[h3]Burdens[/h3]
[hr][i]“Ghosts of the past speak to all who will listen.”[/i]
[hr]
It was the quiet before the tempest and all members of Isobel’s most trusted had retreated to their corner of the camp to prepare for the final battle. Bahk had marched from their leaders’ war tent with a threatening gait. An air of exasperation enveloped him as he made his way across to the armoury for a final once over of their arsenal. 

“Fools.” The Orsimer snarled. “So many fools. Filling the air with such utter nonsense.” Pushing aside the curtain to the armoury, Bahk entered without missing a beat. “Like that mage. She draws her words from books, not experience. The witch threatens us all if she cannot deal with the reality of battle tomorrow.”

The space inside the tent had been split several ways. Weapons stands, crudely cut from stolen wood, lined the circumference while barrels and crates had been laid out in the centre creating aisles. Of course, no one’s personal items were stored there, instead it was just a mix of scavenged gear and reforged basic weaponry. Pieces of armour were also scattered few and far between. A bit of chainmail here, a gambeson there; most of the army would be fighting with nothing but the cloth on their back.

Allowing his hand to bump along the wooden staves of the barrels, the Orsimer began to pace up and down the aisles. “And the [i]heretic[/i].” He continued, spit flying from his mouth as he talked through gritted teeth. “I’ve heard what he calls himself. Our Kingdom lies in ruin and our people scattered, yet here he is, fighting for a cause that has nothing to do with him. If he is as worthy as he claims, then why are his boots not thick with the dirt of Skyrim?”

Fury coiled it’s way up from the pit of Bahk’s stomach. His lungs filled with fire as he turned to one of the sealed crates in the centre. “He talks of philosophy and war like he is the master of either!” The veins in the Orsimer’s arms pulsated as he gripped the lid. “All I see is another barbarian out for blood!” Tearing it from the box, he unleashed an almighty roar before tossing the wood aside.

Skipping across the ground like a stone across a lake, the lid came crashing into a stand, knocking several bits of armour from its shelf. The clang of metal caused Bahk to whip around, the palm of his hand slapping his forehead as he realised what had happened. Feeling the warm hue of embarrassment flush over his face, the Orsimer cursed his stupidity. The irony of his final statement was not lost on him as he ambled over, picking up the mess piece by piece.

“Focus.” He breathed. “This is not the time, nor the place, there is too much to be done.” Neatly stacking everything back above the rack, the giant's hands fell to his hips, a sigh of frustration escaping through his tusks as he looked up and down the line. A minor insignia, the crest of Skingrad, predominantly adorned most of the weapons that had been recovered from their raids. Longswords reigned supreme for the most part, with a hammer, axe or claymore dotted here and there. Perhaps that’s why Isobel had wanted the frames to be made in the first place, they were more trophy cases than weapon stands.

Bahk closed an eye, cocking one of his brows as he drew close to one of the swords. “They’ll wear these things down to a damned nub the way they sharpen them.” He growled, studying the blade emphatically. Running the backs of his fingers down the steel, the sword glistened, fire from the torches dancing in its reflection. It made the Orsimer sick.

“Amateurs, the lot of them! Men who have never held a blade faun over their razor-edges, taking them to the whetstone each day!” He picked it up, blade in hand, catching the sneer awash in his own face. “Dreams of glory blind them from the simple truth, that most of them will die tomorrow.”

Moving over to a torch strapped to one of the tent poles, he inspected it further.

“Maybe the elf could write this one a song,” he teased, “and the pretty boy could dance along with it. By god what f…” Bahk stopped, loosening his grip as he watched as a glob of his own blood drip down the blade. 

“Damn this!” The Orsimer dropped the sword into the dirt below. “What is wrong with me? Why is being here not enough? Why is tonight so different?” He turned away, swatting away an invisible fly before heading over towards a shelf stacked with cloth. Tearing off a strip he wrapped the wound tight, ignoring the stings of pain vying for his attention.

With another deep breath in and out, the giant bounced on his toes, shadowing a few of his hand to hand moves. With a final shake, he turned his attention to the barrel next to him. Bundled together, spears fashioned from scythes huddled like penguins hiding from the cold. Grabbing one by the neck, Bahk removed it, tapping the tip with his finger to test its sharpness. Contrary to the swords, spears could never be whetted enough. What remained of the Counts guard were well armed and armoured, the rebel troops would need to pack a serious punch if they ever hoped to do more than just dent their enemy. 

Bahk inclined his head. Somewhat satisfied with the result, he moved on to the crate alongside the barrel. Dull and lifeless, the box was filled to the brim with axes. The rebels' seizure of the Count’s wood shipment had taken its toll on the weapons.

[i]“Axes first.”[/i] Bahk thought, running a monstrous green finger down the dulled blade of the woodcutters tool. [i]“Axes and then spears.”[/i]

The crate teetered as the Orsimer pulled it onto the corner of its edge, scooping out its contents onto the floor. He then set about piling them neatly next to a stool before taking up a handheld whetstone found on a nearby shelf. Sitting down, Bahk began to grind away.

The gnashing of the sharpener was memorising. A hypnotising monotonous tone, it drew Bahk deep into his own mind. [i]“I lived for years without a spark of anger and now it’s nothing but a stone's throw away. Perhaps this is the will of Malacath.”[/i] He reasoned. [i]“Perhaps he seeks to fill me with the will to find a good death.”[/i] Placing a finished axe to one side, the Orsimer picked up another.

[i]“She would know.”[/i] He thought. [i]“My Zaz always knew.”[/i] His stomach shifted, pulling down on the strings of his heart, threatening to eat it. The whetstone slipped, causing the sharpened blade of the axe to piece the skin of his pinky finger. “Ah you little bastard!” Bahk exclaimed, tossing it to one side.

[i]“Oh you big silly Ogre!”[/i] Her voice was always so smooth, like running hands across silk. [i]“Are you ok?”[/i]

Bahk swiveled on his stool like a child in timeout, hellbent on continuing their tantrum. “Don’t Zaz.” He snapped. “Don’t do that.” Getting up to tear more cloth from the bundle on the shelf, he wrapped [i]another[/i] wound.

[i]“They were just looks you know.” [/i]

Settling back down on the stool, the Orsimer picked up another axe, his face meaner than usual. “What do you mean?” he replied.

[i]“In the meeting. People were just paying attention to your commander's gesture. She nodded, they looked at you. It didn’t mean anything.”[/i] Bahk was always amazed by the tone of her voice. It always managed to walk a line between caring and sternness. It never failed to pierce his thick hide.

“Hm.” He grunted, casting another axe to the side. Grabbing another, the giant ground it that little bit harder.

[i]“And the priest? He was just doing as priests do. Do you chastise the rooster who caws at the sunrise?”[/i]

“Stop this.” His voice was low, hidden under the weight of heavy breath.

[i]“And the mage? She has passion and war is often romanticised by those who have never been privy to it. You know that better than anyone.”[/i]

“And what of the heretic?” Bahk’s comment lashed forth like a whip. “What words of defence do you have for him, huh?”

[i]“You know why he stands in that circle. You know why your commander calls upon all of you. Why she called you all forth tonight and why that meeting was necessary. I know you do. Your father would have -”[/i]

“What?! My father would have what?!” Bahk shouted, his knuckles whitening as the grip around the handle tightened. His eyes widened, adrenaline flooding his system.

[i]“Understood.”[/i]

Bahk let loose the axe, heaving it away from him with all his might. Off it flew through the back of the tent, tearing a gaping hole in the cloth and disappearing into the night. Standing, the giant bellowed, “AND I AM NOT MY FATHER!”

There was no reply. The room stood empty. Not even the equipment moved under the weight of such words. 

“And you… you are not here. Not anymore.”

The weight of a mountain burdened the Orsimer’s shoulders as they fell through the floor. His attention dropped, falling to the ground in front of him as his hands crept into view. Calloused, bruised and bloody, the mer tried to draw his fingers in, attempting to ball his fists. The energy was gone and the anger had melted away. A wind rolled forth through the gap in the tent, caressing the beads of sweat on Bahk’s forehead, cooling him. It beckoned for his attention but he couldn’t bear to look across. Instead he left the tent, ducking out into the moonless night in search of the wayward axe.

Wandering around behind the armoury, Bahk spotted the weapon lodged squarely in the trunk of an especially thick tree. Somberly, the Orsimer approached, stopping just a few feet away. Looming over his head, a long, sturdy looking branch caught his eye. The image of his son swinging in the wind flickered across his mind. Grunting in exhaustion, he pressed on, trudging forward until he reached the base of the tree. Placing a hand on the trunk, the giant was barely able to feel the knots of the bark under the calluses of his hand. 

For a moment Bahk stood there, waiting for the words to come. Beautiful things to weave a tapestry of remembrance for his boy. But there was nothing. No words rolled forth, not even a single tear stained the mer’s cheek. A deep sigh broke free as Bahk pressed his forehead against the tree. The wind behind him shifted, blowing right at his back. There in that instant he could feel them; his wife, his son, his father, all three of them standing before a sea of ghosts, the whole of Orsinium. 

“I’m sorry.” he croaked.

Drawing back, the Orsimer grabbed the handle of the axe with both hands, yanking it free of the trunk. Darkness was all that greeted him as he turned around to head back, the sound of fading chatter playing in the background as the camp packed it in for the night.

Lifting up the weapon, Bahk flipped it back and forth, giving it a final once over.

[i]“Axes are done. Spears are next.”[/i]