Chapter 26 – Introductions

My gloved fists were nearly numb by the third time I banged against the door with dire ferocity. Our tent was back in Ivarstead with our horses, and making the trip down would be a horrible, frozen defeat. I called out to the Greybeards – "Hello!? Are you inside? I am Dragonborn! Did you not hear me!?" – still, no one came.

Forgetting the danger it might have posed to Ivarstead and its inhabitants, I shouted a single, strong "Fus!" to the sky, and waited another eternal moment for a response from within. Thankfully, to the best of my knowledge, no avalanche occurred. Losing my patience again, I pounded a fist slowly against the iron door. My forehead soon followed. I began to sob.

"Deborah, enough," Ingjard consoled, a hand patting my shoulder and the other attempting to prevent me from giving my frontal lobe a concussion. "Something is not right, or else they would have answered."

"They just don't want me," I decided, voice muted. "They wanted Torug. He is the true Dragonborn. I'm just me. I'm… a second thought."

Only then did it occur to me to breathe the dragon word for 'life'. "Laas," I whispered with a final burst of hope, and gasped when I saw it. Two large forms, appearing human, stood directly behind the door. I was suddenly a bit scared, but I still needed to get inside soon lest my nose turn black and fall off. Once more, I cried out to the people inside who I assumed were the Greybeards.

"Please! I see you! Two of you, so close to the door! You may not know me but I am blessed by your goddess. I am Dragonborn, but not like the Orc who you called to so long ago. I am a Child of Akatosh, a mage trained at Winterhold. I am Champion of Meridia. I need your help, Greybeards, to understand more about who and what I am! Please, open this door!" I ended my plea with a strong repetition of "Fus!", mouth pointed toward the sky, and left it at that. If they didn't want me now, they never would.

For all I knew, Torug stood behind that door, a born disciple of the monks. He could have easily warped the men's minds against me, and I would indeed end up standing out in the cold to freeze.

An unexpected blast came from the sky. Or, more precisely, it seemed, from the cloud-concealed pinnacle. The sound reverberated between mountain peaks and against the fortress, hurting my ears and head, rumbling my insides. The effect was similar to when Ulfric had shouted at that dragon, but stronger. The effect was caused by someone shouting the words, fus, ro, dah. I was certain. I had heard the words.

I turned again to the sky, looking toward the hidden peak. Someone or something – a Greybeard, likely – was set atop the mountain, and he was communicating. Perhaps he was communicating with me. I hoped that the communicator was not Torug.

Not wanting to personally be blamed for an avalanche, I decided against another round of shouting the dragon word for 'power' and instead sent forth a second ball of fire toward the patch of clouds. Surely, the Greybeards inside the fortress were hearing this, perhaps even watching through small windows.

When nothing further happened after the exchange of dragon words, I sat down on the stone, huddled against the iron door, and curled into myself. Though the stone and iron were freezing to the touch even through my gloves and trousers, the inset doorway offered some protection from the wind. Ingjard joined me at my side and we pressed to each other, maneuvering our cloaks so that we shared our body heat.

"I took into me a dragon's soul," I murmured, more for myself than for Ingjard's ears. "It happened when I touched his body. Viinturuth, he was called. I felt him die in his final memory." I shuffled a bit, tugging the cloak's hood tighter around my face and fixing the scarf so that only my eyes were exposed. I again healed my face of potential frostbite.

"I learned some dragon words from his memories," I continued. "My memories. They became mine…. Shared memories. I suppose part of his soul is now my soul." The thought was a perplexing one, and I had hoped to get solid answers about what was going on with my body and soul from the men in the fortress. If they couldn't, wouldn't help me, I had no one else but Jarl Balgruuf of Whiterun to confide in.

"Balgruuf called the Shouts a Thu'um, which means 'Storm Voice' in the dragon language. I can understand why, too. Ulfric shouted thunder. Someone on that mountain peak is shouting thunder. That dragon at Helgen, Alduin, shouted thunder. I, so they tell me, shout thunder." I recalled something Stenvar once told me. "We all thought Ulfric was something like Talos, Shouting and wanting to be king. But, then, Torug was called here, not Ulfric. Ulfric knew he was not the one called. He understood the sounds in the earth-shake, somehow. I didn't, but… would I, now? In the thunder from the mountain peak just now I heard thunder and words. They were difficult to hear, but I heard them. I felt them. What does that mean?" I was rambling, but I didn't care. "If you do not let me in now I will possibly freeze to death." I sighed, and watched the puff of breath dissipate. "That is alright. Without your help I will be killed by Torug, anyway."

The place was silent but for the wind and blowing snow. Slowly, more clouds encroached and threatened to take away my precious sunlight. I sorely wished for Yrsarald, and his radiating body heat.

"Another moment, Deborah, and I suggest we return to Ivarstead." Ingjard turned to me and squeezed my adjacent hand.

A heavy clunking noise startled us both, and I nearly jumped into Ingjard's lap. I looked around and above me before I realized that the sound originated from the door. A lock mechanism was turning.

Breath held firmly in my lungs, I spun to my feet and waited for the door to open. When the doors finally creaked inward, I stared right back at the two figures that had been standing behind the door, waiting for some sort of better reason to open it for me. Apparently, I gave it.

The men were both Nords, or perhaps High Rock folk. I couldn't tell. They were old, so very old – wrinkled and wizened and, unsurprisingly, grey-bearded. They were both dressed in very heavy, grey hooded cloth robes. The man who opened the door stared me down, obviously neglecting to speak first, or speak at all. The man standing behind him, however, bowed slightly with his palms outstretched to either side.

"Thank you for opening the door," I said briskly as my jaw began to chatter. The occlusal surfaces of my teeth banged together repeatedly until I forced my jaw to relax. "May we please come inside? I will soon lose my nose to the cold. My name is Deborah. I am Dragonborn. I come here seeking your help."

Without a word, the two old men stepped aside. "Come in," their body language said simultaneously. The man in the back was smiling. The man in front was not.

Ingjard and I trotted into the foyer, passing the men who subsequently rotated a large brass mechanism. A loud clack signaled its locked position. No key could ever open those doors.

Grunting with sudden relief, I shed my knapsack and cloak and immediately let in whatever heat the fortress offered from nearby lit braziers. "Thank you," I said again, turning to the men. "This is Ingjard," I indicated with a nod as she placed her sheathed sword by our heaped belongings, "my house-servant. She travels with me. Please," I nearly begged, approaching the men, "say something so I know everything is alright. I worry that I am upsetting you, or that I am in trouble."

"They cannot speak," came a new, raspy voice from the shadows. I turned to find the man who owned it. "Should they speak, your companion here would lose her hearing. You would, too, if you are not who you claim."

"I am," I asserted, posture righted. "At least, I took in a dragon's soul and can shout the dragon words. If that is not what a Dragonborn is, then…."

"You are not who we expected," the man changed the subject.

"You mean the Orc, Torug. I thought he maybe answered your call long ago."

"How do you know we called to him?"

"The ground shook. I forget how long ago…. Perhaps half of one year. Ulfric Stormcloak knew it was you, calling to the Dragonborn. He appeared upset that it wasn't his name that was being called."

The old man froze a moment, but then relaxed. "Ulfric…," he repeated, gaze briefly falling to the floor. "You know Ulfric Stormcloak? Of Windhelm?"

My mouth opened to speak but I faltered for a moment, considering my words carefully. "Yes, I knew Ulfric Stormcloak. He and I, we were… we survived a dragon attack together. He helped me….." I frowned, wondering what else to say. "He was a good man." I wasn't about to speak ill of him to the Greybeards.

The old man processed my response. "Was," he repeated.

I nodded, and then hesitated. "I'm sorry, what is your name?"

"Arngeir," the man offered immediately. "Behind you are Masters Borri and Wulfgar. Master Einarth and our newest apprentice Uthyr are out in the courtyard, practicing."

I turned around to the men behind me. "An honor to meet you, Masters," I said with a tiny bow of the head. Balgruuf had mentioned their titles, and I was glad to have remembered the word for 'master', kine. It was the same word for 'leader'.

I turned back to Arngeir. "I'm truly sorry to bring you such sad news, but Ulfric is no longer living. His military advisor is Jarl of Windhelm, now."

Arngeir frowned, but only slightly, and the reaction was short-lived. "Ulfric had such promise. The war changed everything. I knew he had fallen from the Way after he left. I felt it."

"But Jarl Balgruuf of Whiterun says he thinks well of you," I added in a cheerful tone. "He is a very wise… intelligent man. And kind, too, from what I have learned of him. He told me about the words, the dragon words, how they are a gift from Kyne. Kynareth. Ulfric died before I knew… well, too soon after the dragon's soul entered me."

"Please, come in, sit," Arngeir asked of me and Ingjard as he and the other Greybeards led us a bit passed the entrance through an open, square foyer and to a small lounge area with some stone chairs. Ingjard and I both literally took a load off and exhaled with immense pleasure upon getting off our feet.

"Masters," I began, "I know this is possibly the wrong time to tell you this…. Or, perhaps it is the only good time. Perhaps it doesn't matter…. But, you should know. Torug, the Orc Dragonborn, he killed Ulfric. Killed him almost immediately after I took in the dragon's soul. He was upset, you understand, because I took 'his' dragon soul. He wanted it for himself. We also think he had already held some hatred for Ulfric, and when he realized who he was, standing up in my defense, Torug just killed him. It was awful. Blood everywhere. He was too fast for any of us to stop. Too strong. He shouted something and then became like a ghost, and we never saw him again. No one ever found him. He disappeared. But then he – well, we think it was him – he led some people in an attack on one of Skyrim's biggest cities, Markarth. The Jarl, almost all people there, we think are dead. Torug is using his power to do awful things."

I hadn't expected to speak to the Greybeards against Torug, just as I had feared Torug might have done so against me, but everything I was saying were facts. The truth came out of me as if it had a mind of its own, as if some fairy whispered in my ear "tell them everything."

The men around me stared a moment, absorbing the awful news. I took the free moment to commit to memory the names and faces of the old men around me. Arngeir was the only one of the three to have tied his long grey beard into a knot. He appeared older than Borri, but younger than Wulfgar. Borri's cheekbones were sharper and set higher than those of the others, and he was shorter. Wulfgar also had high, wide cheekbones, but his face was so wrinkled it camouflaged their starkness. He was shorter than Borri, perhaps due to his advanced age. His beard was the bushiest of them all. I wondered what the fourth Greybeard, Einarth, looked like, and what kind of apprentice he was working with. No doubt whoever Uthyr was, he was a Greybeard in training, and not someone like me or Torug. And then, sitting facing three men and awaiting meeting two more, I wondered where all the female 'Greybeards' were.

Borri lowered his head in apparent mourning or other such sadness. Arngeir, however, appeared troubled. "I have heard tales that Ulfric used the Voice to conquer cities and people as well. He died how he lived."

"No," I shook my head, appalled at the notion that the Jarl got what he deserved. Ulfric was never the best example of a human being, but he was nowhere evil enough to deserve a death so horrific. "Torug used his war-hammer to smash in Ulfric's head. There was no 'shout' or any words at all of the dragon kind used against Ulfric. Only one war-hammer."

Arngeir finally frowned. "I see." He fell quiet, then.

"Masters, Meridia has instructed me to train with you, here, for three months. After this time, I am to go to her temple to fight away an evil presence there. And when I am ready, I am told I will be able to take revenge for Ulfric, and kill Torug. But I cannot ever go against Torug unless I am trained. He is too strong, just because he is an Orc, and I am a human. Yes, I am a powerful mage, but I am also not an idiot. I need your help. Aside from Torug killing people and stealing cities, dragons are attacking Skyrim. My friend's town burned to the ground, and Windhelm was attacked by two dragons at the same time. Please, I need your help, so that I can help Skyrim. I want to be able to kill a dragon alone, if I have to. I want to help people. I want to save people from Torug, who doesn't help anyone but himself and the Forsworn, who are killers and rapists. I want to save Skyrim from the undead. Yes, there are undead, and necromancers. I am not just doing this to get revenge for Ulfric, but I wanted to be honest with you and tell you what happened, who Torug truly is."

The men sat motionless for a while, but then Borri waved his arms and hands about in such a way that I thought I could recognize a sort of sign language. Arngeir waited for the old man to finish his movements, and then nodded at his colleague. "Master Borri says that the Voice is sacred. Weapons are made for war. The Voice is not a weapon." Arngeir turned to me. "He means to say, that while the Way does not speak against war, it does warn against using the Voice for the purposes of war, or battle, or any such combat, unless you are in True Need."

"Yes, Balgruuf told me this."

"And yet you ask us to train you in the Way of the Voice so that you may defeat Torug, another blessed by Kyne."

I bit down on my tongue, hard, abstaining from uttering brash words. "Torug is a horrible person. He is using his power for bad things. He is using 'The Voice' in battle. Torug never came here. He ignored you. I am here to train with you. This is what I was instructed to do. There is also the matter of the black dragon Alduin," I added for good measure, hoping to help my seemingly dead argument. "Alduin nearly killed me years ago. Ulfric, too. He is… not friends, but… attached to other dragons who hate mortals. These dragons want to kill us all. I learned this from the memories of the dragon whose soul is inside mine. I think… I think I need help to defeat dragons. I had help killing that one in Windhelm…. Torug is fated by the gods to kill Alduin, the World-Eater. I am not. But if Torug did not come here, he may never go after Alduin. Instead, he may go after me, after other people…." I sighed, frustrated. "But, the main reason why I am here is to train so that I can 'save the world', as Meridia said to me. An evil is coming. I think it is already here…." I studied Arngeir's concentrated face. "Do you know what is happening? With the worlds? Mundus, Aetherius, Oblivion, they are all going to fall into one another if I and my friends cannot stop it and find the Eye of Magnus. I have to lead my friends against necromancers and the undead. If I cannot use the powers that Kyne has given me, then I will fail, and…. I do not want to think about what will happen to the world if we fail."

The corner of Arngeir's wrinkled upper lip twitched upward in the hint of a smile, but the man was soon frowning again. "I will meet with Wulfgar, Borri, and Einarth, and we will discuss what to do with you. For now, please remain here. If you have any needs to see to, please feel free to use the room just to the left, here." At that, Arngeir rose from his stone chair and set out with his silent companions at his back.

The room to the left, as I learned from sheer curiosity, was a latrine and washroom. I did make use of it. The water was ice cold, but nonetheless refreshing. The stone latrine seat, however, made for a shocking sensation, and I yelped from the cold that bit my bottom. I should have known better.

Curious and seeking to kill some time, I gazed down into the latrine's abyss. Surely the hole was dug very deep, as over time the accumulation of leavings would freeze and build up, creating a mountain of unpleasantness. Feeling brave, I sent down a small burst of Magelight. On it went until it disappeared, indicating that the abyss made a turn somewhere. I sent down more light. Nothing was there to see but a passageway of stone. I was impressed.

In palaces, latrines were connected to brass-colored pipes and valves that worked almost as well as indoor plumbing in my world, though relying a bit more on gravity. I was told that the pipes were an invention of the Dwemer, an extinct people. In inns and houses, latrines (if they had them) were just seats over holes in the ground that had to be emptied often by someone with a strong stomach, which was often someone paid to do such a task. Most of the time, people just used chamber pots or buckets that were emptied in very specific places in the town or village.

A knock came at the door. Ingjard needed the washroom. I was too nervous to sit alone, waiting for the men's deliberations, and instead busied myself by browsing book titles I saw on shelves in the little lounge.

"'The Third Era Timeline'," I read aloud one title, caressing the bindings with my fingertips as I traipsed along the length of the bookshelves. "'Something…'s Guide to Skyrim'." Not understanding the title, I opened the book. Inside were illustrations of plants, and I assumed it to be a guide to the various uses of flora. An alchemist's guide. I wondered if the Greybeards dabbled in alchemy. "'Something from the Thalmor'." I opened the book to the first page.

Dearest reader, it read. The work you are about to…. "Blah, blah blah," I mumbled, and read on. At the bottom of the introduction was a signature. Letters below the signature spelled out the sounds Ashad Ibn Khaled.

"Ibn?" I asked myself. "Ibn, ibn, ibn…." I knew I had heard that word somewhere, sometime, long ago. It took a while, but in my memory I eventually heard Antonio Banderas explain what it meant to a band of twelve Vikings. It means 'son of'.

"Son of," I murmured, lapsing into English. "Ibn. What the hell is Arabic doing here?"

"What?" Ingjard asked when she returned.

Turning to her, I stared wide-eyed and pointed at the introduction-writer's name. "Ibn," I repeated. "It is a word of a language from my world. MY world, Ingjard. Why is this here!?"

Ingjard turned to peer at the page, and shrugged. "I don't know." She turned again to the book, and flipped the page. "It's not old. Look, here, it talks about the Great War. It can't be very old. Perhaps someone else came through, like you did? Maybe not long ago."

I stared at my bodyguard. "Maybe." I turned back to the book. "Maybe not. I don't know if 'ibn' is used anymore. I suppose it is. It is not the language of my land, but another." I shook my head, disbelieving. "It is like your language… and a very old language from my world. They are very similar. They are connected. I don't know how, but they are. I am certain ideas from Nirn came to my world, but…." My fingers brushed over the signature, which was not written in Arabic but in the typical way Tamrielians signed. "Maybe this man, or his father...? Maybe they came from my world."

Behind us, someone cleared his throat. The gears of my brain jerked to a halt and I slammed the book shut and thrust it back onto the bookshelf. "Apologies," I blurted. "I like books." I like books. I mentally kicked my brain in the cerebellum.

Arngeir of the knotted beard smirked and recommenced sitting, urging with his hands for Ingjard and me to do the same. Borri and Wulfgar soon entered the room. They were trailed by an even older, shorter, beardier man, who was certainly Einarth. To the side of the fourth Greybeard was a young, skinny man of perhaps twenty who resembled Colin Firth, complete with curly hair.

"Deborah, Ingjard, this is Master Einarth and Apprentice Uthyr. Young Uthyr wishes to join our order. He is what we call a Tongue." Focusing on me, Arngeir asked, "Do you know what that means?"

"Tongue? Ehh, well, not outside of the mouth, no."

"It means I possess the Thu'um," Uthyr answered. "My father is a Nord. I suppose I got it from him, as well as from Kynareth. I can Shout as the Greybeards can, as Tiber Septim could."

"Through study and prayer, Uthyr can one day hope to grasp the meaning of several Words of Power, if he is lucky." Arngeir nodded to Einarth and Uthyr, and the pair left the lounge. "You, on the other hand, have already done more than that on your own, so we have heard, and felt."

Looking up, I saw Borri smile.

"Kyne has blessed you," Arngeir continued in all seriousness. "Our samgalethon agrees, and our Lotkine Paarthurnax commands – you will be permitted to stay."

The room fell silent. I followed Arngeir's gaze, unsure if he was finished speaking, or if he expected me to say something in response. I wasn't understanding everything the man had said, but I understood "stay" loud and clear. The mention of Paarthurnax, whose name was inscribed on one of the plaques en route to High Hrothgar, grabbed my attention more than their abiding my arrival.

"Thank you," was what I said, baulking at other words and thoughts. I waited for further instructions or other such wise words from the Greybeards. When none came, a question plaguing my mind pushed its way out of my mouth. "Who is Paarthurnax?"

. . . . . .

"Well they're very fala, aren't they?" Ingjard remarked, clearly annoyed by their oracular answer to my simple question.

We were unpacking my few belongings in a small, Spartan bedroom, a room that was used by Talos himself. It was the only closed bedroom in the entire fortress. Ingjard would have to sleep with the rest of the Greybeards in the common area that housed two dozen beds. Those beds, as well as my own, were made of stone. Placed on top of the stone slabs were very thick mattresses, likely stuffed with alternating layers of cloth and feathers, or perhaps cotton. Ingjard had half a mind to move her mattress to the hallway in front of my bedroom; I wasn't about to dissuade her.

"What is 'fala'?" I asked my bodyguard.

"It means they are hiding something."

"Mm. I think I know what 'Lotkine' means. Savos Aren at Winterhold was the 'Lot-Laza', in charge of everything. Whoever Paarthurnax is, he—" I cut myself off, halted in folding my cloak. I turned wide-eyed to Ingjard.

"What?" she asked, chuckling.

"Those plaques on the path were about the Dragon War."

"Yes, and?"

I tossed my cloak onto my bed and approached her. "The plaques mentioned someone named Paarthurnax."

Ingjard blinked, and then, a brief moment later, exclaimed a wordless, gasping signal of having experienced an epiphany. "Paarthurnax is a god!"

"A god!?"

"Well, how else can someone be alive through more than three eras!? Even High Elves don't live that long."

I studied the woman, considering her conclusion. "I don't think so, Ingjard."

"Well, why not?"

"The plaque said that Paarthurnax taught people to use the Thu'um. The dragon words." I stared at my bodyguard, eyes insistent. "Dragon. Words."

Ingjard's eyes sparkled as she smiled. "He's Akatosh!" she breathed.

"Akatosh?"

"The Dragon God. Oh, it makes sense. Yes, of course. The Dragon God is the teacher of the Dragon Words to men. You are his 'child'," she said the word with a hint of jest, "so of course Akatosh would want you to be allowed to stay."

"Ingjard, if Akatosh was here on the mountain, do you not think he would have told the Greybeards that I was coming?"

"Ehh, maybe?"

I shook my head, and slumped onto my solitary chair. I peered up at my overly-enthused bodyguard. She looked as if she was about to burst with excitement. "I think Paarthurnax is a dragon, living on the top of the mountain."

The light in Ingjard's eyes faded, somewhat. "A dragon? Just a dragon?"

I shrugged. "Why not? Maybe dragons live for a long time. Whatever he is, he is on that high peak, the one covered by clouds. Perhaps he brings clouds there to hide himself. Because he is a dragon."

"Or because he is a god. Think about it – the leader of the Greybeards is more likely to be a god than just a dragon."

"People once thought dragons were gods, did they not?"

"Doesn't mean they are."

I sighed, and reached across to my table where my knapsack sat. I stroked one of the straps for no reason at all. "I suppose it does not matter, god or dragon. He wanted me to stay."

"'Commanded it', I believe their words were."

I turned back to the woman. "Do you think you will sleep in the hallway?"

"Do you think I need to?"

I looked at the open doorway and smirked. "I don't think they want to kill me in my sleep."

"No, I suppose not." Ingjard picked up her knapsack and made to leave, but soon stopped short and turned back around. "I think I will sleep outside your bedroom, just for tonight at least. You know, just in case." And then, she was gone, shutting the door behind her.

As I unpacked the rest of my things, I found the small package that Marcurio had given me. A gift from him and Brelyna. I had completely forgotten about it until I laid eyes on it just then. It took me a while to get the tight knot in the leather thong undone. When the latch loosed and the lid popped open, I stared at the item inside for a good few minutes.

The lining of the box was polished black leather, and it created a sort of pocket for the item laid inside. The object nested within was of beige-grey colored stone, caved, and highly polished. The object was slightly longer than my hand, and appeared quite heavy. Picking it up, the weight was even more considerable than I had guessed. I ran a palm over one of the ends. Very smooth, and softly pointed before widening quickly. Moving my palm down the object's length, I felt the other end. Very bulbous and, though it was polished, this end had a series of shallow ripples along its surface. The weighty, bulbous end fit perfectly into my hand.

I sat there for a while longer, object standing on its own against my lightly cupped palm. The longer I stared, the more details I noticed. A singular, soft ridge ran the length of the object from end to end. The smaller, tapered end was more intricately carved, and was the most polished area as well. It was only slightly wider than the main length of the object, and considerably smaller than the larger end. The stone it was made from was likely some sort of agate. It warmed to the touch.

I placed the object back into its leather nest, closed the box lid, and fastened the latch. I then forced myself to tidy the rest of my things, all the while wondering how Marcurio and Brelyna had commissioned a stoneworker to carve a piece of agate into an object strikingly similar in size and form to Yrsarald's genitals.

. . . . . .

"See, right there, all the way down to my thigh." Ingjard indicated her abdomen with her pointer finger before tracing the line of a massive scar that was paralleled on either side by a fainter line. The werewolf that almost killed her had ripped open the side of her belly and had nearly sliced her femoral artery. My body shuddered involuntarily.

"How did the claws get under your armor?" I asked as she redressed. We had been getting ready for breakfast when she had elected to show me her scars. She was proud of them. They were trophy scars – the ones left over from wounds that should have killed you. The kind of scars people like Yrsarald took names for.

"First mistake – I wasn't wearing my armor. I was…." Ingjard's cheeks reddened, and she then grinned. I laughed, and shook my head. "One more reason to stay off my back as long as I am your house-servant," Ingjard concluded.

Stay off my back. It was a euphemism that I learned the meaning of while at Winterhold. It meant to abstain from sex. I changed the subject directly. "What do you suppose breakfasts are like, here?"

"Better than dinner, I hope. After yesterday's hike, I could have eaten an entire goat myself. I had to eat from our supplies, after."

"I suppose you can always get extra food from Ivarstead."

"I may just have to ask for more." Ingjard was clearly annoyed at the meager meal that the monks supplied for us last night. Granted, the men hadn't expected us, and we did not bring that much food with us from Ivarstead.

"Rest today, and go to Ivarstead tomorrow. Yrsarald gave us plenty of gold. If you want to buy a goat, buy a goat." I paused a moment, considering. "And perhaps see if they have sweetrolls."

"I'll write a list," she replied curtly, but with all the intent of actually following through. She knew we would need more food. "Perhaps the gaamen need some things, too."

Gaamen. I knew the word referred to the Greybeards, but I still wasn't sure about the definition. Likely, gaam meant something like 'geezer', or 'curmudgeon'.

As soon as I opened my bedroom door, Arngeir was there to greet me, looking in dire need of some coffee. I blinked at the man several times before greeting him with a "good morning".

Arngeir barely managed a smirk. "Are you ready?" he asked me.

I faltered. "R-ready? For… breakfast?"

An expression I could not define spread briefly across the old man's face. "For morning galfardrahnen," he corrected.

My mind, pre-breakfast, only heard muddled noises. "I… the… what?"

"Galfardrahnen," Arngeir repeated himself as he lightly grasped my forearm, urging me out of the bedroom. When we turned right instead of left, I knew we were not heading towards the meal hall. I started to panic. "You will sit, alone, galfardrahnig. You will think, in silence, about who you are, about what you are, what you truly need, and about what you want gevnar from your time with the Greybeards."

Think? What? My mind was cloudy and my head dizzy. I could feel my stomach cringing as it searched for edible somethings within and was left wanting. As we walked further and further from the kitchen, I began to feel ill. Think? Arngeir was asking me to fast. Fast and, what, think?

"'Galfardrahn'," I repeated, slowly, picking out the sounds. Galar meant 'to think', have thoughts. Far meant 'a walk'. Drahn was 'dream'. "'Galfardrahn'," I said again. Thought dream. Meditate? Meditate. Fast, and meditate. I couldn't stop the whine that slipped out of my mouth, or the rumble that roared from my gut.

"Surely the Dragonborn needs breakfast first," Ingjard stated in my defense.

"Empty stomach, clear mind," Arngeir declared with pride.

"Empty stomach, see things that are not there," I retorted in a low mumble. "And I already told you what I want."

Arngeir remained silent. He had led me to a small, dark area that boasted an alcove complete with altar and kneepad, and a small, square rug in the center of the offset room. Aside from some candelabras, that was it. I was bid to sit on the rug, and I did so cross-legged. When I was situated, Arngeir left without a word.

"I think I am going to fall over," I mumbled.

Ingjard scoffed. "You act as if you have never been without a meal."

Grumbling, I replied, "Never on purpose."

After a short while of staring in bewilderment at Ingjard, who was kneeling before me, the woman dug into a small satchel she carried and retrieved an apple. "You can have it, if you want."

My instinct was to rip the fruit out of her hand and devour it, but I was too faint to act on the thought. After a moment of staring at the bright green-yellow skin, I closed my eyes and swallowed the saliva that had pooled in my mouth. "No, you eat it. You will need strength if I need to be carried to bed."

"Eating it now would be rude."

"Not if I command it."

At that, I heard the crisp pop of Ingjard taking a bite out of the apple. I inhaled deeply and set about getting into a meditative zone. Breathe in. Breathe out. Slower. Slower. Ignore the dizziness and hunger.

Who am I? An Earthling over her head. What am I? A born-again mage. What do I need? Breakfast. What do I want from the Greybeards? Answers. I wondered if a shortcut to answers would be to rummage around the fortress and read as many books as possible. Surely, this place had a library bigger than the several small bookshelves that I had browsed in the lounge.

Alright, stop thinking. I got comfortable, grounded myself, and put my brain on autopilot. I had done this sort of thing before, once upon a time.

Almost immediately upon settling, my mind's eye was taken outside to a snowscape. Blustery and cruel, the place could have been anywhere. The lands outside of Winterhold, the mountain on which I sat, the arctic of Earth. I shivered. The winds were carrying me onward, somewhere hidden by a blizzard, or perhaps just blowing snow. The brightness of my surroundings hurt my eyes.

On I floated through the thick veil of white, around cliffs, peaks, and boulders. I no longer felt the cold, and instead felt increasingly warm, as if I was being drawn to a source of heat. Around a bend, and another bend. Passed boulders and a family of mountain goats. Finally, the wind calmed as the snow veil lifted and let in a greyed rosy light from an endless, cloudless sky. I floated forward still and was then in the center of a wide, white expanse. There was nowhere else to go up.

I was on the top of a mountain. I turned to my left and saw only sharp, craggy peaks, deadly to any human climber, no doubt. Then, to my right, I saw a wall. A curved, stone wall on the top of a mountain, covered in snow. The thing looked as if it had been carved from the mountain itself. As I drew closer, I noted shapes engraved into the structure above the wall as well as etchings on the wall itself. I knew I had seen marks on stone like that in the past.

Saarthal. There was a wall just like this one, if not grander, inside the old Nord ruin. I reached out a hand and brushed away the snow, revealing more of the dashes, slashes, triangles and dots.

Dragon words. Though windswept and polished, the marks were still vaguely legible, if one knew how to read dragon script. I recalled having seen, in my mind's eye, the letters of the words that Viinturuth had spoken, but I didn't understand what was written on this wall. Perhaps that was one thing I would learn at High Hrothgar.

I stepped back from the wall and looked again to the rosy sky. The air was no longer crisp, but instead felt as if I was breathing in heated air. From within me I felt a rumble, and knew my stomach was threatening to rip me from my cerebral journey.

And then, it wasn't my stomach rumbling, but the ground beneath me. The quake lasted the briefest of moments before the mountain stilled. Above me, the clear sky had been shrouded by clouds once again. Behind me, I felt as if a fire had been lit; my back was warmed by its heat. I turned around, but only an empty patch of the endless snow stared back at me. Confused, I walked toward what I had thought was a heat source. Three steps later, my stomach turned and head swayed, and I had to stop in my tracks and grip my knees with my hands. Gasping, I pushed myself backward, away from whatever it was that had made me swoon. As I gave myself a moment to recover, the clouds let loose a gentle snowfall, and I was again cold. I decided that I had had enough, and that it was time to wake myself out of my meditative state and go eat something.

As I imagined myself sitting on a rug, near Ingjard, in a small room inside High Hrothgar and no longer trudging along a mountaintop without a fur cloak on, more rumblings shook the earth beneath me. I could not tell if the quake had happened in reality or in my mind, but it lasted far longer than the previous one. Within the rumblings, I thought I could hear a deep, vibrating voice echoing a repetition of incoherent sounds. The sounds remained distant and faint until, with sudden clarity, the gravelly voice thundered in my head with three distinct words: Drem, yol, lok. Upon hearing the words, I opened my eyes and saw the constricted, sizable reptilian pupil of a dragon. I screamed, and fell backward into the snow.

AN: Thank you to KiraMackey for reading over the first part of this chapter!

Samgalethon - Consensus

Lotkine – Grandmaster

Fala – Secretive

Lot-Laza – Arch-Mage

Gaamen – Old men

Gevnar – To gain