“The Reavers are causing trouble for the Aldish,” an older grey skinned man said, the tattoos on his forehead denoting the fact he was no horc. 

“If the Aldish are struggling, the Aswadians must be filled with tears,” the other replied, also grey of skin, tusk of chin, and more important, wrinkled from time. 

“Of blood,” the other agreed, pouring more watered down grainwine for his companion, the pair enjoying the hot day for what it was, just a day to drink. 

“Will you go?”

“Go? Me?” The Iyrman let out a soft chuckle. “I am barely an Expert, old as I am. Will you go to die?”

“A good way to die,” the Iyrman replied, sipping away at his grainwine, feeling the aches of old age settled deep within his bones. 

“Is farming so terrible?”

The Iyrman laughed, slapping his knee, before nursing his grainwine, sipping it away lightly. 

“A good way to die,” the other finally confirmed, thinking of the Reavers which had dared to step towards the Iyr. He was uncertain if they had reached their lands, and if they had, they were as good as dead. The Iyr had already increases patrols, but they had also assigned many who were their age, but not quite as weak. Duteous Dogek himself had stepped forward, but others who were equally as impressive had done the same. 

“I could send a letter, but I should stay in the Front Iyr, and watch the children as they grow. Mowyx is growing well, and it will be good to see him go and make a name for himself, and the Wyx family. In ten years time, I swear it to be true, you will see how our Mowyx will rise.”

“Azar has mentioned he views Mowyx as his own rival, but you did not hear that from me,” the Iyrman said, smirking slightly, the pair laughing loudly. 

“If Azar speaks it, then Mowyx has already risen so high.” 

“It has been a short while since your family has seen someone. It skipped a generation, your cousin who had fought in the Tariff Skirmishes, and now Mowyx, who will fight the Reavers, or the Chaos which will ensure after the Reavers are dealt with.”

“Are the Reavers so easy to deal with?” The old man narrowed his eyes. “When I heard the tales of the Reavers, they were a struggle for the Iyr of that time.”

“The Iyr of that time, legendary as it was, only pales in comparison to the Iyr of today.”

“Can it be true?”

“The Iyr outnumbers such by ten to one, and though the names Razfan are mythical, how many of ours can match? Drakebane, Wildheart, Deathfist, alone make up our Great Elders. Butcher has retired recently, but his excitement would still stir his heart to kill a Reaver or two, perhaps a few of those weaker ones, before his bloodthirst is quenched.” 

“Razfan’s feats are much greater than any of them,” the Wyx stated, sipping his grainwine lightly.

The Zar inhaled deeply, considering his friend’s words, before nodding. “If Tanagek the Dutiful was still alive…”

“The Reavers were too afraid to arrive a century ago.”

The Zar chuckled at the words, though perhaps there was a greater truth to it. “Can we say that when Aldland is beginning to awaken?”

“It did not slumber like a dragon, it was just incompetent.”

“A competent Aldland… we shall see.”

“If Aldland becomes competent, we will have no choice to raise our blades.”

“I will entrust the matter with the Great Elders, who have prepared for it.”

“Hmm…”

“Do you doubt it?”

“It is not that I doubt it, but it is that…” Wyx reached up to his chin, scratching it lightly. “The timing is most important. If they hand over the reigns to young blood, and they pass away too early, there may be enough turmoil within our land that Aldland will be able to seize a chance for something outside.”

“A one in a million chance.”

“The Reavers are so.”

“The Reavers are so,” the Zar agreed. “If you are thinking so much to think of such events, you should assist the business in their training.”

“The young one, the Lead, Fred, he fights better than I?”

Zar grumbled quietly, since if Fred was better than his companion, he would be stronger than even himself. “There are the others who are still learning.”

“Maybe.”

“Maybe? Is your heart as soft as your hands?”

Wyx raised a hand, threatening to slap his companion, but let him go, drinking away at his grainwine. “Maybe I will go.”

“Maybe you will.”

As the pair contemplated their futures, another did the same, within the fields of the Iyr, an older Aswadian man ploughed the fields, for a harvest had been completed and the soil needed to be shifted. Bilal dropped down, reaching for the dirt, feeling the way the soil shifted between his fingers, and as he shook his hand lightly, watched the rest of the soil fall. 

‘This is what provides,’ the Aswadian thought, staring deep within the soil. How many countless lives had he taken with these hands of his, and yet they say his hands were dirty? His hands were dirty now, and yet, he was unsure if such could be used as an insult to him. Bilal looked up towards the sky, the noonval sun beating down upon his skin. ‘It is hot today.’

Bilal closed his eyes. He thought of another time, back when he held a great respect, and a great fear. How many Iyrmen could clash with him, how many could kill him? How many had he fought and slain? Yet, here he was, standing within their fields, alone and for the taking. He could slay one or two on his way out, but could he fight? 

He had held these thoughts for so long, day after day, knowing that the Iyr could take revenge even after a hundred years. Would they take revenge? He never sought to kill the Iyrmen, it just so happened to be that way, but it was the Iyr, and sometimes, rarely, they moved above and beyond their typical Iyrmanly notions of allowing their own to die. 

“What are you thinking about so deeply?” a figure said, his head shaved smooth that morning, his beard shorter now, though not so short his greatchildren and greatnieces and greatnephews could not hide their hands within it. 

“Life.”

Malfev smiled warmly, like a grandfather would, staring up at the sky, allowing the sun to tan his skin. “We, who have spilled so much blood, stand upon a field to think about life. Only those who have lived lives full of death can truly appreciate the irony.”

“Do you sleep easy?” Bilal asked.

“Often, and you?”

Bilal bowed his head. “Nightmares?”

“Rarely.”

Bilal also bowed his head. “Is it wrong not to feel such guilt, such shame, after all we have done?”

“There are many who are worse than either you and I. They, who do not stand upon the fields to understand life. They who commit greater evils. They who sleep easier. They who who do not awaken from nightmares. They who have crowned themselves Kings and Queens, who do to their own people what we do to those who aimed for our lives, and often times, they commit graver crimes.”

‘He sounds so much like the Executive…’

Malfev glanced down towards the soil, thinking of the soil a pair of twins had gifted to him not long ago, in which he grew a small flower. “Everyone must eventually return to their origin.”

“Yes,” Bilal replied, though he wondered if Malfev meant that. 

Return to Origin.

“You are too tense, Bilal,” Malfev said. “We of the Iyr have little care of your past.”

“Can you say that?”

“I can,” Malfev said. “Few know of it.”

“You do?”

“I do.”

“Why?”

“Should you choose to turn, I must lay down my life to cut you, so that you leave a trail of blood,” Falling Swallow Malfev stated, he who could go toe to toe with various Grand Commanders, yet knew he would die to Bilal if it came down to it. 

Bilal bowed his head, and Malfev returned a bow of his own, the Iyrman turning and walking away, reaching up to tickle his beard. He could still feel a number of eyes upon him, but he supposed that would be the way it would be. 

When it was time to eat, Bilal walked along with the Iyrmen, most younger than himself, each happy to have completed their physical task that morning, and would soon be replaced by a second group who had completed their mental tasks that day. 

While they went to eat, another group had also all gathered to eat, many thousands of miles away.

Mork and Tork eyed up the Aswadian women within the inn, some in their twenties, some in their thirties, but they had also spotted a few who formed up a group of guards, of one business or another. Mork raised his brows to his brother, and Tork raised a brow in return, and the pair excused themselves to speak with them. 

 “So,” Adam began as he placed a handkerchief against his collar, and assisted Kizwolima in the same manner since they were at such a nice restaurant, not fancy exactly, but certainly with some expectations. “What does it mean that Aswadasad and Floria are in a Union?”

Tanagek’s eyes were upon a certain figure, bowing towards them, for certainly it was Scholar Muh, who seemed to be looking right towards him. ‘Why is he looking at me in such a way?’

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This should have been an interlude, but I cheated.