Chapter 22: The One Who Speaks True
The mountain roared. The ground shook. She felt the tremble deep in her own flesh. Her knees betrayed her. She knelt, the circle of soldiers around her sneering at her misery. Dark clouds gathered above, as if deciding her fate.
"You will die…"
Silken voice spoke to her, quietly, gently. It quivered with thrill, stifling her breath. She heard the roar again, so distant, but calling to her with urgency. She would extend her hand toward the sound, but it was too heavy to lift. Her whole body had become too heavy. She could only watch as the elf's figure approached, stretching his arms to touch her. A blade appeared between his fingers, dark, as if it was absorbing all the light around it. It emitted cold, seeping deep under her skin. She wanted to step back, but she felt an invisible wall behind her. She could feel him grab her by the cuff enlacing her neck. It suffocated her. Her breath seized up in her throat. The blade touched her skin… and ripped it.
The mountain roared…
Yrith opened her eyes, her chest heaving as she sat up. The room was light with the ripe morning and speckles of dust flew around like tiny silvery torchbugs. Her fingers traced the line on her neck in the deluge of sweat, sliding slowly from one side to another. There was hardly any scar left. But the terrible sensation, burning and freezing at once, remained. He was dead, she was sure. But the blade still existed, and so did the one who had forged it. A cursed blade, like the fang of a voidspawn demon. The thought alone made her shudder.
She let out a shaky breath, and another, waiting for her heart to steady its beat. Her gaze fell upon a humble pile covering the table beside her. On top of it lay a note written in a strangely jagged script, as if imitating claw marks.
It's not the latest fashion, but I still hope you'll find them useful.
K
K? Yrith frowned, wondering whom this initial could belong to. The Dragonborn? Despite her solitude, she felt warmth in her cheeks. She had never asked his name.
She pulled the pile onto her lap, finding a set of weathered, once rather colorful garments, emitting a gentle smell of soapwort. She pulled them on, finding they fit almost perfectly. She would have felt almost fancy, like those flashy performers dancing their way through the streets of Daggerfall and gathering coin the local nobles would throw them from their windows back in the day. If it wasn't for the threadbare furs around her collar. Those made her feel like a molted starving sabre cat, living truly up to Qassir's expectations of being an urchin. Tugging at the tips of the remaining hair to plump them up a bit, she rose to finally leave her safe haven.
The corridors of High Hrothgar welcomed her with astounding stillness, only the echo of her footsteps bouncing between the tall unadorned granite walls. The monastery must have been ancient. She stared at the massive stones that formed it, their corners rubbed smooth and rounded by the tooth of time. There was not much to admire except the structure itself, a strange labyrinth of passages reminiscent of a hefty angular arcade. The sound of her footsteps carried far and wide through them, even when she tried her best to conceal it. She frowned, touching the stone as if she expected it to tell her its secret. And here she thought she was rather good at sneaking. Winterhold had never betrayed her like this.
Following one of the many corridors, she reached the end which presented itself as a kitchen of sorts, with no more than a fireplace and a modest set of dishes, mostly hung on a bar attached to the wall next to it. There were no plates or glasses, only bowls and pots made in wood and cast iron.
She made to leave, only to run into another dead end, this time presenting a bedroll and a shelf holding a small stone tablet. She studied the place closely, assuming by the helmet laying at the bedroll's head that this was the Dragonborn's bedroom. If she could call it that. Curiously, she reached for the tablet on the shelf and picked it up.
Engraved in it was an inscription written in the same style of jagged script she had seen on the note about her new clothes. Only this time, she could not discern the characters. A map of Skyrim covered the other side, littered by four-pointed stars.
"I keep that to preserve the memory of my battle against Alduin," a voice issued behind her. She turned abruptly, staring at the rather undisturbed face of the Dragonborn. He was propped against a pillar, as if he had always been there, watching her with the typical mirth in his bead-like eyes. "They fade, you know. The memories of the places and people you left behind. They fade whether you want it or not. And with them goes a part of yourself."
Yrith nodded. She could hardly recall what life had been like in Daggerfall. Even those days in Winterhold seemed clouded and distant, as if the person who had lived them had not been her.
"Is this the Dragon Language?" she asked, pointing at the inscription on the tablet. The Dragonborn took it from her with a toothy smile.
"'Here lie our fallen lords, until the power of the Devourer of Worlds awakens them once more,'" he read. "This is a map of the dragons' burial mounds. Back then, I didn't understand. I understood nothing of this great plot I'd become part of. I only had this great fear of the unknown. You understand, don't you?"
Her gaze sank to the floor. "But I am no savior of the world."
The Dragonborn laughed. "How can you tell at this point?"
"You defeated him. Alduin, the World Eater." She gained herself another laugh.
"Certainly, if I announced just that to the world, no one would dare question it. But in truth, no, I did not. Not alone, at least. That was my advantage over him. I had friends. Allies. Supporters. Whatever you want to call them. People who had my back before I even knew what was happening." He placed the tablet back on the shelf, laying it down gently, like a babe in a cradle. "Come," he beckoned to her, making for the sunlit corridor. Yrith followed him out of the maze of the monastery, into the vast space of the central corridor and through a huge brass gate leading to the courtyard. She squinted in the sudden brightness cast by the surrounding snow. The cold hit her face and crept under her garments. The Dragonborn turned to her, wrapping her in the woolen mantle that had been nonchalantly draped over his shoulder.
"But you…"
He shook his head. "I'm used to this cold. It is like my home. It's different from Winterhold, isn't it?" Looking up to the skies, he drew in the frosty air, returning a puff of steam. "They say that if you take the snow from up there," he gestured to the top of the mountain, covered in a thick veil of mist and clouds, "it will never melt. Even if you bring it to the scorching deserts of Hammerfell."
Yrith raised her brows. "And is it true?"
"I've never tried," the Dragonborn laughed. "And I doubt any of those who spread the rumor did. To an ordinary mortal, that place is inaccessible."
"Have you been there?"
He gave her a cryptic smile, waving for her to follow him. They crossed the bit of leveled ground before them, past the road leading to a great cliff and an old, massive watchtower looming over the vastness of Skyrim. The wind grew stronger as they progressed toward a wide stairway before them and then up to a tall stone arch. Beyond it spread a wall of swirling frost, dark and menacing in the shade of the mountain. Yrith shivered at the mere sight.
"Touch it," the Dragonborn said, stepping aside to clear the way for her. She approached the wall gingerly, raising a hand to it with caution. As the tip of her finger reached it, tiny crystals, invisible to her eyes, pricked the skin on it, littering it with tiny wounds. Yrith pulled back, watching droplets of blood surface on it. She looked at the Dragonborn.
"What is that?"
"The eternal storm protecting the mountain." He took a step forward, straightening his back and taking a deep breath.
"LOK VAH KOOR!" he shouted. And the mountain shook, sending back a familiar echo.
Yrith flinched, covering her ears instinctively as the words left his mouth. Sky, spring and summer, she could make out their meanings from the magic that radiated from them. Clear the skies, from winter to spring, from spring to summer. The torrent of mist and snow thinned, until it was no more than limpid residue, cold on touch, but breathable. The Dragonborn stepped on the path, making his way just a few feet into the freshly cleared space.
"Magic that can change things from within," Yrith whispered, remembering the spells her own parents had commanded. The draconic magic must have been similar in nature.
"Not as powerful as the magic of this place," the Dragonborn said, raising his gaze to the mountain peak above. "If you stand here for too long, the storm will return. Only those who command the Dragon Tongue can set foot on the summit. Or so I used to think. You seem like you could handle yourself out there, though."
"I could?"
The Dragonborn's jaw widened in a bestial grin. "Up to you. I believe you too want to reach that place."
She stared into the cloudy unknown. "What is up there?"
He shrugged. "A friend." Then he patted her on the shoulder. "Best of luck to you."
With a wink of one eye, he made for the stairs. Yrith stared at his back, but snapped to attention at the sudden gust of wind in her face.
"Erm… Mister Dragonborn?"
He looked over his shoulder, still smiling.
"Thank you for these." She slid a hand over her clothes and tugged at the mantle. He nodded.
"You can call me Keneel-La. Or Bends-The-Night, but, for some mysterious reason, people find that name rather hard to use." The sparks in his eyes danced merrily as he turned to leave, his figure smaller and smaller over the distance. Yrith smiled to herself. The Dragonborn had a name too.
Yrith lifted her hand and felt the thundering cold on its palm. It had been three days, yet she could not take a single step past the point she had reached with the Dragonborn. The storm sang its dark aria, oblivious to her attempts. She let a strand of magic into it, and it was swayed at once, pricked and scattered into invisible shreds. She could not penetrate the storm, nor disperse it. Once back in Winterhold, she had thought herself capable, almost invincible as she had slowly learned to best her teachers. All that confidence was now torn to pieces. There were powers on Nirn which she could not compare to. She could not even turn and run when she had found herself in the middle of a raging battle. And now, she could not set foot on the path sending her a sweet invitation with every roar from above.
Gritting her teeth, she let out a blast of pure energy. The blinding blue beam shattered and faded upon contact. Singird had told her before not to fight her way with force. But this was different from leading a ball through a maze. This maze had no free passages to take.
She sighed, wiping the weariness from her face. The silhouette of High Hrothgar blended with the darkening sky. The sun had kissed the western horizon farewell and vanished beneath it. Another day had passed.
She left the stone arch, recounting in her head everything she had tried. The Dragonborn had made it look so easy. It had taken him thee words to make the storm simply disappear. What should she do? Spellbrew it away? But she had never tried it. She hardly had any idea how it's done, and, as she had found out after a few brief moments of exploration, the monastery suffered a great shortage of any kind of literature. And so she spent her days out here, trying, exerting her powers. It was better than lying around and doing nothing. It was better than facing Cain and his eyes full of worry.
She passed through the gate, into the wide corridor and the smaller ones beyond. They led her to the council room where dinner would be served. But she froze before entering as Cain's agitated voice reached her ears.
"And what do you expect of her? To come crying, licking your boots and begging for mercy? Do you find this entertaining?"
Yrith held her breath. They could not be talking about her, could they?
There was a snort which undoubtedly came from Leyna. "You think I am entertained? Oh certainly, I get entertained by the thought of having lost my father!" The last word was followed by a gasp and a thud. Yrith bit through her lip, feeling blood on her tongue. She pressed herself to the door frame, curiosity and apprehension fighting the urge to jump out and stop the quarrel.
"Sure, like you're the only one who has lost someone. Your sweet father who just happened to know Yrith's parents, hmm? Do you take me for a complete fool? Why did you bring her there, Leyna?"
"Because he…" the words were muffled by what Yrith assumed to be tears, "because I thought he'd asked me to! You were there, you heard us talking!"
"Yes… I heard you talking." Cain sighed, his voice suddenly low, broken. "I heard everything. Including the part about the enemy. About the name. The name lost in time," he fell into whisper. Leyna let out a quiet sob. "Do you realize what burden he put on Yrith's shoulders? And knowing her, she'll go search for him. She'll…" he took a shaky breath, "she'll seek him. If only for your sake!"
The knuckles on Yrith's hands turned snow-white as she gripped the frame. Leyna voiced the question that overtook the whole of her mind.
"What… what are you talking about?"
"You really don't know?"
"Who will she seek?"
"Don't lie to me!" Yrith's fingers scraped the lacquered metal. She felt Cain's rage. His every word stabbed her heart, but she could not find the strength to run to him. His words were a growl and a yell, a threat and a desperate cry in one. "You know very well who I'm talking about!"
There was a threatening growl, a sound Yrith would have never associated with the graceful Leyna.
"Fine! I led your precious Yrith out of Winterhold! I lured her out with a plea, I lied to her about the cause! It is all on me, but I sure as Oblivion don't know what my father was involved in, and I have no bloody idea what you are saying! Do you really think I would march right into death's jaws had I known this? No, and trust me," there was a sudden wave of determination in Leyna's voice. Even without looking, Yrith could imagine her standing proud, straightening her back as she looked into Cain's face, "I would not have sent her there either. I may be ignorant, I may be selfish, but I'm not a monster! Day after day, I am asking myself the same questions. Why did this happen? Who is it that killed my father? And… who is it that's after Yrith? If my father knew her family, then why had I never heard of them before? I thought I was so smart. I thought I knew so much, knowing every name in Winterhold. All of them, except for hers. I thought she wasn't involved in those political schemes. But she is. More than any of us. What is happening? What in Oblivion is happening to us?! Tell me, Cain. Tell me."
Quiet, uneven steps echoed through the room, the staggering of a person. "I thought… you really don't know anything…"
"Nice of you to realize," Leyna rasped. Yrith almost couldn't recognize her voice. "But you do. You know who is behind this, don't you?"
"I have my suspicion."
"Who?"
There was a moment of crackling-filled silence before Cain gave a low grunt. "The Lone Demon…"
Yrith put a hand over her mouth to stifle the gasp, the other one still clenching. Was he joking? No, he could not be. So why? Why had Cain never told her if he knew? Why would he keep secrets? She felt a flush of searing hot energy take over her. She wanted to pin him to the wall herself, force him to spill it all out. This was her life. Why was she never in control?
She felt herself shake, as if watching her body from the outside. The door frame was a dear friend which she clung to with all her might, stopping herself from stomping into the scene. She concentrated on their voices. On the words they said. On their meaning.
"Your would-be deity?"
"Deity, idol, demon, whatever he… it might be. Do you know his other name?"
Here they stood, talking about Yrith and the murderer in her tracks. The one who had tormented Cain, killed her parents and Leyna's father. She ought to be invited to the party. And yet…
"I hear he has many."
"He does. Because no one knows the real one. He is The Nameless God, but it is forbidden for us to use that title."
"And you are assuming my father sent Yrith after him just because of that?"
Cain let out a long, weary breath. "No. I connected the dots when she started asking about him. She knows something. But I can't let her do this. Anything but this… anything."
Was this a justification? Yrith gritted her teeth.
She could not be sure if the sound coming from Leyna's mouth was a sob or a snort. "She's not your property. I doubt she would ask for your approval."
Sure as Oblivion she would not.
"I know, but…"
"This is so ridiculous." Leyna's voice sounded tired, but also somewhat lighter. Brighter. "Whenever I think of Yrith, I remember those days in Winterhold when she encouraged me to… just be myself. She showed me freedom. She taught me to stop pretending and walk my own path."
Cain laughed cheerlessly. "I guess we have something in common."
"But why? Why do I feel so angry every time I see her face? When I remember how they talked… why couldn't he look my way? Why does everything always revolve around her? Why do I have to hate myself for just being me?"
"Leyna…"
"He was my father…"
"I doubt it was her choice, Leyna."
Yes, it had not been her choice. Nothing was ever her choice. Yrith turned away, still holding her breath, tiptoeing along the wall, holding the rage inside. She was angry. Angry at the godsdamned demon for destroying her life. Angry at her parents for not telling her anything. Angry at Cain for the same reason. Angry at Leyna for despising her so. Angry at the whole world for being so infuriatingly unfair. Angry at herself… for being powerless. In the end, she could only be hurt or angry.
She rushed through the halls, the fire within her smothering the cold around. Cain knew. Her footsteps now thundered and carried over the vast space. Cain knew and had not told her anything. She stomped over a rug, crumpling it unwittingly. Light flickered in the corridor ahead. How much did Cain know that he would not reveal, even if she asked?
She finally stopped, panting and staring into a vast entrance hall lit by a blazing brazier just a few paces before her and a myriad of candles casting their glimmer on the small altar on the other side. Two wide belts of stairs led down from where she stood, facing two sets of brass gates around the altar. The floor below was made in the same granite as the walls around it, save for a lone slabbed square in its middle formed by sixteen tiles. Right on the central cross knelt a solitary figure of a man in robes grey as the walls around, face turned to a pillar separating him from the altar. He was still, and for a moment, Yrith wondered if she was not simply looking at a statue. But as far as she knew, statues did not wear garbs.
She hesitated before turning to leave, but a voice from behind stopped her.
"Wise is the one who does not act upon anger, but unwise the one who lets it consume them."
Slowly, she let her eyes find the figure again. He stood there, tall and proud, and despite his old age, told by the long grey beard and countless wrinkles in his face, his eyes pierced her with a look ever so bright. Yrith felt as though she was the one standing down below while he was eyeing her from the top of the stairs. He stepped toward her, across the room and up the stairs, until he closed the distance between them to an arm's length. She flinched a little under his heavy look.
"So you are the last guest," he said, calm and with no grudge for being purposely ignored. "I believe we have not met yet. My name is Arngeir and I speak for the Greybeards. It is quite rare to have visitors in our humble monastery. Pardon our rather seclusive nature."
Yrith shook her head wildly. "Not at all. My name is Yrith Ravencroft." Her voice still trembled with poorly concealed rage. She thought of what she could add to give weight to her name, but nothing came to her mind. She let out a silent breath, lips curling in sheepish apology.
"So I've heard. The Dragonborn speaks quite highly of you."
"He exaggerates."
Arngeir gave a light smile. "That is not for me to say. But I trust his judgement. He too was full of fear and anger when he came here. It must pain him to look into the mirror that you pose for him. And it must also give him hope."
Yrith stared at him, face freezing in a frown. "What do you even know?"
He placed a gentle hand on her shoulder. "Nothing that goes on within these walls escapes my ears. You should not mistake concern that your friends express for malice." He let out a light sigh. "I was opposed to having you here. We are mere observers and do not accept guests from the outer world of conflict. But I can see now that deep inside, you do not seek conflict. Be true to yourself, child. You are not wrong to doubt, as long as you do not let it cloud your mind. Understanding is the key to clearing your path."
He patted her, making his leave. Yrith felt burning in her eyes. She was so exhausted. So lost. What should she do? What should she think? She did not know.
The square of tiles in the heart of the entrance hall quaked lightly with every sound produced within the walls of High Hrothgar. Every now and then, it shook with the roar from the mountain summit. Yrith knelt inside, listening to the sounds reminiscent of a quiet symphony. She could not discern them, but she was sure the Greybeards could. No wonder they liked to spend their time here. This structure was made to hold magic. But unlike the College of Winterhold, it had no magic of its own. She slid a hand over one of the tiles, sending tiny streams of magicka into its web-like crevices. It seemed almost as if the tile held a minuscule pipework, spanning into the monastery stone like countless invisible veins.
"Understanding is the key to clearing your path."
Easy for him to say. How could she understand when no one gave her answers? Cain kept his secrets under lock and key and Leyna would not look her way. Even the damned storm would rage on as it pleased. And the Dragonborn was nowhere to be found, leaving her to figure things out on her own.
She caressed the tile, letting the blue of her magic flicker with a fresh wave of sounds. She found it oddly satisfying.
"Curious little mechanism, isn't it?"
Her eyes found Arngeir, kneeling next to her. She hinted a wordless smile.
"If you learn to interpret the sounds, you can hear anything that goes on within these walls. Every whisper, a skeever pattering in the kitchen on the other side. It requires some exploration from within and a bit of trial and error. But it helps us connect. Not only to the monastery, but also to the outer world. It is especially attuned to dragon magic. Ever since the dragons returned to Skyrim, this place has never been quiet."
Yrith watched as the web of magicka crackled under her fingers. "How do you…" she let the words fade, eyes growing wide. Exploration from within?
"Understanding is the key to clearing your path."
She jumped on her feet, bowing deeply to the kneeling man beside her. "Thank you, Master Arngeir. This is exactly what I needed to hear."
He nodded sagely as she ran toward the stairs and through the central corridor, soon flinging the gate to the courtyard open. She darted toward the stone arch, leaving behind a trail of churned snow. The sky was dark with heavy clouds promising a blizzard, but she paid it no heed, following the path upward almost instinctively. And then, when she finally reached the wall of frost, she let out a strand of magicka so tiny it would be invisible to a trained mage's eye, but still enough she could feel it.
"Magic that changes things from within," she breathed to herself, letting it delve in. She closed her eyes, feeling the storm sway it, furrowing her brows in her struggle to maintain the connection. Singird was wrong. She could use force. As long as that force was not her own. The storm had plenty of its own power, fueling the vortex inside infinitely. In essence, it was no different from magicka transforming into ice and sending it flying from her fingertips. She embraced it, claiming it for her own. She closed her eyes, letting her magic blend in the storm.
She was now part of it, moving with the torrents of the wind and snow, crashing and dissolving, only to take shape again. It was needlework, as if she was undoing stitches and weaving the thread into a different pattern. Particle after particle, strand after strand, she took over, finding their essence, transforming their energy into pure heat. The storm gave a low grumble of protest, but it could not resist. It could only fuel the process. Slowly, methodically, she walked into it, removing it from the path ahead. Her feet moved cautiously forward, searching for solid ground. She could feel her resolve strengthening as she worked her way along the side of the mountain, every step bringing her closer to her destination. Every inch was easier to transform than the previous one. As if the tailor had finally tamed the needle and thread. She let out a laugh, dissolving a cloud before her in a few heartbeats. Understanding truly was the key.
Now that the path was clear, she could take a look at what awaited her. The road followed steeply up along the mountain side, circling its folds and following the cliff edges. There were places where it faded under piles of rubble or blended into the mountain walls. She paled at the sight. Whoever had carved this path into the mountain must have been either mad or suicidal. She could not even imagine walking it. Two tiny flickering dots in the distance revealed the presence of ice wraiths. Was she supposed to fight them in these conditions? The Dragonborn sure put a lot of trust in her.
She tried the ground before her with a foot. It was solid and stable, but the drift of snow atop of it, slippery as its surface had melted and frozen back upon Yrith's intervention, made for a dangerous adventure. She took a sharp breath, trying to convince herself that the Dragonborn had a reason for sending her here. Conjuring sharp teeth protruding from her boots and fingers to keep her stable, she began walking, always sending her magic ahead to scan the terrain. As the ice wraiths got closer, she summoned a pair of blazing atronachs, keeping them as her shield. She would avoid fighting here herself at all costs.
The wraiths charged forward, as they always did, mindless of any chances they could be defeated. This was their territory and they were bound to protect it. Yrith stepped back, letting the atronachs do their work. The wraiths glided elegantly over the air currents, dodging the bolts of fire from the atronachs' hands. And just like that, quick and nimble, they bit into their fiery flesh, removing piece by piece until the creatures vanished in a thundering explosion. Yrith gasped and staggered, protecting herself with a ward in the last moment. A heavy pile of snow buried the place where she had stood just moments before. She released a ball of fire, searing one of them and slowing its movement into a shaky flutter. It only gave her a moment to regain her composure.
A quick gesture gave life to two new atronachs. They were stronger than before, but Yrith knew they would not be enough. These wraiths were different from those in Winterhold. Sturdier. Quicker. More ferocious. She felt her heart beat its way out of her chest. What was she supposed to do? She could not run in this terrain. She could not even dodge their attacks. Her gaze sank to the cloudy grey depths below her, but she quickly raised her head, trying to chase the dreadful image away. This would not do. She had to try something different.
She closed her eyes, feeling the atronachs and wraiths before her. In this world of distorted shapes and colors, time slowed to a reasonable level, allowing her to trace their presence better. She could almost touch them and close her magic fingers around them. She grinned as the realization sank in.
She heated her magic, tightening its grasp on them. The wraiths squirmed and hissed, but they could do nothing against the invisible force. She gritted her teeth. They were still living beings. She would make it as quick as possible. She squeezed them in and pressed. Something cracked. Life seeped from the creatures as they fell on the ground and tumbled to her feet. She pulled back, and with her magic, she could feel new force entering her, making her gasp as shapeless memories flooded her mind. A life of freedom, beautiful, welcoming haven of ice, and then… searing pain. She fell to her knees, eyes wide in horror. What had she done?
Her atronachs danced around her, elegant as ever. She paid them no heed, breathing in and out in an uneven tempo. She needed to calm down. What had she done?
It was their very souls she had absorbed. She did not know if there was such a thing as afterlife for ice wraiths and other lesser creatures, but she now knew for certain they felt the same way humans did. And she had crashed those souls, turned them into nothing, lifeless energy that was now part of her. She put a hand over her mouth, suddenly feeling nauseous. She remembered this feeling from the other side. The Spirit Blight. And then the cursed blade on her neck. She had done the exact thing she dreaded.
Her head sank into the palms of her hands. She sat there for a long while, sending her magic out whenever the storm was about to return. It was long after a loud crack announced the departure of her two atronachs when she finally rose to her feet, trembling with unease. If only the Dragonborn knew she had the same kind of power as her enemy. If only he knew what sort of adventure he had sent her on. She looked back, toward the monastery structure which from the place she stood looked like a number of granite cubes organized into neat blocks. But she could not back now. She could not admit defeat. The way was up, not down.
She went on. The slippery snow fought her on every step. At times, she almost fell from the narrow path as it was almost as steep as the mountain wall on her side. Her magic saved her way too many times for her liking when there was nothing to hold onto. She wondered if the Dragonborn commanded Shouts that would aid him against Nirn's gravity, or if he was simply that skilled a climber. She grew tired with every inch she conquered, wondering how she was going to make it back. But she had to go on. Surely he had not sent her on a death mission.
The mountain shook again. It almost swept her into the abyss below. The roar was closer now, she could feel it in her bones. Left and right, left and right. A foot slid forward, the other one followed. Yrith stopped thinking. There was nothing to think of anyway. Nothing to observe either. As she climbed higher and higher, all life had receded. There was no vegetation here. No moss or lichen covering the rocks, no crooked pines curling their boughs over the road. Only snow and rocks. The cold now battled her magic. This place was old and powerful, letting her know how small she was.
Yrith could not tell if it had been hours or days she had spent climbing when the road before her finally widened. The slope became a gentle hummock. All the clouds were now at her feet, leaving the sky clear and blue. The snow blinded her in the afternoon sun, and she had to keep her eyes narrowed to see. Despite her previous efforts, she felt the exhaustion wash away, replaced by immense curiosity. She was almost there, at the very top of the tallest mountain on Nirn. The air here was so cold it burnt her lungs, but it did not stop the triumphant smile from spreading over her face. Just a few steps round that cliff.
She took a breath. Maybe nothing was waiting for her. Maybe this was just a lesson to show her that the feeling of triumph is not something worth pursuing. Fists clenched in determination, she stepped forward, stopping just at the cliff's feet. Her eyes widened at the sight.
A hollow spread before her, surrounded by sharp snow-capped rocks from one side and a strange semi-circular wall on the other. The wall was littered with inscriptions, emanating a strange aura, as if it spoke to her. And on top of it sat a dragon bigger and mightier than any she had ever seen. She would have easily mistaken it for a statue, with its torn wings and greyed scales, had it not moved its head toward her, pinning its pearl-like eyes on her person. Losing her breath, she took a step back, feeling the returning blizzard on her spine. She stared at it, assessing her chances. Its giant face alone was bigger than she was. Perhaps now it was time to start running, to finally admit that there was something against which she stood no chance. But a solitary thought stopped her. The Dragonborn must have known. He would have stopped her if she was walking into certain death. He would have…
The dragon slid elegantly from its throne, settling on the snow below. It seemed as if the creature had always belonged here, old as the mountain itself, or perhaps even older. It did not stop looking at her for a single moment, waiting in silence. She had never heard of a dragon that would wait in silence. Dragons were fierce creatures, proud of their power and dominance. But this one was different. There was no rage or hunger in its eyes. It felt like simple curiosity, like a dog cautiously sniffing a person it met for the first time. Yrith dared a step closer. The dragon stayed in its place, still waiting. She wondered if it was amused by her hesitation.
She took a few more steps, feeling the air around her grow yet colder. It quivered unpredictably, distorting her view. She stared into the warped space, watching a myriad of snowflakes lost in an endless slow-motion whirl. Instinctively, she reached out for them with her hand, but pulled away at once as the cold ripped through her protective magic with unexpected force.
"Pruzah sul," the dragon spoke calmly, its deep, melodic voice reverberating through the hollow. Yrith raised her eyes to it as it approached. She felt her feet freeze to the ground. Whatever its intentions, she was now at its mercy. "You are standing at a time wound, if that is what you are wondering. Drem yol lok, rovaan. I am Paarthurnax, master of the Greybeards. I welcome you."
Yrith stared at it, him, an imposing person speaking words to her, forgetting her breath. Peace, fire, sky… was that how dragons greeted each other? The words in the Dragon Language mingled with those in the human tongue. Even his name bore meaning. A terrible meaning.
"The Wishful Lord of Tyrants… y-you are the master of the…"
She could swear the dragon smiled at her attempt. He tilted his head to the side and took a single step back as if allowing her some space. Yrith tried to convince herself there was no reason for a dragon to pretend to be nice when all it would take to kill her was a single clasp of his jaws.
"You understand Dovahzul, yet you are not dovakhiin, nor are you one of our kind. You do not command the thu'um, but I feel great power from you. Our grind, encounter, is not a coincidence. You have come with a purpose. Who are you?"
Who was she? What was this civil giant expecting her to say? She was no one. Surely a dragon would not be interested in a simple girl like her. But he had given her his name, even revealed its meaning. She shuddered at the echo in her head, but straightened her back nonetheless. She was not one to fall into debts.
"I am Yrith, The One Who Speaks True."
The dragon lowered his head in acknowledgement.
"Rarely do I meet any joorre who would share the meaning of their name with me. You are brave and true as your name. So what brings you to Monahven? What brings you to the Tiid-Ahraan, time wound?"
Yrith watched him through the quivering air. "The Dragonborn said I would find a friend here."
Paarthurnax let out a low growl, perhaps a dragon laugh. "And you have found me. So all you desire is a simple tinvaak with a dragon?"
A flush dyed her cheeks. Here she stood, with a mighty dragon before her offering her a conversation. She could not help but smile at his words. "I, well… it is not what I was expecting." The flush deepened and the cold air around was not enough to chase away the hotness from her cheeks.
"Ah, I know these words well. Only lost souls wander here, and none expect an old dovah. Tell me, child of the joorre. Have you ever heard my name?"
Yrith shook her head.
"I saw the fear in your eyes when I said it. You are right to fear it. My past is full of dread, and still, the name calls to me. I stay on this mountain to escape the calling, for I am Paarthurnax, brother of Alduin, the Devourer of Worlds."
Yrith did not avert her eyes. She knew he was telling the truth, but there was no threat in his words. The Dragonborn must have had a reason to send her here. And if both he and Paarthurnax had survived their encounter, wasn't that proof enough to trust him?
She took a breath. "Does your name mean that much to you?"
He lowered his head in a nod. "Dragons are different from joorre. We were not given our names. We were born with them. They define us. I was meant to wage a war alongside my brother. But something changed when I saw the mortal children perish under my yol su'um, my fire breath. They are the ones who changed me. Their pleading eyes, and the trust that I betrayed. Until the very last moment, they wanted to believe in my mercy. I could not bear my brother's cruelty. I fled and sought humans to help me overthrow Alduin's dovahhe. And so I strayed from my destined path."
Yrith frowned. What a cruel joke. Was a name all a dragon needed to decide his nature? Was it the will of Akatosh to enslave his own children? That could not be it. She refused to believe it. "Did you though?" she whispered.
"Have I not proven it?" The dragon's eyes narrowed in bitter indignation, but Yrith did not yield. What did the studied Leyna always say? A word's meaning depends on the interpretation.
"Does your name mean you aspire to be the head tyrant, or does it mean that you want to rule over tyrants to stop their atrocities?"
Paarthurnax froze, head tilted forward as if he was about to lunge at her. Yrith held her breath, standing tall before him. She stared into his pearl eyes, the one vivid part in a sea of chipping greyed scales. He took a moment to examine her.
"I have spent millenia pondering this question," he said, letting his head sink. "And yet, a joor child provides an answer more soothing than that of the greatest minds this dovah has met. I believe your name also defines you, Zulvahzen, The One Who Speaks True. You have given me a great power by revealing your true name. But I will not use it against you. You come here seeking guidance, and yet you offer one instead. Kogaan."
"I have given you power? What does that mean?"
"Come." The dragon turned around, gesturing to her with his tail. He leaped into the air, only to land by the wall lining the far edge of the hollow. Yrith followed his shadow until she stood before the wall, watching its jagged engravings. She could feel heat pouring from them, evoking images of fire in her mind. Fire as life, fire as destruction, fire as one's driving force, the warmth of the family hearth and the scorching power leaving behind naught but ashes. She stared at the wall and around, wondering why the snow lasted in its proximity.
"You feel it," Paarthurnax said, "the power of yol. These walls bear our wisdom. Each carries a Word of Power. A piece of our magic, passed amongst us. If we had children, these would be their books. Alas, we do not. They were constructed by people such as yourself, perhaps in hopes of understanding our kind."
He stepped aside, turning his reptilian face to the sky.
"YOL!" he shouted, and a plume of fire escaped his jaws. Then he looked back at Yrith. "Such is our power. We do not speak like you do. Our words are magic. And so are our names. If you are powerful enough, you can control a dovah with his name."
"So you can control me with mine?"
"Perhaps. Every creature in Mundus has a true name. Dovahzul derives from the Tongue of the Old, the divine language. It is said the world was created by giving everything a name. Know my name and you can reshape me, or completely erase me from existence."
"Just like that?"
"Of course you still need the power to do so. The name is a method. It gives you understanding, but not the means."
Yrith nodded, eyes drifting to the horizon, slowly turning from pale blue to gold and violet. The thought of someone controlling her by just her name made her uneasy. How could the dragons survive for millennia when there were such possibilities? Divines and Tongue of the Old? Maybe she was just dreaming. Maybe none of this was happening and the dragon before her was a construct of her own imagination. Maybe she would soon wake up down in High Hrothgar into a reality where the word god would only have a formal meaning and her biggest worry would be to eat the tasteless porridge that Cain had made for her.
Cain…
"He is The Nameless God, but it is forbidden for us to use that title."
No…
"Find the name lost in time."
Yrith felt her heart stop. She looked up, into the eyes of Paarthurnax who kept watching her in silence. She could not tell his expression, but he could certainly tell hers. He tilted his head to the side and slid a claw toward her.
"What is it, Zulvahzen?"
She shuddered at the name. She had truly given him the power to grasp her at his will.
"What does it mean when someone speaks of an enemy and then tells me to find the name lost in time?"
He let out a cloud of steam, making her wonder if that was how dragons sighed. "I think you already know the answer to that question."
She did. How could she blame Cain for not wanting to tell her? The more she knew, the more scared she was. And yet, something kept her from giving up. She could not just walk away and leave things be. She could hide forever and let things happen. She could change her name, perhaps she could even change the way she looked. Rumors talked about face sculptors that would reshape one's face with magic. She could leave all this insanity forever. But she would not. She heeded the Dragonborn's words. She would walk this path and do what Selas Travi had asked of her. She would listen to the message from her parents and become the hero that was in fact just a person refusing to give up. In the end, she was not so different from the dragons. She too desired that power. She too wanted to protect her place.
With resolve in her face, she looked into Paarthurax's eyes. "How do I find one's true name?"
"Krosis. I have never spoken the Tongue of the Old. I do not know." Despite himself, the dragon's jaws widened. A smile. "But you are strong. You will find it. The name lost in time, you said. Rok sizaan ko tiid. When the Dovakhiin searched for a way to defeat Alduin, he brought a kel. An Elder Scroll. The time wound, this rift in time that you see here, brought him back to witness Alduin's last moments before he was cast out of time. Perhaps this is what you need. A kel, and a rift that will take you to the place where you will find it."
"An Elder Scroll?" She stared at him, trying to guess whether this was the draconic sense of humor. "But they say the Elder Scrolls have vanished, if they ever existed at all. Where am I supposed to get one? Where am I supposed to find the right one?"
"The Elder Scrolls exist. Relatively speaking. The Dovakhiin already found one. He will know how to find another."
Yrith sighed. "I already owe him."
"He will not refuse an old fahdon." Friend. Yrith knew the merry glimmer in the dragon's eyes. It was what the Dragonborn liked to regale her with. She flushed.
"But then I will owe you."
"Drem. You have done enough for me, Zulvahzen. You have given my name a new meaning. This deed will not be forgotten. You may go and follow your own path. I shall support you."
Yrith fought sudden tears forcing their way into her eyes. The Dragonborn had promised her a friend. She had found so much more here. A purpose. A road to follow. Instinctively, she extended an arm. The dragon touched it with his muzzle.
"Thank you," she said quietly.
"I thank you. Ofan. A gift from me. These wings are old, but they can still carry you down this strummah. My mountain."
"Y-you would?" Yrith could not suppress the joy in her voice. She barely remembered anything from the day the Dragonborn had saved her from Erinor's clutches. But the wind in her face, the feeling of absolute freedom as she watched the land pass deep down below, looking like a sea of infinite shapes and colors, she wished to feel them once more.
Paarthurnax rose, his jagged silhouette looming above her. "Do not get used to such favors. I do not give them on a whim."
She nodded, letting her magic take her to the nape of his neck. It took her a moment to find a protruding scale she could hold onto. Once again, she had to admire the beauty of his mighty form. Even aged as they were, his scales were impressive, some bigger than her face, some smaller than her nails, neatly arranged into lines and curves covering the whole of his spine and sides. His leathery wings were torn at the edges, but not enough to prevent him from flying. She had barely settled down in a stable position when he took off with a powerful kick, carrying her up to have a good view of the spots of land under the tattered clouds. The western horizon was a red-gold line with the sun in its middle, slowly descending beyond it. In its light, she could see it all. Winterhold in the north-east, the northern coastline with scattered Nordic ruins and cities like Dawnstar or Morthal, the Blue Palace dominating the cliff of Solitude. The mountain ridge leading from there to the Dwemer-built city of Markarth. The green forests and glistening lakes of Falkreath where Singird had grown up. The colorful Whiterun tundra guarded by the fortress of the Dragon's Reach. The proud port of Windhelm and the old volcanic ponds like giant malachite eyes just south of it. The colorful birch woods of Riften just at the foot of the mountain they had just left. She could see the greenlands of Cyrodiil, the Morrowind jungles and the valleys of the Reach leading to High Rock that had once been her home. The world had suddenly turned into a playground. She gripped the scale before her and laughed.
Paarthurnax let out a wordless shout. It spread through the land, echoing from one mountain to another, chasing the birds out of their nests and sweeping the snow from the treetops. He circled the mountain, ascending high above its peak and then swooping down in a rapid leap. Yrith hugged the scale with all her might, holding her breath and sending tendrils of her magic around his body to hold her in place. Before she knew it, they stood in the monastery courtyard, stirring up the snow around. Yrith let out a breath and slid down from his back. The ground swayed under her. She bent over, panting and gripping her knees.
"This is where we part," Paarthurnax said, lowering his head to Yrith's level. "It has been a pleasure, Zulvahzen. May the winds take you high and your voice stay strong. Lok thu'um."
Yrith raised her head, catching her breath. She touched him once more, feeling the coarse skin under her fingers. "Thank you. For everything."
"Nid. Do come visit again. I will not refuse a chance for a good tinvaak."
With a swing of his wings that almost sent her to the ground, he lifted off and disappeared in the clouds. Yrith followed his fading shadow, lost in her thoughts. She too would not mind a good tinvaak from time to time.
Smiling, she turned to the monastery. The windows flickered with light from the inside, a warm welcome as if she was returning home. At last. Exhaustion finally claimed her, making her body relive every moment of the passed day. She took a step toward the gate, but her limbs refused to listen. She felt the cold touch of the snow as she fell on her knees.
"Just a bit further," she told herself, her voice weak and windy. She tried to lift herself up, but her legs would not move. She had no strength left. "Damnation."
Her vision blurred. She wanted to resist, but an invisible force pulled her down. Deep in her mind, a voice mingled with her own. Dark, familiar voice.
"I will find you."
Her face hit the ground. She stared at her own hand, fingers moving aimlessly, before everything fell into nothingness.
Finally! Sorry for the huge delay, guys. The current situation is not easy to deal with, and this chapter did not make it easy for me. As always, I feel like it's not the best chapter I could have written, but someone always ends up telling me otherwise so I should probably admit that I'm simply never going to be satisfied right after I finish a chapter. :)) That said, feel free to point out any errors or inconsistencies. I can't guarantee I'll fix them right up, but it may help me with my future works.
The flight of Paarthurnax is something I have not planned originally. I am dedicating this part to my dear RealityGlitch who has been a great support to both me and Yrith on this journey. She expressed the wish to let Yrith fly once more so she could enjoy it. And I thought it would not stand in the way of anything so why not. And while we're at it, why not think big and let Paarthurnax do it.
I've been noticing some new favorites and follows – I just want to tell you guys that you are awesome and thank you for that! Some of you even favorited more of my works – this makes me happy. If you have the time, do leave a word or two in the reviews. I love talking to my readers more than anything!
Anyway, that's it, guys. See you next time. Hopefully the next chapter will not take me so long (can't guarantee anything, unfortunately). Stay safe in these troubled times.
Mirwen
P.S. If you struggle with the Dragon Language, there's a translator at thuum-org (replace the hyphen with a dot). :)
