To Serve the Light (Part 12)

Sleep was often long in coming, in the following weeks. Every day was a struggle with books and lectures and lessons, confronted by foreign ideas and philosophies. Every night was another struggle, as she wrestled with the alien thoughts and musings crowding her mind. Not to mention the sore muscles and bruises – old as he seemed, she’d been reminded yet again that Bernhardt was still quicker than lightning with a sparring weapon in hand.

Still, the mundane aches and pains were almost a welcome distraction.

The combination of lack of sleep and strange thoughts rattling around in her dwarvish head left her tired, irritable, and perturbed – all of which added up to a very grumpy dwarf. It was just as well she was isolated from the others, for their sakes. After all, it wasn’t like she could take out her ire on old man Bernhardt. Not unless she wanted another chance learning what an anvil felt like, anyway.

Or worse, he’d assign her more copy work.
_____

“You’re not focusing, Stelhamor,” the old man chided. “Your conviction is lacking; your resolve is weak.”

Panting for breath, Wyn struggled back to her feet. She swayed ever-so-slightly, but clenched her jaw and steadied herself through sheer contrariness.

Bernhardt shook his head. “Pitiful, Stelhamor.” Before she could even tighten her grip on her hammer, the old man exploded into motion.

With a wordless growl she managed to raise her shield to block the first blow…

…and found herself flat on her back, blinking up at her tormentor in bewilderment.

He sighed, then knelt to help her up. “That’s all for today, Stelhamor. Take yourself off for a hot soak – you’ll be too sore to move, else.”

She nodded glumly.
_____

Even with the soak, and marinating herself in herbal salves overnight, she was extremely sore the next day. Without a murmur of complaint, she limped into Berhardt’s study for another day of book learning and lectures.

The fire burned cheerily in the fireplace as she made her way to the familiar cramped desk. But Bernhardt stopped her.

“You’re over there today, Stelhamor,” he said gruffly, steering her towards the large cushioned chair by the fireplace. “No quills and inks for you – just a bit of reading.”

She eased herself into the chair gingerly, slight frown of bewilderment creasing her brow.

“Here,” he said, handing her a thin leather-bound book, indicating an open page. “Read this one. Memorize it. Engrave into that stubborn stone slab you call a brain.”

Wyn looked down at it. Her frown deepened. “Poetry?”

He ignored her indignation. “Memorize it. By tonight.” With that, he left the room.

What the BLOODY hell?! Bad enough ta be having to read all this blathering drivel, but now he’s having me memorize POETRY?

She glowered down at the page, then reluctantly applied herself to the task at hand. Murmuring under her breath, she read to herself and the empty room.

“Feeling your anger
Feeding my hate…”