Chapter 10: High Hrothgar

Tristan stood on a balcony outside the Palace of Kings, contently sipping an ale as he watched the lights in the sky make their nightly venture from horizon to horizon.

The noise from inside the palace drifted up to him, even through the thick doors and even thicker walls.

They were celebrating their victory and mourning those they had lost in the only way Nords knew how: drinking to the victory, and even more drinking to the dead. It was largely a celebration of life, both in this world and the next, with Ulfric leading the sermon of how their brothers and sisters in arms would find their rightful place in Sovngarde.

Tristan was a guest of honour, but after some time of receiving pats on the back, slugs on the arm and handshakes from all manners of people, he shied away from the party and instead found himself on one of the few balconies that presented themselves from the palace.

After some time, Tristan's solitude was disrupted when he heard the creaking hinges of the door opening behind him.

Without turning, Tristan heard the heavy, stumbling footfalls of someone making their way to him. He smelt the alcohol of the body that was now leaning on the railing of the balcony beside him.

"The Throat of the World…" the person slurred.

Tristan's eyes drifted toward the massive mountain that seemed to conquer the heights of the very sky. The Throat of the World was Tamriel's tallest mountain, rivalled by none but perhaps the Red Mountain that presided over neighbouring Morrowind.

Tristan looked across at his company, his eyes falling upon the drunken and somewhat dishevelled Commander of the Guard at Whiterun.

"People miss you in there Tristan," the Commander spoke again. "Some women seemed plenty interested in your whereabouts."

Tristan almost chuckled. "I'm sure they'll find me when I go back."

"Aye," the Commander took a sip from his beverage. "What're you doing out here anyway, friend?"

"Thought I'd catch the lights," Tristan said, gesturing to the neon colours streaking across the sky. "And I needed time alone with my thoughts."

"Thoughts?" the Commander questioned. "Ah, yes, you're a Breton. You have those."

Tristan gave a weak laugh at the Commander's drunken humour.

"What is it you're thinking about?"

"Our High King," Tristan said slowly. "He fought back this enemy and believes he can do so again, but I'm of a different belief. Just because he won the battle doesn't mean he'll win the war. His pride and stubbornness stops him from asking help from the Empire. If the battle today was just a small force… Skyrim is doomed."

"Agreed," the Commander had become suddenly serious. "This threat is… worse than anything I've seen in my life, or anything I've heard in tales or read in stories. I'm afraid that the strength of Man alone won't be enough to save the world from this crisis."

Tristan found himself unable to reply to the Commander's words, simply because he believed them. Even the Oblivion crisis hadn't been as drastic as this had been, from what he'd been told. But there were still so many questions, one of which was who this enemy was.

"The Greybeards…" the Commander muttered, bringing Tristan back to the present.

"I'm sorry?" Tristan asked.

"The Greybeards," the Commander repeated, his eyes full of mystery as he gazed at the Throat of the World. "They reside in High Hrothgar, atop the Throat of the World."

"I've heard the stories," Tristan said.

"They're more than just stories, friend," the Commander chuckled. "The Greybeards are an order that have existed for eons. They hold an almighty power – the Thu'um, the Voice. Dragon language. If anyone can help us win this war… it's them…"

Tristan shook his head. "I can't count on a group of monks to protect us."

"Those monks possess a power beyond any other form of magic," the Commander said stubbornly.

"Are you sure they will help us?"

"No," he said truthfully. "But where is the honour in not trying?"

Tristan mulled over his words. "And what of the Empire? If we're to fight this enemy we need the armies of a united Tamriel."

The Commander laughed as if Tristan had just told a hilarious. He offered little more than a confused look.

"You speak of the Empire as if they hold no more prudence towards Skyrim," the Commander explained. "Now, I don't know for sure, but I would be willing to wager that the Empire still has a presence in Skyrim. And it would have only gotten stronger since the Emperor was murdered within her borders."

Tristan mulled this information over. While the thought of the Empire still running in secret within Skyrim wasn't a new idea to him, he'd staved off the thought as false hope. But as he thought of it, he wondered why he believed so. It made perfect sense that the Empire would keep a close eye on Skyrim. The province and its people were hardy and formidable, and since the death of the Emperor diplomatic relations between Cyrodiil and Skyrim must be at risk of collapse – just another reason for the Empire to donate more men and women to operating within the cold norths' borders.

"But let us not speak of such sombre drabble," the Captain said, returning to his drunken, jovial mood. "Tonight is one of celebration. Come in, Tristan, drink, laugh, do something other than stand on this balcony and fret about the future."

Tristan offered the Captain a reassuring smile. "I'll be in shortly. Find those women for me."

The Captain bellowed a laugh and then winked at him, turning on his heel and stumbling back into the party.

That will keep him occupied for a while, Tristan thought.

He looked towards the Throat of the World once more, and as he looked be thought he could make out the spire of some great fortress atop the mountain.

The Greybeards.

Maybe?

Where is the honour in not trying?

The Captain was right.

Tristan decided then, tomorrow he'd make for High Hrothgar.

The sight of a city full of hung-over Nords the following morning was enough to make Tristan laugh for the rest of his life.

If there's one thing the Nords are known for other than their ferocity in battle, Tristan thought with a grin, it's their drinking habits.

He himself had drunk more than he cared to admit, but the magic in his Breton blood had made quick work of destroying whatever alcohol that had found its way into his better judgement. He was – much to the Captain's envy and disgust – fresh as a daisy.

The Captain himself was holed up discussing plans with Ulfric about the citizens of Whiterun, namely what it is they could do to assist the city as the recent massacre had left some shops low on workers. Hopefully they'd iron our the details concerning some semi-permanent housing, rations, and so on until they could return to their home. If they could return to their home.

The horrors of Whiterun and now Windhelm still burned fresh in Tristan's mind, and while Skyrim continued to operate as if it were beyond the crisis' reach, he knew as much as anyone that the people around him were suppressing their fear and anguish, that they were looking for the menial structure that would bring them through another day. And that is where Ulfric was a worthy High King.

Despite his arrogance and pride, Ulfric recognized and addressed the needs of his people. While he was talking with the Captain he'd divided the city into thirds, and sent each group to finish a different task, be it reconstruction, cooking, or even agriculture (a farm in this part of Skyrim had surprised Tristan).

Tristan tried to keep a low profile as he left the city, but regardless a handful of people stopped him to give him thanks. He'd learned the previous night that waving off the thanks of Nords was nigh on impossible to do, so he accepted the gesture with a polite nod before he continued on his way.

Before long he'd picked his way through Windhelm, and he was outside of the city, clutching the reigns of a hardy Skyrim-bred horse. Tristan had told Ulfric at the celebration that he would make his leave the following morning, though he kept the details secretive so as not to damage the High King's pride. Ulfric had said that a horse would be organised for him free of charge, and Tristan could say that even the High King in his drunken state was a man of his word.

"Her name's Ahnwyn," the stable hand said, patting the horse.

Tristan raised an eyebrow. "Not a very Nordic name," he observed.

The stable hand chuckled. "You're right. It's elvish, if anything. Such a beautiful creature isn't fit for the harsh names of our race."

Tristan was mildly surprised to hear the stable hand say the words, however as he looked the steed up and down he could understand why he had. The horse was rugged and hardy like all of Skyrim's steeds, but it had a certain elegance to it, a graceful quality that Tristan couldn't quite pick out.

"She's all yours," the stable hand said.

Tristan nodded his thanks, and slowly led Ahnwynn out into the frosty air. The horse was unfazed by the climate, something that didn't extend to Tristan.

The Breton strapped the little belongings he had and the rations he'd been given to Ahnwynn's saddle, and with a grunt of effort hoisted himself up into it himself.

Ahnwynn's ears perked up at having a new rider. She turned her head somewhat so that she could get a good look at Tristan. Her gaze flitted up and down his form, and after assessing him she seemed to reach a conclusion – she knocked her hoof once on the cobblestone.

"She likes you," the stable hand grinned.

"That's a relief," Tristan said, scratching Ahnwynn between the ears.

"Here," the stable hand offered Tristan a sack. "Carrots for the road. She loves them."

"Carrots, eh?" Tristan asked absently. He took one from the sack and leaned over, holding it in front of Ahnwynn's nose. She sniffed the food before wrapping her tongue around it and swallowing it without so much as chewing.

He tied the sack back up and put it with the rest of the food, making sure it wouldn't fall off on the journey.

"Tell Ulfric I said thank you," Tristan told the stable hand.

"Aye, it will be done," he replied.

Tristan inclined his head in thanks, and with a whip of the reigns, Ahnwynn took off toward the Throat of the World at a canter.

Tristan made camp that night, and upon studying the map of Skyrim he figured he'd arrive in Ivarstead the day after tomorrow. He'd leave Ahnwynn with a farmer, and from there he'd make the trek up the Throat of the World, climbing the legendary seven thousand steps that led to the monastery of High Hrothgar.

On the whole they'd made good time. Ahnwynn was a powerful horse, and what she lacked in speed she made up for in endurance. She was able to keep at her cantering pace for the entire day, with only one rest that both she and Tristan had taken to eat lunch. She nuzzled him now, and Tristan absently fed her a carrot as he made calculations and plans in his head.

A breaking branch brought Tristan back to reality. He looked up, taking in what he could from the little light that the fire cast. Then he saw it.

Just on the edges of the light a figure clad in fur stood crouched, looking out into the darkness at something Tristan couldn't see.

Tristan's fingers began their instinctive dance of weaving and threading magicka about his palm, ready to summon a sword and attack should the situation demand it. He cleared his throat loudly, and the figure turned to face him.

It was a Dunmer – a Dark Elf – and he looked as if he'd seen too many fights. He had the composure of a criminal, and the glint in his eyes obviously said that he was up to no good.

"You'll do," the Dunmer mumbled. He unslung a bow of some kind from his back and placed in on the ground not far from where Tristan was sitting.

"Take this bow," the Dunmer said. "Don't tell anyone you have it, don't tell anyone I gave it to you. I'll be coming back for it. If you rat me out, I'll find you, and I will kill you."

He let the words hang in the air for some moments before he turned and ran into the night.

Tristan was speechless for some moments, but after a while the hairs on the back of his neck lay down and he was at ease. He shuffled closer to the bow and picked it up, inspecting it closely. It didn't look like anything special, just plain and wooden, but he could feel the light throb of magic coming from it, and the wood itself was warm to touch.

"A fire enchantment…" Tristan thought aloud.

He'd be willing to wager that the bow hadn't belonged to the Dunmer. But if it didn't belong to him, then to whom did it belong?

Tristan looked over the woodwork of the bow to see if he could find any signs of ownership, or any clue as to where the bow may have been made, but he found nothing. It was then that he felt a faint, barely noticeable tug on the body of the bow.

If he hadn't been holding it he wouldn't have noticed, but the tug was all Tristan needed to deduce that the bow would find its way back to its owner. Tristan knew this because the ethereal tug was the sign of a Trace enchantment. It was something Tristan had heard of from his parents when they said that their friends in High Rock would cast Trace upon their children. The spell was deceptively simple, and ensured that the caster would be able to find whatever they had cast it on by following the magical trail the spell would leave.

With that discovery, Tristan wrapped the bow in a spare cloth and buried it under a few inches of dirt nearby, hopeful that whoever the bow belonged to would be able to find it.

The remainder of the venture was uneventful. Aside from the occasional wolf or bandit that tried to make away with his belongings, Tristan found the ride rather peaceful. And as he'd predicted, on the third day of travel at about noon, the small village of Ivarstead came into view.

If the Throat of the World was large anywhere else in Skyrim, it was positively massive now. One couldn't walk in a circle without falling into the mountains' shadow, and the to Tristan – who was travelling towards the mountain – his destination may as well have been a wall of frost and stone.

A few hours passed, and Tristan was amidst the houses of Ivarstead. With what little gold he had he rented a room at the local inn and paid a farmer to take care of Ahnwynn for a few days.

The atmosphere of the inn itself was dangerously sombre – not at all what Tristan was accustomed to having grown up among the rabble and noise of most of Skyrim's inns. It was also relatively empty, with only someone behind the bar and a trio of cloaked people warming around the fire burning in the stone pit at the centre of the inn. They exchanged few words, and the words they did exchange were spoken so low that Tristan couldn't pick them up.

Instead he headed straight for the bar, ate a humble meal of goats' cheese and bread, and retired to his rented room, intent on beginning the climb to the monastery atop the mountain as soon as he was rested.

No sooner was the sun peaking its head over the landscape the following day, Tristan was up and ready to climb the seven thousand steps, hoping that his journey wouldn't be in vain.

He was at the base of the Throat of the World, and while the orange light was bouncing off the mountain in beautiful ways the common Skyrim chill was beginning to rattle Tristan's bones already.

He cast a fur cloak about his shoulders and took a deep breath.

"No backing out now," he said to himself, and with great effort he took the first step. "Only six-thousand nine-hundred and ninety-nine to go…"

The climb was gruelling, both physically and mentally, and with every step he began to understand more and more why the Nords made this climb as a form of pilgrimage. On this mountain the peace of Skyrim was left behind. Every possible force was working against Tristan, be it the wind, the snow, or the wolves that made their burrows up in the harrowing cold. After what felt like hours of climbing Tristan looked up, and with a heavy spirit saw that there was no foreseeable end.

"These Greybeards really must hate visitors," Tristan said, shaking his head in disbelief. "How'd they even build a fortress up here anyway?"

With that thought in his mind, Tristan continued climbing, trying to ignore what seemed to be every fibre of reality working against him, trying to focus on putting one foot in front of the other.

Until, after what seemed like an era, flat ground. Tristan's foot sank into snow with no stone beneath it. Tristan's eyebrows shot up, and with a feeling of triumph he glanced upward, but frowned at what he saw.

In front of him wasn't a fortress, but just a plateau that led further along the mountain, rocks jutting upwards and curving like spines into a makeshift, unfinished tunnel.

But that wasn't what caught him off guard.

What surprised him was the dark patch of red that was so obviously out of place on the white blanket of the mountain. He crept up to the patch and crouched down, lightly touching it and bringing the residue to his nose, smelling.

Blood.

Well, of course it was blood, he thought gingerly. But the question was whose blood?

The pool wasn't old, perhaps a few days at most, and the only reason he saw it was the shielding the tunnel gave from the weather. Tristan peeled his eyes, and upon further investigation he noticed the trail that lead away from the patch. Red spots that led away along the path, until it reached the edge of the tunnel where Tristan surely knew it had been covered by snow.

His fatigue was suddenly gone, and Tristan kept walking the path, alert to whatever danger may have been present. There was a good chance that the blood belonged to just another wolf, but Tristan didn't know wolves could bleed so much. Regardless of whether the mystery beast was dead or not, he wasn't taking any chances.

As it turned out he didn't have to walk far. A few hundred steps ahead of him he was hit by the stench, and a few more steps after that brought him to the source.

It was a dead frost troll.

It didn't take long after that for Tristan to reach High Hrothgar, and immediately after turning the final corner he cursed and bent over for breath, angry that the only air he could get was thin and cold.

"Seven thousand steps…" he puffed. "Never… again…"

He then stood upright, casting eyes upon the dark-stoned monastery in front of him. He realized that the word monastery was modest, as fortress would more accurately describe the layout of High Hrothgar.

It was a huge castle, with turrets at all four corners of the building. The structure was almost menacing in its height and majesty, and Tristan found it difficult to believe that the only people who lived up here were men who preached peace.

Part of Tristan died when he saw the few steps that led to the main doors, and he was seriously considering leaping off the Throat of the World and too his demise in opposed to having to climb them. But climb them he did.

He bashed his fist on the heavy iron door, and without waiting for anyone to usher him in he heaved them open and stepped into a chamber lit only by the torches on the walls. Walking into High Hrothgar was almost like walking from Skyrim into Hammerfell. While the difference in temperature mustn't have been too different, inside the monastery felt like a bonfire compared to the unforgiving winds that were just outside.

To his surprise, one of the Greybeards was waiting in the centre of the chamber. The man looked humble in appearance, and was covered head to toe in a robe. Sticking out from the shadow that was cast upon the monks face was an unkempt, grey beard. Tristan nodded in approval.

"I thought another might come this far," the Greybeard said. "I am Arngeir. I speak for the Greybeards."

Another?

Tristan bowed politely. "I am Tristan Dorrien. I come from Windhelm, I seek your aid."

"Yes, I assumed as much," Arngeir said slowly. "We know of your… situation down amongst the cities."

"Then you know that in order to prevent chaos we require help," Tristan said eagerly. "I have come here against all orders to ask for your assistance to defeat this unknown enemy. I've heard the stories. The Greybeards are said to wield a mighty power, a power beyond any magic that even the greatest of mages can conjure. The Voice. Dragon language."

Arngeir listened patiently. "You are right to assume we hold such great power, however our creed and the very foundations of our order forbid us from using it for the means of a darker path."

Tristan visibly deflated. "You can't be serious?" He said, dumbfounded. "To turn your back on us is to leave us to our doom. We need everything we can get to fight these things! If you stay up here in your tower and let us burn then you are no better than them! Our world is the prisoner, and you are the executioner."

Arngeir clenched his teeth. "I would advise you to treat us with more respect," he said slowly. "The first one came here seeking solitude, and that is something we gladly gift, however what you are asking of us is too much. We would be defying the rules and customs of those who came before us, and as such we refuse our service," he explained. "Your journey was long and perilous, so I invite you to stay for tonight in order to regain your strength, but tomorrow I think it would be in your best interest to leave this place, hm?"

Tristan knew that Arngeir offered a threat, and while its execution would mean him defying his own rules Tristan wasn't in a position to test the water.

Tristan bowed again. "I apologize for my rudeness," he said.

Arngeir waved the apology away and began to walk.

"If you don't mind me asking, who came here before?" Tristan piped up.

Arngeir turned and opened his mouth to speak, but he didn't have to.

A person stepped from the around the corner and laid eyes on Tristan.

Tristan stepped back, startled, but soon he scowled.

It was her.

The person he'd shared a prison with.

The assassin who'd tried to seal his feat.

Tristan growled.

The woman went to raise her arms but he lashed out, he conjured a dagger and hurled it at her. She dodged the ethereal blade easily, but Tristan went at her again, charging with a Bound Sword raised high above his head.

The woman drew her own daggers and blocked Tristan's overhead blow. It was sloppy, and he knew it. He kept up his assault with more blows, one after the other in a continuous onslaught of magic on metal, but the woman matched his stamina and deflected all of his attacks.

"Wait!" She tried to speak, but the words were lost on Tristan.

With a shout he went at her again, all sense of strategy in his attack fading instantly to nothing.

"ENOUGH!"

A powerful voice shook the chamber, snapping Tristan out of his rage. The Bound Sword vanished back into Oblivion, leaving him weaponless.

The woman looked reluctant to sheath her blades, but upon looking at the fuming monk near her she did so.

"How dare you…" Arngeir said softly. "How dare you come to this place of peace and bring with you hatred and violence? I refuse to play host to your tainted souls. You both must leave."

Tristan inwardly cursed.

The assassin looked slightly panicked and made to open her mouth to speak.

"Now!" Arngeir shouted, cutting her off before she could begin.

She closed her mouth tightly and nodded, briskly barging past Tristan and exiting. Tristan cursed himself for his rashness and bowed once more to Arngeir, before he turned on his heel and, too, left.