she performed that much practiced dance.
All the dancers fell to the floor, moving around Padmé as she bent and arched her body in time with the instruments around her, the shaking of chains sounding subtly over the music. Yan Dooku pointed, “And that beauty?”
Palpatine chuckled, “No relation, I assume.”
Shaak Ti shook her head gently with a small smile, “Padmé Naberrie. She has very promising talent, doesn’t she, Masters?”
Palpatine turned sharply to the women at the girls name, humming, “Naberrie, you say. Any relation to the Nabooian halliksetist?”
A nod, “His only daughter. She was brought to live and train in the ballet dormitories after being orphaned at thriteen.”
“An orphan, you say?”
There was something odd about the way he’d said it, flaring something protective in Mistress Ti, “I think of her as a daughter.” She said instead, immediately defensive and wanting them out of view of her girls, “Please stand to one side,” She gestured to the further end of the stage, allowing for the ballerinas to exit off-stage as Kuula and the other ensembles entered, the music reaching its peak, the backdrops moving as the story progressed, and the Twi’lek’s voice reaching a note that would’ve been impressive had she not been distracted and glaring holes into the new manager’s heads. Much akin to how Shaak was feeling at that moment.
The music trailed off and ended dramatically. Immediately, a group of the ballet girls flocked to the two older men, flaunting their flowing and scant outfits while they seemed to be drinking up the attention.
Kuula stalked over, repeating something loudly in Ryl that did not sound pleased, and stood directly in front of them. Valorum made his way hesitantly, ready to intervene. He’d had experience dealing with the temperamentalness of Kuula Taa. She was still shouting in Ryl, only the ones who understood were trying to calm her.
She whipped towards Valorum, waving a furious finger in his face, jewelry clanging, and spoke in heavily accented basic, “You chose men who are excited by dancing girls as my new managers!”
Ah. She’d picked up on that too.
Some other word that was assumedly an expletive left the angry woman’s mouth as she waved off the girls hanging from the two older men before turning with flaming eyes, “Bad choice. Because, I will not be singing!” She punctuated each word with a stop off the foot like a child who’d never been scolded. Valorum could only roll his eyes. Again. As if he hadn’t heard her say the same thing a thousand other times.
Orn Free Taa chased after the woman— who was breathing with rather a lot of struggle— speaking Ryl and practically tripping over himself.
Palpatine turned to the retiring master in shock, “What do we do?”
“Grovel.” They didn’t think he was serious. Valorum nudges the other man with an expectant look and repeats himself, “Grovel. Grovel. Grovel.”
Yan and Sheev took off after the still shouting Twi’lek, trying to outshout her with much exaggerated compliments— Palpatine doing it with much more enthusiasm than Dooku, who seems to be regretting this whole thing— “Miss Taa, goddess of song, we are sorry.”
“No!” She whips around. “I no sing!”
Palpatine seems to wilt subtly, “So sorry.” He does quite a good job at begging, “Perhaps, M-m-mister Reyar, is there not a rather stunning aria for Kuula in Act Three of ‘Time of Suffering’?”
The Rodian stammers, “Well- well, yes. B-but—”
“Exellent!” He interrupts, “Perhaps we practice that now?”
“No, no, no.” She was quite the unhappy woman, “I can no do Act Three, because someone no finish my costume!” The woman behind her— assumedly her seamstress— refrains from looking directly at anyone, mouth set in a line. Kuula then continues to spew a myriad of other complaints and grievances that go unheard before Dooku tries to settle her down.
“We will make sure you get everything to your specifications, Miss, all we ask is for a private rehearsal to further prove your superiority to the art.” He was doing rather well at hiding how much he hated all of this. Kuula seemed to consider a moment, face going through so many emotions they can;’t even name them all before settling on a pleased smile.
She’d gotten what she’d wanted, “Whatever my Masters command.”
Reyar gives up completely on fighting and walks briskly back to his orchestra, commanding the confused group to turn to a completely different piece, halfway through. They weren’t pleased either.
Palpatine turns to Valorum, already looking rather tired of the day's antics— he’d only been there a day— and lets out a breath, “Master Valorum, why exactly are you retiring?”
“My health.”
And, well yes. If that wasn’t an apt description, what was? Having to deal with a temperamental diva every day for years would wreck a being's health. Mental or otherwise. They should’ve asked more questions before investing.
Kuula shouted for everything to be quiet, expecting full attention as she sang. It’s unknown if she didn’t notice or just straight out ignored the way fingers were shoved into their owners ears and chronos on the walls and in pockets were checked repeatedly through the expanse of the first verse, but it happened. She wasn’t good. It wasn’t in her range and it was painfully obvious to everyone, but nobody was about to mutter a word.
And they didn’t have to. Everyone looked up as a loud whooshing sounded from above, the heavy cloth backdrop fell from its suspenders— it’s a wonder why they still used such outdated technology just for the sake of authenticity to a multimillenium old art— and fell, full force onto Kuula, the woman and those around her letting out loud cries of panic as they flocked to go help her.
Mistress Ti looked up from her spot next to the girls just in time to see the edge of a cloak disappear into murky shadows.
“The Phantom,” Ahsoka grasped Padmé’s arm breathlessly, “He’s here.” Yes. And he wasn’t pleased for whatever reason. Shaak squeezed her daughter's shoulder before calmly making her way further backstage towards the machinery that kept the backdrops.
“Dex!” Valorum shouted, scanning the fly gallery for the besalisk, “What happened up there?”
The stagehand’s head popped over the elevated walkway, immediately working to pull up the backdrop, “Don’t look at me, Master. I was watching my post.” He grunted in effort as he used all his strength, the weighted cloth finally pulling upwards. He caught Mistress Ti lurking around the back, looking for something. “Please, Mistress, there's no one there!”
She wasn’t focused on him though, only the thick sheet of flimsie that floated down from the walkway, sealed shut by a wax stamp she knew well. A skull, half melted on the right side. The stamp used for warning.
Dex saw it too, flashing a sharp smile and a deep laugh, “Well, if there is, it’s a ghost. You’ve made it mad.”
Everyone else was too focused on damage control with the very distressed Kuula Taa. “Miss, these things do happen,” Palpatine tried to sooth, “We’ll—”
She had no time for them, looking to Valorum, “No! The last three years you say ‘these things happen’ and what do you do to stop them? Nothing!” she turns to Sheev and Yan, “And, you two, just as bad as him.” She then goes on to mock their previous words with an unnecessarily high voice before cursing in Ryl, “Until you stop these things stop happening, I no sing.” She stalks off, screaming after Orn, her seamstress, and the gaunt Twi’lek pampering her massiff puppy— who all stumble after her. “And now you see, bye-bye. I’m really leaving!”
It would’ve been a good riddance hadn’t they just lost their lead singer and the only reason people show up the the Varykino Opera House in the first place.
Reyar stammers in protest while Valorum only sighed something tired, “Well, gentlemen,” He turns to two very lost new managers and bows, “Good luck, and if you need me, I’ll be far from here.”
“She— Miss Kuula Taa will be coming back, won’t she?”
“I wouldn’t count on it, Master.” Mistress Ti flashes an open letter written in excellent cursive and smirks gently, “I have a message. From the Opera Ghost.”
Yan dooku shakes his head in disbelief, “Force, you’re all obsessed.”
“He welcomes you to his Opera House—”
“Oh, his Opera House—”
She continues, looking pointedly at the towering man, “And commands that you continue to leave box five open. And reminds you that his salary is due.”
“His salary?” Palpatine exclaims incredulously, taking the letter and reading quickly, eyes going comically wide at the number requested, “Fifteen-thousand credit a month?”
Mistress Ti nods, hand going to slide absently down her lek, “He’s being rather lenient. Master Valorum used to pay him twenty. Perhaps you can afford more, now, with the Viscount as our Patron.”
“The Viscount, yes the Viscount.” Dooku mumbled, ripping the letter from his counterpart's hand and shredding it with the first glimpse of immaturity he’d shown since arrival and throws it to the floor before speaking in a voice raised with irritation, “I had hoped to announce the Viscount’s patronship tonight at the gala, but it seems now we will have to cancel seeing as we’ve lost our star.” —Force knows how she's the star.
“There must be some sort of under—”
“Understudy?” Reyar turns around to face the two men, still visibly distressed, throwing his hands in the air, “There is no understudy for Kuula Taa.”
“We have a full house, Sheev!” Dooku runs an aged hand through his hair, “We shall have to refund a full house—”
“Padmé Naberrie will sing, Master.” Shaak Ti's firm and confident voice cuts through, Dooku turning to her with scrunched brows.
“The dancing girl? Don’t be ridiculous." He spits her role as if it is an insult but Padmé doesn’t even react, she’s still reeling from the fact that she just got thrust into a role she most definitely is not ready for—
But Ti insists, “She has been taking lessons from a great teacher.”
All eyes fall to Padmé, Palpatine watching her with appraisal, “Really. Who?”
“I—” She hesitates, who? “I don’t know his name, Masters.”
Mistress Ti squeezes her shoulder in comfort, her giant sleeves brushing against her bare arm and sending chills down her spine, “Let her sing for you,” She insists, “She has been taught well. You will not be disappointed.”
The two older men exchange a glance before Dooku nods, gesturing for her to step forward onto the stage, “Go along then. Don’t be shy.”
Anxiety churns in her stomach, hands shaking, but she focuses on Reyar, who gives a subtle nod and holds up his arms, “Start from the first line of the aria, Miss.”
"Think of me,”
Padmé can’t help the way her voice trembles on the first line. She’s never sung in front of an audience. Only in front of him. And even then, it's not nearly as terrifying. But, she can’t help the raw thrill that tears through her at the fact that she’s singing. In front of others. The next line comes out much smoother.
“Think of me fondly when we’ve said goodbye,”
She doesn’t notice, she’s far too focused, but nobody is sticking fingers in their ears or cupping cloth over their montrals to drown out her voice. No one is checking their chrono to see how much longer until the song ends. In fact, everyone seems quite enamoured at the sound, faces softening, and tension leaving their apprehensive shoulders. And yet, she hasn’t a clue.
"Remember me, once in a while, please promise me you’ll try,”
She can’t help that the song reminds her of Obi-wan. Of how she’d wished he’d have just acknowledged her while he swept passed. She envisioned herself singing it at him when the words she wanted to say wouldn’t come.
“When you find that once again you long to take your heart back and be free,”
That gave her a confidence she didn’t think she’d be able to have.
“If you ever find a moment, spare a thought for me.”
Enough confidence that she didn’t notice him.
Though, really, no one did.