666. Terrible Talks

666. Terrible Talks

Lucy panted as she fell onto the ground, not quite as gracefully as she would have liked. Her heart thundered, her chest heaved for air. The sun had only risen a short while ago, long enough for her to walk and arrive at one of the long fields of the Iyr, where the walls gave way to fields for miles and miles, only to be hidden by the shadows of distant mountain peaks. The chill of nightval began to seep within her body, cooling her sweat, but the burning within her body did not leave as the ache set within.

‘These damn Iyrmen!’

The clashing of steel rang in the air once more, a song of death formed by two figures who were ready to kill one another.

A shadow formed over Lucy before she saw a cloth block her vision. She reached up, wincing slightly, before accepting it. “Thank you,” she said, politely, as she did with all Iyrmen.

Tarot pat his face with his own cloth. “You fight well,” he admitted, barely able to keep up with the young woman.

“Thank you,” Lucy repeated. She stared up at the smiling Iyrman, who was apparently Jarot’s brother. The two were almost entirely different, with Tarot far more relaxed and more like a gentle uncle. Jarot was more like a crazy beast, though he seemed to have settled down in his later years, and especially after he lost his limbs. Tarot, by comparison, was almost a kitten. He was perhaps one of the weakest of the Rot family, with many who were younger than him who could claim to be stronger.

His wife, on the other hand...

Mara clasped her hands over her navel and gently bowed her head. “Thank you for the teaching.” The Demon’s entire body ached, only a moment away from passing out.

“You may rest,” Zirot said, smiling innocently towards the young Demon. Her eyes then passed to the other Demon, the one who claimed to be the Demon Lord, and then to her husband, who was panting heavily. Though she was easily far more experienced than any of them there, she, too, had grown old.

Tarot eventually hoisted himself up, glancing around the large field, noting the other Iyrmen nearby, those who were trying to train. He noticed a few carried dambells with them, choosing to lift weights rather than to spar. He threw a look to his wife and the pair began to walk, trying to stretch out their legs, leaving the Demons to relax and talk before they continued to the next set of sparring.

“I had not expected to be bested by such a young one,” Tarot admitted, chuckling lightly. His lips formed a wide grin.

“You retired so young,” Zirot stated, matter of factly, without judgement.

“Too young,” Tarot stated, bringing the judgement. “I did not think Sarot would leave so soon.”

“He had taken that responsibility for so long...” Zirot looked up towards the sky, looking at the clouds above. “I thought Jarot would take it, but he cannot.”

“I must take responsibility,” Tarot said, stretching out his neck. “Sister cannot, so it must be me.” Jarot was crippled and Mulrot was the Family Elder. Sarot and Lukkrot were both dead. It left Tarot and Zirot the responsibility, and though Zirot was second to Jarot, she had already spent so much time training to take on the work he had left behind.

“It would be awkward for me if you were stronger,” Zirot said, reaching out to clasp the old man’s bicep, smiling adoringly towards him. “If you become so strong, I will be unable to control you.”

“If I did not wish to be controlled by you, I would not be controlled by you,” Tarot replied, bursting out into laughter.

Zirot smiled, rubbing her husband’s bicep, walking with him to one side before they sat together.

“Are they flirting again?” Lucy asked, staring at the sky.

“Yes,” Mara replied.

‘Do I tell him he is cringe?’ Jurot thought. ‘No, he has not spoken aloud.’

“Jurot?”

“Yes?” Jurot asked, preparing himself.

“How can they bully their greatfather like that?” Adam asked, shaking his head gently.

“...”

“Do you see how they bully me, Otkan?” Jarot asked, sipping the rest of his milk. “They only bully me this well.” The old man smiled, reaching out an arm for Little Jarot, who Mulrot offered towards him. “My boy, how can you do this to me?”

Little Jarot smiled shyly, before he hid his face into the old man’s chest. Jarot held the boy close, feeling how light he was still. “Are they not feeding you, my boy? I will speak with my daughter to make sure they feed you more.”

“You know, when your grandfather’s right, he sure is right,” Adam said, slowly nodding his head.

Jurot blinked. “Yes?”

“Baba!” Lanarot called, pointing up at the old man. “Eating the bwead?”

“Do you want some bread?”

Lanarot, who had not meant that, smiled and nodded her head hesitantly. “Yes.”

“Let me pour you all some milk,” the old Iyrman said, smiling wide as he started pouring more drinks into the spare cups, allowing Lanarot to pick up her own while he brought a cup to Little Jarot’s lips. “Slowly, slowly.” Some of the milk dripped down onto the boy’s clothes, but he drank as much of the milk as he could, before sighing, smiling up at his greatfather. The old man used his scarf to dab the boy’s face clean. “You are my greatson, who else could drink milk so well?”

Little Jarot hid his face against his greatfather’s chest once more. Jarot rubbed the back of the boy’s head, snorting proudly, before smirking towards Otkan. “There is no need to be jealous, I am sure your greatchildren will come soon.”

Adam felt a chill run down his spine, pausing as he handed Konarot to Otkan, his eyes meeting the old woman’s eyes expectantly. “You can’t keep them.”

“When will you give me greatchildren?” Otkan asked.

“What?” Adam asked, his cheeks flushing red.

Luckily for Adam, someone unlikely appeared to help him, as Jirot stormed towards the entrance of the extended family estate.

When you remember other people also have things they want to do.

Damn. Everyone needs homies like Otkan.