~ Chapter Sixteen ~

7,000 Steps Too Many

"This is a good tree," Hooves said, gnashing teeth gnawing on an old femur. "Very juicy."

"There is something seriously wrong with that horse," Eda muttered. "Damned Sheogorath…"

"I'm tired," Martin wined.

"I know, kid."

"And cold."

"Look, I'm pretty sure that Dragonborns don't complain this much." She leaned over nonetheless and hefted him up onto her back before re-affixing her cloak over both of them. "You sure you ate that dragon?"

"Yup," Martin said, wrapping cold fingers together under Eda's chin and burying his face in her mane of silver hair. "Very sure."

"I thought so."

Eda tugged on Hooves' reigns and led him away from the troll's den.

It had been a fight Eda could have done without. She didn't regret giving Luz her staff, but boy would it have been handy against the overgrown hairy ape.

They had arrived in Ivarstead yesterday, having found a mountainside shortcut that reduced their three-day trip to one, and avoided Riften. And all she had to do was charm and trick a handful of Stormcloaks into not remembering her.

With how close they were to Whiterun, Eda had made a mental note of their location. No telling when a Stormcloak outpost location would come in handy.

But the path was not kind on her caravan, and by the time they got up the mountain, the wheels were almost falling off. After clearing up a 'ghost' problem for the inn keeper, he'd offered to patch up their wagon while they climbed the mountain, and Eda had taken him up on the offer.

She'd even left his unattended coin box alone - mostly because the thought of it manifested a disapproving Luz in front of her, but Eda rationalized it away as having bigger problems.

And bigger problems they were.

The 7,000 Steps to High Hrothgar were no joke, especially with the recent storms and the time of year. Under any circumstances, she had no reason to go up there, but when they had all heard them Shouting for the 'Dovahkiin', she couldn't ignore it.

And while she regretted it - a little - she was glad Luz was safe and sound at the College. The road wasn't particularly treacherous, and patrols between Whiterun and the Pale were usually on good terms with each other, even during this pointless war.

As long as it was civilian traffic on the road, they didn't care, and Luz was harmless looking. Young pretty face, wide-eyed innocence, clear inability to swing a mace with those string beans for arms - she'd be fine.

But she, Martin, and Hooves - she couldn't subject anyone to that thing - had started climbing the next day, and had only just made it to the Pass of First Frost when the troll had attacked.

They'd ended up sheltering in its cave - troll fat was oily and good for fires - and its pelt had kept them warm enough.

Now, with the early morning wind at their backs - and a cold one it was - Eda trudged through the snow, gnawing on some dried meat, grumbling.

But even she had to admit, the view was spectacular. As the sun rose higher, setting the edge of the mountain alight, the clouds cleared and the three of them marveled at the valley of Whiterun Hold below.

Golden fields of the last grain, giving way to the rich earth, glittering with the first of the frost. Silvery rock outcroppings, overshadowing the distant and abandoned fortress, west of Whiterun itself, and the remains of the watchtower.

And the city - lit with clear, crisp sunlight, matched only by the winding river that tumbled down from Riverwood.

"I can see forever," Martin said, scrambling down her back and getting far too close to the edge.

"On a good day," Eda smirked, kneeling down and surreptitiously looping a protective arm around his middle. "You can see Solitude. Way out there, just over that mountain? See the glint of blue?"

"Wow…"

Eda let him watch the valley for a minute, unable to enjoy the serenity.

He was just a kid. She didn't know much about this Dragonborn business, but from what she researched in Farengar's library, it wasn't good news. Legends and folklore were sometimes more reliable than historians, depending on what you were looking for - and knew how to sift wheat from chaff.

Aulduin. The World Eater. The end of days - or, at least, one of them.

And only the Dragonborn, the last of their kind, could stop him.

Her ten-year-old son. A child.

And he had to stop a God of Destruction from ending the world.

She didn't have a good feeling about it.

After a while, she roughed up his hair and waved them on. She'd been counting the Waystones, and they were almost there.

Another hour and they stood at the foot of the great stairs to High Hrothgar.

She felt Martin snake his cold hand into hers, gripping it tightly.

"It'll be okay, kid," Eda said, squeezing it. "Let's get some answers, huh?"

"You're… not going to leave me here, right?" Martin asked, his voice small.

Eda snorted, but quickly read his face and redirected. "They're going to have to throw the most powerful witch in Skyrim over the edge of the mountain, kid. I'm not going anywhere without you."

Martin nodded and sniffed, wiping his nose on his sleeve. "Let's go then. What are you waiting for?"

Eda rolled her eyes good-naturedly as they started up the stairs together. There was a cracking sound behind her and she growled.

"Hooves, drop the damn bone."

"Aw… but I was just getting to the good part."

"What did he say?" Martin asked, looking between Eda and the horse.

"Nothing," Eda said. "Gods, why am I cursed to be the only one to understand him?"

The doors of High Hrothgar were immense and ancient. Wooden, but lined with so much metal that it was hard to tell.

As Martin and Hooves stood in the sheltered hall that led to the door, Eda advanced on it and hammered her fist onto it several times.

"Oi! Someone awake in there or what?"

There was a pause, the only sound being the echoes of her knock.

Just as she raised her fist to knock again - intent on just hitting it until someone answered at this point - the door heaved and creaked inward.

An old man, a little shorter than Eda, though perhaps tall and well-built in his youth, opened the door, dressed in dark grey, rough-spun linen robes. He looked from her to her raised fist - which she quickly hid behind her back with a grin - to Martin and the horse, who were currently fighting over Martin's hood.

"Let me put my nose in there, it's cold."

"Gah! Get out of my face. Why does your breath smell so bad?"

"Hi," Eda said, gesturing to Martin. "You've asked for the Dragonborn?"

The old man raised an eyebrow, but after a moment, shook his head, stepping back and opening the door further.

"One of the quiet ones," Eda muttered, reaching back to whack Hooves on the forehead, before pushing Martin just ahead of her and wrapping her hand around Hoove's reigns.

The old man looked horrified and held up a hand, but Eda shoved past him. "Trust me, mate. You don't want me to leave him unattended. Besides, you lot worship Kyne or something, right? He's a horse, he's natural."

"Very natural. O'natrual even," Hooves neighed. "The original natural!"

"Please," Eda said, turning to look him square in the eyes. "Not today. These nice old men might be able to help Martin, so if you have the willpower to not annoy me, exercise it. Or I'll have your guts for garters."

"Oh, that's very nice." Hooves ducked his head, kicking at the stones. "Very familiar. But… fine. Anything for the little guy."

Eda groaned and hauled Hooves through the door.

"What did he say?" Martin asked, watching the old man watch her with a quizzical expression.

"Nothing."

"You never tell me what he says."

"Trust me, kid," Eda said. "If it was important, I'd let you know. No one needs to be burdened with him besides me."

They emerged from a dark hallway into a surprisingly well-lit room. Great stone statues lorded over the open center, offering urns and candles collected before them. Another man, clad in the same robes, knelt before one, hands clasped in his lap, head down, murmuring to himself.

There was a strange energy to the room, a hum that seemed to come from everywhere at once, like an echo she could feel in her chest.

The first man walked up to the second, and knelt down, their hoods almost touching. She felt the room's air quake as a whispered conversation was had, and she suddenly felt inadequate. Not a feeling she liked, nor felt often, but it was hard to dismiss the power of the Thu'um.

She'd read about it, of course. Not in the Summerset Isles, but many years later, after coming to Skyrim. An ancient power, the magic of the First Men, and their Kings. Something more primal and less controlled than magic, something fundamental to the world, to Nirn - Mundus even.

She'd dreamed of learning it, in those early days in Solitude, with Raine, but ultimately knew it wasn't for her. There was something… holy about it. A gift from Kyne, and it felt strange for her to try and adopt it for herself.

Besides, it wasn't like they'd have accepted her. An Altmer, wereowl, wild-witch fugitive.

"If dad could see me now," she said to herself, returning her attention to the two priests as the first one bowed low to Martin and retreated into the temple, while the other rose and approached them.

"Welcome," he said, his voice like parchment. "Dragonborn. I am Arngeir, Speaker of the Greybeards."

"Oh," Eda said, standing aside. "You mean him."

The old man coughed slightly and nodded to Eda. "Thank you. Yes, I was addressing the Dragonborn."

"It's just, you were looking at me." Eda winked at him. "Not that I could blame you."

Arngeir coughed again and turned to Martin. "Well. Let us test your voice, Dragonborn. To see if it is truly you."

"Why else would I be here?" Martin asked, folding his arms. "You think I wanted to climb a mountain?"

Arngeir seemed a bit taken aback. "Well, we must be sure, you see."

"Fine," Martin said, scowling. "What do you need me to do?"

"Yes. Well, stand here," Arngeir said, gesturing to the center of the room. "And use your Voice."

Martin looked to Eda, who shrugged and waved him on.

Hooves neighed, nosing Martin forward.

Eda winked at him. "He says 'You can do this.'"

Martin walked into the center of the pattern on the floor, Arngeir facing him. They stood for a minute before Arngeir nodded to him. "Well, Dragonborn?"

"What am I supposed to do?"

"Speak with the Voice."

"What does that even mean?" Martin stamped his foot. "Look, I came here because I ate a dragon or something and then you 'shouted' or whatever and now I'm here and nothing is any clearer than before."

Arngeir smiled kindly. "Well, Dragonborn-"

"My name is Martin," Martin said. "Martin Clawthorne. And I'm happy to eat dragons and stuff, but you're going to have to be less-" he waved his hands in Arngeir's direction. "This."

Arngeir looked over his robes. "What?"

"Confusing." Martin started to pace. "I don't know what a Dragonborn is. Is my dad a dragon? Is my mom? Did I eat my dad?" He stopped and looked horrified. "Wait, did I eat my dad?"

"Dra- ah, Martin," Arngeir said, stepping toward him, looking to Eda for help. She shrugged, going back to leaning on Hooves and cleaning her nails.

"Martin," Arngeir continued. "If you are Dragonborn, then it means you are an avatar of Akatosh, here among us. But you were not born from a dragon."

"How do you know that?"

Arngeir broke his patient-priest face and looked in desperation at Eda. "Because that's not how this works!"

"How do you know?" Martin asked, frustrated.

"Because Tiber Septim wasn't a dragon, and he was the last Dragonborn before you." He looked to Eda again. "Could you please tell him?"

"Look, mate," Eda said, waving her hand. "You can dance around this and cloak it in mystery all you want. He's ten. You're the one with the answers. Better give it to him."

Arngeir sighed and turned back to Martin. "Look. Do you know any words of the Dovh - the dragons?"

"No."

"Then allow me to impart some portion of knowledge," Arngeir said, pacing himself. "The word 'Fus' means force. To enact change, the concept of power itself. You must reach deep into yourself, find the power and knowledge of the dragon that you defeated and then use that to channel the spirit of the word, through your voice, into a Thu'um. A 'Shout'."

"Why didn't you just start with that?" Martin asked, sitting down on the floor. "Eda showed me how to use magic."

"Well," Arngeir started to say but stopped himself, realizing that Martin was meditating. Instead, he positioned himself opposite Martin, inhaled and spoke.

Eda hadn't seen someone use the Voice before, except, she supposed, the dragons at Helgen and the watchtower. She'd never admit it, but as Arngeir whispered, and words etched themselves into the tiles, glowing with power, she felt the same apprehension she'd felt upon meeting Sheogorath, or speaking with Azura.

"Do you have a grasp on the soul, Martin?" Arngeir asked.

"I think so?"

"Then speak with your Voice."

Martin opened his eyes. "Fus."

Nothing.

Arngeir frowned slightly. "Try again. Remember, you are not using your language, but The Voice. The gift of Kyne, the primal words of Time itself."

"I don't know what that all means, but here we go," Martin said. "Fus."

Eda looked around. No rushing wind, no strange hum. "Huh."

"Once more," Arngeir said, trying to his the worry on his face under his beard and doing a terrible job of it. "With feeling, Martin."

Martin stood up. "This is pointless." He swiped at his eyes. "Look, I just thought… maybe you'd know… well. Me. If you knew I was 'Dragonborn' or something - I mean, someone borned me."

Arngeir sighed. "I'm sorry, my boy. I don't know who bore you into this world. Nor who left you in the care of… this fine woman."

Eda grunted at his pause.

"Regardless," Arngeir said. "We felt your presence. It is unmistakable. But, perhaps… you need more time." He gestured to the floor, where the word still burned, imprinted magically in the dragon tongue. "Meditate on this. Force. Its purpose and its meaning, not just its acts.

"The Dragonborn can Speak with the Voice, almost without effort. But you must be willing to understand. Any doubt or barrier can prevent you from realizing your true self."

Arngeir stood and looked pointedly at Eda before walking away, into the temple.

Scowling after him, Eda approached Martin. "Nerve of these old hair-bibs. Alright, kid. You want to stay? Or are we done here?"

Martin sat, head on his fists, elbows on his knees, glaring at the steaming symbols that meant 'Fus'.

"I… don't know."

"We'll do what you want." Eda knelt next to him. "For better or worse, we're here now."

"Eda?"

"Yeah?"

"Why don't you teach me magic?"

Eda sighed. "It's not like I didn't try, kid. But you're young. And… I'm not a great teacher, I guess. You know how to light candles and stuff, but I could never get you to do more than that. But it was enough.

"And then I told Luz I'd teach her, and now she's on the other side of Skyrim, learning from a bunch of -" she shuddered. "Ugh. 'Respectable' mages."

Martin gave her a small smile. "I miss her."

"We left her at the crossroads two days ago, Martin."

"Still…" He looked over his shoulder, away from Eda. "She felt safe, you know? I… never really fit in with the other kids, did I?"

"You're a bit intense for them, yeah," Eda smirked at a memory. "You built yourself that rock army, remember? On top of the hill? Told those other kids in Falkreath that 'I'm the king of the woods' and when they laughed, you kicked your 'general' and caused a small rockslide. Gods. Had to get out of town quick after that one."

Martin laughed. "Yeah. That was fun."

"But you've always been an old soul," Eda said, likewise unable to look at him, gazing up at the tapestries of hooded figures and esoteric designs. "When I took you in, you had such a serious expression. All the time. And, according to some, you stare a lot."

"Too much?"

"For some." Eda put an arm around him. "Not me though."

"What do you mean, 'old soul'?"

"Well, you're a serious kid. You were always comfortable with words and books, more than people. So it worked out, that me and you got stuck together. And all this," she said, waving around them before putting an arm around his shoulders. "All this isn't my thing. But, maybe it's yours. You always wanted to know where you came from, who you were supposed to be.

"And you've been a great kid. Most of the time." She ruffled his dark hair. "I can't say that if some noble lord from the Imperial City came knocking on my door, looking for a long lost heir, I'd be honest about it.

"But, if you are this Dragonborn, and destined for great things, who am I to stop you."

"Well," Martin said, sticking his tongue out at the simmering word on the floor. "If I can't even 'Speak with the Voice' then I don't know what I can do here."

"Well, you tried it his way," Eda said, standing. "Maybe you should try it yours?"

"What do you mean?"

"You remember when I tried to teach you how to produce a flame, just enough to light candles and the hearth?"

"Not really?" Martin rubbed the back of his neck. "I know I can, but I don't remember how?"

"I tried to show you my way." Eda snapped her fingers, letting a small flame burn between them. "Just a minor trick, right? But you couldn't snap. Not for a while. So you clapped instead."

"Oh, yeah," Martin said, face brightening. "I do remember that a little."

"Yeah," Eda said, grimacing. "I taught you to snap real quick too. Because whenever you were happy, you'd go about clapping and singeing the carpet." She motioned for him to stand with her. "Like, Luz, huh? She can't even produce the smallest flame. And she can wield a staff and read Daedric like no one her age should.

"If my life in Summerset led me to one conclusion, it's that standardizing magic is a great way to silence a lot of would-be mages."

Martin stood next to Eda as they watched Hooves nose, then try to eat, a tapestry.

"What's wrong with him?" Martin asked.

"Wouldn't know where to start," Eda replied.