The stars twinkled over the business. Outside, beyond the bridge, Jarot poured his grandson a cup of wine. The trickling of the wine broke the silent, before Jarot placed down the bottle, and he held up the cup, raising it with his grandson, before the pair sipped it. A moment of silence swallowed them.

“You are a father now,” Jarot said. “Do you understand?”

“I… have a son,” Jurot replied, his voice unsure.

“Is it so easy to be a father?” Jarot asked. He leaned back in his chair, staring up at the dark sky. “You are no longer free as you once were. When it was just your nieces and nephews, you could still journey as you pleased, but now? Now you have a son.”

Jurot could see his grandfather was looking into another time.

“He was that small too. Your father. In my heart, I did not like it. I did not like the feeling I could not do as I pleased. Father and mother, they picked him up. He was so light. Their first grandchild. From me? It surprised them. They did not believe I would return. They did not believe I would marry before my brother. They did not believe I would give them a grandchild so soon.”

Jarot closed his eyes, seeing the faces of the pair when they had picked up his son. “Surot was so easy to raise, just like you were so easy to raise for him.”

Jurot sat up a little prouder, his lips twitching into a smile.

“Mirot’s birth was more difficult. I knew she would be troublesome.” The old man let out a sigh, a sigh which had denoted how old he had become thanks to his daughter. “Farot…”

Jurot could hear the deep sadness within his grandfather’s voice.

“I could have journeyed elsewhere. Those islands the Aldish conquered? They could have been mine. I could have had ten women. Twenty. Fifty. I could have had hundreds of children. Thousands of grandchildren. I was that wild! I was that strong!” Jarot growled, but quickly quietened down, not wishing to wake the people within the fort, even so far as he was.

“No…” Jarot smiled. “No. I would not give this life up for another. How is it that it is my Mirot who troubles me the least? My Farot, dead. My Surot, missing.” The old man drank the rest of his wine from his cup. “It is you who have given me my first grandson, the first of the main family.”

“No,” Jurot said. “Not the first.”

Jarot’s lips formed a small frown. “First in the eyes of the Iyr.”

Jurot slowly nodded his head, glancing down at his cup of wine, which his grandfather then filled to the brim once more.

“Damrot son of Jurot,” Jarot said. “You should have named him Durot.”

“Cousin Durot would be overshadowed,” Jurot joked.

Jarot chuckled, sipping away at the peach wine. “Kurot? Vurot? No…” The old man sighed. “Damrot is a good name. Damrot, son of Jurot. Virot, daughter of Vonda.” Jarot motioned his hand out to his grandson, who leaned in. He rubbed the boy’s head.

“I remember your birth too. My first son’s first son. My first grandchild. You were small too. Your father did not cry much, but you? I know you would grow well, because your cries were so strong. Your father did not change much, but he was always good. I did not dote on him as I should have, be he saw how I treated Farot, and he treated you that well. Not the same, no, but well. He took you to your outings. You hated wolves for some time after.”

“Balrog,” Jurot said, glancing down at his drink again.

Jarot allowed the boy a moment for his thoughts. “You left the Iyr to become a man, and you returned so quickly, with a story of great fortune. You came with a stranger, and before he left the Iyr, he became your brother. I received another grandson, that quickly.”

“…” Jurot wasn’t sure how much his grandfather knew of Adam.

“I accept the decisions my daughter makes. I accepted it when she brought Adam into the family. I accepted it when she brought me my first greatchildren too.”

“Adam is a good brother and a good father.”

“You are a good brother too,” Jarot assured. “You can hug as well as your father.”

“I do not know…”

“Who else does your brother trust but you?”

“Mother.”

“Yes, your mother, and who?”

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“Me?”

“…” Jarot closed his eyes for a long moment. “Yes. Still, he will not doubt you.”

“He doubts me.”

“Do you listen to his words when he asks you to confirm, or do you see his actions, when he will draw his axe or stow it upon a single request?” Jarot asked. “He does not doubt you. He doubts himself. You doubt yourself too.” Jarot reached up to hold the boy by the back of his head, pulling him in so they were touching foreheads, remaining that way for a moment, threatening to bruise his grandson, before letting him go.

The tension left Jurot’s shoulders, and he sipped his wine once more, pouring his grandfather the drink now.

“You do not feel it,” Jarot said, staring down at the drink his grandson had poured him. “The overwhelming warmth Adam feels for his children.” Jarot reached up his hand, seeing how it shook so slightly. “The dread of the world, full of dangers. I know you do not. You are an Iyrman, you call the Iyr your home. The Iyr which will raise your son well, even if you cannot. The Iyr, which, until a boy becomes a man, will revive him. Once. Twice. A thousand times, it matters not. If the child’s soul is willing, the Iyr will not abandon him.”

Jurot jolted awake from the rage that flashed beside him, his grandfather revealing it once more, the reason he could cause such havoc through Aldland, and still live. Then, as quickly as it had come, it faded. Jurot’s heart continued to pound, out of fear, and exhilaration.

“There were times… I felt constricted by the Iyr,” the old man admitted. “The Chief and I, we clashed many times, outside of the Iyr, and many times within. I did not make life easy for our Great Elders. They tried to stop me from going on a rampage, but they did not deny me my rights. Even if they could have forced me to stay, they did not. They let me go. They let me bring my son and daughter home. No matter how much trouble I brought to them, they gave me that trust. They trusted me because I was born in the Iyr. They trusted me because I returned. They trusted me because I married. They trusted me because I bore a child. They trusted me, because if the Iyr needed it, I would give my life to them without causing a trickle of trouble.”

Jurot sipped his wine slowly. The peach wine the Rot family enjoyed so much. Had it tasted as good as it today? A day when it tasted delicious because of the peaches, and the pride the young man felt for his heritage.

“When they saw Churot’s bones, they took the pieces away, and they brought to me…” A single tear dropped down the old man’s cheek. “He was so small. He held the red of my rage, but it was his mother’s red he held.” Jarot glanced away. Though he could bear the steel of an Aldishman’s blade, he could not bear the memories of that time. “They brought to me a boy. A boy so curiously silent. A boy who grew distant from his cousins. A boy who embraced only his grandfather and his grandmother. I… did not know how to raise him, but he was a boy of the Iyr, and so it did not matter, for the Iyr made sure to raise him well, when I could not. They provided for him, when I could not. They protected him, when I could not.”

Jurot remained silent, allowing the silence to fall over them. The old man finished the cup of wine, inhaling deeply, before letting out a long sigh. Jarot stared at the sky, noting the stars, noting all those which remained, and all those which had dimmed, even over his own time.

The silence allowed Jurot to think. He thought about what he had done that year. He thought about his journey with Prince Morkarai, and what little of a story which he had returned with. He thought of the time within the Undersea Kingdom. Adam, who had fought the Coralguard. Adam, who had fought the Prince, and not just fight, he beat them both.

He thought of the return, where there were few who were worthy enough to defeat. Urtas? He supposed. No, urtas weren’t good enough. Lord Marshal Royce, the previous Knight of Death, who was considered King Merryweather’s peer, a man who would even call Sir Robin, one of the Paragons of Aldland, a little girl? He, too, had been Adam’s. The forest drake? No, that had been far too disappointing. Then what was next? An ancient Lich they had allowed to roam free because they were too weak?

In the first year Adam and Jurot had met, what had they done? They had adventured slightly, but upon their return, they came across him.

Balrog.

Balrog the Bane.

Jurot no longer felt the rage for Balrog as he once had. They had met upon their return, and though Jurot had wanted to face him, the Iyrmen did not involve themselves in such business. It was difficult, for the Iyr was both neutral, and yet so friendly with the villages. Against the undead, the beasts? They would assist. Against bandits? That was different.

Jurot, as an Iyrman, had to step back from facing Balrog.

Yet, he recalled the words which spurred him forward. They were the words in which his now brother had spoken, allowing him to regain the honour he had lost and had washed away the shame. Balrog had dared to use him against his own father, and they had to return back home. He had not harmed the boy, however, and so, technically, the Iyr didn’t need to slaughter them all.

It was then, perhaps, Adam had managed to worm his way into Jurot’s heart. However, it was when his mother had stated Adam was his brother, that Adam became his brother. When his mother spoke, words were true. What else did Jurot need to think?

Adam, who knew of Lanarot before them. Adam, who had made sure, at least in this life, that the boy could meet the sister he never knew existed. If he had died against the herbearvore, he would have never known his sister, and now, he’d have never known his son.

Lanarot, when she had been born, had known two brothers, each with great victories.

Damrot? Adam had done enough for him, but what of Jurot, his own father?

“Jurot,” the old man finally said. “Fail, if you must, but try. Try to raise your son well, and fail as many times as you must, for the Iyr never forgets. The Iyr never forgets its debts. The Iyr never forgets its children. From those who die within its borders, to those who die outside. For those who return, and for those who turn to ash.”

‘Ash,’ Jurot thought, his heart sinking. He closed his eyes, and felt it, the pain in his heart upon thinking his son could turn to ash. Even though he was a member of the Rot family, this was too much.

“Adam does not have such a luxury,” Jarot whispered, not wishing to speak the words, but he had to. He knew it in his heart, that whatever may come, the children, those children who adored him so much, would not know of the Iyr’s warmth as he had.

“Adam has we of the Rot family,” Jurot said, his voice clear, his eyes meeting his grandfather’s.

Jarot could see it, within his grandson’s eyes. There was a murkiness to the clarity of those eyes. A murkiness even he couldn’t dispel, for they both knew it to be true. The old man sipped the rest of his wine. “Yes. So he does.”