Chapter 39
It's nighttime when Mull next awakens.
Sunlight is no longer filtering through the window. The room is completely black except for a wavering golden halo emanating from a fireplace set into the far wall, given life by a mound of cindered coals and burning tinder.
He feels much, much better. His mouth isn't drier than a desert, although his throat is still plenty sore. He experimentally rolls onto his side and doesn't feel nauseous. He sits up and swings his legs over the edge of the bed, and still doesn't feel nauseous. Only when he throws off his furs and actually stands to his feet does the nausea finally arrive, but even then it isn't as bad as he expected. Still, he quickly sits back down before pressing his luck further.
The room is simple to the point of asceticism, with unadorned walls and bland furnishings. It's shrouded in a silence that's broken only by the keening of the wind outside his window.
He rests his hands against his knees and stares blindly at a woven beige rug covering the floor, contemplating the events of the last… he assumes several days, but he has no idea how long he's been unconscious. It could've been a whole week since he reached High Hrothgar for all he knows.
In hindsight, the days following his encounter with the troll seem cloudy and distant, like they came from a dream. Or a nightmare.
That blow to the head might've been worse than he thought. Or maybe it was due to the air being so thin or the symptoms of dehydration. Either way, he definitely wasn't in his right mind leading up to his first meeting with the Greybeards. That goes without saying.
He cringes as he recalls his entry into the foyer. He didn't recognize it at the time, but the Greybeards had welcomed him with some kind of ritual involving dozens of hooded monks. He's pretty sure they wouldn't waste their days standing around with censers and candles for no reason, so it's a fair hypothesis. And rather than greet them in a way that projected strength and confidence as his resident dragon would've doubtlessly preferred, instead he practically collapsed just inside their doorstep. He didn't have much of a choice given his condition at the time, but it's still grating to have displayed such weakness.
'As it should be. Paak ahrk lok.'
Shut up, Mirmulnir.
But before he can descend into an argument with the dead dragon residing in his head, the door swings open and a robed figure enters unannounced. He instinctively reaches for a belt-sheathed dagger that's no longer there.
The newcomer is a young man who can't be much older than Lydia, with a blonde mustache and a wispy goatee. He's holding a pewter tray with a steaming ceramic bowl and a few other miscellaneous items stacked atop it. When he notices Mull sitting on the bed and glaring at him, he jumps a good three feet in the air with a startled gasp. Only by pure luck does he avoid spilling the tray's contents.
The young man turns on his heel and scurries out of the room, taking the tray with him as he retreats down the hallway. He swings the door wide open in his haste, leaving Mull to listen to his pattering footsteps as they grow fainter before vanishing entirely.
He snorts at the comical display and forces himself to relax. He scans the room for his possessions, specifically hoping to see his weapons, but he only finds his necklace lying on the nightstand next to him.
His expression softens as he stares at it. It might seem odd, but because he usually wears this pendent all day and all night, he often finds himself forgetting about its existence. It's become such a routine part of his wardrobe that he simply never thinks about it anymore. But now that he is thinking about it, the lack of its weight hanging from his neck makes him feel naked.
He reaches over and gently touches the amulet. His fingers brush against the bone-carved charm, causing his heart to flutter uncomfortably. He distinctly remembers the evening they spent around a campfire when Morven crafted this necklace, and how her stubborn insistence on throwing away hours of her life working on this pointless thing had exasperated him. He also remembers how it felt when she handed it to him with a smile on her face, not expecting anything in return. A freely-given gift.
It was… an unexpectedly good feeling. Warm and fulfilling, like heady broth settling in your stomach. That feeling is precisely why he cherishes it so much even all these years later – even all these months since he saw her smile for the last time.
He snatches the pendant and loops it around his head before he wastes any more time reminiscing on what it represents. As it settles against his sternum, the familiarity makes him feel a little better. He isn't quite so naked anymore.
Figuratively. Though I've got to say, this is a very nice robe. I can see why the monks were all wearing them. He isn't accustomed to such a loosely-flowing garment, so wearing the garb of the Greybeards does feel a little peculiar – but that's where the negatives end. It's snug, not too cumbersome, and the stitching is legitimately impressive. It doesn't have a hood, but he's fine with that. He doesn't like hoods anyways, since they never seem to fit right on him for whatever reason. Maybe his head is misshapen and no one ever thought it was necessary to inform him.
If it wasn't before, it probably is now after getting smacked by that troll. His tender flesh aches in response to that thought. I've got to think of a better way to deal with those creatures. I am not going through that again without some kind of advantage.
One thing he distinctly recalls through the haze of adrenaline and fear was that the troll's thick white fur was oily and matted, like it hadn't bathed in its entire life. Which is a distinct possibility. And the smell… gods, the rancid stench of that monster was atrocious.
I bet lighting its hide on fire would've done the trick. Having a torch could've been a lifesaver… but going through the trouble of keeping one lit in those conditions might not have been possible. Hmm. Maybe I can ask Farengar to teach me some basic flame magic. I've heard they're the easiest Destruction spells to master.
He admittedly doesn't know a whole lot about magic beyond the fact that anyone can theoretically learn it. The reason wizards are so uncommon relative to the general population is that very few people have enough free time to sit down and actually commit themselves to learning the arcane arts. Most common folk are farmers or craftsmen, and those are almost always time-intensive professions that work the body more than the mind.
Mull never had the chance to learn any magic, but now that he's a Thane on top of being the Dragonborn, maybe that can change. He makes a mental note about asking Farengar some questions when he gets back to Whiterun, whenever that'll be.
After a few more minutes of contemplating his present circumstances and his plans for future troll genocide, he's roused to alertness by a series of footfalls echoing from the hall. There are least four or five people by the sound of it. Here we go again.
One individual enters the room while the rest remain outside, crowding around the doorway and trying to act like they aren't paying rapt attention. Mull gets a strange sense of familiarity from the newcomer, an older man with a knotted beard. It takes a few moments for him to realize this is the first monk who spoke to him in the foyer. Actually, this is the only monk who's spoken to him, period.
"I hope we aren't intruding. If we are, I apologize." The man selects a carved oaken chair leaning against the wall near the door, pulls it over to Mull's bedside, and takes a seat. "How are you feeling?"
"Like trampled shit." His voice is still scratchy but not as bad as before. He pauses, then amends his statement. "But… better. A lot better."
"That is good to hear." The man produces a sheet of parchment from within his robe and squints at it. "It appears you were suffering from a truly impressive plethora of injuries and ailments, but our monastery alchemist has thankfully been able to provide adequate treatment."
One of the people in the doorway, shorter and slimmer than the rest – the woman from before, Mull thinks – enters the room and stands behind the male monk's shoulder. "Was the blow to your head taken during a confrontation with the troll you mentioned previously?" She speaks softly but with authority.
"Aye. The bastard got me good."
"That would explain your lacerations then."
The woman glances at her elderly compatriot. He gestures for her to continue.
"No one in this monastery is skilled enough in the use of traditional Restoration spells to fully mend your injuries," she regretfully announces. "My alchemy is a useful art, but it lacks the finesse of raw magic. Your facial wound will almost certainly leave a noticeable scar. I am sorry."
They seem surprised when Mull offhandedly dismisses her somber diagnosis. "Don't worry about it. I've got plenty of those already, and I don't think a couple more will make me much uglier."
"I believe I won't comment on that," the male monk states with feigned seriousness. "However, I will say you've done us a commendable service by taking the initiative to slay that creature. Trolls are ferocious beasts, and its presence would've been a source of great danger for those of us traversing the Steps to work the farming terraces below. A wide variety of wildlife dwells here on the Throat of the World, as do less mundane entities such as ice wraiths, but trolls are not common. I must thank you for your service, but I must also express my regret that it was necessary at all. The Seven Thousand Steps did not treat you kindly."
"No, but that's Skyrim for you," Mull wryly replies. "It's been one thing after another since the day I first stepped foot in this province. I'm starting to get used to it."
"Is that so? Then have my sympathies as well."
"Bah. That isn't what I was fishing for." He waves away the monk's pity. "You mentioned the terraces. I think I saw those a few days ago while I was climbing the Steps. The people laboring in the fields, were they Greybeards too?"
"They were. Through their hard work, our monastery is provided with food and other necessary amenities that would be challenging for us to obtain otherwise. They're predominantly initiates, the youngest of our order, who are at the difficult stage of learning the Way of the Voice where they can no longer speak safely aloud but don't yet possess the discipline to remain silent at all times."
Mull frowns. "What does that mean?"
The monk gives him a loaded look. "…Soon you shall have an answer to this question, but not yet. There are other matters that must be attended to first, which shall be done in due time."
He shrugs, accepting the clumsy deflection for what it is. The customs of the Greybeards aren't any of his business anyhow. "What are the terraces exactly?" he asks instead. "Those would've been a lot of effort to build for a few half-frozen plots of farmland."
"An astute observation. There were once many monasteries thriving along the Seven Thousand Steps, but now only High Hrothgar, the oldest, largest, and highest, still remains standing. The rest are little more than skeletons of stone and mortar half-buried in the snow, destitute and forgotten. The Septims were the greatest patrons of this mountain's monastic communities, but more than two centuries have passed since their demise and the Medes have been poor successors in that regard. The terraces, as you asked, are the remnants of these lesser monasteries which have been repurposed to suit our needs. At one time we were not so isolated here, but our fortunes have declined precipitously in the last few centuries and the Great War was something of a death-knell. Where once we could wholly depend on the world below for our subsistence, we must now look to our own devices."
"If things are that bad, then where do the initiates come from?"
The man looks up as the alchemist woman hands him a steaming clay mug. By the smell, it's probably frost mirriam tea.
"I mean, how do people end up joining you Greybeards?" Mull elaborates. "I'm curious. I don't imagine many folks would be willing to trek this far up the mountain, much less live here."
"Ah. I see." The monk sips his tea and wipes a few errant droplets his beard. "There are countless reasons one might choose to travel to High Hrothgar and never return to the world below, though I can't speak for all of them of course. Spiritual enlightenment. Religious fervor. Pursuing the grace and forgiveness of the gods. Seeking redemption for past wrongs. We scarcely go a single year without at least one new initiate seeking to join our order for these purposes or others. However, it's true that we are fewer in number than was the case in past centuries, and not only due to the despoliations of the Great War. Our way of life has waned and we have now been forgotten by many who we once counted as colleagues and allies. At one time, this monastery was offered patronage by wealthy aristocrats from all across the continent – Nords, Cyrods, and Bretons alike – but today that is no longer the case. There are some among the nobility of Skyrim who still offer us yearly tithes, but even they are more stringent than they once were. That was true before the beginning of the Civil War and it is especially true now."
"Lords and their damn money," Mull quips. "If only they knew how to use it. Spending it all on killing each other doesn't seem like a good investment, if you ask me."
The woman monk doesn't seem to appreciate his irreverent remark in the slightest. Her face scrunches like she swallowed a mouthful of wasabi.
Unlike her, the male monk has the gall to chuckle as he slowly rises from his seat. The people crowding around the door retreat into the hallway and vanish from sight, not wanting their eavesdropping to be noticed. "That is a statement I cannot rightly refute. But sadly, I do believe that's enough for the pleasantries. You seem to be doing well all things considered. Wouldn't you agree, sister?"
"I would," the female monk tonelessly agrees.
"Come then, friend. A proper meal awaits you if you feel up to it."
Mull isn't sure if he's ready for more walking, much less eating, but he refuses to look more pitiful than he already has to these monks. "Alright. I could use something to munch on." He stands and examines the room in search of his boots.
"Ah. I believe these are for you." The man indicates a pair of open-back shoes that resemble slippers sitting neatly at the foot of the bed.
Mull raises an eyebrow as he jams his feet inside the slippers and shuffles to get them comfortable. They lack support and have no offensive capabilities, but… they'll do.
He doesn't want to question their hospitality, but there's one other thing he needs to ask before they go anywhere. "Where are the rest of my possessions? I had a sword, a bow and quiver, a knife, and some other things."
The male monk nods. "We are holding them in the nearest storeroom for safekeeping. You may retrieve them anytime in the following days, should you wish it."
"Aye, I'll be sure to do that." With that, they exit the room together and begin navigating the monastery's twisting halls – except for the woman, who wanders off somewhere on her own.
As before, Mull soon becomes hopelessly turned around. If something bad were to happen, he wouldn't be able to escape from this place even if he wanted to. It doesn't help that the windows are too narrow to squeeze through.
The old monk suddenly makes a surprised noise. "Sky's grace, but I still haven't given you a proper introduction, have I?"
He almost laughs at the monk's abashed tone. "Well, I'm the one who ruined that welcoming party you'd prepared for me. I'm sure you had a whole spiel ready for the arrival of the legendary Dragonborn, but I went and crashed it."
He almost doesn't catch the man's sudden reaction when he says the word 'Dragonborn.' Almost.
It would've been easy to miss. A slight wobble in his step. A twitch of his fingers. A glint in his eye.
Mull hasn't said anything until now about his supposed gods-given blessing and that's entirely by design. He's been wanting to see how the Greybeards will respond. So far they've been nothing but courteous to him, and yet he's positive they knew who he was before he ever set foot inside their secluded home. It's obvious. They wouldn't have put together that ceremony in the foyer otherwise.
"Do not worry yourself about that," the monk easily replies. "Such things are as smoke in the wind."
The strange glint in the monk's eye vanishes without a trace. He doesn't seem upset in the slightest. In fact, Mull detects a hint of droll amusement in his tone. He's curious to know how much of that is real and how much is feigned.
"My name is Arngeir," the man continues. "I am the headmaster of this monastery, but please call me by name. Despite what our initial impressions may have suggested, we rarely stand on ceremony where titles and seniority are concerned. In this place, we are all fellow servants of Kyne."
Mull responds with a grunt. For some reason he notices the monk's irises are ice-blue, which reminds him of that young archer girl at Bleak Falls Barrow. It's funny that this Arngeir, a man who couldn't be more physically different in all other ways, makes him think of that girl.
After the silence begins to stretch, he glances over to find the monk watching him expectantly. "Oh, uh… call me Mull. That's what I go by these days."
Arngeir hums in acknowledgement. "Well met, brother Mull. It's been a long time since an útlending last walked these hallowed halls, and it brings our order great joy for you to do so."
"Ah… thanks."
It isn't much longer until they reach their destination. He's ushered into a room with a long granite table that could comfortably seat two dozen people. Arngeir directs him to the head of the table and kindly instructs him to eat from the varied assortment of foodstuffs arrayed thereon. He lingers for a minute or two before taking his leave, just long enough for Mull to get settled.
After the elderly monk's departure, he's alone with the exception of a pair of grey-robed individuals silently standing in recessed alcoves along the walls. He isn't sure if they're supposed to be waiting on him or simply keeping an eye on things, so he takes the safer option and ignores their presence.
The food is good. It's nothing special, but his battered body is more than happy to get whatever sustenance it can acquire. The baked bread with lavender and honey is especially delicious. His travel rations for the mountain trek were unenviable in comparison, to say the least.
Eating around the bandages on his face is a little awkward, but he manages just fine. It isn't the first time he's had to deal with something like this.
The meal occupies his undivided attention for a while, but his eyes eventually rise from his ravished platter to rove across the room. High Hrothgar is dim and mostly colorless, but not to the point of being gloomy. On the contrary, the lack of ornamentation gives the monastery a dignified atmosphere. Every single item in this place, down to the most mundane candleholders and even the utensils in his hands, are here to fulfill a distinct purpose and nothing more.
Bleak Falls Barrow was an impressive edifice and obviously extremely old, but it was impressive in a forlorn, foreboding sort of way. High Hrothgar is also impressive and everything about it reflects that same antiquity, but it also feels infinitely more alive. It's a hub of warmth and activity on this desolate mountain. You could tell him the Greybeards have been living up here since the beginning of time and he'd believe it.
Once he's finished eating, the two attendants emerge from their hidden positions and beckon him towards the door. He follows after lingering just long enough to show he's choosing to do so rather than blindly adhering to their wishes. He wouldn't usually care for petty mind games, but he feels like he's shown enough vulnerability to these people already. Anymore and they might not take him seriously.
The bewildering corridors eventually coalesce into the familiar sight of his bedroom. The two monks leave him without a word and are almost immediately replaced by the female alchemist monk, who instructs him to rest and gives him a draught of some foul-smelling potion. The gut-wrenching scent nearly makes him refuse outright, but he grudgingly acknowledges that it would be childish to do so. This'll be worthwhile if it speeds up his recovery, which it presumably will. The best healers are usually the ones who lack a gentle bedside manner and this woman has none of that whatsoever.
So he takes the damn medicine, pisses in a bucket in the corner, kicks off his slippers, and climbs back into his bed. He groans with relief as his sore muscles revel in the opportunity to relax, reducing him to a boneless puddle atop the mattress. The short walk to and from the dining hall took more out of him than he expected, and it isn't long before he loses himself to the nothingness of sleep.
-x-
It's well into the afternoon of the next day by the time he wakes again. After a few hours of lying there and doing nothing, Arngeir and three other monks arrive to give him a guided tour of the monastery from front to back. The female alchemist monk tries to keep him cooped up in his room for the sake of his continued recovery, but Arngeir thankfully overrides her.
Mull is convinced that staying trapped in there for much longer would've driven him insane. It's a nice room, no doubt about it, but a gilded cage is still a cage. Staring at the ceiling can only keep you occupied for so long, and he was already starting to have flashbacks to his time spent in Whiterun's Temple of Kyne.
The monastery is unexpectedly large even for having looked so grand from the exterior, and their excursion takes the entire rest of the day. Of the four monks, Arngeir is the only one who actually speaks to him. The others don't say a word between them for the entire excursion, as if they're observing a vow of silence. He recalls what Arngeir said yesterday about monks who can't control their Voices being sent down to the farming terraces. Maybe these men are mute for a similar reason… but they don't look like novices though. Too old.
Arngeir introduces the taciturn trio as Borri, Wulfgar, and Einarth. The three new monks look much the same as their more vocal compatriot, being elderly Nords with grey or silver hair and magnificent beards. None of them have their facial hair tied into a knot like Arngeir. Mull still can't fathom why he would think that style is anything but ridiculous.
Through to be fair, he has seen a lot of Nords in the last few months with hairstyles that would be called ridiculous elsewhere in the Empire. It must not be so outrageous to them. By Oblivion, they'd probably have a stroke if they saw a rich Nibenean in full ceremonial getup, so I guess it goes both ways.
Most of the monastery's interior is made up of personal chambers, meditation rooms, reading areas, alcoves with incense- or flower-laden alters, communal spaces, and dining halls, which are all interconnected by a veritable web of identical corridors. Most of the rooms and hallways are sparsely decorated with brown or beige carpets, flickering candles, and tapestries hanging from the walls.
At one point during the tour, they pass through the central foyer where Mull had first entered the monastery. When they cross through the chamber to access the other half of the monastery, he's finally able to get himself directionally oriented. It looks like his bedroom is on the southern side of the complex.
In his opinion, the most impressive part of the monastery is the library. It's massive. They only visit one wing of the expansive vault of knowledge, but even that alone is extraordinary by itself.
Arngeir expounds upon its purpose as they stroll through the dead-silent archive, surrounded by row after row of dusty tomes. Reading tables are tucked into the shadowy corners, some of which are occupied by hunched figures intently poring over leather-bound volumes. "High Hrothgar is not only the home of the Greybeards and the principal institution of Kyne's worship, but it's also a place dedicated to the continued preservation of knowledge. I daresay that in all of Skyrim, only the College of Winterhold, the Blue Palace, and perhaps Understone Keep are able to rival the amount of literature our predecessors have accumulated here. High Hrothgar is home to many antique manuscripts, some of which may even date to the time of the Reman Empire."
"That sounds old."
"It is very old. It's rare for a document to survive for two thousand years."
Mull whistles in amazement, taking one last look around the library and its dozens of thirty-foot-high bookshelves before allowing Arngeir to lead him back into the monastery's maze of corridors. "Damn. Tiber Septim conquered Tamriel six hundred years ago and people already act like that was the beginning of time. But two thousand…"
"It pleases me greatly to see you taking interest in these matters, brother Mull. Not all young people possess the wisdom needed to truly understand the importance of history."
"Hmm. I'm not sure if I'd call it interest." He pauses to glance out a nearby window overlooking the sheer mountainside below. "But it's worth thinking about the things that'll outlast us, isn't it? After we die, most of us are just…" He gesticulates uncertainly. "…Forgotten. Like we were never here. These books and monasteries are different though, since they'll still be here long after we're gone."
"You speak rightly. However, I would contend that the gods eternally remember all who reside in the Mundus, especially those who live and die worthily."
"…Aye. I hope you're right about that."
He decides to leave it at that. Their outing has been going well and getting it derailed on a topic like this isn't something he's keen to do. Arngeir doesn't seem to begrudge him, at least.
They soon find themselves walking through a pair of brass double-doors identical to those at the front entrance of the monastery. Beyond, they emerge into a spacious courtyard.
This isn't the same area as the front of the monastery, so Mull assumes they're now on the opposite side. This courtyard is substantially wider and is overshadowed by a freestanding multistory tower on the far end. Next to it is a staired pathway that ascends further up the mountain, vanishing into a bank of clouds a few hundred feet to the east.
It never occurred to him that there might be something else above their current elevation. They're plenty high up already, and he briefly wonders where that path leads.
The tower's bare stone architecture is very similar to the rest of the monastery except for one odd feature. At the top of the tower are several openings that look like unusually large windows, which is a puzzling design for such a chilly climate, but he dismisses it without much thought. He's already deduced that these monks are an eccentric lot.
The courtyard itself is uninteresting. Its ornamentation consists of a grove of scraggly pine trees, segmented rectangular paving stones beneath their feet, and a rather large number of menhirs scattered around. To the far left, the courtyard abruptly gives way to a void of pale sky. There isn't a retaining wall or railing of any kind to separate the courtyard from the sheer cliff face below.
There's a particularly dense grouping of menhirs on the north side of the clearing, towards the cliff. As for what purpose they serve, he really couldn't say. The Nords seem to have an unusual affinity for standing stones, so maybe they're just decorative.
The sky is overcast, which is probably the norm here. The air smells like frost. There are a few patches of snow marring the otherwise unobstructed ground, but not enough to cause concern… yet. Winter will be here soon. I'm shocked it isn't already. And speaking of which…
"When I was in Ivarstead, there were rumors going around about you Greybeards using the power of the Voice to hold back the snowy weather. Is there any truth to that?"
"There is, as a matter of fact," Arngeir answers mildly as he tucks his hands into his sleeves. "We were using the Thu'um for the benefit of the Dragonborn if they should choose to journey to High Hrothgar before the onset of winter. It's a Shout that we call 'Clear Skies.'"
Mull doesn't do a good job of hiding his astonishment as his eyes open wide of their own volition. "So you really can control the weather, huh? You must have some powerful Tongues in this monastery."
Arngeir brushes off his praise with modest grace. "Perhaps, and perhaps not. That is a topic we can pursue at our leisure another time. For now however, I would like to redirect your interest elsewhere for a brief moment. I assure you this won't take long."
As the elderly monk speaks, Mull realizes they don't have the courtyard all to themselves. In addition to their five-man group, there are about ten other grey-clad monks out here braving the harsh wind. Each of them is sitting cross-legged on the ground, alone or in small groups.
He isn't sure what they're supposed to be doing. They aren't doing much of anything, really. Just sitting there with their eyes closed, quiet and still.
"This is where many of our brethren come to meditate on the Way of the Voice," Arngeir informs him. "Kyne's blessed winds can be heard with unmatched clarity in this place. More clearly, I would venture to say, than perhaps anywhere else in all of Tamriel."
Mull pulls his robe closer around his shivering frame as an unusually brisk gust starts tugging insistently at their clothes. "That's for damn sure."
One of the three silent monks rumbles unhappily – Borri, maybe – but Arngeir's grave expression slips for an instant, betraying his amusement.
"Her Voice brings understanding," he continues undeterred. "And understanding brings power. We Nords respect and revere that power, for it is a power born from the love that she bears for us – we, the scions of the first men whom she breathed life into as she clutched them tightly against her bosom upon the holiest of mountaintops. Here on this sacred peak, we wield the Voice of the gods as our own and pursue its mastery in seclusion from the mortal world, not for our own glorification, but for theirs."
"…I see. Fascinating." Mull continues scanning the courtyard as Arngeir drones on, only half paying attention to his monotonous recitation. One slightly odd detail has captured his notice – it looks like some of the meditating monks out here are women. He's already been informed that the female monks have their own wing of the monastery to themselves, but this area appears to be a shared space. "Are they Greybeards too?" he points and asks.
Arngeir blinks as his speech is interrupted. "Indeed they are."
"Then why are you called the Greybeards, out of curiosity? Not all of you seem to meet that criteria."
None of the monks betray the slightest reaction to his joke, not even Arngeir. Well, I thought it was funny. But maybe they've heard that one too many times for their liking.
"I believe it's a reference to Jurgen Windcaller, the founder of our order," answers the Greybeard spokesman. "I don't know this for certain, but his original followers may have been called 'Greybeards' as an insult to suggest they were spineless old men. Much like ourselves," he says with good humor. "But they then adopted that very same name as a badge of honor and wore its implications with pride. You see, our order would not have been viewed favorably by most Nords in the days of Jurgen Windcaller. We were a proud and warlike people then – and we still are today – but at that time, the use of the Thu'um for conflict and personal gain was the norm rather than the exception, and the Tongues of Skyrim were rightly feared across the breadth of northern Tamriel. However, the opposite has since become true. Perhaps there is a lesson to be learned from that. The great Tongues of old are no more, and yet we Greybeards are still here."
Jurgen Windcaller. There were a couple of the tablet-shrine-things on the Seven Thousand Steps that talked about him. He built High Hrothgar, from what I remember.
"And what's the tower for?" Mull indicates the multistory structure with the unusually large windows at the top.
"Also meditation. Some among us prefer the fierceness of the higher gusts that can most easily be experienced at the tower's pinnacle."
"…Huh." Mull is starting to think some of these monks might have a few unresolved issues. Why anyone would willingly want to subject themselves to the frigid weather on this godsforsaken mountain is entirely beyond him.
"You seem troubled, brother Mull."
"It's nothing. I just don't like the cold as much as you Nords seem to."
Arngeir's lips twitch upwards. "I understand. We rarely host outsiders, especially those who haven't traveled here explicitly to join our order, so forgive me for failing to give adequate thought to such things. We have grown accustomed to these conditions."
"I can see that," Mull drily replies. The monks sitting out in the middle of the courtyard with no cover whatsoever must be frostbitten black and blue. If not, then they really are made of sterner stuff than most.
One of the other elderly monks gestures back towards the monastery and Arngeir speaks on his behalf. "We have now seen most of what High Hrothgar has to offer. All that remains is the lower courtyard, which I believe you passed through when you first arrived here." He begins walking toward the doors with the others following his lead. "Shall we return to the inviting warmth of the hearth-fires that you're doubtlessly yearning for?"
Mull rubs his arms and trudges after them. "Gladly."
-x-
Two days pass in abject boredom as Mull continues to recover.
Mirmulnir has been silent the entire time. He doesn't know why, but he sure as Oblivion isn't going to complain about it.
He takes advantage of the downtime to retrieve his weapons, backpack, and other belongings, which makes him feel a lot more comfortable in this unfamiliar environment. There's nothing he hates more than walking around unarmed.
But after being on the receiving end of so many anxious stares and dubious whispers that he starts to lose count, he eventually decides to leave his sword in his room instead of wearing it openly in its sheath. He tucks it into the narrow space between the nightstand and bedframe where a casual observer won't notice its presence.
That's a compromise in his mind, and he refuses to also part with his dagger for the sake of making these pacifistic monks feel at ease. He keeps the smaller blade tucked into the waistband of his trousers underneath his robe and never goes anywhere without it. Doing otherwise would be foolish, no matter where you are or who you're with.
Each day follows a rigid schedule, including but not limited to three square meals a day, chatting with Arngeir in his room, and tagging along for a handful of mini-tours in various other sections of the monastery. He's able to keep himself busy for the most part, but in the quieter moments he often finds himself thinking about Lydia and Torgen. He wonders if they've departed for Whiterun yet.
Their journey to Ivarstead was fraught with danger and hardship, and with winter leering on their doorstep, he imagines it'll be a bit worse this time around. Steelhead Pass was a grueling climb to begin with, and if it's less forgiving to his companions on their way back to Whiterun, with copious amounts of snow and ice to hinder their passage, then he doesn't envy them in the slightest.
His pondering is interrupted by the unexpected arrival of Arngeir in the doorway of his room. The old monk is flanked by three others who are equally elderly and grey-bearded. Mull recognizes them as the mutes from his first full tour of the monastery. Boril, Wulgeir, and Enith… or something like that.
"Come, brother Mull." Arngeir's tone is uncharacteristically grave. "You appear to have made a full recovery from the rigors of your journey. Now, there is one more thing that we must see to."
What is this about? Motivated by his curiosity, Mull slips on his shoes and trails behind the swishing hems of the monks' robes as they delve into the dusty dimness of High Hrothgar's labyrinthine halls.
As they navigate the monastery, Mull notices that something has changed in the atmosphere. High Hrothgar has been tranquil and dignified for the duration of his stay so far, equal parts serene and grandiose, but now there's a tension lingering in the air that wasn't there before. The monastery is holding its breath for something, like it's a titanic creature that's swallowed them whole and trapped them in its belly.
The monks lead Mull into a familiar foyer with an elevated pulpit. The spacious chamber looks much the same as before, with shadows obscuring all except where candles and censers are offering their soft light, burning in sconces or in the hands of grey-clothed figures. There number of monks gathered here is less than when he first arrived at High Hrothgar, but not by much. As before, they're occupying positions along the walls or upon the raised balcony with the austerity of Imperial guards, stern and unmoving with deep cowls draped over their heads.
The four elderly monks glide soundlessly across the obsidian floor, halt in the center of the chamber, and arrange themselves in an arc in front of Mull. Arngeir gestures for him to come closer.
"We are the Greybeards," he intones. "Followers of the Way of the Voice. You stand among us now in High Hrothgar, here upon the lofty slopes of Kyne's sacred mountain where we commune with the Voice of the Sky to achieve balance between our inner and outer selves. You have claimed for yourself the title of Dragonborn. If this is indeed the truth, then we wish to taste of your Voice, by which we might gauge your ability."
"To prove I didn't lie?" Mull asks without heat. "After all, I could be a regular Tongue who woke up one day and decided to call myself Dragonborn."
Arngeir breaks his mask of formality to smile in a parentally tolerant manner. "That is part of it, yes. But beyond that, we must also determine what you have already mastered and what you have yet to learn. We've heard your Thu'um from afar and thus know that you are a fellow Tongue. As such, it's our solemn duty to provide you with instruction in the Way of the Voice, and all instruction no matter how trivial must first have a foundation."
"That's great and all, but you should know – Shouting will make me functionally mute for the next few days if I'm lucky. And it hurts like a bitch too. Like taking a skinning knife to my godsdamn throat," he mutters. He's fresh out of Danica Pure-Spring's potions, so he doesn't like his prospects of making a swift recovery.
"Ah, but you are forgetting who we are." Arngeir taps his temple. "We are more capable of treating this particular affliction than anyone else in Skyrim, or perhaps all of Tamriel. You are not the first Tongue to encounter difficulties in harnessing the strength of his Voice and I'm certain you shall not be the last. Our knowledge of the symptoms resulting from unintentional misusage is unrivaled."
"…That'd better be true," he sighs resignedly. "Okay. So what do you need me to do?"
"As I said, we wish to taste of your Voice. You must strike us directly with the power of your Thu'um. Only then can we-"
"Wait a minute, you… you want me to Shout at you?"
"Yes," Arngeir patiently states.
"Uh…" His incredulous gaze leaps between each the gathered monks, expecting to see at least a hint of trepidation, but all four of them look perfectly composed. He grimaces as he recalls in vivid detail what his Thu'um did to Hajvarr Iron-hand's face. He can't summon any pity for that asshole clan chief, but regardless of his feelings on the matter, it wasn't a pretty sight. "You don't think that might be a bad idea?"
"While your caution is appreciated, I assure you that there is no better method for us to measure your power. We have performed this very same ritual with aspiring Tongues in the past, and yet here we still stand, hale and whole. So do not be afraid, for your Shout will not harm us."
He shakes his head and exhales loudly through his nose. "…Alright then. You asked for it, monk."
He takes a deep breath, reaches for the power of the dragons festering inside his soul… and quickly realizes he isn't sure where to begin.
Whenever he Shouted in the past, it just sort of happened in the moment. He didn't consciously know what he was doing. In each of those situations, he was in mortal peril and was almost assuredly going to die within the next few seconds if the scales weren't swiftly tilted in his favor. Unless he wants to orchestrate something like that now – which he doesn't – then he might be in a bit of a bind.
He shuffles uneasily. The monks are standing motionless like statues as they stare intently at him from beneath their shadowy cowls. Their anticipation is palpable, making it that much harder for him to think straight.
I need to do something fast or else they might start asking me what's wrong. If they decide I'm an imposter or something, only the gods know what they'll do. Any help, Mirmulnir?
No answer is forthcoming from the disembodied dragon.
Wonderful. Thanks.
He closes his eyes with an exasperated sigh and turns inwards, trying to recall what exactly he felt in those instances where the power of the Voice inexplicably welled up within him.
The most obvious thing is that it hurt. The pain was excruciating every single time without fail. It was white-hot like a furnace, blistering like the desert sun, raw like an open wound.
He shoves away those delightful recollections and tries to dig deeper, searching for what he would've felt in the brief instant that always preceded the pain. The aftermath of each Shout was agonizing, but what about the act itself? What enabled him to Shout in the first place?
Whatever it was… it was heavy. It was dense. It was unyielding like iron and relentless like an earthquake. It was mighty like the hallowed raiment of a mythic hero. It was destructive like an avalanche obliterating everything in its path.
It was unstoppable.
With an abrupt flash of insight, the knowledge he gained from the assimilation of Mirmulnir's soul suddenly rushes into him, filling his head with an indescribably intense understanding that no mortal man should rightly possess. This concept is so… fundamental. It's basic in more ways than one. He's been aware of these things all along without ever realizing the full extent of his knowledge.
Fus. 'It is called Force in your tongue.'
That's all it is. Mirmulnir explained it to him in no uncertain terms that night at the Western Watchtower. He just wasn't listening at the time.
It's simple, really.
'You push against the world. The world pushes against you. It is an eternal cycle that can only be broken by the actions you choose to take. You must push hArdeR tHAn tHE WOrLd PUShES bACK!'
"FUS!"
A thunderclap echoes deafeningly inside the monastery. Mull's lips crack and bleed from the sheer force of his Thu'um as a wave of concussive energy washes over the eldest Greybeards. He didn't feel the buildup this time, not even a little. That unstoppable power dwelling within his soul had roused itself and rushed forth with a metaphorical snap of his fingers, in perfect attunement with his will.
The monks stagger and stumble, and two of them have their heads involuntarily bared as their hoods are thrown back, but none of them fall to the ground.
He's surprised by that. His Shout was unquestionably effective against Iron-hand and the troll, but here it seemed much less potent. It could be due to the greater distance between himself and his targets – about five yards by his reckoning – or maybe it's because there were four targets instead of one this time. Or maybe they somehow resisted his Voice, if that's even possible.
Arngeir did say not to worry. It seems he wasn't lying.
The four monks recover remarkably quickly. As they regain their footing and turn to face him, their expressions are radiant with pure unadulterated joy. It's about the last thing he expected to see. They're happy?
"The technique of your Thu'um is flawless," Arngeir breathes. His voice trembles as he's overcome with intense emotion. "That was no novice's effort. You truly are… Dragonborn."
Mull nods weakly as he presses the back of his hand against his mouth, which is already starting to bleed profusely. His throat is in excruciating pain, but it isn't quite as severe as he thought it would be. He must be getting accustomed to it. And isn't that a sad thought?
But more than that, what he really wants to know is how his technique could've been 'flawless' when he only halfway knew what he was doing. The answer is obviously that he's Dragonborn, but… well, it's like sitting down and strumming random notes on a lute in front of a master bard only for them to tell you that you're a once-in-a-lifetime prodigy. It's a weird feeling, and not for the first time, the absurdity of his life is difficult to stomach.
Borri, Wulfgar, and Einarth are ecstatic as they smile and share cheerful glances with one another. The other monks scattered around the perimeter of the chamber are similarly pleased, and a few of them chatter energetically among themselves. The low buzz of indistinct conversation fills the room as Arngeir walks closer to him.
"Dragonborn. Here you have appeared, at this moment in the turning of an age." The monk's previous solemnity returns. Every trace of levity vanishes from his face. "A fateful portent indeed."
As if sensing his shifting mood, the rest of the monks hastily return to order and the dusky chamber falls silent once more.
"For what reason have you come to us?" asks Arngeir with greater seriousness than Mull has heard from anyone in a long time.
His eyes drop to the floor. As he considers the monk's question, his thoughts turn to his conversation with Mirmulnir several days ago on the Seven Thousand Steps, beneath the shadow of that terrifying statue of Talos Stormcrown. His motivations haven't changed since then. He wants to understand why in Oblivion all of these ludicrous things are happening to him – him, of all people. He wants to be able to use the Voice without self-inflicting bodily harm every single time. Most of all, he wants to live his life the way he sees fit, without being subjected to the whims of people who don't deserve to control him. And for any of those wishes to be possible, there's one specific thing that he needs. It's already been mentioned numerous times today.
He's tired of being weak. His own continual feebleness isn't something he can tolerate anymore. Merely thinking about it is enough to fill him with rage.
So it turns out he's Dragonborn, the blessed of the gods with a dragon's soul… Great. Awesome.
Who cares? So what? That's an abstract, intangible concept. To a worldly man such as him, who's survived countless scrapes with death through grit, determination, and an utter lack of moral scruples, these things mean absolutely nothing. Leave the spiritual inanity for the priests and zealots. They're welcome to it.
More than anything else, what he wants is to be better than he is now. He wants to grow and flourish in this world. He wants to improve beyond his current state.
Ever since the Western Watchtower, he's felt something burning within him that he knows wasn't there before – a twisting flame scorching him from the inside as if the sun itself is blazing inside his chest, gnawing at him, demanding that he grow and push and burn the world to ashes. It isn't something that can be explained away as the influence of Mirmulnir and his incessant rumblings. It's even deeper than that. Passion. Pride. Stubbornness.
Some fundamental cornerstone of his personality has shifted, and he still hasn't quite figured out what it is or why. For so many nights since then, and especially since White River Watch, he's ineffectually agonized over these things in a vain effort to untangle the knotted web of whatever-it-is and failing utterly every single time. The man who was once Ruair Gudarsson is slowly dissolving like salt in water.
Yet the fact remains that he's still weak, just as he was in his previous life of brigandry, and he despises himself for it.
If he had been better, then maybe he could've saved Morven.
He wasn't strong enough to keep her safe during that battle in the mountains. He wasn't fast enough to be there when she needed him most. He wasn't skilled enough to prevent her from bleeding out as he held her broken body in his arms.
She died because he was too damn weak.
He can't go through something like that again.
He's already accepted that the void of gnawing grief she left inside of him will never fade away. He knows it by now. It's been long enough, and he's slowly learning to live with it.
But if he can find a way to conquer his weaknesses and surpass his limitations, then maybe…
Maybe he could've fought back against the Imperial bastards who captured him and Lokir at the Darkwater.
Maybe he wouldn't have had to scurry through the mud like one panicking ant among thousands during the annihilation of Helgen, cowering like an insect just to survive.
Maybe the terror and bloodshed of Bleak Falls Barrow could've been avoided.
Maybe he could've stood firm against the onslaught of a dragon called Mirlmulnir instead of allowing dozens of others to die in his place while he attacked from behind the safety of their mangled corpses, like a snake lunging from the shadow of a rock – not for their sake, but for the sake of his own pride.
Maybe he could've crushed Hajvarr Iron-hand beneath his bootheel like a writhing maggot. A fitting end for a milkdrinker like him.
Maybe Lydia wouldn't have gotten roasted alive by that disgusting hagraven.
Maybe that godsdamn fucking troll wouldn't have been such an unnecessary pain in the ass.
So many things could've gone differently if only he had more power.
And that, he realizes, is the key. That's his answer.
He works his jaw and pulls apart his lips, wincing as globules of congealed blood rip away chunks of his skin. He forces open the back of his throat and goes through the motions of forming a single word, barely audible as it navigates through his ruined esophagus. A furious hiss escapes between his bloodstained teeth.
My reason is…
"…Power."
As he utters that hate-filled answer – no, that pledge, that declaration – the dragon within him positively preens with satisfaction and approval. Mirmulnir doesn't speak, but nor does he need to. His feelings on the matter are obvious enough.
In contrast, Arngeir's response isn't exactly what he had been expecting. He doesn't know what he expected, actually.
The old monk's eyes soften with deep-seated sadness, turning into gleaming pools of starry blue overflowing with visceral emotion as he processes Mull's response. The lines on his face deepen and his shoulders slump minutely, making him look older than ever.
But when he finally speaks, his voice is clear and firm as always.
"We have discussed much during our short time together already, but there is much more that yet lies ahead of us. To become a Tongue in both body and mind is to identify the things that exist within yourself and to mold them into a proper foundation. You desire power and the ability to wield it. Onto that, I would have the temerity to add the ability to wield it wisely. However, I would urge you not to love the things of the world too dearly, for the world and its desires will inevitably pass away."
Arngeir exhales long and slow.
"And with that, my piece has been said. If this is truly your wish, then I will assist you in whatever ways I am able and do my utmost to impart unto you our teachings with patience and grace. Will you join me on this path, Dragonborn?"
"Yes," Mull croaks without hesitation. As long as the Greybeards can help him master his Voice and learn to use it effectively, he doesn't much care about the details. Arngeir can sort those out on his own time.
The monk nods sharply once and clasps his hands within his voluminous sleeves. "Very well. Come this way if you are willing, and we shall see to your throat with due haste. And after that… walk with me. I will show you what it means to be a follower of the Way of the Voice and everything it entails. Yes, even the path to the power that you crave."
Mull falls into step next to the elderly monk as he turns away with rustling robes. The rest of the Greybeards bow low and shuffle backwards, parting before them like a receding tide. Candles flicker in the darkness like a field of stars. Incense wafts heavily in the air.
Arngeir treads noiselessly across the sleek tiles with Mull following closely in his wake, and for the second time in recent days, the two men venture together into the sunless corridors of High Hrothgar.
Mull isn't sure what awaits him in the weeks ahead, but there is one thing he knows for certain. Right now, this monastery perched atop the snowy crown of Nirn is precisely where he's supposed to be, and for the first time in recent memory, a firm sense of renewed purpose blooms hotly in his chest.
-x-
AN:
Writing this chapter was a doozy for whatever reason. I think it turned out kinda okay, but it definitely isn't my best.
Everyone, thank you for all the comments and feedback! It's always encouraging to see people getting invested in the story and voicing their ideas. Even if I don't directly respond to your comments, know that I always look at them and give thought to your suggestions. Thanks for reading! :D