Chapter 47: A New Type of Song
The ice wraith slithered through the air, ethereal, as though it were made of water and the fierce, snow-choked gale was nothing but an ocean current.
Farkas swung his swords, impacting the creature before it wriggled any further. Skyforge steel clanged against – whatever the weird thing was made of – ice and magic, I supposed – and the clang bounced between the rock and trees either side of us, a high-pitched, bell-like sound. It was joined a beat later by a loud, disgruntled screech from the wraith.
I watched Farkas hurl around to take another swing at it, my bow aimed and ready. As with the previous ice wraiths, I'd only been able to loose a single shot, alerting it to our presence, before it spotted us and the 'proper' battle commenced.
A shattering noise split the air – one I was growing familiar with – and I lowered my weapon. Farkas had finished this ice-wraith off, too.
Its remains coalesced into a puddle of unnatural blueness, marring the path. My shield-brother grunted in annoyance and shoved his dual swords back into their sheaths, then stared at the puddle with narrowed eyes. It was like he wanted to kick at the glowing residue, but was unwilling to touch it.
"You okay?" he called over his shoulder.
I jogged toward him and shouldered my bow. The wraith hadn't come near me, probably hadn't realised I was there. "Are you?"
"Mm," Farkas hummed, twisting his arm to frown at a slash of white on the metal covering his bicep. "Bastard tried to take a bite out of me."
"Oh," I slowed, wincing. "Um. Will it buff out?"
Farkas nodded and lowered his arm, rolled his shoulders and neck a little. His eyes returned to the ascending path, its age-worn steps poking here and there through the ice. "Yeah. This armour's seen worse," he smirked. "C'mon, sister. I think there's another one of those prayer stones ahead."
Turning with him onto the path, I glanced ahead for it. "I not sure they're prayer stones, not exactly," we fell into step along the rocky, snow-lined path. "They read more like a...poem, I guess. History and memories, but with...flair. Drama. You know?" I glanced at him.
Farkas shrugged. "Those pilgrims at the fourth one seemed to be praying to it. Maybe they mean different things to different people?"
"You're probably right," I smiled, looking over his craggy features with warmth.
Not for the first time, I thanked the Divines Farkas came after me. Not only was his presence relaxing, but I now understood that had I climbed the path on my own, I would have probably been taken out by an ice wraith before I reached the second marker. I was no match for anything requiring close range.
Farkas stopped before the newest stone, squinting as he read.
"It's number nine," he announced, a dispassionate monotone. "For years all silent, the Greybeards spoke one name; Tiber Septim, stripling then, was summoned to Hrothgar."
My eyes widened.
"They blessed and named him Dovahkiin."
He rose and threw me a relaxed, teasing smile. "Huh. No wonder our wolves chose you over Hircine. Why serve a Daedric Prince when you can follow one of the Divines?"
I stilled, stared at him for a beat. Had he connected the same dots as Farengar and Delphine?
But then - Tiber Septim. For all my speculation, I hadn't considered Him. If we were descendant from the Septims, that would make the man who eventually became Talos one of our ancestors. A Divine whose worship was outlawed by the Empire at the demand of the Dominion.
In a surge of panic, my mind flew to my sister's predicament. If the Aldmeri Dominion found out anything from Giselle, enough to spark the notion of a connection to the Septims...well. They would hunt me down next. And worse still – if I ran and hid, they would hunt down those I loved in an effort to flush me out and silence me.
I wanted to bolt down the Throat of the World and find Giselle – to free her and hide her, before she could talk – but then, where would I even begin to look for her? Perhaps she had already talked? Perhaps the Dominion were storming Whiterun and Riverwood at this moment, demanding Lydia and Hadvar and Sigrid give up my position.
None of this has happened.
The swift, calm voice in my mind carried Lydia's tone, her logic. The Dominion were interested in Giselle for the same reason the Imperial Legion were; she had information on Stormcloak. Nothing more.
There was no hiding my frantic heart beat from Farkas; I shot him a furrowed look and attempted to shake it off. "I'm not a God, Farkas."
"Neither was He, when they called Him up here," he crunched his way across the snow, back to my side.
Shuddering, I turned to the path. "That was a long time ago. Tamriel had different...needs, back then," I murmured.
"Suppose so," he chuckled.
Silence fell between us for a time, and we climbed the ever-ascending steps that would lead to my training. Training Tiber Septim had undertaken in his youth, too.
Soon the snow thickened across the pass, obscuring the stones, and I understood we would come upon no more pilgrims. There were larger rocks and trees either side of the obscured staircase, like a frozen honour guard lining the way to the top, so we continued on.
You are Celeste Passero, I reminded myself, chest fluttery and mind pleading. You are not the sum of ancestors you never knew. You are not a lost Empress, or a...a God.
"You want to talk about it?" Farkas murmured.
"Hmm?" I glanced to him quickly.
His eyes were on the path; his boots squeaked through the snow in an uneven rhythm as though he was staggering, though he did not seem weary at all. "Talos. Dragonborn. All that..." his silvery gazed flickered to me, "worrying you're doing."
"Farkas," I sighed in exasperation. I looked up to the clear, pale blue sky, streaked by high thin clouds and marked briefly by fluffy, speedy low ones.
"Yeah I know, I'm not Vilkas," he replied wittingly. "I won't be any good at working the kinks out of your problems. But I'm good at listening."
"Don't say things like that," I shook my head. "You are many things your brother is not. In truth..." I faltered, rolling my eyes at myself. "I...don't know what to think. And I don't know where to begin with all - that."
"Yet. You'll figure it out."
"Or die trying," I huffed bleakly.
"Not on my watch, sister."
I laughed quietly. For a beat, there was only the eerie serenity of the high mountains, the whistle of the icy winds, and the crunch of our boots through the thin crust covering the snow. The trees thinned and I caught snatches of breathtaking views of Skyrim, far below. Pale and purpled mountains smudged by nothing but sheer distance, stretching to the grey-blue smear at the horizon, which I assumed was the Sea of Ghosts.
It was beautiful but undeniably surreal. The world beyond this mountain was but a painting, a mirage, or perhaps one person's memory of a Skyrim they had once dreamed of. It was no wonder the Greybeards were disconnected from the goings on below them. From here there were no wars, no borders, no other people. There was nothing but endless, flawless plains, mountains, seas and sky.
I stopped and really looked at the western extents, trying in earnest to make out the lines of Solitude. There were people there – lots of people. I grew up there. It was real.
Melancholy filled me and the ice in the breeze prickled against my exposed cheeks and chin. I wasn't alone, but in looking for my former-home, I felt...lonely.
"Are you afraid?" I murmured, suddenly needing to hear his voice.
Farkas chuckled softly. "Sort of."
"You are?" I turned in surprise; I had expected a 'no'. The notion brave Farkas was worried or scared, or anything but resolved about the task ahead chilled me more than the elements. "What do you fear?"
His silvery eyes stared at the world beneath us. "The usual," he droned.
I waited for an explanation, but apparently, that was it.
He glanced sideways suspiciously, the rest of him stationary. "What?"
"I don't get it," I returned. "What's the usual?"
With a huff, he motioned blithely for us to proceed. "That something'll happen and I'll...lose control. Lose myself, but forever."
Oh. Farkas didn't fear the task ahead. Of course he didn't; the Companion had faced unknown trials and triumphed unscathed, time and time again.
"I keep telling myself, while you're here, it won't happen," he added, his eyes forward, fixed on some point beyond our destination. "Then I worry about what might happen to Vilkas, while we're away."
My stomach twisted into a tight knot. His fear - I could have fixed it.
"I did offer to take you to Ysgramor's tomb," I hazarded.
Farkas shook his head and flashed me a half-smile. "Why? So long as you're around, we don't need curing. It's like that book Kodlak found, when he first started looking for a cure."
My brows crossed. "I remember. I mean, Vilkas told me about it."
"Right," Farkas slowed, turned to me. "Remember what happened when the Hunt was removed?"
The wolf in the story was calmed, and the curse was seen for its gifts. I remembered all too well, for Vilkas had told me the details before he related their own less successful attempts to gain control over their beasts. And fleeting would it be, for if - when they died, be it tomorrow or fifty years from now, Hircine would claim their souls.
I slammed my eyes shut and reigned in a curse. Farkas was happy. My brothers had attained a level of peace they could live with for now. Good. They were thankful for the gifts their inner wolves leant them: the heightened senses, so vital to so many of our endeavours. I had even begged Vilkas to use his gifts to keep Hadvar safe on the road to Solitude, and of course he had done it.
"Okay," my voice trembled. I cleared my throat to add hastily. "It's your choice to remain as you are," I conceded. I was not Farkas' mother to lecture him.
"So long as it's useful to us," Farkas added.
I winced and made myself look straight ahead to mask it. When they returned from freeing Kodlak, Aela was furious with me for enrapturing them. Vilkas told me, while he sat at the base of the statue of Ysgramor, unable to join the others within, he had questioned whether the beast had control over him any longer, or if my presence had loaned him the serenity to use the wolf's gifts.
They are still werewolves because they want to help me.
Regardless of their newfound solace, I felt ill. We were playing a dangerous game with an unforgiving Daedric Prince. Somehow, Hircine would make us all pay for using gifts he'd bestowed upon them for his glory alone.
"You gotta stop this worrying, Celeste," Farkas' large hand touched my shoulder.
Still I startled, shirked out of my thoughts.
"This is our choice," he added, patting my arm gently. "Just like you said."
I stared at the large man who had, quite ridiculously, sworn fealty to me, as though I was a Septim of legend.
He smiled at me, full of casual reassurance and friendship. He grounded me again, reminded me of who and where we were, at that moment.
"Thank you," I offered a smile in return. Just smiling unwound a coil of anxiety, and I almost laughed. "But - you must promise you will tell me, the moment you want to go to Ysgramor's tomb, okay?"
Farkas' smile widened and he tilted his head. "Probably the next time you run off with Hadvar to get married. I doubt we'll see much of you after that. Were you going to tell us you were going to Riften with him?"
Again I winced. "We were going to see you on our way out of Whiterun. But...the letter came from Lydia, and we had to go to Riverwood, and it put an end to...everything, really."
"Oh, right, yeah," he murmured. "Um, sorry."
"Yeah. So am I."
There was nothing more to say, and fleeting lament swam into my forefront, trying to find room amongst the chaos to grip hold. I shoved this guilt from my mind in frustration; there was simply no more room within me, and I was determined to never regret what Hadvar and I shared that day.
We continued to climb the seven-thousand steps, and Farkas' movements and manner grew more casual, but his eyes darted to anything that moved, or might be about to move.
No matter how I yearned to take lessons from Farkas – to move on with my eyes and mind on the Greybeards and whatever lay beyond – it was difficult to ignore the deep-seated, hollow feeling in my chest. I understood then, with some detachment, that I wasn't conquering the emptiness, merely laying thin blankets of warmth over it for periods of time, easily tugged aside by my relentless thoughts and memories. I wasn't blaming myself for everything that passed – I was determined to throw myself into my destiny – but even the sight of my boots reminded me of Alvor, and of how swiftly those we loved could be snatched away, as though their lives were as insubstantial as snow on the breeze.
I looked up to focus on the pale horizon below us, determined to think of something else, but could not so easily be dragged from my grief.
Had Alvor ascended to Sovngarde? He was no warrior, but he had died a warrior's death, defending his family from a dragon.
Would he want to ascend to Sovngarde?
He would not wish to be buried at all!
Cold like an ice-wraith, Giselle's outburst to the priest that horrible day snaked to the front of my thoughts, shattering the inkling warmth I'd felt imagining Alvor being welcomed in the Hall of Valour.
Blinking back sudden tears, I glanced toward the path again, desperate for distraction.
Farkas made a small hmph sound to my right. On the exhale, I saw the fog his breath made in the corner of my eye. Knowing he was sensing all that I felt didn't disturb me this time; at least he wasn't judging me, and that made me feel less alone and ever grateful for his presence.
This emotion earned a chuckle from my shield-brother, and before I caught up to what I was projecting, Farkas threw his arm over my shoulder.
And before I had even startled from the unexpected, added weight, he sang.
"Have you seen my sword, sword? My new diamond sword, sword?"
The tension and anxiety scattered at his largely tuneless rendition of the absurd song; I was powerless to suppress a laugh.
"I am now the lord, lord, of my diamond sword, sword!" he bellowed, waving his hand to the path as though conducting the breeze that sent the freshest snowfall whirling around us.
"Gods, Farkas!" I burst, slowing to jab him in the ribs – well, jab at his armour. I doubted he even felt it. "Of all the songs to sing on this solemn and ancient path!" I chided. Vilkas must have told him about the song. "The other pilgrims would be within their rights to start a riot."
"Eh, bring 'em on," he cut, lowering his arm back to his side. "It was worth it, to make you laugh."
Incredulous, I shook my head at him. "I could not have done this without you, today. Perhaps ever," I admitted with a weighty exhale.
Farkas flicked me a half-smile, treading uneven steps through the snow. "Nah, you'd have-"
He stilled, holding out an arm for me to do the same, and his eyes darted back to the trail.
I caught myself before I ran into him and immediately drew my bow off my shoulder. I scanned our surrounds – peered in the direction Farkas was staring intently in – and saw...nothing.
Farkas lowered his arm as I drew an arrow. "Ugh. Troll ahead," he murmured in disgust. "Get behind the trees," he waved toward the side of the path, eyes fixed on a point in the distance. "Don't want it smelling you."
"Farkas, no," I hissed, lifting my bow and aiming in the direction he was looking. "We do this together."
Again, he grunted in disgust. "Too late anyway," he hushed, unsheathing his swords and hurtling forward. "If I can't take it, climb a tree and fill it with arrows," he growled.
I flickered him a brief glance as my stomach clenched with nerves. Farkas had taken down trolls before, right?
Then I saw the great, lumbering frost troll - it was a lot closer than I had thought. I inhaled a sharp breath, tracking the mottled skin and fur as it lumbered toward Farkas.
If I was to be of any use in this fight, it would have to be now. I took aim – prayed that I was actually within range – and fired.
My arrow whirred through the air, glancing off the creature's arm. It was enough to break its focus on my shield-brother, which in turn was enough time for Farkas to land his first blow. The troll let out a furious roar as it spun to face him, clutching at the arm he had sliced, and my shield-brother jumped back, just out of reach.
It was strangely hypnotic, watching him fight. I always expected strong Nord warriors to scream inarticulate, throaty battle-cries as they charged on foes, but neither Farkas nor his twin appeared to work that way. Perhaps it had something to do with their curse; perhaps it was why they were still alive.
I readied another arrow so if an opening presented itself, I could fire, but I knew the moment would never come. I would never risk firing on my shield-brother. So while I remained still with a new arrow trained, I watched, holding my breath.
After minutes of evading the troll's furious swipes and ignoring its livid snarls and screams, the worst occurred. Farkas' foot slipped – on what I could only guess – perhaps an icy rock. He flew into the air before he crashed hard onto his back.
The troll fell on him immediately, its heavily-muscled arms flinging wildly.
"No!" I screamed, surging forward.
Farkas' cried in rage – in pain – and my cry wasn't enough to draw the troll's attention away from him. It was so focussed on Farkas, it didn't notice my approach until I drove the arrow I'd been holding into the closet coil of muscle: its backside.
With an earth-shattering roar that toppled the snow from the nearest rocks, the troll turned, its three beady eyes honing in on me as its teeth and claws dripped with red blood.
Farkas' blood.
"FUS!" I roared right back at it. I was close enough that my Shout hit it instantly and sent it flying away from us. Its mottled body tumbled across the snow of the path, digging gouges out of the whiteness as it rolled, then whammed into a rock on the far side of the track.
The molten fury coursing through my veins took control of my every move; my eyes narrowed on the frost troll. I squared it with deadly challenge, daring it to rise and come for me and mine again. Positioned before Farkas, between it and him, I stared it down.
Farkas moaned. Beyond the sound I could hear, feel the pain that he felt, smell the deadly wounds the troll had inflicted upon him. Instead of twisting the frightened child's stomach into knots this time, his fear served to fuel the bright fire within me.
As the frost troll righted itself I raised my bow with an arrow at the ready. "Daar gein los dii!" I yelled across the space between us. "Kriist tum uv dir!"
The troll hesitated and sniffed the air.
A frantic voice within me, the frightened child who stepped back so I could do what had to be done told me to run while I had the chance.
I palmed her pleas aside and stood my ground. I had warned the troll; This one is mine; stand down or die; and it had heard me. Perhaps it had understood me. Perhaps it would leave.
Or perhaps goats would sprout wings and start flying.
The troll launched itself off the rock, bounding across the snowy expanse with frothy blood foaming around its snarling maw. Gritting my teeth, I stepped back, widening my stance as I shuffled around Farkas' legs. The frost troll leapt into the air and drew back a meaty arm wider than my entire body, and I fired.
My arrow pierced one of its hideous beady eyes, and it screeched.
"FUS!" I uttered, drowning out its cry before it even hit the ground. I watched with sickening satisfaction as my Shout sent the troll toppling away. This time, it flew between two large boulders lining the path and disappeared from view, over the cliff.
I didn't see it fall, but its smell left us, and the sound of its receding cries of rage told me it was gone and would not be back. Nothing could survive that fall.
My distress for Farkas grappled for control, and I let it take the lead. I had done my job and protected him.
Now I had to save him. I threw aside my bow and turned, falling to my knees beside Farkas and shrugging off my backpack.
Farkas coughed and spluttered flecks of blood that marked his lips and teeth as they wheezed out of him. The crimson drops landed on both his chestplate and the snow beside us.
Not Farkas.
I grabbed his hand for comfort, in trembling desperation, and made myself look at his injuries.
There were claw marks – deep ones – sliced through the side of his armour into his flesh. His legs were – oh Gods – one of his knee-caps seemed to have been torn off, but it was difficult to tell with all the blood. How was he still conscious?
"We'll fix this," I fished frantically with my free hand for one of the little red bottles I'd stowed in my pack. "We'll fix you, Farkas, just...just hold on, okay?"
I found one and withdrew it with a surge of relief.
Farkas sighted the bottle and his eyes widened. With a vehemence I'd not thought possible of a man with his injuries, he shook his head.
I fixed him with an imploring look, and the silvery wolfish sheen in his eyes caught the high, weak sunlight, making it impossible to see anything but whiteness there.
The eerie sight resolved me. "I'm sorry, brother," I whispered, cursing myself for making him face his abhorrence. As Kodlak had said - potions were not really products of magic. "If you want to live, you must drink it."
He pursed his lips and shook his head in misery.
Letting go of his hand, I clasped the back of his head – curled my fingers into the thick, inky hair and held him in place. "Farkas, I need you to live. I can't do this without you," I pleaded. "Open your mouth, now."
His breaths shuddered and he winced, eyes tilting upward to regard the sky in what seemed to be a final, desperate plea. When his quaking lips parted, I tipped the viscous black liquid down his throat, and he let me.
Gratefully, the effects were almost immediate, even while Farkas squeezed his eyes shut and coughed dryly after he had swallowed. I sobbed with relief as the wounds on his torso and legs stopped bleeding. Warm tears tracked down my cheeks as I uncorked another potion with my teeth.
Three healing potions later, his side was pink and his legs were no longer oozing blood. Skin formed and knit, stretching over the gouges, and his own ability to heal was sped up by the potion.
When I leaned over to position a fourth potion on his lips, his hand caught mine.
"I'm all right," he grumbled.
Sitting back on my feet with a sigh, my hands fell into my lap, fiddling with the bottle as I watched him. He didn't look all right.
Farkas slowly, gingerly propped himself up on his elbows, then cringed.
"You're not all right," I spluttered, wiping my cheeks, but only more tears fell. "Please, drink another, just one more for me?"
"Trust me, okay?" he groaned, attempted to push himself up into a sitting position. "Beast blood runs hotter than human. It'll help with..." his eyes landed on his swiftly-healing, blood-soaked legs, and he grimaced.
I flung my arms around his neck before I realised I'd moved; the empty potion bottles clinked against one another as they toppled out of my lap. "Don't ever do that again," I commanded through a sob.
His arm gingerly rose to pat my back, tentative and uncertain. "Okay."
I sat back on my heels and shoved him in the shoulder. "Why didn't you transform?" I demanded.
Farkas gave up trying to sit, leaning back on his elbows, frowning as he shrugged. "I dunno," he owned.
"Farkas!"
"I don't," his eyes met mine; his brows furrowed slightly. "Turning...didn't cross my mind," he looked away. "Huh," he huffed, to himself it seemed. "Who'd've thought?" he added softly.
I bit my bottom lip to keep from snapping at him – he didn't deserve it but by the Gods he frightened me. My heart thumped so wildly in my chest that I wondered how every beast on the mountaintop hadn't heard it and been drawn to us, and my veins and skin thrummed and rippled with too much adrenaline. What had crossed his mind, I wondered furiously?
We remained sitting in the snow to give him time to recover. Farkas' breaths evened out and my anger slowly abated, though I had half a notion to dismiss him and demand he return to Jorrvaskr at once.
We're giving Farkas orders now, are we?
Grimacing, I collected the empty potion bottles and tossed them into my pack. If it will save his life, yes.
It was strange to acknowledge if I told him to leave, he actually might – not out of fear but honour, or duty, as it was. Still, I held my tongue, knowing if I sent him home, he would descend the Throat of the World by himself and in his weakened state, it might be a journey he would not survive for all his bravado and beast blood. We were so close to the monastery, the only sensible course of action was to push on so that he could recover indoors.
"Can you stand?" I asked weakly.
Pushing up onto his hands, his eyes fell to his legs. "Another minute," he grunted, squinting at me. "Thanks for saving me."
"Don't mention it," I shuddered.
The corner of his lip tilted and he nodded once, lowering his eyes in a way that made me uncomfortable.
"As you wish, sister."
Turning away from him with a huff, I retrieved my bow.
Before I turned back, I heard him shifting, and caught a whisper of steel – the sound of him drawing one of his swords.
"They're coming," he growled.
Thalmor was the first thought to enter my head. While I bolted to his side, I hushed, frustrated, "What is it now?"
"They must have heard you Shout," a grumbling reply.
I turned, eyes roving the path beyond. "It's probably a pilgrim."
"No," Farkas hissed with certainty. "These ones heard you, and they're coming for you."
"Who's coming for me?" I asked, though given Farkas wasn't acting as he had when the Thalmor had pursued me, I had a feeling I already knew.
Farkas didn't need to reply because at that moment four figures drifted through the mists of snow being washed across the pass.
Their cloaks were of an ancient design I'd only seen in storybooks, split down the middle and clasped in the centre, over their hearts. The robes were as colourless as the world before dawn, their only adornments a scattered edge that appeared to be made of scales. Underneath the cloaks, the forms were heavily layered in fur and wool alike. Dark tufts poked out from neck lines and jutted out encircling wrists. Beneath raised hoods, I caught wiry whiskers and aged skin. The serenity their approach emanated, or perhaps simply the knowledge that I needed their help if Farkas was to survive the night, is all that kept me from fleeing.
I stood taller – I couldn't help it – but when I opened my mouth to give a formal hail, no words emerged. Taking a deep breath that I prayed would loan me both control and courage, I placed myself between the approaching men and Farkas.
The Greybeard in the lead lowered his hood, and I lowered my eyes in respect and fear – of this audience I'd been avoiding for months.
"Ah. We have frightened you," an arcadian, gravelly voice spoke.
He sounded as tranquil as their ghost-like approach, rich with wisdom of the ages, but scratchy, as though barely used. The words, as much as his tone, encouraged me to lift my eyes. Within the old man's long face I found kindness, endurance and knowledge. His eyes were as colourless as his robes, but with a more ambient brightness, like a charged sky before the blizzard descended.
"I'm not afraid," I croaked, clearing my throat and licking my dry lips. Farkas hmphed, and I repressed the urge to whap him.
Don't lie to them with the first breath you take!
"Well," I tried for a small, apologetic smile. "All right. I suppose I am a little afraid."
Absurdly nervous, I took a step toward the man. Unsure of how I should greet a Greybeard, I lowered myself to one knee, then dipped my head. "I am Celeste Passero. I am answering your call."
When I lifted my gaze, the smile I had given was being returned. "We know who you are," he replied kindly, reached his hand out. "I am Master Arngeir, speaker for the Greybeards."
I stared at his outstretched hand. What was expected of me? Did this Arngeir – my new Master – wish to shake my hand, as though this were a business transaction? Was it a symbolic gesture of the Master accepting a new student? Did I have to swear fealty to-?
"May I assist you back to High Hrothgar? You have had a long journey and there is much to discuss."
Oh. I flushed and tried to clamp my nerves so I wouldn't burst into relieved tears. He was just trying to be kind. Nothing was expected of me.
Yet.
Stop it.
"Thank you Master Arngeir – but I'm fine," I rose and motioned toward Farkas, was still propped on his elbows with his legs straight before him. His amused expression made me narrow my gaze at him. My inner floundering must have been hysterical to him. "But my shield-brother has been injured quite severely, if your offer extends to him."
"Of course it does," Master Angeir lowered his hand and, with a barely perceptible tilt of his head, addressed the three silent Greybeards beyond him. "Take this young man up into the monastery and see he is made comfortable."
Two Greybeards walked towards Farkas, both making small, sweeping gestures with their hands that I assumed served as a means of communication.
"I can walk, I'm all right," Farkas murmured as they tried to lift the hefty Nord between them. After some shuffling and more grumbling from my shield-brother, Farkas allowed himself to be supported by the two sturdy older men, and together the three made their way up the mountain.
Relief filled me. This was real. We had made it.
"Thank you," I murmured to the Greybeard by my side. "It will be good to be indoors again," I sighed.
I took a single step after them when Master Arngeir spoke.
"Aan tiid, Dovahkiin?"
A chill rippled through me, his question effortlessly translated in the recesses of my mind; a moment, Dragonborn?
I tried to relax as I regarded his searching expression. A moment ago, he'd been offering to lead me. "Are...we not to go with them to the monastery?"
Arngeir's eyes crinkled at the corners when he smiled in a placid way. "In due time. Before we return to High Hrothgar, I thought we could have a chat."
This is it, I paled, still no idea of what it actually was. "All right," I whispered, casting an uncertain glance at the Greybeard who remained with us, who hadn't spoken or barely moved since they arrived.
"Thank you, Celeste," he shifted, sitting on a low-set rock on the side of the path. Arngeir met my gaze, motioning for me to join him. "Or would you prefer I call you Miss Passero, or Companion, or Thane of Whiterun? I can call you Lady Dragonborn, if you wish, of course."
"No – please. Just Celeste, Master Arngeir," I fumbled, hastened to his side. As I dusted the snow off the rock, I watched the tiny flecks of white scatter under my deft brushes, and insisted, quite sternly, that I calm down. I was going to make a fool of myself if I continued to expect him to say something terrible.
"Celeste it is, then," he replied comfortably as I sat beside him. "Were you attacked on your way to us? It was why you called upon Fus, to save your shield-brother, was it not?"
"Yes. There was a frost troll, and Farkas slipped while fighting it off."
"Really?" Arngeir seemed genuinely confused, turning his pale grey eyes to regard the very top of the mountain above us. "How curious."
I did my best to mask a splutter of disbelief. Curious?
"Forgive me," Arngeir murmured, eyes trained elsewhere. "Perhaps we should begin again," he said quietly, thoughtfully.
Sitting up a little straighter, I took a deep breath. "Perhaps we should. What would you like to know?" I asked directly.
Master Arngeir's eyes drifted back to me; his small smile returned as he replied unassumingly, "I would like to learn ultimate harmony, as do all who follow the Way of the Voice."
Tilting my head – was he teasing me, or was he actually this literal? – I rephrased. "What would you like to ask of me?"
His smile broadened and he looked away, eyes settling on the monk who remained with us. "Today I would ask you, Celeste, if you are willing and able to learn? Einarth?" he summoned.
The silent Greybeard approached. I watched him but answered Arngeir; "That is why I have come."
"Good," he sat taller, crossing his arms. "Master Einarth, would you be so good as to share your knowledge of Ro with Celeste?"
I was glad I was sitting; I wavered at his casual manner. It was the second word Ulfric had used on the High King! If they could teach me Ro then all that remained to be learned was Dah!
Master Einarth made a small hand gesture in front of him, eyes on Arngeir all the while.
"Yes, but as she carries the Dragon Blood, she is an exception. Ro, if you please," Arngeir tilted his head toward me. "It means-"
"Balance," I cut in quietly, staring at Einarth with widened eyes. "It means balance."
"Ah – but of course," Arngeir seemed to chuckle.
I continued watching Einarth, whose eyes were hidden beneath the confines of his hood. Einarth made another sweeping motion with his hand – this one more arcing than before – and turned his attention down as his fingers splayed and seemed to forcibly hit the breeze. With a whoosh, a single, rumbling word fell from his mouth;
"Ro!"
And as with Fus, the air rippled before us. The snow at Einarth's feet flew in all directions, and I squinted and lifted my arm to cover my face to stop the tiny pin-pricks of ice from blinding me.
When the snow settled, I lowered my arm and glanced between Arngeir and Einarth hastily. "Was that it?"
Arngeir smiled patiently and motioned toward Einarth again. "Not quite."
When I looked back to Master Einarth, he took a step back, and my eyes widened at what lay revealed by his feet. Etched into the stone of the very mountaintop were scratch marks – marks very similar to the ones on the wall I had stood before at Bleak Falls Barrow, written in a script Farengar was busy translating back in Dragonsreach.
As with the wall in the Barrow, where I had learned Fus, this script glowed gently with the faintest of blue light, pulsating and rippling, as though alive.
Entranced, I slipped off the rock. Within three steps, I was on top of it, crouching down to it, revelling in the way the lights danced over my skin. The word Ro bounced between my ears; a glorious, familiar hum, like a beloved song I had temporarily forgotten. I let the word take hold of me, and behind the warmth, I realised I was smiling. Unlike the time at the Barrow, learning Ro did not make me pass out; rather, I felt more poised.
When the singing in my mind quietened, I stood and faced Master Einarth. "Thank you," I managed around a goofy grin.
"Do you doubt her now, brother?" Arngeir questioned boldly from the rock behind us.
The corner of Master Einarth's mouth lifted, and another series of hand signals came.
"Philistine," Master Arngeir muttered in amusement. "She learns a new word as though it is the most natural act in the world for her," he reasoned.
Hand signals followed, and Arngeir sighed. "But she was not Dragonborn."
Even more signals.
"Yes, that tends to be the way with twins."
With a jolt, I realised what – who – they were discussing. I glanced to the sky and sighed in frustration. "My sister presented herself to you for training, claiming to be Dragonborn, didn't she?" I guessed.
Master Arngeir's eyes darted back to me, as though he only just remembered that I was there. "Y-yes," he offered haltingly. "Giselle was tested. But she was found...wanting."
That must have thrilled her. Unimpressed, I huffed and glanced away as a petty part of me wondered if there would ever be a path I would tread, that my sister had not walked before me?
"But in you – well," Master Arngeir slid off the rock and walked toward Einarth and I, his hands outstretched and his voice sonorous. "We need not test you further. We heard the power of your Voice before it was requested, when you used it to defend your friend. You were given this gift by the Gods for a reason, Celeste. It is no coincidence you have been revealed the moment the dragons returned."
My ire receded; I readied the question I'd longed to have answered since I learned I was Dragonborn. "What do I have to do?" I asked.
"I do not know," was his humbled reply.
Defeat pressed against me as I closed my eyes.
"Do not despair, Celeste. There is much we can teach you," he insisted gently. "It is the honour of the Greybeards to guide you through the mists shrouding your purpose, but only you will discover where that purpose leads. Now, come," he continued obligingly. "It will grow colder, as the afternoon wanes. It is time to be indoors, and we will continue your training in the morning."
I nodded, unable to squash my disappointment as I fell into step by him.
I did not feel Arngeir had lied to me, so I had to accept his words and accept I had not wasted my time in answering their call. I needed their training, and their guidance, if I was ever to find my way for myself.
But the Greybeards did not know what I needed to do as Dragonborn. While we walked, I listened as Arngeir spoke about their communion with the voice of the sky, about the daughters of Kyne teaching mortals the Way of the Voice, about their founder Jurgen Windcaller, and about the Dragon Blood bestowed by Akatosh. Did any of what he was saying hold the key to unlocking the confusion surrounding my purpose? I didn't think so.
We had not been walking for long before High Hrothgar swam into view through the swirling snow. It was a looming, largely symmetrical apparition wrought of uniform grey stones, ascending at least five stories and tipped by both frozen icicles and low, thin, swiftly wandering clouds. The stairs leading up to the entrance were wide and shallow, parting into two flights that hugged the foremost central tower, which at its base was not a door, but a large, ornate chest. I couldn't fathom its purpose, and dismissed it as we walked on. To my right, Einarth took his steps in time with mine, and I cast him a curious glance as I saw his hands sweep and flutter yet again.
"Can't they speak?" I asked Arngeir suddenly.
Master Arngeir had been talking about Jurgen Windcaller again, probably, but he hesitated and cast me a sideways glance. "They can but...no. No, it is best for everybody that they do not. A whisper might not kill you, but your friend's hearing might be damaged permanently."
I didn't quite understand, and crossed my brows at Einarth. "What's happened to them?"
Einarth's mouth formed a grimace of distaste, but of course, he said nothing. He placed his hands either side of him, bowed his head with some stiffness, then continued for the front door, leaving Arngeir and I behind.
"You trained to be a musician, did you not?" he queried with a weighty sigh.
I wondered how he'd come to learn so much about me, given their situation.
At my nod, he continued. "Perhaps you might understand the mechanics, then. Pursuit of harmony by Way of the Voice strengthens not only one's internal spirit, but also the physical body – largely, the throat and diaphragm," Arngeir frowned, seeming dissatisfied. "For a dragon, this strength is nature – they are born with it – as are you."
I quailed at his simple certainty. Was my success at the College – no, further back than that – was my attraction to music in the first place a product of being Dragonborn? Surely not – but still, the merest prospect crushed me anew. Who might I have become, had the Gods not set me on this path?
You are the sum of your decisions, your experiences; not a tool of the Fates.
Arngeir noticed but didn't comment on my close-lipped internalising. I knew then that, as with my future, I would have to worry out these kinks in my past for myself.
"For the rest of us," he mused, "through decades of discipline, the muscles and organs and chords stretch, then stiffen, then stretch again – not dissimilar to the tightening you might give the strings of a lute to fine-tune its pitch," he gave me a small, somewhat encouraging smile.
"Lute strings snap," I pointed out delicately. "They can only be tightened so far. Is that why they cannot speak?"
"Ah. Forgive me; it was not a perfect analogy," Arngeir's vaguely amused voice rumbled warmly by my side. "The truth is quite the opposite; the 'tightening', if you will, makes them stronger. For my brothers, at this time of their lives – the thu'um reigns. When their vocal chords vibrate to make sounds, their words move mountains and shatter stones. Their mastery is of the air and earth, and the price is the loss of modulation. Put simply," Master Arngeir surmised. "They have no 'inside' voice."
This comparison did make me smile. "So, they will be able to speak again some day, as you can?"
Arngeir nodded, and it seemed to be a wordless signal for us to recommence our climb. "We are not dragons, but our bodies adapt as we continue to learn. My 'strings', if you will, have relaxed, and I have mastered a discipline required to both speak at an acceptable volume to human ears, and summon the tension the thu'um requires."
This was certainly more interesting than the history of Jurgen Windcaller. "They should try singing," I mused slowly. We had learned about the workings of a song in my first year at the College; I knew some notes could shake the vocal chords as powerfully as the loudest of shouts, which is why untrained singers often strained their throats and sometimes, even lost their voices entirely. Dean Ateia had used the lesson to impress upon us why it was so important to warm our voices up with scales and other singing exercises.
"But in a way, all they can do is sing, for the time being," Arngeir gave me another patient smile. "Do not despair for them, Celeste. Remember; they chose their paths," he rumbled. "I will admit there was a certain...tranquility, to that time of my life. To not be plagued by the day to day necessity of conversation. And," he lifted his eyebrows, "while you are amongst us, you may come to understand the providence of speaking less, so you can hear what the world is trying to teach you."
It had to be easy for a hermit to accept – no, revel in the loss of a voice. Personally, I could not comprehend losing my voice for any period of time. I had spent close to a decade honing it, taking the utmost care to not strain or damage it needlessly, with hopes to make a career out of it, some day.
And now – well, even if I was never to graduate and become a qualified Bard, my voice was still important to me. So I merely smiled, and let the matter drop. I understood his meaning, even if I didn't wholly agree with him.
Arngeir pushed open one of the tall metal doors flanking High Hrothgar, and I stepped into the warmth then gazed up and up, taking in the fluttering sconces and uniform brickwork climbing high enough to be consumed by shadows before I could make out a ceiling. The entryway was not very well lit and mostly blocked by a large central pillar, so it did not surprise me I couldn't see much directly above us. The flagstones were large and also grey, but unlike the walls were not uniform in size or shape, and the darkened grit between the stones created a pattern of irregular, angled borders beneath our feet.
Stepping around the pillar, Arngeir led the way into a much brighter, more open area. The brightness came from large skylights allowing the afternoon sun to wash the stonework with shafts of brightness, though braziers were positioned at intervals, adding their own orange glows to the mix.
It was imposing and calming, much like the Greybeards themselves. Several hallways and staircases led in all directions into dimmer passages, and above us, tattered, ancient yellow banners hung limply in the breezeless interior; too consumed by the shadows to make out anything of distinction sewn onto them.
"Can you take me to Farkas?" I asked quietly, for the cavernous central room recommended a lowered volume. I didn't think he would mind being cooped up in a fortress where nobody spoke, but I did feel the need to explain what was going on to Farkas, and I wanted to see that he had been made comfortable by the other Greybeards.
"Of course," Arngeir nodded solemnly. "Your room is this way," he motioned toward a hallway.
I drifted after him, but couldn't help but ask, "My...room?"
Arngeir merely smiled.
But of course. They've been expecting me for some time, and if I am to live here...
We passed bookshelves, choked with books. The occasional bench seat or chair and small table were pushed against the walls at junctions or by one of the many tall, thin windows, marking the hallways at intervals. The majority of their horizontal surfaces were covered in books marked with pieces of notepaper or simply left open.
I was so fixated on the tomes cluttering the space, I failed to pay attention to the path Arngeir was leading me along, and soon we reached the very end of the dimly-lit hallway.
"For the rest of the day, you should rest," he held the tall, polished steel door open. "Your training begins at dawn."
"Thank you," I murmured. My eyes flickered over the extents of the room; it did not take long. It was roughly the size of the room we rented in Ivarstead; a small, perfunctory, rectangular chamber. At the back of the room was a thin window which was either glazed to be almost opaque, or steamed up by the relative warmth of the room. There were four beds – all of which appeared to be made of stone! Each was pushed against a wall, two either side, and my shield-brother occupied the one nearest to us – his hands behind his head as he gazed at the high, featureless stone ceiling. At the end of each bed was a simple chest of drawers, and on each stood a small, handheld lantern – but only the one at the end of Farkas' bed was lit, fluttering beside a pitcher and a wooden cup.
Behind me, the door groaned on its heavy hinges.
I turned around, realising he was leaving. "A moment, please, Master Arngeir?"
His pale eyes glanced back to me. "Is something the matter?"
My cheeks pinked. "Um – it's just. What about bathrooms, meals and water, and the like?" I asked hastily.
Arngeir inclined his head a little. "Of course. It will take you some time, I expect, to grow used to our mode of self-sufficiency."
I couldn't help but feel a little embarrassed, as though he suggested I wouldn't be capable of looking after myself. Farkas regarded me curiously, his brows crossed.
"Meals are taken wherever you like, whenever you like," he smiled patiently, and I noticed a bit of a twinkle to his eyes. "There are hearths in both wings – simply follow the hallway back until you come upon one. There is simple fare, and if you require anything specific, I will add it to the list we leave for Klimmek once a week. Collect any water you need from outside, and melt it over these same fires. As for waste and bathing and laundering, you will find facilities in the room next to yours. It is why we placed you in a dormitory, in fact, so you might have easy access to these."
"Thank you, Master," I murmured again. That was thoughtful of them. "I will see you at dawn, if not before."
"It is my pleasure, Celeste," Arngeir resumed closing the doors. "I suggest you rest, while you can."
When the door closed behind him, I sat on the bed opposite Farkas, but I was not tired. Under the blankets there must have been layers of furs, or something soft, for while it was harder than any bed I had ever slept on, it was not entirely unyielding as stone would have been.
"Are you all right?" I asked Farkas, sliding my pack and bow off, tucking my hands underneath my legs as I glanced around the room for a second, longer look. There was more height than depth to it – when I looked up, I felt...small!
Farkas nodded, relaxing back onto his pillow. "My armour needs some patching up. But yeah. I'll live. You okay?" he countered. "You took a while to get here," he muttered.
"I..." my mouth hung open for a moment. "Arngeir...wanted me to learn a new word straight away. Master Einarth taught me the meaning of Ro."
"A new Shout?" Farkas shuffled, trying to get comfortable. He ended up on his side to face me across the gap between our beds. "Can you breathe fire now?"
A small smile curved my lips and I shook my head. "Ro means balance. It makes Fus – which means force, by the way – a little more powerful."
Farkas huffed. "I've seen you use Fus. Why does that need to be any more powerful?"
My smile widened. "There's a third word which makes it even stronger, actually. Dah, which means push. Ulfric Stormcloak used the combination of Fus, Ro and Dah to murder the High King," I deflated at the reminder. "Maybe they'll teach it to me tomorrow?" I mused. "Then I'll have everything I need..."
You cannot abandon your Dragonborn duties to execute your revenge against Stormcloak.
After a pause, Farkas gingerly rose.
"Need any food? Feel like a bit of a walk."
"Oh – are you sure?" I stood, offered my arm. "I don't mind figuring this place out and bringing you something back. You did almost die today," I pointed out loftily.
Farkas smirked as he rest an arm over my shoulder. "Nah, you had my back. Thanks, again," he added gruffly, jostling me under his arm.
My relief at his recovery swelled in my chest, and I turned away, trying to make light of it. I cleared my throat and began to muse aloud about the kinds of foods they might keep up here. Sending a frost troll over the edge of a cliff was nothing compared to what Farkas had done for me.
Despite the looming unknowns before us, particularly the disappointing truth – that Arngeir didn't know what being Dragonborn would entail – I felt a sense of peace settle over me as we traversed the dimly-lit halls to locate our nearest hearth.
If I was truthful, there was some pride to the feeling. I had kept good on my promise, and protected somebody I loved. If I could only keep doing that, I wouldn't have to lose anybody else.
A/n: Sorry again for the delay in updates. Work is uncharacteristically busy for the time of year. Here's hoping it eases off soon. I promise I will finish this story, some day, so thank you for sticking with me.