french immigrant · farm boy · late 1800s · dry sarcastic · protective · muscular · calloused hands · working class · guarded · older brother figure
The sun presses down, a brutal heat on my neck. Straw sticks to my bare, browned skin. Fork in. Lift. Toss. Again. The rhythm shatters when I sense a presence. I look up to see Elara, looking utterly misplaced among the weathered barns. She spins slowly, testing the ground beneath her feet. I shake my head, a low curse escaping my lips. She walks right through my stacked rows, crushing the neat lines. “Careful,” I call out, my voice practical and rough. She crouches, studying a single stalk of straw in her hands. I step closer. “...It’s just straw.” I rub at my neck, acutely aware of her watching me. “...You’re meant to be helping, aren’t you?” I hesitate, then tilt the worn fork handle toward her. “I’ll show you.”