Sorry for the long delay. Fortunately, this is considerably longer than the first chapter, so hopefully that's a sort of consolation.

The Greybeards did not have a strict hierarchy to their order. If there was any need for a 'leader,' it was left to the wisest among them, generally whoever had been a member the longest. The duty generally fell on Arngeir, for those reasons and his skill in the Way of the Voice.

The disturbance at the Throat of the World was thus his duty to investigate. Beyond the stone archway in the courtyard of High Hrothgar, the deadly ice storm that kept all but those who knew the Voice from reaching the peak was nowhere to be seen. At their altitude, above the cloudline and without the obscuring storm, Arngeir could easily see the intruding Spire.

The trek to the Throat should have been more difficult. The ice storm was gone, certainly, but there were other threats along the way. Caves stirred with the movement of terrible predators, but none of them ventured from their depths to attack. If anything, Arngeir's movement made them press deeper into the perceived protection of their dwellings.

Arngeir gritted his teeth and pushed on. His knowledge of the Thu'um was great, and some lesser beasts could sense that power. But frost trolls should not have been reduced to hiding in fear by anything, especially not a lone human. Even if their brains could see the power that radiated from him, their eyes would have seen only prey and overridden that better sense, driving them to attack. Why did they cower so?

Unfortunately, the answer was clear to the Greybeard elder: the Spire. The snow became no deeper nor the path any more treacherous as Arngeir made his way to the peak, but the trek nonetheless became…forced. To Arngeir, it was a momentary surprise and then quickly put aside, but he knew that in the minds of lesser men, doubt would fill their thoughts, and their knees would cry out to bend before the Spire. Even in silence, the Spire spoke a single word:

Obey.

It was not a request, or even a command. In Arngeir's bones, he could feel that it was like the Thu'um in that regard. It was simply a statement, and all who heard it were compelled to obey. Its presence rewrote the very nature of all it affected, making supplication as instinctive as breathing.

But Arngeir was no ordinary man. And somehow, the Spire recognized this. The invisible haze that slowed his pace was lifted, and he reached the height of the Throat.

A memory resurfaced, unbidden but clear as day. Pilgrims making the climb to High Hrothgar were not all that uncommon, but this one had been different. Bretons were often wary of traveling alone through Skyrim, as animosity towards the Forsworn could be found throughout the country.

But this man, this Breton, was particularly memorable. Across his back was a thin, slightly curved shape wrapped in brown cloth, which he had laid out and unwrapped upon entry to High Hrothgar. It was a long, single-edged blade, forged in the method last widely used by the empire of Akivir. He presented it to Arngeir for the duration of his visit. The Greybeards rarely confiscated weapons of visitors, but indulged the traveler's desire.

His race and choice of weapon alone would have earned him pride of place in Arngeir's memory, but there was more to come.

"You have come a long way, Brother Levine," Arngeir smiled, "What brings you so far from the Imperial City?"

The Breton drew back his hood, revealing a shaved scalp and a strip of red cloth wrapping around head and concealing his eyes.

"The White Gold Tower is no longer our sanctuary. Nothing is sacred to the prying eyes of the Dominion," he paused, then gave a small, apologetic smile, "Forgive my tone. I know that the sons of Skyrim suffer for our weakness."

"I bear no grudge against you, nor your Empire, though I must ask…you are younger than I, but clearly no neophyte. Were you present at the city's fall?"

"No," the Levine sighed, "At the time, I was still young among the rest of the monks. It fell to me and others to escape with the Scrolls."

"Then you served a great purpose. There are things that the Dominion could never be trusted with, and many-"

"-of them lie within the Elder Scrolls," Levine and Arngeir said simultaneously. Levine smiled again. Still, there was no happiness in the gesture.

"I must again ask your forgiveness. As you may have guessed, I have already made my Ultimate reading," Levine ran a hand absent-mindedly along the length of his blindfold, "Among other things, it showed me…this. Here and now, you and I. Not many of my brothers have their Ultimate reading so soon in their lives, but I do not question my fate."

"I have lived and learned here for most of my life, Brother Levine, but I cannot pretend to know what it is like to see the contents of an Elder Scroll, much less comprehend it." The two monks made their way through the dark halls of High Hrothgar, and their conversation echoed off the dark stonework.

"Nor have I ever felt the power of the Dragon tongue," Levine replied, "But I cannot put it accurately into words. The writings in the Scrolls are a defiance of reality itself. I could no more do the experience justice than I could describe the sound of a color." He stopped for a moment, and this time his brow softened slightly as he smiled at the recollection of a pleasant memory.

"Though I once met a disciple of the Madgod…he understood the nature of the scrolls with nothing but my lackluster descriptions. Perhaps insanity brings the mind to the same point where my order stands, but from an opposing direction." Levine abruptly shook his head, as if the thought had somehow distracted him from the sight provided by the Scrolls.

"I know that a Scroll was used atop this mountain to defeat the dragon Alduin. It left a scar in the fabric of everything, which even the Scrolls rearrange themselves to show. I must see it for myself."

Arngeir absorbed the request as he pushed open the doors to High Hrothgar's meditation grounds. On one hand, no one could ascend to the peak of the Throat without the aide of the Dragon's language to calm the storm. And even then, Levine was ultimately still a stranger, and strangers who sought passage to the home of Paarthurnax rarely had the noblest of intentions.

But Levine was no simple monk. Even among the Order of the Ancestor Moth, those who had undergone their Ultimate reading were held in particularly high esteem. It was possible that Levine-

It was Arngeir's turn to smile, and he finally realized why it lacked any emotion that would have normally come with smiling. It was the smile of a man who knew what was to come, and realized that the threads of fate were not so easily shaken off.

"You already know what will happen. For you, my answer has already been made," Arngeir said. Levine nodded, the resigned smile still on his face.

"Even fewer can see as clearly as I did…as I still do," Levine said, accepting his sword when it was offered back to him, "I would not wish on Mehrunes Dagon himself to live walking in his own footsteps. I feel like I am a single step to either side from madness, but my curse is to know that I will never take that step."

"I am truly sorry, brother," Arngeir started, but froze when Levine's invisible eyes seemed to pierce the cloth that covered them and bore into his own.

"The Madgod's disciple told me the same thing," Levine slung his sword across his back once again, leaving it unwrapped, then gestured to the raging storm before them. Arngeir's eyes widened momentarily in surprise. They had crossed the grounds already, and the archway loomed above.

"Please," Levine nodded toward the storm, "At the top of this peak, the knowledge of the Scrolls given to me ends." He laughed once, a bitter, dry sound barely audible over the rushing winds.

"It would be fitting that my journey should bring me among the wisest sages in Skyrim, only for my goal to be blessed ignorance."

Without a further word, Arngeir took in a breath, then let the words roll from his mouth. In moments, the storm faded, if only for a short time. Even the Dragon's tongue could not suppress it for long.

Brother Levine nodded his thanks and walked through the archway. He walked in the same way that a proud criminal walked to the gallows, knowing full well what awaited him there but striding towards it with purpose nonetheless.

But for Brother Levine, he walked as he did only because he was incapable of not knowing where his next footstep would be. In spite of his blindness, he lived his life like an actor reading the lines of his character from a script and following stage directions, but doing so because he knew that the script had to end sometime, and he wanted to see what happened when the curtains fell.

In seconds, Levine was out of sight.

In minutes, the storm was already whipping across the hard-packed snow once again.

And finally, as Arngeir walked back to the inside of High Hrothgar, nature filled in the footsteps of the Greybeard and the Moth, erasing what little remained as a physical testament to their meeting.

Enter.

In the present, Arngeir gritted his teeth against the voice. It did not pass through his ears, yet it reverberated in his very soul. Someone….something was inside the Spire, and it projected a 'voice' by making its listeners know they heard it.

A line five meters high appeared in the center of the wall Arngeir faced, and it broke into two, each with another line at its top pointing outward, almost like…

A door. It was a door. The voice had willed Arngeir to enter, and the Spire made it possible. Arngeir stood in place for a moment or two after the doors had finished opening, and once he was certain that his movements were his own will, he steeled his nerves and stepped into the Spire.

Something in his mind screamed the moment that he set foot inside. It was that little part that piped up to call attention to the fact that something subtle had been changed to an otherwise normal setting, and then left it up to the rest of the brain to figure out what it was.

It took Arngeir very little time to see what it was. The interior stretched far longer than the exterior ought to have allowed. Despite its shape, the Spire held room within it to dwarf even the greatest cathedral. The path for Arngeir to follow (or so he assumed) was flanked on either side by rows of columns, each one as flawless as the rest of the tower, yet still maintaining the basic visual aesthetic of its counterparts in the White Gold Tower.

That choice left Arngeir puzzled. What would create a structure such as this? There were columns, doors, windows, and even a long, intricately patterned carpet along the length of the floor, which Arngeir now stood on. These were all 'familiar' things, but they were all lacking the details that showed human workmanship. They were created perfectly from imperfect designs.

There were statues, too, spaced between the pillars. Arngeir had at first thought them suits of plate armor, but they were carved from the same material as the Spire's exterior, and the gaps that should have revealed mail or flesh was replaced with still more of the flawless crystal. Each stood in the same position, hands resting on the pommel of a long-bladed sword with its tip touching the ground.

The statues reflected the same twisted aesthetic as the rest of the Spire. The helmets of each had visible gaps to allow a wearer to see out from inside, and the entire body was crafted painstakingly to resemble a suit of elegant plate armor, from the multi-faceted shoulder pauldrons to the jagged elbow 'joints.' These were features that were necessary for a real suit of armor to function, but they served no purpose on a statue.

Kneel.

Arngeir's knees almost buckled, but he forced himself to stay upright. How had he gotten so close to the throne without seeing it? There was no doubt about it: he had found the Spire's master.

The crystal statues were pale copies of Him. Even seated, He was taller than any man, and carved from the ever-present crystal. Had He been one of the statues, He would have been the sculptor's masterpiece. Behind His three-horned helmet, motionless features had been molded to form a face. With unseeing crystal eyes, the head turned slightly to stare at Arngeir.

You resist. You must be powerful indeed.

Arngeir struggled to keep his thoughts straight. The Spire lord's 'voice' was playing hell with his senses, and the pressure He exerted was stronger than it had ever been outside the Spire.

Tell me your name, mortal.

"I am Arngeir, of the Greybeards," Arngeir said, more loudly than he had planned. His reply echoed in the vast hall, something which His 'voice' did not do.

I admire your will, Arngeir Greybeard, and your courage.

"Should I fear you, then?" Arngeir asked sharply.

…no. My name has faded to all but a footnote in your history. But…

He leaned forward in His throne, and the pressure increased. Arngeir grunted under the strain, but held firm.

...only those who can resist my words can truly fear me. The weak are merely pawns in my presence. They cannot feel the weight of my power when it has enveloped them. Only by resisting can you realize how powerless you are.

"And what is your name, which you believe forgotten?"

I am Jyggalag.

"I know your name. You are a daedric prince, but-"

But you know nothing else? His voice hardened, and the temperature noticeably dropped.

It is just as well. I will begin my reign here, and which was forgotten will be reborn. His presence subsided slightly, and the chill with it. Arngeir felt an air of…curiosity?

Tell me, Arngeir Greybeard: who are you to approach me? What has made you the first to lay eyes on my new form?

Arngeir's ears picked up a soft noise, like the grinding of stone against stone. He whirled, and saw the source of it. Four of the 'statues' had moved, swords still at rest, but their wide stances blocking the path from which Arngeir had come.

"I am here only to see, and then to reflect," Arngeir turned back to Jyggalag, "You have intruded on the lands of my order, and at the site where our leader once dwelt. I wished to know if you do this in ignorance, or as an affront to us."

And if the latter? Neither steel nor spell can be turned against me should I not allow it. Blades become dull, and magic dissipates before it can even fully form. Did you believe the arcane would help you should I have been a threat?

"I wield neither sword nor magicka," Arngeir responded, "But is your question an answer? Are these your guards, or your soldiers?" The Greybeard did not need to look to know that the statues had shifted. They were kept at a distance, but they were no longer so fully at ease.

Very well, Arngeir Greybeard. For your courage, I will answer you. My Knights are like this Spire, extensions of my will. And it is my will that your people bow before me.

"And should we not submit?" Arngeir knew the answer even before the words left his lips, but it bought him time to prepare himself. It would not be long now…

Then it will take time. But time is nothing among immortals, and my strength will only grow. My power will expand until even those who do not wish to serve me will bow. The daedric prince's non-gaze hardened.

Just as you. Will. KNEEL.

Arngeir could not help but cry out as he fell to one knee. Jyggalag's presence weighed on him like an inquisitor's press: it would force him to the ground, even if it broke him in the process. Arngeir gritted his teeth and sucked in a lungful of air. He could feel the twinge of surprise in Jyggalag's aura.

The draconic language was more than a mere tongue: it reshaped the world around its words. It took effort to learn any new language, but it could take decades to master the inherent power of the Dragon tongue. It was not enough to make the sounds: a master of the Voice needed to put force behind them. Clever men could speak the language, but only masters could invoke it.

"Nid!"

As if blown away in a mighty wind, the presence evaporated. The contrast from what Arngeir had endured ever since he began the climb to the Spire was so stark that he felt years younger.

Jyggalag had not risen from His throne, but the Knights were already raising their blades. Bursting with energy, Arngeir spun to face them, new words of power already forming on his lips.

"Slen-Iiz!"

Even the air seemed to slow as Arngeir's words became reality. Two Knights had already begun to swing their swords, but frost raced over their crystal forms, forcing them to become the statues they had masqueraded as. But such a move would not hold them for long. Arngeir had turned their 'flesh' to ice, and readied a finishing blow he had not used in what felt like a lifetime.

It had to be perfect. He could either finish them all with a single phrase more, or fail to give it the power to follow through, and suffer for his shortcoming. He poured his will into each syllable and let them explode into being.

"Fus-"

"-ro-"

"-DA!"

The two closest Knights exploded into shards, scattering crystal fragments across the great hall. The two remaining escaped the full brunt, but barely so. One lost its body above the waist, while the other had its sword arm, shoulder, and most of its helmet ripped away.

ENOUGH.

The Spire trembled. Even it feared the fury in Jyggalag's 'voice.' Arngeir raised his arms in front of his face just as something unseen struck him, sending him hurtling back and landing painfully on the long rug.

You dare challenge me? Here, of all places?

Arngeir groaned and forced himself to his feet. He felt as if he'd been hit by a boulder. The pain was forgotten when he saw Jyggalag rise to His feet, the unmoving crystal visage more frightening than any snarl.

Look around you, Arngeir Greybeard. Did you think me vulnerable in a tower constructed from my very essence?

Arngeir had barely regained his footing when he was smashed back onto the floor again. It no longer felt like Jyggalag's will trying to dominate his own. It was a raw, physical power, as if gravity had suddenly increased tenfold.

I could pulverize you with a thought. I could take away the very air you breathe.

The Greybeard's head was pinned at just the right angle to see crystalline shards sliding across the floor. The remains of the four Knights he had destroyed moved seemingly by their own volition, piling up in four mounds that grew back into recognizable shapes. The noise was grating and harsh, like the sound of a pane of glass shattering in reverse.

This is what it is to be within the realm of a daedric prince, a world sculpted purely from my will, and destroyed just as easily.

"Then…why…" Arngeir groaned, barely able to choke out words under the crushing weight.

Choose your words wisely, Arngeir Greybeard. Expire, and your soul is forfeit. Not even your gods can hope to stand against me here.

"Then why…Skyrim?"

For an instant, it was as if the world within the Spire was frozen in time with its master's hesitation. And after that instant, Arngeir's lungs sucked in air as the crushing force was lifted. He managed to push himself to his knees and look to Jyggalag, whose Knights had reassembled, but stood motionless, with no command to compel them to action.

Why would I desire your world as my own?

Jyggalag's titanic form slowly lowered itself back into His throne. The Knights silently moved in perfect rhythm back into their positions, becoming no more than statues.

In Oblivion, I could create a thousand of these Spires, and it would take but a thought. Here, I strained to create even one.

In Oblivion, I could summon an army ten thousand strong, with armor harder than diamond and blades that could cut the fabric of reality itself. Here, I must forge each one from my own power.

In Oblivion, I could compel my subjects to loyalty with nothing more than the wish that they be loyal. Here, I must conquer land for it to be mine.

And in Oblivion, all that could be erased on a whim, and recreated just as easily.

Jyggalag moved a single finger, and Arngeir felt himself lifted to his feet.

I have chosen your world because I have seen the emptiness of Oblivion. I once controlled a plane reaching further than your greatest empires, more majestic than any creation of mortalkind. But when I was betrayed and my domain was left without me, do you know what became of it?

NOTHING.

Arngeir froze, transfixed by the raw hatred imbued in the word. It was far from the emotion He had shown after Arngeir's use of his Voice. That had been simple anger. The anger of a god was a terrible thing, but anger could be understood.

Hatred at least implies passion. It is, after all, love's opposite. But even the bitterest of rivals can see that their reason for existence lies in their greatest foe. Jyggalag's voice was filled with the hatred of a god: a horrible, passionless thing that could not be swayed or guarded against. It did not hesitate, for it had no reason to hesitate. It could destroy the mightiest army on a whim and wipe out countries with a whisper, and for not a single instant would it feel satisfaction or remorse.

My plane had faded, like a forgotten dream, returning to the nothing from which I had created it. It was only my presence that held it in shape.

Jyggalag's shoulder pauldrons dipped slightly, and he sank further into his throne. The aura of hatred subsided, and the air felt strangely empty. Around Arngeir, the great hall seemed to have lost some of its volume, and the flawless crystal some of its luster.

Begone, Arngeir Greybeard. Your question is answered. When I next speak, I expect my words will make enemies of us.

Arngeir's departure felt like a trance. It was only once he was outside the Spire that he realized he had even left it. The pressure of Jyggalag's will had receded considerably, though it still pulsated from the Spire. But as the doors closed, Arngeir glimpsed Him on His throne, surrounded by effortless, lifeless perfection.

From that glimpse, Arngeir's question was answered.

And thousands of miles away, in the hidden fortress-monastery of the Order of the Ancestor Moth, the Scrolls could no longer divine the fate of Skyrim.

And that's chapter two. R&R, anon accepted as usual.