Whiterun Hold, Skyrim Province, Tamriel
Fredas, 25th of Evening Star, 4E 201
The Throat of the World
"Wake up," Harry heard a warm voice saying in his ear. "Wake up!" He felt someone insistently nudging at his shoulder. "Wake up, lad, and get out of the snow. You'll catch your death of cold." He sat up, eyes still blurry. He felt something drape around his shoulders. It immediately blocked most of the cold wind that howled around him. The chill had cut right through his emerald green jumper.
"Thanks." He blinked owlishly through his glasses, looking around. He appeared to be on top of a mountain. Snow covered the ground around him. He could feel it melting, soaking through his trousers where he sat. Directly above him, the sun shone clear, but around the mountain, a storm blew fiercely. A tall elderly man in a hooded robe stood beside him. He didn't wear glasses, but his long beard reminded him of Dumbledore. It had a strange-looking knot in it.
"Are you all right?" he asked kindly.
"W-who are you?" Harry said, shivering. A shadow moved over him. He looked up, but he only saw a lone cloud. He stood up with the man's help, staggering in the snowdrift. The fresh, loose-packed snow was slippery, and it was hard to get traction with just his old trainers. The heavy weight of his school bag didn't help.
The man put his hand on his shoulder to steady him. "I am Master Arngeir of the Greybeards, young Breton. And your name?"
"H-harry," he said, teeth still chattering. "Harry Potter."
"Harry? Interesting name," Arngeir mused. "Yes, I can see that. With a name like that, you must be at the center of a lot of trouble."
"I do get into trouble a lot." Harry admitted. He thought about that for a moment. "What would my name have to do with anything?"
"Harry means to harass, you know."
"It's mostly not my fault! Things just tend to happen around me."
"I jest, child. But names do hold power. Let me take you back to High Hrothgar. It is far too cold to stay out here in the elements. A bowl of soup and some warm, spiced mead will do you a world of good."
"High Hrothgar?" Harry asked.
"You've never heard of it?" Arngeir asked. "How strange."
"No," said Harry. "Is it another part of the magical world?" he asked eagerly.
"The magickal world? I suppose it is. Nearly all of Nirn has magicka in one form or another." Arngeir readied a small flame spell in his palm.
"Wow! Can you teach me that?" Harry asked. The word Nirn sounded familiar. Thinking about it, it had featured heavily in that book, but he pushed that thought aside in order to focus on the more important thing at the moment: wandless magic! He thought about casually shooting fireballs at Malfoy. That would make him think twice before being a bully!
Arngeir nodded. "Perhaps." He cleared his throat. "Tell me, Harry: how did you end up on top of the Throat of the World?"
"What's the Throat of the World?" Harry asked.
"It is the mountain upon which you stand, child."
"Oh. I touched a mirror and fell through," Harry said.
"A mirror?" Arngeir repeated, thinking hard. "Hmm, I recall no legend involving mirrors, but I am one man, and Nirn is filled with wondrous things beyond my ken. Come now. We have much to discuss, and the skies will not remain clear for long."
They made it to the courtyard of High Hrothgar. Harry looked at the building in awe. The dark stone building was a stark contrast to the white of the snow covering the mountain. It looked like a small, square castle. Walking over to the edge, he saw the whole world before him. Tiny trees and large bodies of water dotted the landscape. At the far corner, what looked like another castle sat above a tiny walled city. The feeling was heady; it felt almost like flying.
"Come now, Harry." Arngeir said, opening the door. Harry followed him. High Hrothgar had a dimly lit interior. Arngeir led Harry to a small table, passing by three other men with long grey beards. One was on his knees as if in meditation. The other two looked like they were practicing some kind of spell. Arngeir introduced the three of them quickly: Brothers Borri, Einarth, and Wulfgar. They merely nodded as Harry passed by. Arngeir handed him a small metal cup with steam coming from the top and a wooden bowl filled with something that smelled heavenly. "Eat."
Harry did. As the first drops of stew hit his tongue, he realized how hungry he was, and he devoured it in short order. He immediately felt better. He hadn't had anything to eat since the feast at Hogwarts. He reached for his cup and took a sip. It was really warm and burned going down, but it made warmth spread to his toes. The drink tasted a little bit like sour honey, but it was still sweet. He could taste cinnamon in it, but he couldn't identify the other flavors.
"So, Harry. Where are your parents?" Harry looked down at the floor, the food in his stomach turning to lead. It hurt even more because he had so recently seen them. He used his spoon to move some of the vegetables in the bowl around. "I see. An orphan, then."
"Yeah," Harry said very quietly.
"From where do you hail?" Arngeir asked.
"I come from Surrey."
"I have never heard of that village. What province?"
"It's a county of England, near London." When Arngeir didn't respond, Harry continued. "Great Britain? The United Kingdom? Europe?"
"Great Breton?" Arngeir said, puzzled. "That is a name with which I am not familiar." He walked over to the shelf and pulled out a large roll of what looked like parchment. He spread it out on the table. "Can you point it out on the map?"
Harry perused it very carefully. "I don't see it," he said, face turning very pale. "Have you ever heard of Earth?" Harry said, grasping at straws.
"No, the word is unfamiliar to me, except as a reference to soil. By your tone, I take it that is not what you meant." Arngeir stroked his beard. "Then it truly is as Paarthurnax said."
"Paarthurnax?" Harry said, curious.
"He is the Grandmaster of the Greybeards. He's the one that found you."
"I don't remember seeing him," Harry said slowly.
Arngeir nodded. "You wouldn't have. He is very private. He said you appeared from miiraak, a portal. When he saw you were a child, he came to me. It is very curious that you are here. Perhaps Kyne had a hand in it."
Harry started to feel a little fuzzy. "You said that word before. What's a grey beard?"
"We are the Tongues, Masters of the Voice."
"Tongues and voices and throats?" Harry was a little confused, but the naming reminded him of Hogwarts and Hogsmeade, just a little. He felt pleasantly warm and happy.
"Ah, of course you are unfamiliar with the terms. I shall endeavor to explain. Do you know what a Shout is? Or in the dragon language, a thu'um?
"Dragons have their own language?" Harry said excitedly. "Hagrid mentioned them, but he never said they spoke, just that they guarded the bank. I think I may have seen one, once. And Ron's brother, Charlie. He works with dragons, studying them."
"They do," said Arngeir with his infinite patience. "It is from them that the Voice comes. For dragons, their Voice is intrinsic—pardon, Harry, they are born with it—and they need not be taught language. Mankind had no Voice until Kyne, wife of Shor and the Divine aspect of the Wind and Sky, gave them the gift. It is said that she breathed Nords into life here at the Throat of the World. Later, when all the world suffered under the tyranny of the dragons, she again gave them the Voice, so that mankind would be able to defeat Alduin the World-Eater, the dragon king."
"So a Shout isn't when you yell really loud?" Harry asked.
"No. It's more like a concentrated spell of your essence: breath, voice, and life." Seeing Harry's blank look, he just shook his head and continued. "Perhaps it might be better to show you. This is the Shout of Unrelenting Force." Arngeir walked to the center room. He breathed in deeply, "FUS!" A visible burst of air came from his mouth and knocked over a jug.
Harry thought it was brilliant. "Could I learn that?"
"It takes years of study to master the Voice," Arngeir said. "If we cannot find a way to for you to return home, it is very likely you will remain here at the monastery, and so you will learn the Way of the Voice. We cannot offer you any childish pursuit, but you will be safe here. Skyrim is not a place for one so young."
Harry wasn't so sure. He had done many things on his own over the years. The Dursleys had taught him one thing. He knew how to take care of himself. Still, it would be absolutely amazing to learn something like that. There was nothing like it even at Hogwarts. He doubted he would be here that long, but he could learn a few things while he was here.
"Fus in the common tongue means 'force.' You must meditate on the meaning, as you saw Brother Borri doing earlier."
Harry concentrated on the word of the spell Arngeir used. He concentrated on how it made him feel. He thought about force. Uncle Vernon and Dudley used force to get their way. How Hagrid knocked in the door at the Hut-on-the-Rock. He thought about the troll rampaging through Hogwarts after Hermione, how it crushed everything with overwhelming force.
But force wasn't just physical. He thought about how Snape talked down to his students. He thought about the Dursleys forcing him into his cupboard and trying to make him afraid. How they forced him to do chores with words and threats. He thought about his own force; his determination to succeed against all odds. Force wasn't always about who was the strongest. He and Ron had not only survived against the troll, they'd defeated it with a first year spell. Force was simply making your will stronger than the other person's was. That's why he wasn't afraid of Snape or Malfoy.
He was so focused he didn't hear Arngeir's gasp of surprise. He had his eyes closed, so he didn't see the wispy beams of light that surrounded him. For a brief moment, his scar pained him terribly. It almost felt like he was fighting himself. Suddenly, he felt something bubble inside him. He didn't know where it came from, but it was there all the same. It had to come out, one way or another. He heard the sound of thunder and the harsh chanting of song. He reached for the knowledge and pulled it close to him. He knew. "FUS!"
"Dovahkiin," Arngeir whispered. The ground shuddered. "Dragonborn. But how is that possible?"
"It was an accident! I didn't mean to!"
Arngeir looked at him with eyes full of wonder. "Two in the space of a single generation…That I have lived to see such times! The need must be dire, indeed!"
Edited 14/2/2, with much thanks to Selias for catching my massive research failure.
