Turdas, 7:56 AM, 8th of Morning Star, 4E 202

The Throat of the World

At the very least, the counter-attack on Solitude had been a success. Paarthurnax and Nosqoriik had flown as fast as they were able, and they arrived perhaps an hour before the elves did. They waited, up in the mountaintops of the north, far out of reach, for the Thalmor's soldiers to come out of their hiding places, to attack the city. And when night had fallen, and the attack had begun, the two dragons were ready.

Paarthurnax had found no pleasure in his part in the battle. It had been nearly effortless to repel the mortal soldiers, but he had not wanted to do this, not truly. Fighting in battle was the manner of act he had dreaded. It clashed with everything he had taught himself of the Way of the Voice. Never attack, never dominate, never indulge.

Once the battle was over, Nosqoriik had flown east to deliver the news of the Legion's gathering place's destruction, and of Solitude's safety, to Alftand. Paarthurnax thought the Dragonborn would want to know as soon as he could. But he himself returned south, to the Throat of the World. There was much for him to think upon, and he desired his place of meditation.

Unfortunately, he did not have much time before being interrupted once again.

"Paarthurnax!" It was another dragon. That much was certain. The voice had come from not two miles to the north. Paarthurnax looked up, but no one was in the skies.

When he looked back down, he saw Odahviing. The red dragon was flying dangerously low, and with great error. He was losing his bearings, and apparently his strength. In the end, he did not make it to the summit where Paarthurnax awaited. His wings gave out, and he tumbled and landed on a stretch of mountainside.

Paarthurnax took flight long enough to land at Odahviing's side. He was plainly injured. He did not respond to Paarthurnax's arrival, but laid limply on the snow, flat upon his belly, his wings spread awkwardly.

"Odahviing?" Paarthurnax posed it as more of a question than a statement.

He put his head beneath the red dragon's wing, just at the shoulder, and rolled him onto his back. Immediately, he almost wished he had not. Odahviing's underside looked as though a team of woodcutters had set their axes to it. The snow was red where he had lain upon it, and his scales still oozed and glistened.

"Greetings," whispered Odahviing. So very typical of him.

"What happened?"

"The elves happened. Their mages have moved to Bromjunaar." Odahviing spoke with great effort. It clearly pained him to even breathe.

Bromjunaar was once a great Nord city. During the reign of the dragons, it had been a gathering place for the dragon priests. Following the war between dragons and mortals, the city had become a ruin, sunken beneath the earth and sealed off by an impenetrable door. The Nords of the present day referred to these ruins as Labyrinthian.

Odahviing bore deep wounds, but if he had made it all the way from Bromjunaar to the Throat of the World, he would clearly survive. Dragons healed from their wounds far more quickly and easily than mortals. Paarthurnax himself recalled that he had recovered from a lethal dose of paralysis poison in minutes.

Still, it was equally clear that the dragon was in great pain. Paarthurnax wondered what a mortal would do in this situation. Nothing he could do, certainly. Still, he did not wish to leave Odahviing behind. He sat down by his fellow dragon, silently in thought.

"Vuljotnaak is dead," said Odahviing. "He joined me in the attack. The mages used destruction magic I have never seen before."

Paarthurnax touched his head to the snow. "Where is my brother when we need him?"

Odahviing snorted weakly.

A time of silence passed. Paarthurnax eventually turned to his ally with a new set of ideas.

"The Way of the Voice has failed, Odahviing. We have used our Thu'ums in battle."

"Only one of us ever agreed to that system."

"True. You speak the truth. I wonder how many of the dovah even know what the Way of the Voice is."

The Dragon War had taken place long before the birth of the Way of the Voice's founder, Jurgen Windcaller. Contrary to the belief of some, this doctrine was not of Paarthurnax's own devising.

"Why do you care so deeply about it, anyway? We obey the Dovahkiin already." Perhaps Odahviing was healing already. He seemed more… Animated, perhaps.

"That means that the only reason we are not laying waste to Tamriel is because the Dovahkiin would kill us if we did."

"You speak of this idea as though it is new. Power is truth, Paarthurnax. So it has always been."

Power is truth. Paarthurnax had not heard that phrase since the reign of the dragons. It was like shards of ice to his ears. Sickening.

Another time of silence passed. Paarthurnax had surprised himself with his reaction. It made little sense. He had been aware of the nature of dragonkind for as long as he had been alive. Why should the idea of power defining truth disturb him now?

The Way of the Voice had defined to Paarthurnax that truth would be sought out with meditation. Perhaps it was more successful with mortals than with dragons. He had learned nothing over these thousands of years, nothing but how to deny his own urges.

And if there was any truth to be found here, it was that the Way of the Voice was of no satisfaction. He had known this already. Even if he was reluctant to admit it to himself, the inadequacy of the Way of the Voice had been demonstrated to him in detail. During his fight with the Blades, Paarthurnax had fallen into the depths of a river, unable to surface. Yet he had barely even been willing to.

Isolated from the world, submerged beneath the depths of the water, Paarthurnax had experienced a moment of honesty with himself. He had fought past it, but for just a few seconds, he had been brought face-to-face with his truest feelings. And his honest desire was to allow himself to succumb to his demise. It was so tempting to indulge in that one last urge, the one that would finally bring an end to the pain of rejecting his own self.

The Way of the Voice had robbed Paarthurnax of his will to live. That was how it had truly failed.

He had not realized how miserable he had become.

This brought him back to the idea of power defining truth. That was the logic by which dragons justified their indulgence. But Paarthurnax would no longer accept it. He could not simply conclude that power decided what was right and what was wrong.

"What if truth is not defined by power?"

Odahviing picked up his head. He was healing rapidly. Paarthurnax imagined that the strain of flying had delayed his recovery. "Why not?"

"It is a question, Odahviing, little more. I wonder how the mortals pursue the nature of truth. They have not used our ways during our absence."

Paarthurnax continued to surprise himself. Did he truly wonder this?

"I know not," said Odahviing. "The mortals are weak, and their truths lacking. There is little to be learned from them."

This had to be flawed thinking. Odahviing was still regarding the mortal races using the notion of power equaling truth. Paarthurnax, however, attempted to think otherwise. What if power were irrelevant to truth? What would that mean?

In that case, everything would change.

"I doubt that. There is much to be learned from them, and little to be learned from us. We are like the Daedra. We have immortal power, and so we do not need to seek out the truths of how to live."

Odahviing fell silent. He must have been working through some thoughts of his own. Paarthurnax imagined that he must have truly disrupted Odahviing's view of the world.

"I wish we could debate like most dovah do," complained Odahviing.

"Using our Thu'ums?"

"It does seem more effective."

"If you believe that the one with the stronger Thu'um must be correct, then yes."

Another pause. "Your words are causing me more pain than my wounds, Paarthurnax."

This was no longer a very strong statement. Odahviing's visible injuries were nearly entirely healed, which relieved Paarthurnax to see, though he declined to remark on it.

Instead, he said this: "It seems that the mortals have found a way of life of their own. Clearly, it does not define truth by power, for they have so little power to use."

"A way of life for the weak," said Odahviing.

Paarthurnax ignored him. "I suspect that they are making of use of the one thing they have which we do not."

"Opposable thumbs?"

"Empathy, Odahviing. Do you know what that is?"

Odahviing inclined his head suspiciously. "Is that an actual word?"

"Do you think that mortality is a foreign concept to the dov, Odahviing?"

"Do not patronize me, Paarthurnax."

"Empathy is far more alien. At least we have a word for mortality. This concept has no place in our language." Indeed, Paarthurnax was using the mortal language when he said the word 'empathy'.

"Then… What is it? Can you even tell me?"

Paarthurnax needed to pause and think once more. He had never tried to explain anything of this nature before. He barely understood these ideas himself. "What if you were I?"

"But I am not."

"Indeed you are not, but what if you were? What if you felt everything that I feel?"

Dragons were not the most expressive creatures, but Odahviing looked genuinely confused. "I… Would… I know not."

"Take your time." Paarthurnax settled on the snow.

Odahviing did not take terribly much time in the end. "I would ensure that you felt everything I would want to feel. Though I cannot imagine why. It sounds suicidal. What sort of way of thinking is that?"

"Imagine if you felt what others felt simply by being around them."

"What?"

"That is empathy. For the mortals, it is in their nature."

"No wonder they are so weak."

"It seems to be the only reason they have not destroyed themselves. Akatosh was not kind when he created us. We have the power to be the guardians of the mortal world, but none of the desire to be so."

"I am not so sure of the part about power. Vuljotnaak was just killed by a band of elves."

"So. Do you still think the Thalmor are beneath our attention?"

Odahviing remained silent.

A shift in subject matter was in order. "Did you see whether they had opened the door to the ruin?"

"They had not. The door was covered in the marks of burns, but it appeared to be completely intact. Perhaps we could attack them again and hide behind the door for a shield."

"Once you feel ready to fly once more, travel to Alftand. The Dovahkiin needs to know where the Thalmor mages are."

And so continued Paarthurnax's duties as a commander of war.

He found himself wondering—not wondering, hoping—for a better way to coexist with mortals than the Way of the Voice. His desires told him to assume his natural place in the world, to seek out power for himself as he saw fit. It would be a fortune indeed to resist those desires and still have anything to live for.