To Serve the Light (Part 14)

Focus.

She puzzled over it all that night. And all the next morning as well. Even the nightly punishment on the practice yard later that evening failed to drive the confusion away. It nagged at her, worrying at her mind like mice at sacks of grain. Persistent, unending gnawing. Leaving an empty sack full of holes.

Focus.

So, was it a question of focus, then? What was she focusing on? What should she be focusing on? Or rather, what did old Bernhardt want her focusing on?

Her mind grasped the most obvious thing.

The bloody poem.

By dim candle light, she thought about the words she’d been mindlessly chanting for the past several weeks, turning them over and over in her mind. Despite herself, the words seemed to resonate within her. Rage and anger, pain and loss, hatred and vengeance – these were things she understood all too well. They were the fuel that stoked the fires of her fierce dwarven heart, bolstered her spirit and gave strength to her axe-hand.

…but not what I’m ta be focusing on, I’m thinking…

Wyn growled in frustration and blew out the light. She was going over the words in her mind again, still searching for the answer, when sleep finally found her.
_____

Her sluggish dwarven mind finally made the connection, early the next morning.

The books…

All the scribe-work old man Bernhardt had her doing. The reading, the meticulous and painstaking copying. All this time, she’d thought it was all just a devious method of discipline, of keeping her occupied while also separated from her fellow recruits. But maybe they were something more, all along.

Wyn frowned in dwarvish ire. But… if THAT’S what he was wanting… why not just SAY so? - she thought in frustration.

Fuming quietly, she made her way to Bernhardt’s study.