Ivan leans into the doorframe, looking out to the village. The sun is just high enough in the sky for him to see the shapes of two figures beyond the edge of the village in its southwestern corner. Both tall, supple, and long of ear—Khaliss and Sylfir. He squints, though it does little to help him see them more clearly, and there's no chance he'd be able to hear what they're saying.

He can't deny that he was worried when midday turned into evening yesterday and Sylfir still hadn't returned from the forest, knowing what could have been waiting for her there. Alas, he couldn't linger in the village on account of his duties back on the farm. A furious Erik fetched him on their father's behalf, irate from being inconvenienced yet another time thanks to his brother's whims, and Ivan had no recourse but to go with him, if only to quell his anger.

Even now, Erik still glowers at him from the eastern doorway. "It's a good thing they're standing close together. If Sylf had travelled north and Khaliss south, you'd be cross-eyed, so intent are you on staring at the both of them."

Ivan huffs. "You know, I'd find you pretty funny if your vitriol was ever aimed at someone besides me."

"Why would it be?" Erik says, "You, more than anyone else, deserve it."

Ivan scoffs. "C'mon, Erik..."

"Every time you wander off into the arms of some travelling lass or Artur disappears to play with that stupid cat, who's left to pick up the slack?"

"That's disingenuous," Ivan says, "You act like I never do my part."

"Not since the beast attacked, you haven't. You seem to be forgetting there's more work to do here after the mess it made, but all you want to do is hang around in the Wanderer with whoever will share a pint with you."

Ivan's brow furrows from annoyance. "And you refuse to so much as show your face there since the beast attacked. The only time you've come to the village proper is at Father's bidding, and that was only yesterday."

Ivan lets the silence linger for a while, but it proves nigh unbearable for his brother, who turns his face away.

"I get that you're afraid, Erik—"

"Argh!"

Ivan flinches as his brother bats him away, pushing past him to leave the house and walking toward the shed.

"A bit early to start your day, isn't it?" Ivan calls, but his brother ignores him. He sighs and shakes his head. He can only watch as his brother stubbornly grabs his tools from the shed and heads out into the ruined fields.

Ivan feels bad for him. He's grasping for any kind of comfort except that which his brothers might give freely. He might be a man grown now, but in some ways, he's still the same heartbroken boy from five years ago.

The sound of footsteps coming from across the living room catches Ivan's attention, and he sees his father emerge from the kitchen doorway. He looks at Ivan with questioning eyes, heading for the back door and peeking his head through to find Erik in the fields. He draws back and sighs.

"Boy's going to work himself half to death," he mutters, shaking his head.

"He's trying to distract himself," Ivan says, "Doesn't matter if you drag me back here to help—he doesn't want it."

His father scowls. "Don't be thinking that's an excuse to run off to the village now."

"There are plenty of good 'excuses' to—"

"What, like the fiery-haired lass? I know what you're like, boy. Always eager to acquaint yourself with every winsome lass that comes through town."

Ivan scoffs. "She was barely in town for an hour before she left again. That's hardly enough time. I—"

"Aye, and now that she's back again, you can't seem to keep your eyes off her." His father peers through the doorway, squinting to see the elf and drow at the edge of the village. He sighs. "Always bloody distracted..."

"I always get my chores done—you can't complain about that. It's only then that I go to the village."

"And what about Erik? He needs support, and he doesn't want it from me."

Ivan huffs, turning away to look out to the village again. Never more than now does he wish his mother was still here.

"Erik doesn't want support from anyone. He's only happy when the problem is fixed, preferably by himself, but this problem isn't so simple. Working the fields is his way of coping with powerlessness."

His father grits his teeth, barely holding back his mounting frustration. Ivan frowns at the sight, but his father just shakes his head, a defeated sigh pushing past his lips as his anger fizzles, and suddenly he seems all too fragile. It's clear Erik isn't the only one who feels powerless.

"...I'll stay home today," Ivan mutters

His father nods. "Thank you, son."

He leaves with his head hanging lower, walking through the living room again to disappear into the kitchen. Ivan can't say he feels much better. Part of the reason he ventures into the village is to escape the oppressive pall of melancholy that hangs over this house. In truth, it's never too far, but with the dire events of the past few days, it engulfs this place like a thick fog.

Ivan has to leave. He heads out toward the icehouse, the land between it and his house still scarred from the beast's footsteps, though with tending from Ivan and his family over the past few days, it is healing.

When he reaches the small, domed building, he enters and takes the torch from the wall, lighting it before he heads down the steps. He reaches the landing and turns toward the dry corner where the seeds are kept. The torch flickers as he hangs it on the wall before he reaches for one of the glass jars full of paper packets, and he shakes it a little to gauge how many are inside, then opens the lid to pluck one out.

The label reads "pumpkin." He holds onto it—it's about the right time of year to sow this kind of seed, though the seasons have shifted in the wake of the Second Sundering. In truth, he's not sure the crop will take, but he stows the seeds in his pocket anyway before reaching inside again. This packet reads "cucumber," another kind of seed he could sow today, albeit a little later than is ideal, even accounting for the state of the seasons. With some of the year's crops lost to them, however, he'll need to plant as many as possible to make up for the shortfall. He shakes the jar again, poking inside with inspecting fingers, peering into it to see the labels. He plucks Coldwood turnip and carrot seeds before he closes the jar again and puts it away, taking the torch from the wall and climbing the steps.

As he emerges from the icehouse, he looks at the vegetable garden, stretching out from the south wall of his house. Most of the vegetables that need harvesting have been tended to a couple of days before, mostly by his father and Artur, while he and Erik tended to the crop fields with the other village farmers, clearing them of ruined wheat, barley, and rye.

The raised beds and pots hugging the south wall support the growth of rhubarb and a number of herbs that still look healthy, having escaped the wrath of the beast, and Ivan has a mind to harvest some of the former. He'd bring the produce to the village himself, but he promised his father he'd stay home. Maybe he can rope Artur into doing it for him. With the thought in his mind, he heads for the shed by the road, taking a hand trowel and rake, before snatching his gloves and a sizable basket, then heads for the vegetable patch, setting aside his tools.

He kneels before the raised beds of the rhubarb and begins twisting and pulling the stems until they break free before placing them in the basket, every motion quick and efficient from muscle memory reinforced over the years. It's quick and easy work, methodical and repetitive, and it's not long before he finishes harvesting all the plants in the first bed.

Happy barking turns his head, and he catches sight of Dana jogging around the corner. As always, Artur is never far behind, catching up to her to ruffle her black and white coat with long fingers. Ivan waves at him.

"Morning," he calls, "Woke up late today, eh? Didn't see you at breakfast."

"Actually, I think you woke up early. Too anxious to sleep?"

Ivan chuckles, shaking his head. Every night since the attack has been a restless one for him, but not so for Artur, apparently. Ever since he got Tom back, he's been sleeping like a baby. Ivan's not sure he knows anyone else so laid back.

"I need your help," Ivan says, "Can you fetch some water from the river for me?"

"Sure... if you say please."

Ivan rolls his eyes. "Please."

"Only because you asked so nicely."

With a cheeky grin, Artur heads for the shed, and Ivan returns to his work, pulling out the rhubarb stems.

ˏˋ°•*⁀➷

A little bit of trivia: the "coldwood turnip" is something that I added to the lore. I based it on the hybrid vegetable swede. It was cultivated in Sweden (hence the name) so, similarly, the coldwood turnip was cultivated in settlements near the Coldwood, north of the High Forest, where (I would assume) the climate is arctic (or at the very least subarctic).