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Come fill to me the parting glass.
Good night, and joy be with you all.
‘The Parting Glass’
The answer of how the Seventh Heaven earned its name had long since become the most well-known joke in Revenant’s Toll—because no one would drink at the Seventh Hell, Alys loves to crow at first-time patrons, for it always earns her a laugh and usually more gil lining her pockets. She’d originally toyed with the notion of naming it the Cloud Nine, but had decided against it for fear of putting off the more mercenary types that frequently came through the settlement.
Of course, that had been in the days before the Scions of the Seventh Dawn had made the Toll flourish with new life, the likes of which they hadn’t seen before.
And now, well in the wake of the Final Days, with the star saved and the promise of a brighter tomorrow—Alys wonders if perhaps Cloud Nine would have been such an unfit moniker after all. Her patrons have taken to regularly raising toast after toast to the Scions, to Eorzea’s champion, with booming cheers and sloshing mugs, wide grins on every ruddy-cheeked face. The celebratory air often spills onto the streets, music and laughter ringing late into the night from nearly every corner of town.
Even at the end of the long nights, near-dead on her feet as she and her workers sweep the floors and stack the chairs onto the tables, Alys can’t help but smile. All is well. On the morrow, the sun will rise—and so will she, early, for another day of trading food and drink for gil and good gossip.
But on the morrow, word of the latest development reaches her in the streets before she even makes it to the Stones—and in the back of her mind, she’s at least grateful that she hadn’t first heard the words behind the bar, for a tray of glasses would surely have slipped right from her hands and shattered upon the ground.
“The Scions are disbanding,” they say. “Within the week.”
With much and more to do, time flies. Alys feels as though she's hardly blinked before the eve of the Scions' departure is upon them. The celebrations organized to see them off with well wishes, one last hurrah, are in full swing by the time that the sun dips below the horizon. The streets come alive before the lamps are even lit, and it's no different in the Seventh Heaven, where the night promises to be Alys's busiest by far.
Still seems a shame, she can't help but think during a spare moment to catch her breath. She tucks a lock of wheat-colored hair behind one ear and watches so many familiar faces—for the last time in the gods-know how long. To see them go so soon.
"Alys!" chirps a voice to her right, breaking her from what promises to be a nostalgic reverie. Alys turns and sees rosy hair and round, ruddy cheeks—and a grin that ever toes the line between endearing and impish.
"Riza," she says, nodding over. Riza Buttersand, one of the Scions finest warriors since the days when the organization had a home in Vesper Bay. Despite her diminutive stature, she knows from firsthand accounts just how fearsome with an axe the Lalafell is afield. "Having another one? I won't have to peel you from the rafters, will I?"
Riza giggles and tucks her hands beneath the bar, hiding brawl-bruised knuckles out of sight. "Moderation is for cowards," she says, earning her a shake of the head and a snort.
Alys sets to work at making her usual anyway—a thick, ceramic mug plunked on the counter and filled brim-full with as much sweet cream as a pour of dark, strong coffee. She considers, briefly, not being so heavy-handed with the whipped topping—This is Riza’s fourth cup, she thinks—but decides that a mountain of cream topped with a dash of cinnamon would make her customer happiest.
She’s proven right when Riza snatches the mug with glee and toasts her, the drink wobbling dangerously but somehow not splattering across the countertop. “To your health, Alys!” Riza says, and then pulls a fistful of gil from her pockets.
Alys holds up a warning hand, shaking her head. “Not a chance, Riza; the Scions have already funded this little soiree, food and drink included,” she says, and then she smirks. “I shan’t be taking more of your hard-earned gil when you’re out of a job as of tomorrow.”
Riza pulls a face and says, “Don’t remind me. I’ll be headed home to finally try my hand at the family trade. Somehow, the halcyon days of doing battle with primals was less daunting than the prospect of learning how to make pastries taste as they should and not burn to a crisp.”
Alys smothers a laugh into her hand and says, “Well, should you become a dab hand at baking, you can always come and work for me.”
“And drive off all your good customers?” Riza laughs, hopping from the barstool and taking her drink with her. “I like you too much for that, Alys!” She leaves with a wave and yet another cheeky grin, and Alys watches her dart into the crowd, pausing to toast to Coultenet and Hoary Boulder with a roaring cheer before disappearing through people’s legs.
Alys smiles fondly, looking over all of the familiar faces, thinking of all the times she’s served them as they’ve passed through over the years. So often that she knows them all by name, knows every standard order by heart. There’s the bold Aenor, tossing her copper hair over a shoulder and laughing boisterously.
Likes her drink as strong as her men, Alys thinks with a wry look. And then the quiet Clemence, hands folded primly before her, cheeks blazing at whatever bawdy joke Aenor’s just told. Prefers tea over coffee, liberally sweetened, and never liquor.
At a quiet table tucked in a corner, the newest of the Scions sits in silence, hunched over a plate of smoked meats. Estinien, Ishgard’s former Azure Dragoon—and as of tomorrow, former Scion of the Seventh Dawn—is not a man prone to idle conversation. In the short time she’s known him, Alys has come to understand that though his manner is gruff, it’s not to be taken for rudeness. Generous tipper, that one, she thinks, sighing.
The man forms an odd pocket of calm amidst the revelry, steadily chewing away at his meal. But subtle shifts in his taciturn expression—a softening of his icy gaze when the Leveilleur twins dash by the table, arms laden with treats, or the barest hint of a smile curving on his angular face when the minstrel begins to strum a lively drinking song—tell the truth of his enjoyment this night.
Someone taps a matching merry rhythm on the bar to her left. “Lovely Alys—a pint o’ the good stuff, if you please,” comes a smooth-voiced request, and she turns to see a face no less handsome for all the scars lining it. Riol winks his only good eye, and she snorts, smiling indulgently and pulling a draught of his favorite ale.
“And where will you be off to once this night is over, hm?” she asks, leaning her elbows on the counter. Behind him, Coultenet and Hoary Boulder come to stand at his shoulders.
“Thinkin’ I’ll be travelin’ far and wide. Maybe hop a ship and head out to Meracydia—or the New World, even.” Riol says, flashing a grin at her. “Goin’ to see what there is for an adventurer out there.”
Alys hums in understanding and nods at the other two. “And you? What’ll it be, and what’ll you do tomorrow? Grand adventures?”
Coultenet lets out a low chuckle, smiling faintly. “A glass of twice-mulled wine, please. As for what comes on the morrow…” He shrugs, watching her pour his drink, the warm fragrance of spices drifting through the air. “Nothing grand, per se, but important.”
Hoary shakes his head, cheeks flushed, when she glances in askance at him. “Just water for now—I’d not like to end this night prematurely, face-down in my cups,” he says, with an almost sheepish smile. “Coultenet and I will be making for Corvos, to render aid.”
“Tensions may well rise in the region, now that the Empire is no more,” Coultenet says softly, staring contemplatively into his drink. But his voice is firm with resolve when he adds, “And we shall endeavor to resolve what issues we can.” He glances at Hoary Boulder and sees the same burning purpose in his fiery gaze. “That we might preserve this peace that everyone gave their all to achieve.”
“Hear, hear!” Riol says, raising his mug in a toast. Hoary Boulder does the same with his water, his laugh booming over the din.
“Hear, hear,” Alys murmurs, though she has no drink to toast with. A funny sort of pride wells in her chest—that she has known so many great heroes, however small the role she’s played in their lives thus far, is a gift regardless. Though she is no hero herself, no notable adventurer with songs sung in her name, not many have the privilege of claiming to have offered a spot of respite to the greatest in the realm—perhaps the greatest in history, at the end of it all. Not many could claim to know them by name, to provide food and drink to fill their bellies and bring a smile to their faces, or to lend an ear to their woes.
This corner of the world that she’s carved out for her own might be meager in the eyes of some—the snooty Monetarists in Ul’dah, surely, or the haughty High Houses of Ishgard—but the Seventh Heaven is hers, and that pride blooms ever fiercer as she returns to tending the people gathered for one last night of celebration in her establishment.
The night goes on, the revelry easing some as the wee hours approach—though occasionally, the sound of firecrackers or peals of laughter come tumbling in from the streets, or the minstrel starts up a livelier tune that has people clapping their hands and stamping their feet. But for the most part, the cacophony of the evening settles down into a steady hum, though nobody is ready for things to end just yet.
And for her own part, Alys finds another moment to breathe, snacking on an apple tart behind the bar and people-watching once more. Her gaze alights on a table near the middle of the floor, the center of all the activity, where the senior-most Scions are engaged in a spirited discussion. Rather, Thancred silently listens while Y’shtola and Urianger talk animatedly, the latter swaying slightly in his seat with an uncharacteristically easy smile on his face.
In his cups, Alys realizes, shoving the rest of her tart in her mouth to hide a smile as she notes bright splotches of color high on his cheeks. Thancred seems aware of the same, chuckling and clapping a steadying hand on the man’s shoulder as Y’shtola smirks into her glass of red.
They’ve lost many a dear comrade over the years, this much Alys knows. She remembers well the dark palls of grief and gloom that hung over the Rising Stones at the losses that seemed almost impossible to speak of, so terrible was their magnitude—Moenbryda, Minfilia, Papalymo. Days when the air practically choked them with it, and everyone could only move with grim determination, unable to sink into their uncertainty and grief because the worries of the realm dictated that none could afford to do anything but press on.
But as unforgiving as time’s march could be, it could also be kind. Alys sees it in the easy set of Thancred’s shoulders, in the bright glint of Y’shtola’s unseeing eyes, in the expressiveness of Urianger’s face that was once hooded, hidden from view. Open wounds mend and leave scars, but the healing does happen, and eventually, it comes to hurt a little less every day.
A throat clears at the end of the bar, and a gentle voice ventures, “If I might trouble you for a moment, Mistress Alys?”
She glances over, seeing crimson hair and a gaze to match that would be fierce if not for the easy smile on his face. “No trouble at all, G’raha,” she says, amused by his usual formal manner of speaking. “What can I get you?”
“At the twins’ request, two spiced ciders,” he says, glancing back into the crowd. Alys follows his gaze to a full table where Alisaie and Alphinaud share a fat slice of ponzecake, the former saying something through a mouthful and the latter grinning widely. Beside them, Krile and Tataru watch with fond smiles on their faces, each nursing a half-drunk glass. G’raha turns back to her and adds, “And two warmwines for myself and Solene, please.”
Alys can’t bite back the knowing grin that creeps across her face at the way his expression goes impossibly soft when he says the Warrior of Light’s name. She hums in agreement, pouring and presenting the drinks in pairs, though she doesn’t get to joke that he needs another set of arms before Alisaie comes bounding up behind him.
“Raha,” she says, leaning over his shoulder. “These ours?” she asks, only snatching up the ciders once Alys nods. She grins. “Thank you, Alys!” She turns to G’raha then, bumping him with her hip. “Hurry and bring that to Solene; it’s almost time!” she says, excitement twinkling in the deep blue of her eyes—and then she’s off like a shot, weaving back through the crowd to their table.
G’raha’s laugh is low and warm, and he nods and says, “My thanks, Alys.”
She inclines her head towards him. “Happy to serve.” Her mouth quirks, mischief glittering in her eyes. “May you and Solene enjoy your night.”
His amiable expression remains even, but there’s no concealing the besotted look in his eyes, nor the faint blush dusting his cheeks. Ah, she thinks, smiling fondly as she watches him go. Young love.
It’s only a short while later, during a longer break in the music, when Alys finally gets a chance to observe the woman whose name is spoken in every corner of the realm of late. Everyone does, for a gentle hush ripples across the crowd when the minstrel stands and offers his seat to her with a grand bow, and Solene gracefully perches on it, drink in one hand and lute held in the other.
“Though I’ve taken up a different trade in the time since,” she starts, her voice warm and wistful, drawing all eyes in the room in the effortless manner she does. “I began my adventures as a bard. I thought, on this last night here, that I might play a song for you all.” She smiles, a touch coy, the dark spill of her half-silvered hair cascading down one shoulder as she nods to the crowd. “If it pleases you.”
An approving cheer goes up all at once, Alys adding to the chorus with a hearty, “Come on, then!”
Solene laughs, smile radiant in its sincerity. And then her expression softens, and anticipation hangs heavy in the air. “This journey together has been a long one,” she says. “And at times, more difficult than one could think it possible to bear.” She blinks, eyes going glassy. “But if there is one thing that I know with a certainty at the end of it all, it’s that it was a worthwhile one. Every step of the way. I’ve experienced things I could only have dreamed of, once. Met so many people that I am all the better for having known.
“So first, I should like to raise a glass to the one who made it all possible. Who, with one question, changed my life irrevocably for the better, and whose steadfast friendship I am grateful for having had, every day that I’m able to rise and see a new dawn. ‘Twas my life’s greatest fortune to meet her.” She swallows hard, holding her drink aloft. “To Minfilia.”
All is still for a long moment, a silence as delicate and fragile as glass. Alys feels a breath catch in her throat, trapped behind a hard lump that hadn’t been there a moment ago. And then, slowly, one woman stands in the crowd, her own cup raised to join Solene’s.
“To Minfilia,” F’lhaminn murmurs, voice thready, with a multitude of meaning weighted in it. She adjusts her spectacles with a trembling hand, smiling shakily, eyes wet.
“To Minfilia,” speaks the crowd, her name echoing out the open doors and into the streets, into the quiet night, into the sunless sea of stars above.
“To Minfilia,” Alys murmurs, heart wrenching fiercely.
Alys watches Solene bring the glass to her lips to drink, closing her eyes, sinking into memory for a long breath. She then settles the glass on the ground beside her and takes her lute in both hands, fingers alighting on the strings and holding the silence for just a little longer. And then, she begins to play.
It’s a gentle, rolling melody, with such a tenderness to it that Alys can’t help but lean against the bar and bask in the sound. Solene’s voice carries above, a rich lilt that sings of a meeting long-awaited, of the tapestry of a journey woven with love and loss, and all the world’s beauty. She sings of joined hands and gentle seas, and of sinking into a mother’s loving, calm embrace. She sings of hope reborn, and the promise of a new dawn—of tomorrow, rising on the wind.
And by the time it ends, the last notes of her melody fading away, there’s hardly a dry eye in the house. Before applause comes, Riza is the first to break the silence. Her diminutive form leaps into the air, mug raised high as she bellows a toast to the Warrior of Light. “To Solene! The Seventh Dawn!”
Like a wave cresting to meet the shore, cups and voices rise throughout the room, out the door, into the streets—a roaring litany of their regard for her, this woman who’d walked a path that had rendered her battered and bloody many a time, but never bereft of hope. The Warrior of Light’s pale gaze sweeps over the room, shining with unwavering devotion, as though sharing this moment with them is an honor unparalleled. She brings a hand to her heart, overcome, and bows deeply in gratitude.
Alys sniffles, swiping furiously at her eyes, smiling through the bittersweet ache in her chest at the thought of the goodbyes all will say on the morrow. “To Solene,” she says hoarsely, echoing the bestowal of a title most fitting. “The Seventh Dawn.”