Mikhael,

I'm not going to apologize, nor am I going to tell you that you were right. I see no purpose in telling you what you already know. I will admit that I overreacted about the damn sword.
I have my reasons, however.
You have said in the past that you respect my considered opinion. It is after careful thought that I realize what, exactly, my problem is with your apparent obsession with Callous' sword—or really any sword.
I'm not sure where along the line you decided that you were worthless without a lump of steel in your hands. Frankly, though I hate to contradict a belief that you appear to hold dear to your heart, you're not. Perhaps it's an orcish prejudice showing in you. I don't know. All I know is that when you have that three- or four-foot lump of steel in your hands you do become worthless to us, because you seem to think it means you should be in the thick of the fray.
Your value to us, Mikhael, is far beyond what any of we grunt fighters could ever give to the group. You are, as I see it, the most potent member of this group.
It is my considered opinion that you are the brains, and in some ways the very heart, of our operation—when you fall, plans truly go to hell and it is difficult for us to recover and use our energies effectively. You are the only person in the Company that we all listen to and obey. Even Simon.
So yes, you do belong in the rear, as it were, but not because you're weak, worthless, or need protecting. You belong out of the line of fire so that we have a position to fall back to, so that you are safe to plan for us, as any general for his troops.