8 Heartfire 4E201, High Hrothgar
The doors to High Hrothgar finally opened in the morning. Ivar entered the great hall and exchanged polite greetings with Arngeir, the only one of the Greybeards apparently capable of ordinary speech. Arngeir appeared a gentle and wise old man, but Ivar could sense steel under that calm façade.
Arngeir did not mention a delay of over two weeks before the Greybeards received an answer to their summons. Ivar did not mention being left to survive the night, without fire or shelter, atop the Throat of the World. The point had already been made, on both sides. Rayya was shown a chamber where she could rest, eat a hot meal, and wait for her thane's return.
Lessons followed. Ivar struggled for a time.
He found the process of learning the Voice rather offensive.
To his mind, no art worth learning came without long study and practice. One did not become a master smith by simply picking up a hammer and immediately forging a sword worthy of legend. It took years of work, studying the properties of metal, learning how it reacted to heat and forging, how to remove its impurities, how it changed with the addition of traces of carbon or other alloys. Iron had to become part of the smith: its taste in his mouth, its weight and hardness in his hands, its strength in his bones.
Apparently the Greybeards had spent most of their lives in study and meditation to use the Voice. Ulfric Stormcloak had studied for years on the mountain as well, and yet could Shout only a few Words.
For Ivar, it was a matter of minutes.
One hearing of a Word, one sight of it written on the stone in letters of fire, and somehow he had it.
Ro: to extend and shape the untrammeled power of Fus.
Wuld: to flash across the ground, for one wild moment faster than any man could possibly run.
It was absurd.
"It is because to you, the Words are not a matter for your mind," explained Arngeir. "You are Dragonborn: a man who entered into this world carrying the soul of an ancient dragon. The language of dragons is already inherent in your nature. All we must do is remind you of what you were born knowing."
"It seems wrong," Ivar growled, sitting on a stone in the monastery's courtyard, the cloudless sky shining above him with a purity to break the heart. "No power such as this should come without a heavy cost."
"Do you think there is no cost?" Arngeir smiled gently. "Consider us Greybeards. Do you know why we live isolated from the world, here atop the highest mountain in all Tamriel?"
"I suppose you can't afford the distractions."
"That is one reason. Another is that all of us present a great danger to the world."
Ivar cocked his head at the old man.
"Consider. Of the four of us, only I have sufficient mastery of the Voice to speak without using it."
"Hmm."
The smith remembered a polite greeting from one of the other Greybeards. Wulfgar had only bowed slightly, his hands folded inside his voluminous sleeves, and murmured Dovahkiin. The mountain had trembled, just enough for Ivar to feel it in his feet.
"If we walked down in the world, even long enough to eat a meal in company or smile at a pretty woman, we would be placing all around us in great peril. A forgetful moment, a flash of anger or passion, and we could work death and terrible destruction."
"Are you saying that I . . ."
"No, Dovahkiin. As I said, the Voice is inherent in your nature. Like the dragons themselves, you will have no difficulty separating your use of language from your ability to Shout. Yet you too bear the terrible responsibility that walks hand-in-hand with this power. You are a thoughtful man, and for this I am thankful, but you also carry all the passions of humanity. Anger. Hatred. Greed. Lust. Pride. Perhaps the dragon's soul within you will render these even more difficult to bear with grace."
Ivar opened his mouth to object, but then had second thoughts. He shook his head in rueful recognition.
"All of the Dragonborn have had great power," said Arngeir. "Not all of them have used it wisely or well. Consider the case of Tiber Septim."
"Nonsense," Ivar scoffed in irritation. "He rebuilt the Empire."
"On a foundation of treason, murder, and bloody conquest," said the Greybeard calmly. "He betrayed his overlord, to whom he had sworn an oath of fealty. He betrayed his own battlemage. He betrayed even the woman he loved more than any other, slaying the infant in her womb and driving her into exile. At one point he became so disgusted with his own actions that he cut his own throat. He failed at suicide, but he succeeded in destroying his Voice. Do you think he paid no price?"
Ivar stared at him, shock robbing him of words.
Arngeir shrugged. "Much of this is forgotten, down in the world of men. We Greybeards remember. We bear some of the responsibility as well, when we reach out to one of the Dragonborn and help him come into his inheritance."
"I would never do such things," said the smith firmly. "With or without the power of the Voice."
"Are you certain?" Arngeir gave him a shrewd glance. "You were reluctant to make the journey to High Hrothgar. Why is that?"
"Because . . ."
Ivar found he could not say I'm just a smith. Not anymore.
"Why do you wish to live a simple life?" Arngeir asked. "Can it be because you fear what you would do, with real power at your command? Do you fear that you would find yourself no better than those wealthy and powerful men you despise for their abuses?"
"It's possible," said Ivar, with great reluctance.
Arngeir nodded slowly. "Time to find out the truth."