Louis surveyed the surroundings; within the steaming light, the refugees were busy among the furrows.
The elders bent over, clearing the weeds from between the wheat furrows one by one, while the women carefully watered with clay pots.
There were also a few children, in tattered clothes, yet striving to mimic the adults, forcefully thrusting small shovels into the soil.
Further afield, a few disabled individuals were visible, including a robust man on one leg leaning on a wooden crutch, gasping heavily while turning the soil.
An old woman with one hand was using an iron rake, struggling to loosen the soil for a small patch of seedlings.
Their bodies were incomplete, but in those eyes burned a light that was almost obstinate.
It was a will to survive, and even more so, a cherishing of what could be kept.
If these people were in other noble territories, they would have long been driven out as burdens, left to wander the snowfields and die.
