Archive of Our Own ^beta

“C’mon, Lass, give us one more for the night!” the tipsy patron calls from the bar, a messy choir of cheers from other guests joining in eager joy.

“You're too kind, truly!” responds Satril, stepping down from the small raised platform and strumming an ambient tune on her harp. “But alas, all good things must come to an end. It'd be my pleasure to serve more drinks before the night is done, but you'll need to come back tomorrow for another performance.” She steps behind the bar, pauses her strumming for a moment and taps her finger on the side of the mug of a quiet older man and winks at him, who blushes in response. “Since this was your first time here, next round is on me, Love.”

“Aww, come now, gal!” another customer exclaims next to him, attempting to stroke her ponytail bouncing against her shoulders as she struts down the length of the bar. “Why not spread that love to the rest of us? Maybe spread something else for me later?”

Satril interrupts his hiccups and snickers by grabbing his wrist, turning it over and pinning him awkwardly to the wooden bar, much to the amusement of the other guests. “You, my friend, just got cut off!” announces Satril, throwing his arm up off the bar, causing him to stumble back off his barstool and flat on his back. She takes his mug and places it behind the counter, and twirls over to the end of the bar where two young women sit, continuing her pleasant melody from the harp after wiping her hand on her apron. “Everything alright for you two? Anyone causing you trouble?”

The pair grin and raise their glasses towards the man groggily rising from the floor after Satril sent him tumbling. “Nay, you handled our only complaint, ma’am!” one of them adds, to which Satril bows and cackles. She strums a couple of slow, upbeat notes to end her musing, then places her worn-down harp on the gold-trimmed stand behind the bar, its rough surface visible to everyone in the room.

“Hey, lass!” shouts a smiling man at a crowded table. “Any chance we could get another order of the chocobo wings?”

Satril shakes her head and smiles with a twinge of embarrassment, cleaning the mug she took from the rude patron. “Trust me, dear, you're here for my alluring singing and charming company, not my cooking! The owner makes the food, he had to turn in early tonight, unfortunately.”

“Bah, the old man has to turn in early every night these days!” remarks another customer.

“Aye, that's why I was brought in: to help keep you late-night rapscallions in order!” Satril jabs back, to some cheery mumbles. “It's a shame he couldn't hire someone with as pretty a smile as he, but I dare say mine can make do!” she adds, pressing the back of her hand against her cheek and smiling brightly, flashing her fangs for the customers. More laughter and cheers follow, as well as some of the less-sober men cawing compliments of varying degrees of kindness and respect. 

Satril spends the rest of the night refilling drinks, throwing quips at the guests, and keeping the main room clean, as she has spent the vast majority of her nights the past couple years. She goes through the same motions, shouts similar jests and jeers tailored to the crowd that day, regails all who will listen with a duet of her and her harp structured to the energy in the room, both new and familiar faces fill the dining area day in and day out. Eventually, the only remaining customer is the elderly man she gave a free drink to, who fell asleep slumped over the bar. Not wanting to disturb him, she cleans everything she can around him, from the tables to the mugs to the area of the bar around him. When there is nothing else she can tidy up, she steps next to him and gently shakes his shoulder. “Sir, can you make it to your room?” she asks lovingly as he slowly picks up his head and smacks his lips. He nods, but when he tries to stand he wobbles and catches himself on the bar. “Here, take my hand, Love.” 

Satril wraps her arm under his shoulder and laces their fingers together, letting him lean most of his weight on her as he towers above her. They walk up the stairs and a few doors down the hall and arrive at his room with a large number six on the door. Satril turns the knob with her free hand, guides the man to his bed, and helps him lie down slowly. When he is settled in and on his side, she pulls a blanket over him and rubs his shoulder. He falls asleep almost immediately, and the young Miqo’te exits the room as quietly as possible. When she leaves, however, she hears the noise of the front door of the inn opening and closing, far past their normal hours they receive new patrons. Her hand floating over the knife strapped to its usual spot on her back, she descends the stairs into the main room and sees a dark figure, sitting at a table with their head and face covered by a tan hood.

“We are closing down the night, sir,” Satril says, stepping behind the counter. “I can offer you a room if you are in need of somewhere to stay, but once I've finished here the common area will be unattended until the morning.” She adjusts the bandana holding her hair back on her head, then begins cleaning off the last section of the counter the old man was sitting at before.

“C’mon, don't be like that, kitten,” the hooded figure slurs out. Satril freezes, grips the rag she was using to clean the countertop and sinks her fangs into her bottom lip, her free hand slowly moving back towards her dagger.

“I'll have you know,” she retorts, “calling someone like me by a name like that is not the term of endearment you believe it to be.”

The stranger pulls back his hood to reveal cat-like ears coated with black fur, the tip of his left ear clipped off. He chuckles uncomfortably and leans back in his chair. “You know I don't mean it that way, Satril…”

Finally recognizing who is seated across the room from her, Satril’s hand squeezes the handle of the dagger on her back as she stumbles against the shelves behind the bar. This moment has been the center of her irregular sleepless nights, when her past taunts her mind with nightmares, but this time she opens her eyes and his malicious grin still lingers before her. Her breath escapes her, and her eyes are stuck fully open and unable to focus. The Miqo’te man looks up at her and smirks, gesturing for her to come and sit at the table. “W-what in the Seven Hells are y-you doing here, V’Tihri?” Satril manages to ask between uneven breaths.

“Is it a crime to have a drink with your girl after some time apart? Come now, grab a few glasses, have a seat, and let's catch up,” V’Tihri demands, hiccuping between his words.

“It seems like you had more than enough already–”

“That wasn't a question, Sweetheart,” he cuts her off, and slams his hand on the table, causing Satril to recoil. She takes a second to collect herself and scan the back of the counter with her eyes, steadying her breathing through brute force. She grabs two mugs by the handle with one hand, quietly grabbing a small unmarked bottle of clear liquid from under the bar as she turns towards the tap behind her. She fills the first mug like normal, then pretends to struggle with the spout for the second, and hits and shakes the barrel until the second mug is full. 

“Red! We need a refill on the tap!” she calls through the doorway behind the bar.

Red’s gruff and drowsy voice from several rooms away responds, “I thought I replaced it yesterday. We have a busy night?”

“Yeah, I had to bring out the nice glasses and everything,” the stressed woman responds, adding a couple drops of the clear liquid into both cups subtly. There is a tangible pause before the innkeeper yells back.

“The nice glasses, you say? Must've been a raucous one. I'll get to that tap first thing tomorrow.”

Satril takes a mug in each hand and steps out from behind the bar. “Thanks, boss!” she adds, giving a pained, half-hearted smile to her former partner. V’Tihri, in return, stares back with unnerving intent.

“So you've just been here, being a maid for the last two years?” V’Tihri scoffs, pulling a mug across the table sharply as Satril releases her hold on it. “Seems like a real waste of your talents, kitten.”

“Not as big a waste as having to take care of your drunken arse every night…” counters Satril, gripping the sides of her mug with both hands.

V’Tihri inhales sharply and taps the table between them rhythmically, scanning his eyes over her body clad in a crimson woolen dress and then looking over the features of her face. “That scar of yours is pretty gruesome,” he admires with a grin. “Bet that keeps the tips from coming in, what with you being damaged goods now.”

Her body tensing up and scrunching smaller, Satril takes a deep breath in and out. “Disappointed that I wear it so well, huh? Wish I was more pitiful and cowardly about it?”

V’Tihri shakes his head and leans over the table, poking his boot against Satril’s ankle underneath and causing her to jump in her seat. “You have yet to touch that drink of yours. Surely you didn't slip anything into it?” Satril looks him in the eye and takes a large gulp out of her cup, and slams it back on the table. V’Tihri pushes his cup towards her, gesturing for her to take a similar sip from it, which she does, leaving both their drinks with a quarter of their original volume missing. She coughs as she swallows the hefty quantity of liquor and puts his cup back on the table, but before she slides it back to his hand, she spits in it and meets his drunken gaze again.

“Satisfied?” growls Satril, leaning back and crossing her arms.

V’Tihri grits his teeth, then takes a long sip from his cup as well. “Who’s that guy in the back? The old man’s still running this place?” he asks, anger rising in his tone. “Didn't think he'd make it through the year, last I saw him. I came in asking if he'd seen you after you left, but he told me he hadn't a clue. What a load of shite that turned out to be!”

“You came looking for me here…?” Satril asks, stunned by this new revelation.

“There must've been a reason he lied to me. I knew you were into some older guys, but I didn't think that old…”

“I-it’s not like that!” she responds, grabbing at her short sleeves. “And even if it was, what does it matter to you?”

“What's it to me?! What's it to me that my girl is sleeping with some guy twice the age of her dad and bigger than a behemoth?! To think you could honestly ask such a thing, you ungrateful–”

“I am your girl no longer, V’Tihri,” Satril hisses, hitting the tribal letter with spiteful emphasis. “Lest I remind you what you did the last we spoke.”

“Come now, you were robbing me blind! And besides, we both know it was an accident!”

“One that I will wear across my face for the rest of my life!” Satril digs her nails into her forearms as she shouts back. “I would give anything for you to disappear from my history – to go back and rewrite my story to exclude you from the narrative. You have the luxury of walking away and no one knows what a venomous leech you are. I, on the other hand, am left branded with your terrible decisions. You have left a stain on my life that no one will fail to notice. You showed me the world of music, and you were my first love, but then you turned it all against me and used me for whatever you needed. Our relationship became solely about you – your presence and payment in the performance, your favorite foods and venues, your pleasures and vices…” 

Satril's purple eyes start brimming with tears when she looks up to meet V’Tihri’s yellow eyes, staring cold and angry. “At one point, I swore you cared for me,” she continues. “You comforted me when I was homesick, and taught me how to use my voice as an instrument, and you made me… happy. What changed, V’Tihri? When did you stop loving me? When did I become a commodity and not a partner?!”

“That is enough!” yells V’Tihri, Satril still holding eye contact and sitting tall in her chair. “I gave you the life of a traveling performer, and now you sit here, accusing me otherwise!”

“You're not listening,” Satril insists. “For that last year of our relationship, you never listened to me. You heard what you needed to hear, started accusing me of not appreciating you, then did everything in your power to paint it as my failing. I'm no longer a child, V’Tihri. And I have spent two summers since realizing who I am without you. You can't use my own fear against me anymore.”

V’Tihri drinks the remaining contents of his mug, slams it down, and looks down at the floor. “You've seen the red star in the sky, haven't you?” Satril, exasperated, shrugs and nods, having no clue where the subject change is leading. “People are saying it's getting closer. That soon, it'll collide with our star, and Eorzea won't last through the ordeal. When I caught wind of that, I knew I had to find you, not leave anything unsaid.”

“That's absurd,” Satril says. “The red star is Eorzea’s lesser moon, Dalamud. Keepers, and particularly Seers like myself, pray to Mina'ne and her companion regularly. Do you think it'll simply fall out of the sky?”

Suddenly, V’Tihri grabs Satril's hand and grips it tight, causing her to wince and lean back. As her nose is filled with the overwhelming stench of alcohol on his breath, she places her other hand on the handle of her knife, worried she will not be able to stall any longer. “I need you, Satril!” he pleads, loudly sobbing as he tries to meet her gaze. “I need you at my side! My act doesn't work the same, and I can barely hold myself together without you! Please… if this world is to end, I want to be with you!”

Taken completely off-guard, Satril stares back in silence. She pictures herself as the young girl who learned to sing in front of a crowd, engage with each and every audience member, live off the money between each show, and to make something of a home in a new inn room every night. At the same time, she sees herself afraid to stand out above her co-star, the man she loves but who knew not how to love her back, and who made her feel so much less than she was truly worth. Through it all, there was one constant she was able to cling to, one lifeline that held strong despite the tension piled onto it – Cretia, her companion, her instrument, and the provider of her peace. Her eyes look towards her harp, resting on a specially-made stand behind the bar. V’Tihri follows her gaze, his sadness turning back to rage.

“I heard rumors that you picked up singing without me. I should've destroyed that godsdamned pile of splinters when I had the chance!” He breaks for the counter, but is stopped by Satril grabbing his wrist and pinning his arm palm-up against the table. With him caught in an awkward stance, Satril rises and draws her knife, then shoves it through his hand to more permanently trap him to the table. He screams and falls to his knees, unable to pull his arm up and struggling to withstand the pain. Satril dashes towards the bar, but falls on all fours as her muscles suddenly and unbearably tense up. The two are stuck a few feet apart, neither one able to move any further. “W-why can't I move a-anymore?!” V’Tihri exclaims. “M-my body isn't responding! W-what did you do, you stupid wretch?!”

Satril laughs quietly, able to slowly crawl a few steps away through heavy breaths. “If only I had the time to build a complete immunity to paralysis… but a strong resistance is better than nothing, it seems…” The sound of several chocobo footsteps is heard outside, approaching the door. “By Mina'ne's light, I actually did it…”

“Did what?! Who is out there?! Answer me!” V’Tihri’s voice cracks as he demands an explanation, only to be met with cathartic laughter from his former lover.

“My love,” she eventually says, falling onto her elbows as she continues inching to the counter, seeing the Spine Drops next to the clear vial she poured from earlier. “What awaits you out there is nothing short of your comeuppance.”

The doors suddenly swing open as several guards dressed in Ala Mhigan attire flood in, weapons drawn and surrounding the trapped Seeker. One of them runs over and points his blade towards Satril, only to be stopped by Red Grotto, running in behind them. “Your mark is over there, this girl is innocent!” he insists, crouching down and blocking her off from the guards with his large body. The guard scoffs and joins his comrades surrounding the paralyzed performer, who looks up at his hunters with fear in his eyes as he continues bleeding on the table from his pierced palm. Red picks up Satril gently and swipes the Spine Drops she was reaching for, standing up slowly and moving for the door behind the bar. “As I promised, this man has an enormous bounty on his head. You can do whatever you want with him and pocket the reward, just get him out of my establishment.”

The guards snicker and shove V’Tihri around, further twisting his hand under the knife and forcing more pained screams out of him. As Red carries Satril through the threshold, he sets her down on the empty countertop and slowly pours the Spine Drops into her mouth. A few moments after she swallows, Satril sits up and wraps her arms tightly around his neck, and he in turn places his large hands on her back, feeling her lungs rapidly pull in and push out air, and every muscle in her body shaking as she recovers from both the paralysis and the horror reawoken within her.

“What do you think, men?” they hear a guard say in the other room. “Dead or alive?”

“This little pile of shite is known to give people the slip,” another guard answers. “I say we take the reward dead and call it a night!”

“No objections here!” The guards all laugh and cheer, the distant sound of readying steel echoes into the room the two innkeepers are hiding in.

“N-no no no!” V’Tihri loudly pleads. “Wait, Satril, p-please stop them! I-I'm sorry for everything! I swear, I can change! I need you! I love y-”

His voice is suddenly cut off, replaced by the sounds of cutting fabric and liquid splashing on the wooden floors. Satril grips the collar of Red’s shirt and openly weeps, a tidal wave of comfort and relief colliding with a tsunami of grief and sorrow in her heart. Red, in turn, remains silent, steadily rubbing her back and holding her close. A guard steps into the doorway and places a small pouch of gil on the countertop next to Satril, and gives a quick pat on Red’s back. “For the mess, sir,” he says, turning to exit the room again. “Sorry you were here for that, lass. We left that dagger on the table. You're clear with us, you did what you had to do.” Red gestures for him to leave, and the guard follows suit. “C’mon men, get him out of here and let's get moving!”

The sound of footsteps grows more distant, followed by the front door opening and closing, and finally chocobos running away in the distance. Red and Satril continue to hold their embrace long after the men leave, Satril’s breathing not stabilizing at all. Red takes one of Satril's hands and lowers it to his chest. “Here, lass, focus on my heartbeat,” he instructs gently. “You need something steady and repetitive to focus on, so use my heartbeat. Ignore everything else until you're ready, it'll wait for you.”

Satril heeds his advice, and presses her palm against his shirt. She feels each powerful, slow thump in his chest, as his heart keeps his strong, aging body operating. The thought that this kind and loving man is sustained by this constant rhythm transferred through his veins makes her think about herself, and how despite everything, her heart keeps her marching onward. She finds herself beginning to regain control of her breathing and loosens her grip on Red’s shirt, her shaking muscles slowly but surely relaxing. Feeling that she is slightly more present, Red slowly picks her back up from the counter, and Satril leans into him in response. “Let’s get you to your room, Satril. I'd recommend keeping your eyes closed. I requested they take their business elsewhere, but they clearly didn't adhere to that. I know you’re no stranger to violence and the aftermath of it, but this is a particular situation.”

Satril nods and curls against his chest, leaving one hand on his heart and tucking her other hand against her own stomach. As Red turns towards the doorway, she shuts her eyes and bites down on her lower lip. “By the Twelve…” Red mutters under his breath, causing Satril to close her eyes tighter and groan. As they turn the corner towards the hallway, she hears his foot step in some sort of liquid, which causes her to gasp. “Don't open yet, lass,” Red advises, to which Satril nods. As they approach her door, Satril's eyes shoot open and look up at Red’s.

“W-wait!” she stammers. “C-can you get Cretia? I-I left her b-behind the bar…”

Red smiles and nods, opening the door using his hand holding Satril's legs. “Can you get yourself into bed from here? Be honest, I don't mind carrying you the rest of the way.”

Satril gestures for him to let her down and gives a pained smile. “I-I can handle it. Thank you, Red.”

He slowly places her on her feet, and gives her a light push through the door and grabs the handle. “I'll be right back, I promise. Pray do not come back out.”

Satril looks behind him and sees a bloody trail of footprints from the hallway to her door, then notices the blood on Red’s shoes. She nods and backs up from the doorway, and Red promptly shuts the door as quietly as possible. She quickly grabs a pillow from the cabinet then crawls onto her bed on the other side of the room, curling up and clutching the pillow tightly. Satril hears four knocks on her door, followed by a pause, then three more knocks, and relaxes her grip on the pillow as Red enters the room, holding her ever-damaged harp in his large palm like a child, and his stained shoes left in the doorway. As he approaches, Satril lays out the pillow from her arms to the bed for him to set the harp onto, which he does as carefully as he can.

“Hey Red?” Satril asks quietly. “Have you heard any rumors about the red star – about Dalamud?”

The innkeeper sighs and steps towards the door. “An odd question… Nothing concrete. All talk and speculation. One thing everyone agrees on, it's unprecedented to see it so clearly, but no one knows the significance. Why do you ask?”

Satril plucks a couple strings of her harp, the bright tone muffled by the pillow underneath it. “He mentioned that some people believed it was the end of days. That's why he came to see me. He was begging me to be with him again, before it all fell to ruin.” She sniffs sharply as if she was crying, but she's unable to produce more tears. “I guess I was curious if that was another ploy, or if there was some truth to it.”

“From what I've heard, there's nothing definitive saying that's the case. Unfortunately, only time can tell. Had it been a few years ago, I might've been indifferent to it, all the noise and guesswork of what it means for the state of the realm, but now…” Red chuckles softly to himself. “Well now you got me caring again. So thank you for that, Satril.” She gives an exhausted smile towards him as he opens the door. “Take tomorrow off, dearie. When next you wake up, I'll have your dagger ready behind the bar. I have a feeling this'll be another one of your miniature comas once you manage to fall asleep.”

“Aye, that's not a bad guess…” Just before the door closes, Satril perks up a bit. “Oh, Red! One last thing: there's an old man in Room 6 tonight, he passed out on the bar earlier. Give him my love when he gets up? He was a real sweet gentleman.”

Red smiles back through the half-closed doorway. “What's that saying you and your father have? ‘It’s in Mother's care’?” She nods enthusiastically, her eyes glassy. “It’s starting to feel more and more true. It feels like someone must be watching over us. Whether it's Hydaelyn or your mother or my wife or all of them combined.” Red opens his mouth to say more, but does not find the words. He meets Satril's eyes once more, then closes the door and puts his shoes on, leaving to address the horrific scene in the main room. 

Satril, no longer weighed down by the shadow of her first love, traces the scar between her eyes, and lets out a slow, deep sigh. She pulls the pillow holding her harp to the headboard of the bed, then crawls under the covers and lays down, feeling the indents scattered across the wooden frame of her precious item with her fingertips. “Can you believe it, Cretia?” she whispers. “We're finally safe. He can never hurt us again…”