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The Way of the Voice
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The late evening sun peeked through the snowy tree-tops of Hjaalmarch as Delphine emerged from the ancient Nordic crypt. Ustengrav was massive as crypts went, surpassing even the burial caves of Vvardenfell. But Delphine had never had any more trouble in caves than she had in woodlands. Ustengrav was not a Dragon Cult cave, thank the gods, and so there had been no draugar to hinder her; but other sorts of reanimated dead plagued any crypt of such age. Skeletal remains, likely brought up long ago by some fool necromancer, had wandered the halls of the ancient burial sight of Jurgen Windcaller. Violent and merciless, walking skeletons were less intelligent than draugar; but they were still dangerous. They did not protect and maintain the crypt; they simply attacked anything they saw.
Thank Stendarr I never let myself get out of practice with my blade, she thought. Reanimated skeletons were not terribly difficult to kill; you just needed to dismantle them piecemeal, which took time and some amount of skill when swarmed.
She patted the curved, rounded shape in her satchel. The Horn of Jurgen Windcaller had been precisely where she had expected it to be - atop the Nordic hero's sarcophagus, in a hall that was quite glorious, even considering the Nords' obsession with honoring their dead.
Hers was a strange plan, she was willing to admit; it might not work at all. But she had little other choice. She had to meet with Aleron on her own terms: not as a petitioner, but from a position of strength. She already had information he wanted, information about his father and Gregory; but that alone would not be sufficient if the Greybeards poisoned him against the Blades. Getting to the Horn first would keep him aware that she knew more than he did, and making him seek her out for it would keep him on the defensive. She just hoped that she was right in assuming he would need it.
She was aware that it was unlikely anyone but the Greybeards themselves knew more of the history and practices of the mysterious Nordic cult. Theirs had been one of the many secret histories she'd been forced to learn during her Blades training many years ago. Anything connected to the Dragonborn had been considered top priority back then. She still remembered the old Nord, Esbern, who'd been in charge of her tutelage, rambling his way through lessons on the previous Dragonborns, and how they had been identified. It was known, even back then, that the Blades were not as connected to the Emperor as they had once been. After the death of Martin Septim, the Blades had continued to defend the Empire, if for nothing other than something to do; but since the rise of the first Titus Mede, the protection of the Emperor had fallen to the Penitus Oculatus. The real work, then and now, was finding the Dragonborn.
"The Dragonborn has always been the charge of the Blades," she could remember Esbern saying. "That is why the first Blades came to Tamriel, in the First Era - to find Reman Cyrodiil, who was dragonborn. And when they found him - when he defeated their Akaviri Invasion at Pale Pass - they pledged themselves to him, even before he was an Emperor. When Tiber Septim was revealed as another dragonborn emperor, hundreds of years after Reman's empire was finished, the Blades rushed to his service."
She could still remember the old Nord's face when she had argued that the Dragonborn was only ever important to keep the Dragonfires lit. His gray eyebrows had tried to climb atop his head. She sighed. Silly to think of him as old, you fool woman. You've probably lived longer than he ever did, by now. He had been perhaps sixty then, just before the Thalmor murdered him and nearly all the other Blades. She was sixty-two, now. An old woman, and the last hope to find the Dragonborn to set him toward his destiny. She believed in the Dragonborn's need, now, whatever she had thought then. Someone had to stop these cursed dragons.
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The exterior of Ustengrav was similar to other older Nordic crypts, but less extravagant in comparison to the great Dragon Cult barrows. Often the Dragon Cult had built their burial temples into the sides of mountains, with grand courtyards. Strangely, the barrows of the First Empire Nords were built beneath flatter ground, under domes strikingly similar to the ancient Dragon Mounds. The Mounds were the resting places of the bones of dragons, buried by the dissident cultists after the Dragon Cult was overthrown in the early First Era. The domes of the Nordic crypts were mostly decayed now, fallen in on themselves after thousands of years.
Delphine climbed the spiral stone stairs that wrapped around the cylinder-shaped hole in the earth to the broken edges of the Ustengrav entrance.
"Looks like we have a little adventurer, eh." The voice was that of a Nord, gruff and deep, with that northern drawl that seemed to come straight out of old Atmora. It spoke to the origins of men, to ancient nobility. Seeing the owner of that voice, though, spoke more of the lowest of men.
Bandits!
"Are you sure?" another bandit - a Nord woman - said. "She fits right in with her surroundings here. Maybe she's just another old relic, too stupid to realize she's already dead."
Delphine loosened her sword in its scabbard. She doubted these few bandits would be much trouble, half-starved as they looked; but they did have high ground and numbers. Best to be careful. She dropped herself down into a fighting stance, one foot on the step above the other, but still did not pull the blade. Fools sometimes thought an undrawn blade was not yet dangerous; but every Blades agent spent their first weeks of swordsmanship lessons just learning to draw the slender Akaviri blade. From this stance, she could draw and strike faster than the blink of an eye. Huzei, the Argonian who'd been her instructor, could have had the blade re-sheathed in that time.
The first bandit stepped down toward her, blade not even drawn. Probably he thought he could just overpower her. She sprung forward, bringing out her blade in an underhanded grip to slash at the man as she jumped down from the stairs. Skin, bone, muscle, cartilage, brain; nothing so much as slowed the movements of the blade. The gout of blood sprayed away from her as she landed.
She looked up at two more bandits atop the entry mound, a man and a woman, both Nords. The woman howled and rushed down the stairs with drawn sword. She was mad with rage and barely capable of managing the steps. Delphine sniffed contemptuously before sending a dagger into the woman's throat. She never reached the bottom stair before falling and dying on the entry floor, gagging out her last moments through a throat filled with blood.
The last man looked down at her uncertainly. He was thin, unshaven, and as ragged-looking as any man she'd ever seen. The dirt on his face above his flaxen beard was streaked with tears.
"We was just lookin' for somewheres to stay outta the cold, miss."
Delphine laughed out loud, and above the man looked even more injured. "Bandits wouldn't let me leave with any salvage from in there. And don't even try to pretend you're hunters or travelers."
The man sniffed. "No. We probly would of robbed you. But you'd of left with yer skin."
"Now I'll leave with all that's mine."
The man shook his head. "No ma'am. You won't. See I'm a good shot with this here crossbow." He waved the instrument at her lazily. "But I'd still rather not have to kill you. You just leave yer satchel and yer sword, and go back in that crypt. I'll come down and get 'em once yer inside. Then I'll let you leave."
"No," Delphine told him flatly. "What I'm doing is too important. I'll take my chances."
The man just sighed, then raised the crossbow. "Then I'm sorry."
Delphine stood sideways to the man, making herself a smaller target. Her sword she held flat against her back, the way Huzei had taught her. The bandit jerked as he loosed the bolt. At that movement, Delphine stepped to the side and slashed, just in time to cut the steel-and-wood bolt in two. It was a pointless flair, cutting the bolt - and not a little lucky, she admitted to herself - but it shocked the bandit enough that he didn't react when she threw her curved sword at him. It took him in the chest, and as he backed out of her view, she rushed up the stairs to make sure it had been a killing blow.
When she reached the top of the stairs, she saw the man lying on his back, blinking at the tree-tops above.
She knelt down beside him.
"Damnedest thing I ever saw," he mumbled.
"You should have let me leave, you fool."
"Yep."
She tore her sword loose, and he shuddered from the pain, then passed out. He would die quickly enough, but he would be unconscious when he went. That was better than the alternative, she knew. Men trying to cling to life as it slipped from them always looked so desperate and horrified.
She wiped the blade on the man's cloak, then sheathed it. It would be a long walk back to Morthal. And from there, she would have to take a carriage to Whiterun, then walk to Riverwood.
She patted the satchel again as she started to walk southward. This had better have been worth the trouble.
"Why have you come?" the old man asked as he stepped into the light.
He was a Nord, as was expected. Aleron could not see his hair under the dark hood that he wore, but his long beard was silvery-blond and tied into a knot beneath his chin. His face was lined and weathered. He wore fur-trimmed gray robes that overlapped, giving almost the impression of a man wrapped in his bed-linens, if not for the ceremonial magnificence of the garments' cut. He stooped, but not so much that it made him short. His hands folded in front of him, he waited patiently for his answer.
Aleron tried to understand the question. He had come because they called him. But the man sounded as though his arrival was unexpected. Strange. He worked moisture into his mouth. "I'm answering your summons, master."
"Summons?" A look of puzzlement spread across the old man's face, before acceptance. "Ah, yes. We forget, sometimes, that our ways are not truly known, even among the people of Skyrim." He smiled, something that seemed at once sad and beautiful in his creased features. "But come. Warm yourselves by the fire. Rid yourselves of your encumbrances. My brothers will care for you while we speak."
Three other men, as old as or older than the first, came and silently took from the group all of their supplies and burdens. The group followed the first Graybeard over to a roaring brazier, and Aleron felt the warmth find its way into his bones.
The old man spoke, and Aleron was surprised at its clarity over the sound of the fire. He did not shout, but is voice was deep, and it carried over distraction.
"I am Master Arngeir, the speaker for the Graybeards. And you are the Dragonborn. But that is a title. What is your name?"
"Aleron."
Arngeir looked pensive for a moment, then spoke. "An old name. The Imperials might have their own meaning - something to do with an eagle, I think - but to the ancient Nedes that name was 'knight' or 'protector'. Both apt, in a way." He looked disheveled then, if only for a moment. "Forgive me. To the point. Time for all of that later. We did not summon you. We acknowledged your coming. We declared to the world that you are dragonborn. We are not ready to accept you as Ysmir, or Stormcrown, but we cannot deny that you are dragonborn. We all felt the convergence of power when you absorbed Mirmulnir's soul."
"You knew that dragon?" Erik asked suddenly, speaking up from behind Aleron's right shoulder.
"Knew him?" Arngeir's face seemed almost frightened. "We did not. No. His soul was… dark. He served his own lust for dominion, as all of his kin once did. We know that they have returned. Those that have returned, those who will come, all of these are like him; twisted, like the dragons of old who set themselves to rule mankind in the dawn of time. But such souls are not our concern. Mirmulnir did not worship Kyne. And so we knew him not. Dragons are not our concern. Though they may be yours."
Aleron tried to keep up. The old man talked in circles. Or, at least he talked in no path understandable to Aleron. The Dragonborn was clearly their concern, but dragons were not? He looked around at Mjoll and Erik and Lydia, all of whom seemed to wait on him. "What does it mean that I am dragonborn?" he finally asked.
"Ah. Well, it means that you are of the Dragon blood. Akatosh has blessed you. You have the soul of a dragon, but it is more than that. One dragon cannot absorb the soul of another; but you can, as Tiber Septim could, and many others throughout the thousands of years since Akatosh first gave of himself to man. You have the soul of a dragon and the blood of Akatosh. Such things are given only to those of great destiny."
Aleron sighed. The blood of Akatosh? Madness. "How could I have the blood of a god?"
"You are not a god." The old man shook his head. "That is not the way of it. All dragons have the blood of Akatosh. They are his creations. But mixed with that of mortals, the blood of Akatosh is made something very different. Surely you know of Alessia, the Slave Queen."
"Yes. She began the first Cyrodiilic Empire after freeing the Colovians and Nibenese from their elven masters. She was blessed by Akatosh with the Amulet of Kings that lit the Dragonfires."
"She was also dragonborn. Not necessarily the first, but an early dragonborn. Her soul and her blood allowed her to light the Dagonfires and cut the Ayleid elves off from the armies of Oblivion. Without that aid, the Ayleids fell, and the great Empire of Cyrodiil was born. As I said, great purpose of destiny."
"But what does that have to do with you? With the worship of Kynareth?"
The old Nord winced at the use of the Imperial name, but he did not mention it. "The Thu'um is the gift of Kyne to man. It is the essence of speech, and it is ancient. It is also the language of Dragons - perhaps even the language of the gods, themselves. It was first exclusive to the dragons, but Kyne was merciful, and gave it to man as well. As it is the language of dragons, it is the language of your soul. That is why you can speak the words, and use them in power. We heard your Thu'um - your 'FUS' when you Shouted in the west. We can teach you more words of power, if you wish."
"Words of power?"
"You are not such a fool. You know of what I speak; but you fear it. Words of power are those words that, in the dragon tongue, will manifest themselves into the world. Their essence is so strong as to be… intrinsic. Self-sustaining. When a dragon - or dragonborn - speaks these words, they become their own meaning. A Shout of FUS becomes force. This can be learned, with many years of practice, by those not of the dragon blood. Such is our way, as the gift of Kyne. But dragons do this naturally, as you do."
Aleron thought for a long moment. "So your connection to the Dragonborn is… coincidental?"
"Yes. But only if you desire it to be. We are bound by oath to teach you, if you would learn. Our order has taught others of the Dragon blood, long ago. Hjalti Early-Beard was the last, many hundreds of years ago, before he became Tiber Septim, and long before he became the god Talos."
Aleron pondered. What could he learn from these men? He did not want or need power. He was not Tiber Septim; he would not unite all of Tamriel, nor become a god. But something needed to be done about the dragons. He'd watched Mirmulnir toy with men as he slaughtered. An army could bring down a dragon, surely, but it would cost so many lives. And Arngeir spoke of more to come. How many would die? And what of that massive black dragon that had destroyed Helgen? There had been half an army there, at least; most had died. And he had killed one almost alone. If he could protect men from the dragons - if that was his destiny - then he needed to understand.
"I am ready to learn, Master Arngeir."
Teldryn Sero woke in a cold sweat. Five days in a row, now, he'd had the dream with the stone and the invasive chanting. After the second night, he had gone down to the little peninsula west of Raven Rock to see the Earth Stone. It was a short walk, just a few minutes around the inlet that separated the Stone from the city. To his shock, Bralsa Drel and Rirns Llervu had been erecting some sort of scaffolding beside the thing. He had tried to ask them what they were doing, why they were there.
"Here in his shrine," Bralsa had told him. The look on the meras face had been that of sheer terror, but she had continued the litany any time he spoke to her, and she had never stopped working.
The next day, Teldryn went again, and that time there was no expression at all on their enthralled faces.
Today, Teldryn was determined not to go down to the Earth Stone. He would spend the day drinking if he could; but he would need a job soon, and prospective clients would be wary of hiring someone they thought a drunk. So instead he went to speak with Glover Mallory. He emerged from the Retching Netch before the sun had crested the Bulwark to the west. The great wall that guarded Raven Rock was high, and it caused a late sunrise here so close under its shadow. He walked the wide streets of the small city, passing the traditional Redoran-style homes built to resemble the shells of massive insects, as well as some of the more modern homes built either by Nords or by more progressive Dunmer. Near the center of the city, the market square was empty this time of morning, but it would be bustling soon enough. Mallory's workshop was at the southern end of the square.
The Breton was an interesting man. A blacksmith by trade, and well thought of by the city's residents, he was the picture of simplicity. But beneath that, known to very few including Teldryn, Mallory was a thief. Well, he called himself a thief anyway. Teldryn wasn't sure the man would ever steal anything from the Raven Rock citizens. He certainly didn't know where Mallory could find time for thieving; the blacksmith spent all day, every day, doing just that: blacksmithing. Perhaps things would slow down now that the ash spawn had stopped attacking, and items would start going missing all over the city. Teldryn doubted that, though. Even with less armor to repair for the Redoran Guard, the mine opening again would likely create just as much extra work.
Lleril Morvayn, the House Redoran Councilor on Solstheim and de facto leader of Raven Rock, was practically giddy at the prospects the newly reopened mine would bring in. The city had been barely worthy of the title for some decades, ever since the mine dried up. Recently, though, a passing refugee from the Argonian-contested south had found a previously untouched section of the mine containing large deposits of ebony ore. What had been for twenty years an insignificant posting for a Redoran Councilor was about to become a booming industry again. It put smiles on the faces around the city, and, hopefully, it would put money in every pocket.
Glover Mallory was hammering away at the glowing red head of a pickaxe, even now.
"Ho, Mallory."
The Breton raised his eyes for the slightest moment without changing the rhythm of his tapping. "Morning, Teldryn. Little early for you, isn't it?"
Teldryn frowned. How did the man know when he normally woke? They were friends - as good a friends as could be found, come to think of it - but the man had no reason to know his schedule. Maybe he really was a thief. "Trouble sleeping, the last few nights. I think I might be going mad, honestly."
Mallory looked anxious. He even paused his tapping. "Trouble sleeping, eh?" He bent back to his work, pointedly keeping his eyes from Teldryn's. "Whole city seems to be going a bit mad, these days. It's not just all the new people here to work the mine. Something's… wrong. I can't say what. Everyone just seems so tired."
"You think everyone's having trouble sleeping?"
"No one else has mentioned it. But they look tired, to me. And scared, maybe. I can't figure it out, though. By midday, everyone seems totally normal. Everybody smiles. But in the morning, when they should be the most rested, everyone in this city looks like you do now. It's damned mystifying."
Teldryn looked west, though he couldn't see the Stone through the buildings. "Bralsa and Rirns have taken to building something around that stone monument to the west."
Glover so intently kept his head down that he might as well have gasped in horror. "That Skaal standing stone? I suppose Adril must have them building something to make it look more Dunmer. You know, getting the last vestiges of Nord history whitewashed over."
Adril was Lleril Morvayn's second, and it would have been a plausible thought - Bralsa and Rirns being out-of-work laborers - but for the strange behavior. It occurred to Teldryn that there had been something familiar about what they'd said to him, but he could not place it now. Strange. It was like there was a hole in his memory. Not like when something was forgotten; it was more than that. It was like he could point to the spot in his mind where something had been removed.
"Perhaps I'll go up there and ask them about it."
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The day went by without any prospects of work. There was little travel outside the city in winter; even on the ash-warmed southern half of the island, it was too cold for any Dunmer to be happy long away from a fire.
His people were not as soft as other elves, to be sure. The Dunmer had grown used to snows in the thousands of years since Saint Veloth led the Chimer people from the heartlands of Tamriel, over the mountains, into Morrowind, where they later became the cursed Dunmer, their skin turned the color of ash and their eyes turned red. True, most preferred the temperate climate of Morrowind's southern mainland; But those lands had been disputed for two hundred years. The Argonian invasions had forced most of the Dunmer people northward, and they had adapted. They were a hardy people, not like the pampered Altmer of Alinor, and certainly nothing like the barbaric tree-lovers, the Bosmer of Valenwood.
Still, the cold of this northern island kept most adventuring on hold.
Teldryn did go to see Bralsa and Rirns, and found two of the Redoran Guard assisting them with the construction of some sort of shrine. That made it obvious that House Redoran had commissioned the work, but none of the builders knew which of the Reclamations the shrine was intended to venerate. Certainly it was meant for Beothia or Mephala; Azura was never referred to as He, but the other two Daedric Princes had been seen as male at one time or another. Still, it was odd that none of them seemed to know. He put it out of his mind, though. Nothing important.
The Retching Netch that evening had been lively, full of the new-come miners from mainland Morrowind and Skyrim. A fight had broken out, but that was common in any miner's corner club. The dancing had been as raucous as the fighting, and Teldryn found himself wondering why he felt so nervous. Is it something Mallory said this morning? he'd thought to himself. I must be drunk!
He settled in early, feeling not so much tired as convinced he would need a good rest for some task he had in the morning. What that was, he couldn't say. That was odd. He disliked not having strict control over his thoughts. It unnerved him when memories and thoughts seemed to slip away like mist.
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That world shall cease to be.
Teldryn woke, gasping. He was on the floor of his room in the Retching Netch, wrapped in his blankets so that he could not raise his arms. He was panicked, for some reason. The dream. He'd had it again. Why hadn't he done anything about this? He had planned to talk to Councilor Morvayn about the construction at the Earth Stone. What had kept him?
He struggled out of his bedding, tossed it back onto the bed. He dressed himself quickly as he tried to remember the previous day's events. He had spoken to Glover Mallory in the morning. After that, the day seemed to blend together into sensations and half-remembered intentions.
He exited the Netch into the cold night air, suddenly very awake as an easterly wind crashed toward the Bulwark. Crossing wide streets and small squares, Teldryn thought in a fury. He needed answers, and there was only one place he was going to get them this time of night. It was just a matter of how far he would go to get them.
The road leading west from Raven Rock was a simple, packed-dirt road with a generous layer of ash from Red Mountain's constant eruptions. In under an hour, he circled the inlet along that road to find himself staring in horror at the Earth Stone.
Inside a great earthen bowl that was worked into the ground and filled with a dark liquid, the Earth Stone stood against the ocean and the distant mountains of northern Morrowind. The moonlight shining on the Stone's markings shone green, and there seemed to be a palpable mist surrounding the area. There was a huge scaffolding now, and at least twenty mer and mera crowded its three levels to paint markings of some angular script on the outside of a curving spike of stonework that had been built at the eastern end of the Stone. Another ten mer were hauling stones in a line going out to the north.
Running up to the mass of elves, Teldryn was not shocked to see that they were all citizens of Raven Rock. He grabbed the nearest citizen, who turned out to be Rirns Llervu. He shook the mer, but nothing more than a blank expression reached his face. He did not resist, though. He only stood, dropping the stone he'd been carrying, and seemed to wait for Teldryn to be finished manhandling him.
"What is going on here?" he demanded of the dazed mer.
"Here in his shrine," Rirns started, but Teldryn slapped him as hard as he could across the face.
"Damn it, you fetcher! Snap out of it!" He slapped the mer again, but it did not do any good. He beat Rirns till he fell and bruises began to show, purple against the dark gray of his skin. "What is happening on this cursed island?"
Teldryn howled in frustration. None of the citizens laboring at the Stone even turned their heads. Some muttered the litany he had heard over and over again in his sleep; but none stopped working. He had to do something. Had to find whatever was doing this. But he couldn't think of where to start. And if he could find the cause, was there any guarantee he could stop something that was able to enthrall so many against their wills?
He sat down in a heap, his head in his hands. What hope was there to stop this? He needed to leave. He had to get out of this city. Off of this island. Nothing was holding him here, really. What few friends he had could be warned, before it was too late.
He looked up, and he nearly started to cry. Glover Mallory was atop the scaffolding, etching runes into the tip of the curved spire.
Spring arrived in southern Skyrim. It was not spring as other lands knew. Not the mild, wet spring of a Colovian First Seed. Not the dry, cool spring of Northern High Rock. Not the sultry spring growing season of the lower continent. Spring in southern Skyrim was the slow melting of the winter snows, the harsh bite lifting just a bit from the cold winds, like the long yawn of a lazy morning holding off wakefulness. More than two miles above the flatter land to the west, High Hrothgar looked out over the Tundra of Whiterun Hold, defying any concept of spring.
The winter had been a harsh one, with snows on the mountain that forced the residents of High Hrothgar into what seemed a cave-dwelling life. What had at first been a beautiful sanctuary made of dark stone became a prison, keeping Aleron and his companions inside the walls as much as keeping out the cold. Great stores of meal and wine were their only provisions, and light was often the greatest source of joy.
There was, however, much time for study, and Aleron had found himself almost from the beginning wrapped up in many a book he had never come across before. Such historical works as Fafnir's Theories on Dragons, with Records From the Courts of Wayrest and Whiterun and The Battle of Sancre Tor, an account of Talos' remarkable assault on the mighty stronghold of the Breton/Nord alliance in the late Second Era, both fascinated him. He reread Jastal's Sovngarde, a Reexamination, and Junius' Shezarr and the Divines.
The book that left him most perplexed, however, was Prior Madrine's The Book of the Dragonborn. A compilation of knowledge from a former member of the Order of Talos at Weynon Priory during the reign of Pelagius Septim IV, some three hundred years ago, it begged more questions than answers given about what exactly being dragonborn entailed. There had been a copy at Weynon Piory when Aleron was there, but he had never read the book, himself. It had always seemed a pointless field of study for modern times. Madrine speculated that the dragon blood was often hereditary, but that it was not necessarily so, and in numerous places that being dragonborn had hidden meanings that extended beyond the lighting of the Dragofires that once had signified the legitimate ruling emperor. The most interesting passage, though, was the section concerning the little-known Prophecy of the Dragonborn:
When misrule takes its place at the eight corners of the world
When the Brass Tower walks and Time is reshaped
When the thrice-blessed fail and the Red Tower trembles
When the Dragonborn Ruler loses his throne, and the White Tower falls
When the Snow Tower lies sundered, kingless, bleeding
The World-Eater wakes, and the Wheel turns upon the Last Dragonborn.
After some thought, Aleron could guess at parts of the prophecy. Clearly the White Tower referred to the White-Gold Tower in the center of the Imperial City, and so the Dragonborn Ruler referred to the line of Septims. The thrice-blessed were likely the three dead gods of the Dunmer Tribunal, whose power had failed some time before the Oblivion Crisis, making the Red Tower likely to be Red Mountain on Vvardenfell. The Snow Tower could certainly mean Skyrim, as they were now sundered, kingless, and bleeding. He could only guess at what the Brass Tower might be, but as the prophecy's other lines seemed to progress chronologically, he assumed that it was a realized foretelling of sometime before the fall of the Tribunal.
And yet even with all of that known, he had no idea what to do about any of it. Was he to face this Alduin, whenever he appeared? He hoped not. Alduin seemed to be a dragon god of some kind, apparently powerful enough to devour the world. Perhaps Alduin was simply a term referring to all dragons, and thus World-Eater was allusion to the destruction of the world of men by dragons. But dragons had ruled man once already, without destroying the world - or so said Arngeir.
"So when exactly did this Dragon War happen?" Aleron huddled beside the fire, staring horrified at Arngeir as the old Nord let his hood fall back and lifted his face to the frigid wind whipping over the mountain. Sitting on the bottom step coming down into the courtyard, he seemed not to need the fire. "I have never heard anything of the sort before. All I know of the history of man before the first Empire is the coming of Ysgrammor."
The old Nord sighed in a very patient way, his eyes as serene as ever. "You know far more than that. You know that the Nedes were enslaved by the elves of Cyrodiil and High Rock. You know that even after Ysgrammor came from Atmora with his Five Hundred Companions, it was hundreds of years before Harald, the first High King, ruled a united Skyrim. It was from Atmora that the dragons came, though not as conquerors. The Atmorans worshipped many forms of created beings as avatars of the gods. But sometime not long after the Return, the Dragon Cult subdued and destroyed all the others. This pleased the dragons, who became as gods themselves, ruling over Skyrim and all those men of the Return.
"But as the First Era dawned, change was in the wind. Man had tried to defy the dragons before, and failed; but with the Thu'um and the aid of a servant of Kyne, the people of Skyrim successfully crippled the Dragon Cult in a war that lasted more than a hundred years. And so by the days of Harald's youth, the Dragon Cult was destroyed and the dragons themselves were scattered and leaderless, their numbers dwindling."
"And Harald built an Empire out of the ashes." It made sense, as Aleron thought of it. It accounted for the utter lack of information on early First Era Nords in comparison to other men: while the Bretons, Colovians, and Nibenese overcame their slave-masters, the Nords destroyed theirs, and presumably all of their records. "Why is none of this ever mentioned in the official histories?"
"You see, you do have a quick mind." Arngeir smiled at him. "I was a historian once, myself… or, I was training as one. It was that very question that brought me here forty years ago. My family moved from Whiterun to Bruma when I was a child. When I took an interest in history, I began to study abroad under the tutelage of a man named Castus. I was shocked when I found that my mentor had almost no knowledge of Skyrim in the time between the Night of Tears and the First Empire. It was then that I became aware that the Dragon War is obscure rumor even among the learned in High Rock, and almost totally unknown in Cyrodiil. When I told my mentor of what I had heard as a boy, of the dragons and their cult overthrown by the Nords, he dismissed it as myth. You see, there had never been any records to substantiate the millennia of oral history about the dragons and their cult. And so I came here to prove him wrong.
"Sadly, even here the written records of the war date back only some two thousand years to the time of Reman II. I found a new calling here, though, after I realized that the mysteries of historical study could not compare to the worship of Kyne."
Aleron gripped at an unruly corner of his cloak, pulling it back around to keep out the cold. "And what does that entail, worshipping Kyne?"
The old man smiled at the Nordic naming of the Goddess of Air. "You are not of our order. You are a worshipper of Talos, of blood and victory. Our ways would not please you. Why do you wish to know them?"
"I thought you might want me to is all. You've taught me so much of the Thu'um, these months, I thought perhaps you would want to influence how I use it."
"That is not ours to influence. Not with the Dragonborn, in any case. Your destiny is your own. Our role in it is only to teach you of your gift." The old Nord pulled up his hood and stood from the steps where he had been sitting. "Come. We will learn more of the Thu'um."
Arngeir led the way into the outer stone courtyard of High Hrothgar, where the wind was almost unbearable. All around, the open space was covered still with thick snow and ice. To the east, the mountain rose to blot out the sky and dizzy the senses with its unbelievable height. To the west, the sky itself loomed as the courtyard ended in a cliff overlooking the Tundra. They stopped under a large stone gate that seemed to lead nowhere, only a hundred feet or so from the edge of the cliff.
"You know now that the rotmulaag, words of power, are grouped into threes, forming Shouts, or Thu'umme. You have learned RO and DAH to balance and focus your force, FUS. You have learned YOL TOOR SHUL and FO KRAH DIIN to Shout fire and ice at your enemies. You have learned SU GRAH DUN to speed your movements in battle, and TIID KLO UL to slow time itself in your presence."
"I have tried to work hard."
"And you have. What you have learned in months would likely take more than ten years for a common man. And even for you I think it has been nearly too much, too fast. The toll on your mind, to have accepted so much in so short a time, has been great. But we think you are ready for one more Thu'um."
Arngeir knelt down into the snow and whispered "YOL" at the ground beneath him. Snow and ice melted away to reveal black stone like that of the temple walls.
And in the stone, deep but thin, letting off a bluish smoke that rose and dissipated in the cold:
WULD - a spinning column of air, rushing forward, pulling him, propelling him through the air like a leaf in the wind.
NAH - violent intensity, a fury so potent as to be felt writhing under the skin, condensing and directing motion like the narrowing of a river into rapids.
KEST - a great summer storm, with winds shredding forests and tearing the limbs off of trees.
Aleron collapsed into the snow, clutching a head that seemed ready to split open. The world around him did not want to stay still, and so he closed his eyes. The sensation of motion, motion of such speed as to flay the flesh from his bones, tried desperately to realize itself behind his lids.
He looked up to see the doors of the temple a hundred yards or so away. "WULD NAH KEST!"
The world seemed to shift around him, and he was driven through a column of air with the fury of a tempest. For the briefest of moments it was as though he were flying.
He came to rest with his hand on the great stone door that he had been eyeing when he spoke. He gasped for air, and fought the urge to faint. Behind him, he felt rather than heard Arngeir repeat his Thu'um, and with a ripple of his voluminous robes, the old Nord was standing beside him, just as calm as if he'd slowly walked the distance.
"Well done, Dragonborn. Now you should rest for some days before exerting yourself any further. We will speak again when you are feeling revived."
"What is wrong with him?" Mjoll asked, worried more than she dared admit about the weakness of Aleron since the morning before when he had spoken with Arngeir in the courtyard. She had needed to wait for Arngeir to finish his meditations - the other Greybeards refused to speak - which had taken most of the morning.
"He has accepted too many violent words, and so his mind is troubled. He is strong, though; I have every confidence that he will recover in a few days."
Mjoll frowned. That didn't make any sense. "He's been sleeping for a full day. I've tried to wake him - don't look at me like that! He needs to eat. Drink. And what do you mean about violent words? What should that matter?"
"When he learns a Word of Power, he takes that Word into himself, its very essence writing itself onto his soul. Violent Words trouble the soul. His mind is adjusting to the trauma."
"I don't understand why violence should trouble his soul. He's a good man. Any violence he uses will be righteous."
The old man sighed, then smiled at her. "Come with me, outside, if you will."
They walked in dim silence through the halls of High Hrothgar, the torch-lit walls seeming to drink in the light. The old priest ambled, really. Mjoll had never met anyone quite so patient as these old men. They were all old, though Arngeir was surely the least so - the others seemed ancient beyond any Nord she'd ever known, with faces lined like oak bark and always somber. In many ways, they did not seem Nords at all. Nords, even the old, were not quiet, sober people. Nords were fighters. Nords were shouters.
Yet these were the men who'd taught Talos? Talos, who had shouted down the doors of Sancre Tor. Well, certainly not these men - but men of this order, hundreds of years ago. Was this what she prayed for, when she asked for the peace of Kyne? To her, even thoughts of peace had always contained drinking and laughing, sharing stories around a fire.
They reached the doors that led to the courtyard - great stonework doors that matched the rest of the temple. Arngeir held one open as she wrapped herself in her white-trimmed fur cloak from the rack and headed through to the snow-covered steps.
Outside, the old man walked still in silence through the courtyard until he reached the cliff to the left. There, he stood overlooking the Tundra and the upper Jeralls to the west.
"What do you see, when you look out over this land, Mjoll?"
She took in the view for a moment. What could any Nord say to that? This was Skyrim, the Fatherland. It was beautiful. "I the home I've always known. I see the forging place of the People of the Sky. I see everything that is Nord."
"And from here, you see it as Kyne does. Bright, beautiful, peaceful. This land was never meant to be a land of war. But when the old elven gods betrayed the gods of men, Shor answered in the only way he could - war against the elven gods. Kyne was his bride, the manifestation of his everlasting nature; yet even she knew that war would lay waste to the land. When Shor was pulled down by the elven ancestor-god, Trinimac, and his heart ripped from his chest and thrown into the sea, Kyne lamented and sought peace between the gods. It was only because of her that the war of the gods at the dawn of time did not destroy the world before it could truly begin. Other Nords may worship her as a patron of warriors, the Storm-Goddess; but those who know her best remember that storms are the exception to the clearer day's gentle winds."
Mjoll looked with wonder at the old Graybeard. How could he know all of that? He's talking about the time when the gods still walked the earth. "So you believe that because man was created by Kyne, that we are also called to peace?"
"Yes."
"But you said it yourself: war was the only answer Shor could give. War is necessary."
Arngeir sighed, looking unhappy at the thought of war. "Yes. I know. We cannot have it both ways, any more than the gods could. They fought because they were free. And being free, their goals conflicted. The elven gods were angry at the creation of the mortal world. They thought that Shor had tricked them into giving up their power. Shor defended his actions, believing that the world they had all created through him was worth any price. We mortals are much the same. We all have things that we must defend. Kyne knew that. She gave man the Thu'um, against the wishes of the other gods, because she knew that men needed to shake off their dragon oppressors."
"So you admit that in your pacifism you only worship one aspect of Kyne?"
"Day-to-day, we worship the peace of Kyne's gently blowing winds. Our service to the Dragonborn is our worship of her storms. That is why only we can declare him Stormcrown."
Mjoll thought she could see an eagle flying far below them, black against the backdrop of the white-tipped Jeralls to the southwest. "And yet you said that you would not."
"Not yet. Not until we are certain that it is necessary."
She turned to face Arngeir. She wanted to scream at him, shake him to wakefulness. But she kept her calm, ever respectful of his station. "The dragons have returned. You know that. War with them is coming, if it is not already here."
"That may be. But there is one more task he must complete, nonetheless."
Valdimar looked over his shoulder, toward the manor he had begun to think of as home. It was miles to the north, now, and there were only hunting paths in that direction; but he could find it again easily enough. It was a large manor on the coast, looking out across the bay to the northwest, with a library tower in the western wing and another tower on the northern side. It was his thane's manor, if the man ever came back for it.
He had met Aleron once, when they'd fought the vampire Movarth, and then again when the Breton had been named Thane of Hjaalmarch. He'd seemed a decent fellow, but a bit disinterested in the honor that had been bestowed on him.
Now, Valdimar walked through the dark woods just north of Morthal, maintaining a glowing blue ball of light through his connection to Aetherius, hoping to see the town ahead any moment. The mage's candle, as it was called, didn't help him to see far, but he wouldn't walk in darkness - certainly not in the near-blackness under all these trees.
He was fond of the woods here. They made him think of his father, the years he'd spent trailing behind the old man, trying to keep quiet as they stalked deer and elk. They reminded him of better times, before he had been given to old Roland when his talent for magic was found out. The wilds were peaceful to Valdimar, even here in Skyrim where wolves and Frost Trolls and giant spiders hunted men as often as elk.
He remembered when there had been more people living out here. Farmers and hunters and misanthropes, mostly. The Hjaal Forest was a place for those who wished not to be found. Bandits were rare enough - too few people to attract them, usually - and the Jarl's tax-collectors were rarer. His father had been fond of saying that there was nowhere else on Nirn quite like Hjaalmarch. Having lived here so long, Valdimar agreed; but he could not really understand why.
Finally, the town of Morthal showed itself, the little lights of the inn and the torches of the guards all twinkling in red-gold.
Ah, Morthal, he thought to himself. The home I've hated. The home that has hated me.
The people of the Jarl's town were distrustful of Valdimar, as they were of any mage. It was unsurprising, he supposed. Few in the town had ever had any contact with magic, especially before Falion had settled there.
He was a conjuror, this Falion, and also brother to the innkeeper, Jonna. He had held the prestigious title of Conjuration Master at the College of Winterhold, long ago, when Valdimar had applied for entry. He had been one of those who spoke against him, as well. The dark-skinned Redguard had thought Valdimar too eager to kill with magic, and too disinterested in furthering the craft as a whole.
Valdimar supposed that was true, now that he thought back on it. Magic had only ever been a means to an end, for him. That end had always been to fight and survive. All the years had not really changed that. One couldn't cut out the soul of a man without killing him, and some things learned in childhood become a part of the soul. Still, he felt that even without the help of the College he had become a serviceable battlemage. He could wield fire and ice and lightning with ease. And from a priest of Arkay, he'd learned a sunfire spell that was quite useful against the undead. He could even heal wounds taken in battle with magic - a little, anyway.
As he got closer to the town, he noticed the dim light of the sunrise just settling over the stone and timber buildings. He had not realized it was so late.
.
By the time he reached the lumber mill, the first building along the road into town from the north, Morthal was busy - as busy as it ever got, anyway. He had never seen the place in the chaotic uproar that seemed to sprout up with the early morning suns of most hold capitals. He caught sight of Lami hustling into her thaumaturgy shop, her bright hair hidden under a cap to stave off the weather. Her husband, Jorgen, was coming toward the mill, a scowl on his face to frighten a troll. It was strange to Valdimar that a man whose wife dealt in alchemy would have such a hatred for those who practiced more conventional magic.
Lurbuk nodded to him as he passed the inn. The skinny orc thought himself a bard, though he rarely sang - with good reason. Mostly, his heavy brows and tusked mouth would try to converge into his up-turned orcish nose while his thick fingers hammered away at his lute to make something slightly resembling a tune. The lanky greenish oaf was apparently the son of some great chieftain of the orcs, but rather than killing men with orichalcum-infused sword or axe, Lurbuk spent his days and nights trying his best to kill men with terrible music. Perhaps it was a new stratagem the tribal orcs were trying. Valdimar thought it was more likely to get his throat cut.
"You don't seem happy to be back home, Vald." The younger Idgrod's melodious voice was a far cry from her mother's froggish croak. "One might think you've grown morose in your old age."
"I'm not so old as that, Idge. No older than your father, anyway."
"Don't call him that." She was a very pretty girl when she wrinkled her nose that way. "He tried to get into my room again, last night. Pervert! You'd think it would be enough, the first beating Gorm gave him."
Gorm, Valdimar mused. Never lets anything show the next day, does he. "Aslfur be Jarl someday. Gods help us all, then."
"I don't think it'll quite so bad. He loves my mother, in his own strange way. He married her I think because he thought she needed looking after. After my father died, she was so distant. When he came along, she regained a little of her old self. And he does help her keep the dreams separate from the real world." Idgrod smiled to herself then. "Him and Garm, always fighting over her affection. I hope I'm that loved when I'm sixty-five, to have men twenty years my junior scuttling about for my favor."
"But when your mother's gone? Maybe you're right. Maybe he'll reject the title, leave it to you. Hard to tell what a man is 'til he's been tested."
"Come on. Joric wants to see you."
Valdimar smiled. He liked the Jarl's young son. He would be a mage, some day, if he ever got out of Morthal. Unlike his mother and sister, with their strange dreams their only connection to Aetherius, Joric had the makings of a great mystic. Already, at ten, the boy could affect the minds of others without even knowing he was doing it. He had the dreams as well, though. It was a worrisome trait to find in a family of mages.
"Let's go see him then."
"Later, Valdimar." The groaning voice of the Jarl cut through the peaceful bubble that Valdimar always felt around Idge. "Idgrod, you may see to him on your own for now. See that he eats his breakfast."
"Yes, Mother." Idge turned and all but ran to the longhall, her green dress trailing out behind her into the mud.
Valdimar kneeled, heedless of the muck. "My Jarl. What can I do for you?"
"Up, boy. Don't be like that." She took a steaming cup from Gorm and strode toward the inn, the sandy-haired housecarl trailing her. "Come. I need to talk to you of your thane."
He straitened, then followed the Jarl, walking respectfully just behind her. "I don't know he'll return, if that's what you're after. His letter seemed to indicate that he'd be back sometime in the spring, but nothing definite was given."
The Jarl sipped her cup. "It's not that. He'll be here before summer, I'm sure. No, what troubles me is the letter I received from Balgruuf. We don't correspond often, but it seems he thought it worth mentioning that our Breton Thane of Hjaalmarch is the Dragonborn. Or so Balgruuf says."
Valdimar stopped walking. He'd heard the shout come from over the mountains, calling forth the Dovahkiin. None knew the Dragon Tongue, but all Nords knew that one word - Dovahkiin; the Dragonborn. "Aleron? The Dragonborn? That doesn't make any sense. He's a Breton. A foreigner."
The Jarl had turned to face him now. She patted his shoulder. "I believe it. For what that is worth. I knew when I first saw him that he was someone of great destiny. I've dreamed of him often lately, since receiving the letter. Tell me, Valdimar: what do you know of dragons?"
"Dragons, Jarl? Nothing, really. They've been extinct for hundreds of years. Why?"
"It seems not. Balgruuf says one attacked his hold. Says the rumors from Falkreath are true. Apparently, the boy killed the dragon. That's when the Greybeards called him."
They began walking toward the inn again, but Valdimar could have been knocked over by a breeze. "What does this all mean, my Jarl? What have you dreamed?"
She sighed, a wheezing sound in this cold morning air. "I saw him standing on a pile of bones, drenched in blood. Before him, five curved swords were driven into the ground - in obedience or challenge, I could not see. Behind him, a seed of Hjaalmarch grew through the bones into a great tree, its branches reaching out to encircle him. Beside him, a man made of fire loomed as tall as the sky. And when I saw the young man, surrounded by all of this, bathed in blood, I was in awe. He shouted at the sky, but a blackness came down and smote him. And the swords were broken. And the flame went out. And as he lay dying, the tree withered. And then I saw you, Valdimar. You breathed into him, but he would not heal. Finally, you touched his forehead; and from your fingertips a pale light shined into his mind."
They had stopped walking again. The Jarl was staring off as if seeing it all again behind her eyes. "I don't understand," he told her. "None of it, except that I see that I'm supposed to do something for him. But what?"
"Teach him."
"Teach him what? I thought when he was here that he must be a mage. I felt the connection. But it must have been his being Dragonborn that I felt. I could no more teach him about that than a fish could teach a young bird to fly."
Idgrod shook her head. "I don't know what you're to teach him. You are far more than a simple battlemage. There are other things he might need to know. But I had another dream about him. It was just as vague:
"He stood atop a great black spire in a world of darkness. From out of the darkness a figure came, a thief and a liar, whispering foulness. The figure was like a beast, with a dragon's head and wings, but with a formless body all black arms and slimy hands. The dragon's snout shouted, and Aleron was pierced through his side. Light poured from his side, yet it was smothered like a lone star on a dark night. The dragon beast laughed, and blackness began to break free from the dark world. Then your voice came into the darkness and Aleron rose to face the beast again. That is all."
"But what happens to the beast? Does the blackness break free? Does he stop it?"
"Again, I don't know. But you must stay near him. It clear he will need you. Let nothing separate you from him."
Valdimar shook his head. This was too much. Stay close to him. He's more than a hundred miles away. "And if he orders me to stay and watch over his manor? If he does not want me as a companion, but as a steward?"
"Then we are all doomed."
Aleron drew back on the curled bow that Lydia had lent him, feeling the fletching graze his cheek as he aimed down the arrow at the target set up a hundred yards away, across the courtyard of High Hrothgar. He loosed, and the bow propelled the arrow forward. The shaft soared, over snow and stone, a hundred yards, and buried itself in the very top left corner of the target.
"You're still dipping that shoulder a bit. You'll get it right with time though."
Lydia was a better teacher than Erik. She rarely grew frustrated, even when he failed to hit the target at all. And she seemed to know exactly what Aleron had done wrong, every time.
"This isn't going to be possible in my armor, anyway. It's not designed for an archer. I doubt I'll get much use out of your lessons."
The dark-haired Nord woman scowled. "If you don't want to learn, then don't. You're not in your armor all the time, and some knowledge of how to do this might keep you alive some day."
"I need something to bring a dragon down when it's flying. Perhaps I'll get myself a crossbow, eventually. This practice will help me to learn that faster."
"Bah!" Lydia said. "A crossbow. You'd have better luck chucking rocks. But you're the Dragonborn. Whatever you say, I'll do. You want me teach you to shoot, I'll teach you. It's up to you to have the wits to use it."
She smiled at the end of her tirade, something Aleron had grown used to. She was gruff in her speech, and she seemed to care little about what anyone thought of her; but Lydia had a kindness to her that was quite noble.
"He doesn't have much in the way of wits," Mjoll broke in, from her seat behind Aleron. "But I'll stick around long enough to maybe teach him a thing or two." She, like Erik and the Greybeards, seemed to love the cold. She lounged in her chair, her cloak laid mostly open and sprawling. Even through layers of clothing and fur, her shape beneath the cloak was visibly distracting. She seemed to thrust out her chest even as she reclined, and her spreading legs were more inviting than was really appropriate.
"If nothing else," Erik said, patting him on the back, "you can help me catch food if we're ever forced to rough it. Your misses might draw an elk right to me. Nothing better than fresh meat that you caught yourself."
Meeko barked at that, all too knowingly for a dog. Aleron was glad the dog was here now. Klimmek had brought him two days ago, along with some foodstuffs and supplies. Oddly, the generous Nord was not allowed into the monastery, but left the goods in a large trunk outside the temple. Meeko had been well taken care of, by the looks of him; and he was as happy as ever to be around his master again.
"Dragonborn."
Aleron spun, as Master Arngeir came trudging through the snow toward the group that had gathered during the archery lesson.
"Master."
"You are rested, and you are ready. I must speak with you alone, one last time."
Aleron handed the bow to Lydia, who checked it over as though he might have somehow broken it while she wasn't looking. "Certainly, Master Arngeir." Erik and Mjoll took that as a cue to head back to the temple.
He followed the old Nord to the gate where he'd learned WULD NAH KEST, the Whirlwind Shout. Meeko loped at his side, ever happy to be following Aleron. Arngeir had even taken a liking to the hound. He seemed quite somber, did the Greybeard; even more so than usual.
"What is it, Master? What is this last lesson you've been waiting to teach me."
Arngeir looked up, to the top of the mountain, almost as though he thought to find answers there. "I have not told you much of the founding of our order. But I believe it needs to be told to you now. Your Thu'um has grown strong, and this story is pertinent.
"Long ago, the men of Skyrim, great masters of the Voice, sought to conquer the eastern lands. Prideful men saw the Thu'um not as a gift from Kyne, but as a mandate of supremacy. They sought to rule over the elves, with the power of their voices overcoming elven magic. Skyrim's borders were ever growing in those days." He kept staring at the mountain, and Aleron followed his eyes. He saw nothing but whitecap.
"During the War of Succession that followed the death of King Borgas, more than three thousand years ago, there was much turmoil in Skyrim. The Moot was undecided, and so many sought great victories to set themselves up as the new High King. Jurgen Windcaller was one such man. He led an army of Nords to Red Mountain, where he faced the Dunmer hero Nerevar and his allies, the Dwemer. They thought that this would be an easy conquest, as most of their victories over the Snow Elves had been. But the Nords were defeated, routed, sent home wondering why. For years Jurgen Windcaller wondered why strong voices could fail."
"I remember reading that he was called Jurgen the Calm." Aleron had read some of the histories of the first Battle of Red Mountain, and he remembered thinking it strange the name that most of those accounts gave to the aggressive leader of the Nords.
"Yes. Eventually, he realized that the gods had punished the Nords for their blasphemous use of the Thu'um. Without boring you as to how, he convinced nearly all other practitioners of the Thu'um to agree to a pacifist Way of the Voice. The formerly militant Tongues became the first Greybeards, and together with a servant of Kyne, they built this monastery."
Aleron held a hand up to stop him. "What do you mean a servant of Kyne? You've said that before. Is it some reference to Morihaus or Pelinal Whitestrake?"
"No, no. For myself, I find it likely that Pelinal Whitestrake was only ever a servant of Shor. Thus his never-ending battles with the elves. And Morihaus, her son or not, served Kyne in his own way. No, the servant of Kyne of whom I speak did not have a name that you would recognize."
"You might be surprised. Some of my study in the priory was quite obscure."
The old Nord turned and smiled then. "Paarthurnax was his name." He looked on Aleron's bewilderment with obvious amusement.
"Not a name I've heard, then."
"I tell you these things because there is a lesson in the story. What is that lesson?" Arngeir folded his hands into the wide sleeves of his cloak and looked expectantly at Aleron.
It was rather simple really. "The servants of Talos have a saying: Pride can take a man to great heights; but pride eventually brings a fall."
The old Nord's smile showed the wrinkles in his weathered face. "Well done. There is one last thing that we require of you. A rite. It is one of two concerning those of the Dragon blood that we have trained here. You must go into the forest of Hjaalmarch. You will find there Ustengrav, the final resting place of Jurgen Windcaller. Atop his sarcophagus, you will find an ancient horn. Bring us the Horn of Jurgen Windcaller, and we will formally recognize you as Ysmir, and as Stormcrown."
Aleron turned to look out over the Tundra, the land of Skyrim. Ysmir was a name used for Talos; and Stormcrown was a name he took as he conquered and became Emperor. "I am no god, and no king."
"Those are not epithets of deity or dominion." Arngeir sighed. "They are titles of victory.