Stagwell tossed his spade to the floor, slumping onto the turf with a sigh of relief. The sun was relentless, and had been harassing him since dawn. His tunic was soaked with sweat, hair plastered to his forehead in damp strands. Resting on his elbows, he surveyed the fields - there was still much work to be done, he knew that, but he still drew a sense of satisfaction from his efforts. The crops looked unkempt, the weeds were emerging in all directions, and the grass needed trimming. And that was not even considering the interior of the Hall, which required a thorough clean.
Standing, Stagwell dusted himself off, blinking the sweat from his eyes. Silence. He could not remember the last time the Estate had seemed so empty. The staff that remained seemed only to appear in fleeting moments, their faces etched with worry. So many had left, and the thought left an unsettling feeling in his stomach. Since Lord Forester's death, it seemed as if the very soul of the Estate had evaporated. Slinging his spade over his shoulder, he trudged over to the steps, knocking his boots against the stone and savoring the shade. He would not leave - the Estate, the Hall, they were nothing less than his home now.
He squinted up at the doorway, wondering where Siggald was. Stagwell had met with an enthusiastic farmer, Hutwig, the previous day. The positivity of the man had proved contagious - amidst all of the grief and loss, during the conversation, Stagwell had a brief vision. A vision of rebuilding, of regeneration, of the Estate returning to health. He smiled to himself as he took a swig of water from his flask. Many staff had lost faith after Lord Forester's passing, but he would be damned before the master-at-arms did the same.
