AN: Wow I spent a lot of time editing this one, hope it was worth it. I moved forward meeting Paarthy purely because I love him and wanted more time with him than the main quest provides aha. So, I've decided I will update older chapters as I edit them, though I've been hearing some rumours that ffn will be going down. I was already planning on crossposting to a03 anyway, but I'll have to save all your lovely comments for low motivation days just in case. Also, off but also on topic I guess, I was checking out the Skyrim tarot deck only to find there's no flipping Vilkas card? All the other circle members have a card, but not Vilkas. A crime. An affront. A personal attack. lol. Suffice to say I'll be passing aha, beyond the criminal lack of wolf husband the minor house numbers are all boring. Anyway, hope you've all been well and enjoy
Chapter Thirty Two
tinvaak with the old one
"Lok Vah Koor!"
The Shout was a joy on her tongue, clean and crisp like a fresh morn just waking after the chill of night. In response the wind softened its bite, and the snow flurries died down to reveal clear blue sky above. As though to make sure its presence wasn't entirely forgotten, a soft whistle could still be heard as what little was left of the breeze toyed with her hair, sweeping loose strands across her face.
"Tell me again, what happened exactly?"
Vilkas frowned at the clearing snow, eyes on the path ahead. Further in the distance more fog loomed, so thick that anything could've been on the other side. Directly on the right was nothing but solid rock, the course, scarred surface of the mountain. To their left was a sheer drop down the side. Dalla kept her distance, stomach churning as she resisted the urge to peer over the edge at the world beneath them.
"It was some kind of ceremony – a greeting, Arngeir called it. Though to me it almost felt more like a coronation. They named me ´Ysmir, Dragon of the North'."
His frown deepened. "But they didn't harm you?"
"They-" The wind picked up again, fog creeping around them as a sharp chill seemed to prod at her very bones. She banished the persistent wind with another Shout. "I'm not sure I can describe it. But it seems it wasn't a Shout intended to cause harm."
She'd cleared the skies twice more before they came to a wooden bridge strung across a rift in the path, swaying unassumingly in the once more gentle breeze. There was no railing. Vilkas insisted on attempting it first, testing its strength with one foot. The bridge seemed firm, so he stepped onto the first plank and beckoned for her to follow close behind. It wasn't as flimsy as she'd first assumed, the planks appearing somewhat cared for and unmarred by rot. Though she felt herself reeling with every step it was more her own mind working against her than the bridges doing. A shaggy mountain goat watched their progress from the cliffside, delicate hooves making short work of the rocky terrain. It bleated at them pityingly. Knowing it to be foolish, Dalla couldn't help but get the distinct feeling it was mocking them.
"So," Vilkas said over his shoulder, hand held slightly behind him as though he could catch her were she to stumble, "this initiation means you can finally meet the master of the Greybeards?"
She resisted the urge to grasp his hand, close her eyes and let him lead her across. "Not exactly. Arngeir still didn't want me to, but I talked him into it."
He glanced back at her. "You talked him into it?"
"What? I can be persuasive if I have to be. How often have I truly gotten a 'no' from you?"
At last they reached the other side, Dalla grateful more than anything to have steady stone beneath her feet once more. She took a moment to catch her breath and clear the sky before the wind could take hold again.
"I would argue that says more about me," he replied with a wry smile, "than it does your powers of persuasion."
She couldn't help but laugh. "Alright then, fine. I may have lost my temper a little with Arngeir."
"Truly?"
"I'm not proud of it," she said hurriedly. "But Master Einarth must have heard, he said something in dragon speech and Arngeir apologised to me. Up til then Arngeir wouldn't give me any answers about the dragons returning, so I thought it was worth asking Paarthurnax."
He didn't appear as pleased at the prospect as she'd hoped, though now on her way to the mountain peak she couldn't entirely blame him. If the Greybeards, isolated as they already were, had no answer, how could one disconnected further still be of any help to them? The entire time she'd resided at High Hrothgar she'd neither seen nor heard a trace of this secluded hermit. The way Arngeir told it, Paarthurnax was in isolation voluntarily, and never left the peak. There were few places she could think of that she'd like less to remain forever.
Vilkas whistled low. "Now there's a sight."
They'd reached a bend in the winding path, and this time Dalla couldn't help but look at the view, at Skyrim sprawled out beneath them. It was a humbling sight, like an illustrated map brought to life before their eyes. Fields and forests in ink blots of yellow and green, ribbons of blue marking the path of the streams and rivers that wound across the land. Snow topped mountain ranges, and specks of grey where keeps and cities dotted the country, above it all white puffs of cotton-soft clouds. It took her breath away. For the first time she began to understand how the Greybeards could be so detached from the world. From up here it was all so distant, like it wasn't even real.
"Shor's bones," she breathed, earning a laugh from Vilkas. She tore her eyes away from the view, and continued on.
It was some time later, when she'd begun to grow weary of trudging up the path and was wondering just how much further the peak could be that they finally reached it. Fog cleared to reveal a bare plane of snow, and nothing else. Dalla frowned. She'd expected a building, a hut at the very least. Surely an old man couldn't live unsheltered at the top of a mountain, no matter how at peace with the world he could be. The wind whistled louder, tugging at her clothes as though urging her on. She spotted what looked suspiciously like a Word Wall on the other side of the stretch, half shrouded in snow. With nothing else to focus on she stepped towards it.
A roar reverberated across the mountainside, the echo making it impossible to tell where it was coming from, and her heart leapt to her throat. With a growl Vilkas hauled her behind him, just as the drum beat of wings sounded above. Sword drawn he watched the dragon descend from the mist, his fingers flexing on the grip. It landed heavily some paces away with a billow of snow, shaking the mountain beneath their feet. Coming no closer, it eyed them curiously.
Dalla grasped Vilkas' arm. "Wait…"
This one was old. It wasn't just its appearance that told her so, though its hoary spines were chipped and faded, its eyes glazed with a milky rheum and it crouched with a slump that suggested deep weariness. If ever a dragon could look like an old man, this grey creature must be the quintessential specimen. But there was something in its presence she couldn't put a name to, a wisdom only gained through ages.
"Drem Yol Lok," it rumbled. "Greetings, wunduniik. I am Paarthurnax. What brings you to my stunmah… my mountain?"
She couldn't find the words. Vilkas kept his grip on the sword, teeth bared but a puzzled frown creasing his brow. The dragon sat patiently, wings folded in front as though huddled against the cold.
Slowly, she stepped out from behind Vilkas, her grip on his arm tightening when she felt him tense.
"You're Paarthurnax? You're… a dragon?"
"Geh," the dragon agreed, craning his neck for a better look at her. "I am as my father Akatosh made me." His head tilted in consideration. "As are you, Dovahkiin."
Dalla didn't know what to make of that, so she set the unsettling implication aside.
"And you're the master of the Greybeards?"
"They see me as master. Wuth. Oniik. It is true I am old."
Gently, she tugged on Vilkas' arm to lower his sword, eyes on the dragon. Her heart pounded so loud she had no doubts either could hear it, but she sensed no malice from Paarthurnax. Vilkas resisted at first, before finally relenting beneath her touch. He lowered the sword, but kept it in hand.
"My name is Dalla," she introduced herself uncertainly. "And my husband, Vilkas of the Companions."
Paarthurnax turned to peer at him. "You have the smell of the grohiik about you, Companion."
When Vilkas didn't respond, the old dragon bowed his head, letting out what Dalla could only assume was a sigh.
"Forgive me. It has been long since I held tinvaak with strangers. I gave in to the temptation to prolong our speech."
Finally finding his voice, Vilkas asked, "Why live alone on a mountain then?"
"Evenaar bahlok. There are many hungers it is better to deny than to feed. Dreh ni nahkip. Discipline against the lesser aids in gahnaar… denial of the greater."
At this his face paled. Dalla could feel his arm tremble beneath her fingers.
Bringing Paarthurnax's attention back to herself, she continued. "Thank you for speaking with me. I… I was hoping to ask you a question?"
"Drem. Patience." He sat up a little straighter, his voice firmer. "There are formalities which must be observed, at the first meeting of two of the dov. By long tradition, the elder speaks first. Hear my Thu'um! Feel it in your bones. Match it, if you are Dovahkiin." He turned to the Wall. "Yol Toor Shul!"
A stream of fire escaped his maw, blasting the Wall with heat. Swirls of colour made up the flame, orange and yellow and white, a medley of warmth and light. She lifted her arm to guard her face against the sudden fervour. The flame and smoke faded to reveal dragon script carved deeply into the stone, glowing and warm.
"The Word calls you," Paarthurnax said softly. "Go to it."
By this time Dalla didn't need to be told. Stepping warily past the dragon she caught the beginnings of that now familiar chanting chorus, rising the closer she neared. For once without hesitation, she touched her hand to the stone. It felt alive beneath her palm, warm and throbbing like a living creature, a heartbeat. The Words Paarthurnax had spoken thrummed in her head, as the chorus reached its crescendo and fell silent once more.
When she turned back to the dragon, he was already surrounded by that gossamer of golden light, a chaotic web of strands far more intricate than that of any Greybeard.
"A gift, Dovahkiin," he said, bowing his head. "Yol. Understand fire as the dov do."
When the light pierced her heart, she felt it sing, thrumming like wing beats. The dragon's mind was so foreign, so wholly unlike anything she'd encountered before that she didn't even feel that sense of violation, of her barriers broken down. It embraced her like a long absent friend, returning at last to fill her with warmth.
"Now," Paarthurnax rumbled when it was done, "greet me not as mortal but as dovah!"
Uncertain, Dalla tasted the words on her tongue, before taking a deep breath and Shouting, "Yol Toor Shul!"
Her throat bubbled and burned as fire left her lips, the sensation frightening. Paarthurnax however, took the full brunt of her Thu'um, basking in the flames as his eyes closed contentedly.
"Aaah," he sighed. "Yes, sossedov los mul. The dragonblood runs strong in you. It is long since I had the pleasure of speech with one of my own kind. So. You have made your way here, to me. No easy task for a joor… mortal. Even one of Dovah Sos. Dragonblood. What would you ask of me?"
Having half expected to be burned away to nothing, Dalla lifted one hand to her neck, relieved to find the skin unmarred, if a little feverish. She swallowed, throat sore as though burned after tasting food too fresh off the stove.
"I… I was hoping you would know, why the dragons are returning?"
"Ah. Alduin komeyt tiid. Alduin and Dovahkiin return together." He paused, milky eyes studying her for some time. "Alduin calls dovah zii from the qoth, to return a dovah from the soil of the burial mounds."
"We saw it doing that. But why? Do the Thalmor have something to do with it?"
Again he was silent, considering. "The Fahliil?" he replied at last. "That I cannot say."
Disappointment tasted bitter. She told herself that it wasn't an unexpected answer, that she'd already assumed as much from a master so removed from the world. In the end, was it not worth it merely for the opportunity to converse with seemingly the one dragon that didn't wish to consume her?
She sighed. "Arngeir didn't want me to meet you, I suppose maybe he knew you couldn't help after all."
"Hmm. Yes. They are very protective of me. Bahlaan fahdonne."
"Have the Greybeards ever let anyone else see you before?"
"I have taught the Way of the Voice for centuries and the Thu'um since long before that. But no, Dovahkiin. Others do no come here to train anymore. Savaan. You are the first in over a hundred years. I meditate on the Rotmulaag – the Words of Power. I counsel their use. It is enough for me."
Curiosity piqued, her disappointment was momentarily forgotten. "You meditate on Words?"
"Knowing a Word of Power is to take its meaning into yourself. Contemplate the meaning of a Rotmulaag. You become closer to that Word, as it fills your inner self. Will I teach you, Dovahkiin?"
"I can come see you again, to learn?"
"Geh. Speak, I will listen. In turn, you may listen as I speak."
"I – thank you. I'd like that."
She started at Vilkas' touch on her arm, flustered to find that she'd forgotten he was there while speaking with the dragon.
"It'll be dark soon," he muttered. "We should head back for today."
Turning back to Paarthurnax, she lifted her skirts and bobbed awkwardly. What exactly was the correct way to farewell a dragon anyhow, should she Shout in parting?
"I appreciate you speaking with me, and look forward to speaking again."
Paarthurnax bowed his head. "Su'um ahrk morah," he said, then took to the skies with a jolt, leaving Dalla and Vilkas both with a fresh dusting of snow.
She watched the dragon disappear in the fog with her mouth agape.
"Well that was… unexpected."
Brushing the snow from his hair, Vilkas grumbled, "Your monks have a lot to answer for."
She frowned. "He's not like the others."
"Still a dragon. How can we trust it?"
"You didn't feel that we could?"
"Must be a dragonblood thing," he replied dryly.
She didn't know what to say to that. To claim the encounter hadn't terrified her would be a lie, yet still something in the pit of her belly told her that Paarthurnax could be trusted. It was something in the old dragon's eyes, or rather something that wasn't. There'd been age yes, wisdom, and even a sense of wry cunning, but in place of the burning malice present in every other's eyes, she'd sensed only a weary sadness. Whether feelings and appearances would be close enough to truth was yet to be seen, but despite it all Dalla wanted to believe, for her own peace of mind if no other reason.
By the time they made it back to the monastery night was upon them, grey skies fading to blue, then purple, then black. Stars peppered the expanse above like pin pricks on a canvas. She wondered where Paarthurnax had gone, and what it must be like to fly; how close could he come to skimming the stars, or embracing the moons? A romantic flight of fancy, but the thought made her smile.
They found Arngeir where they'd left him, heavy robes drawn close against the evening chill. Dalla stepped to the fire pit, gratefully warming her hands.
"So… you spoke to Paarthurnax?"
"I did. He didn't have an answer for me. But, he said he'd teach me, help me meditate on Words."
Arngeir's eyes widened, feverish in the wavering fire light. "The dragonblood burns bright within you. I see even clearer that it was my folly to deny you."
"You were protecting him. And I understand that now."
"This is true. Paarthurnax has more than earned his peace at the Throat. I trust I have no need to stress the importance of maintaining that peace? If others were to know…"
"Of course, master."
"Listen well to Paarthurnax, Dragonborn. It is a great honour to learn the Thu'um from the source."
With that he turned and left them in the courtyard.
"You're really going back up there, to learn from that creature?" Vilkas asked quietly.
"You wouldn't, in my place? Beyond the Thu'um, think of the things he knows, things he's seen; the history he could teach. Even you must admit it would be better to hear it firsthand than to read it in your history books."
He appeared unconvinced, arms folded across his chest and his face drawn. He looked gaunt, like a starved wolf with hollowed out cheeks. In that moment she couldn't find the man who'd taken pity on her in the training yard.
"None of this is what you expected when you asked me to marry you, is it?"
The pained look in his eyes made her regret the words the moment they'd been spoken.
"Don't say such things." He moved in front of her, taking her hands in his own and raising them to his lips, pressing a kiss against her knuckles. His breath was warm against her skin. "If I had my time again I wouldn't change it. You think I could live with myself if I dusted my hands of you and sent you off alone?"
"But you want to be home, don't deny it."
He snorted, lowering their hands but not letting go. "Of course I want that, but what am I to do? Tie you up, take you back and have you resent me the rest of our days?" He peered at her with a frown. "What's brought this out?"
You're not managing.
"It's… nothing. I just know you hate it here."
With a sigh he pulled her to his chest, resting his chin on her head. "I endure it for you."
"That's not as comforting as you might think." Face to his chest she mumbled, "I don't want to be responsible for you losing yourself to the beast."
She felt him tense, before releasing it in long exhale, his breath ruffling her hair.
"No," he said softly. "For that you'd be blameless. Always."
When he pulled away he lifted her shawl over her hair, drawing it closer around her. His touch was gentle, the sharp hollows of his face seeming somehow softer now. Holding her gaze a moment longer he lifted his hand, thumb brushing briefly against her cheek as he dusted the snow from her shoulder.
"Come. It's too cold to stand out here."
She followed him back inside, where supper and a fresh cup of tea waited.
She was up the top of the mountain again, talking to that godsforsaken dragon.
Vilkas sat alone in the courtyard, working at his armour. It had been shamefully neglected since leaving Kynesgrove. The dirt and grit was thankfully not too severe, though he'd been kept occupied wiping everything down for a decent chunk of time. He shuddered to think what Eorland would make of its current state.
His gaze wandered from his work to the stone arch opposite. Ghoulish shadows danced across its surface, cast by the flames of the fire pit below. The eyes of the carved bearded man appeared to gleam. Whether it was Dalla's doing or the dragon's, he couldn't say, but so long as she was up there the normally raging tempest beyond remained calm and clear.
She had taken a liking to the creature far too easily for his comfort, but he'd held his tongue and kept his misgivings mostly to himself. Conversing with a dragon unnerved him far more than fighting one had, and if given a choice between scrutiny under those percipient eyes or facing off against teeth and fire, he'd pick the latter with little hesitation. Paarthurnax smelt old, which seemed like such a foolish and simple way to describe it, but it was unsettling. There was no lack of things within Skyrim which smelt old, unsurprising considering the age of so many structures and artefacts – gods, his own home of Jorrvaskr embodied the scent of ages within every beam of wood it was built from – but a living thing, a breathing creature reeking of millenniums felt foreign and wrong.
The first few times Dalla hiked to the top of the mountain Vilkas had tailed her like a shadow, wary of Paarthurnax despite her insistence that there was something different about him. Vilkas was loath to admit that he somehow sensed it too, though he couldn't cast off the feeling that the old one saw straight through them, and it was a particularly probing appraisal he was entirely unaccustomed to.
He'd hung back during their meditations, the dragon perched on top of his Wall with Dalla sitting in the snow beneath the shelter of his wings as he droned on about Words, nature and dovah. If the dragon was concerned about Vilkas' presence he showed no sign, greeting and bidding farewell to both each time they visited the peak. Eventually he'd mustered the courage to let go, and remain at the monastery while she went ahead, where he could do more useful things with his time. Like maintain his armour.
With a muttered curse he tore his eyes from the arch and turned back to his work. Nightfall was yet a while away; it would be some time still before he could expect Dalla's return, and it did little to ease his mind if he sat doing naught but wait for her like a loyal dog. The few times he'd succumbed to his fears and trekked up the path to check on her he'd found them as he should have expected, silent in meditation or deep in conversation. For good or ill, the Greybeards trusted Paarthurnax, revered him in their own way, and much as Vilkas hated the circumstances they found themselves in, they'd done her no harm.
Pieces wiped clean of grime and dirt, he set to scrubbing away the traces of rust that had bloomed during his neglect. Tedious work, but it was good to do something practical with his hands, even if it didn't entirely soothe his intrusive thoughts. He took his time with it, inspecting each piece closely while buffing away scratches and rust. There were a few dents he'd need to have seen to the next time a blacksmith was available, and the strap of one greave was beginning to show wear and would need replacing sooner rather than later. Overall nothing to be too concerned about for the time being. Finally he took an oiled rag to everything, a light coat to stave off further tarnish.
The snarling wolf's head on his breastplate glared up at him, teeth bared. It taunted him, steel eyes daring a challenge. Some days – more than he'd like to admit – he felt like he was holding on by a thread, salvation only to be had by grasping it between his teeth. With a scowl he swiped at the wolf with oil, its fangs snagging in the cloth. He refused to give in. Though he ran in his dreams, he would walk in his waking hours.
The doors to the monastery groaned open behind him, and he smelt Arngeir approaching. The Greybeard stood beside him for some time in silence, speaking finally as Vilkas turned to ask what it was he needed.
"The Dragonborn remains at the peak?" He smiled wanly at the disdain shadowing Vilkas' face. "Do not resent her for this. Many would do anything to be in her place."
"With all due respect, I'm not sure that you've seen what a dragon can actually do."
"What I have or have not seen makes no matter. I know you hold no trust for Paarthurnax, but he would not harm her."
Vilkas scoffed bitterly. "A dragon is a dragon," he muttered.
"Man and mer owe far more to Paarthurnax than most will ever realise," he said softly, voice tinged with sorrow. Vilkas waited for him to elaborate, but instead he held out a folded parchment. "This was in the supplies box. I can only assume it's for you or the Dragonborn."
Arngeir didn't wait to see what the note was about, but turned on his heel and went back inside.
Upon reading the note, Vilkas' first instinct was to cast it into the fire pit, and pretend he'd never seen it. The contents were short: a time, a contact's name and a meeting place. He recognised the neat lettering from the note left in Ustengrav, though it could have come from no one else. Delphine was intent to go through with her plan. His fingers trembled as he folded the note up again, itching to tear it to pieces. The whole plan was folly. Even if they were to find proof of the Thalmor's involvement, what then? The three of them would take down the entire Thalmor presence in Skyrim alone? There was much that the Blade wasn't telling them, of that he was certain, but no matter what secrets she kept he highly doubted she had a plan to resolve that. But she'd put the fool notion in Dalla's head that going along with her insanity would help anyone. And Dalla – no, that wasn't fair. She was naïve still, but no fool. Stubborn as an ox but not for the wrong causes. Gentle and kind and compassionate and – and all the things he'd grown to love about her. He couldn't fault her for any of it.
His nose pricked as he caught her scent, realising she was on her way back to him. By the time she appeared in the archway he was done with his armour. Her hair was a tousled mess with frost clinging to her braid, and her face was flushed pink with cold. He'd kept the note.
When she reached him he held it out to her wordlessly, watching as she read and her heart began to race.
"Well," she said at last, forcing a smile. "We'll have to leave soon to make it in time."
He didn't answer for some time, watching her face and waiting, hoping for her to break. But she held. At last he sighed, gathering his things and rising to his feet.
"Aye."
She stared. "You're not going to fight me on this?"
"Would it change anything?"
"I suppose not," she said slowly, reaching for her braid.
He took her hand, gently pulling her fingers from her hair. "Then honestly I'd rather not argue."
Shifting uncomfortably in the snow, Dalla realised her rump was going numb. She opened one eye and glanced up at Paarthurnax, perched on the Wall. He didn't appear to have noticed. Speaking softly, his voice rose and fell in a steady cadence, a rhythm as practised as breath.
"'Fade' in your tongue – mortals have greater affinity for this Word than the dov." Closing her eye again she tried to pick back up where she'd faltered, concentrating on his voice. "Everything mortal fades away in time, but the spirit remains. Ponder the meaning of spirit, unslaad zii. Where mortal flesh may wither and die, the spirit endures. That is Feim, let that meaning fill you. Su'um ahrk morah. You will find that your spirit gives you more strength."
Almost as though he spoke it into being, Dalla could feel it, a rising surge filling her limbs, emanating from her chest. Finally, she was beginning to understand what he meant when he spoke of taking a Word's meaning into herself. She breathed out with a sigh, the strength seemingly leaving with it. As much as she was coming to appreciate the stronger connection she was feeling to the Thu'um, at this time she craved it more as a way to distract herself from the coming party.
Delphine's letter had hit hard, all at once bringing the dread of infiltrating the embassy – infiltrate, her? – to the forefront. A small part of herself, one she tried not to pay too much attention to, wished Vilkas had put his foot down and refused to let her go. But she'd offered her help, and if she didn't go along with Delphine's plan, who would?
"I sense that's enough meditation for today, mal Dovahkiin." She opened her eyes to find Paarthurnax reaching out one wing to touch the snow, his body following as he stepped gingerly over her and off the Wall. It was a humbling reminder of his immense size, and she couldn't help but gape up at him as he passed over her, though the panic dissipated quickly, leaving her instead with the impression of a grossly overgrown cat. "Your mind is elsewhere."
"I'm sorry, I've just been distracted."
"No matter," he replied, scratching his chin with one claw. "There is always more time for tinvaak, and reflection."
Dalla sighed. "I wish all dov were so keen for conversation and reflection."
Paarthurnax laughed, a rumble that resonated from deep in his chest. "You have much to learn of the dov, then. There is nothing else but philosophy to a dovah. It is no accident that we do battle with our Thu'um, our Voices. There is no distinction between debate and combat to a dragon. Tinvaak los grah. For us it is one and the same."
She sat up straighter, intrigued. "So what you're saying is that at the heart of it, when dov fight they're just… arguing?"
"Is that not the root of all conflict, even among your own kind?" He considered her shrewdly. "Would you not say that at the heart of it kein ahrk krif – war and battles – are merely unyielding disagreements from both sides?"
"I suppose I can't argue with that. Though most people can't talk their opponents to death."
"Niid. Joore instead use weapons of their own making."
Unwittingly, her eye was drawn to the scabbard resting to the side where she'd left it, Skyforge steel concealed within. It had become a force of habit to keep the sword at her hip. Though she'd yet mustered the resolve to properly wield it, in some ways she'd grown to take comfort in its constant weight. Paarthurnax craned his neck to follow her gaze.
"Steel or claw make little difference, but to the dov the Thu'um is all. Even a dovah's name is of the Thu'um, spelling out our very sil… nature."
"Dovah names are Words too? I had no idea."
"Vahzah. None would expect it of you, you have only begun to learn the dovah tongue." Turning his great head to face her again, he met her with a level gaze. "There is a dovah name you wish to know the meaning of?"
Caught off guard, she was almost tempted to ask what his own name translated to but resisted, not knowing enough of dovah etiquette to be sure it wouldn't in some way be considered rude. Alduin came to mind next, though the very thought frightened her. She'd seen enough in his eyes to be sure of a few choice guesses at his nature.
"Mirmulnir," she offered instead. It was strange, comparing the senseless terror of that first encounter to now, the stark difference between Paarthurnax's gentle conversation and Mirmulnir's feral violence.
"Mirmulnir," Paarthurnax mused, considering. "He was not seen for some time. I had thought he lived yet. Pogaas krosis. But no matter. Mir, in your tongue allegiance, loyalty. Mul is strong, might against adversity. And Nir, hunt. To track, to stalk, to claim for your own with your jot – jaws. Mirmulnir mid wah ok geinmaar. He favoured his own solitude."
If she'd expected clarity or closure at his answer, she attained neither. Why then had he been at the watch tower that day? What had drawn him back out into the open, if he hadn't been killed with most of the other dov all those thousands of years ago?
"You are troubled still."
"What happens to a dovah's soulwhen a dovahkiin takes it?"
"Krosis. That I cannot say, no living dovah can. Only that there is no coming back for the dovah. Zii mul kosil. You can feel them within you, can you not? But is it the zii of other dovah you have consumed, or merely your own growing stronger?"
"Well there's a comforting thought," she sighed. "You know you're not all that helpful when it comes to giving straight answers."
"I cannot give you answers I do not have, merely offer you my own morah… musings on the matter. Do not ask what you have no desire to hear."
"Oh, I don't mean to sound so petulant," she replied quickly, panicked. "I'm grateful – more than words can say – that you talk to me at all."
Paarthurnax laughed, a plume of smoke trailing from his nostrils. "You indulge my paar fah tinvaak, mal dovah. For that I too am grateful. But now the hour grows late. Your grohiik will fret."
Peering up at the grey sky, she spotted feeble rays of sunlight poking through the clouds, much lower than she'd expected. It was too easy to lose track of time up here, listening to Paarthurnax speak. As though realising the lateness alongside her, her stomach rumbled.
Wincing as she rose stiffly, her legs flooded with pins and needles, leading to her stamping awkwardly to collect her sword, trying to force the feeling back into her feet. Paarthurnax watched her curiously but said nothing, leaving her wondering whether dov experienced such mundane sensations.
Scabbard strapped back in place on her belt, she turned to Paarthurnax reluctantly.
"I have to leave the mountain tomorrow, and I don't know when I'll be back, so it might be a while before we can speak again."
She surprised herself, realising in that moment that she would miss the old dovah, the sadness only made worse by the sting of him showing no emotion one way or the other at her words. He merely surveyed her with those pale eyes, expression unreadable.
"As it must be, mal Dovahkiin. Safe travels, I will be here should you return for more tinvaak. Su'um ahrk morah."
"Lok Thu'um," she replied, turning to make her way back to the monastery. As she went she resisted the urge to look back, as though deep inside she knew he would already be gone.