Chapter 18
AN: Short chapter.
-x-
The survivors of the battle slowly return to the city, still in varying degrees of shock from having miraculously managed to kill a dragon as well as the mystifying performance they witnessed afterwards.
One foot in front of the other. Come on. Keep going…
Under other circumstances, Mull would be lost in thought about all of the extremely strange things he's seen and felt tonight, but right now he's far too tired to entertain such weighty contemplations. It's good that Irileth hasn't decided to interrogate him quite yet – he's sure that will happen sooner rather than later. But right now, he's so exhausted that he doubts he could carry a conversation for more than a few sentences, and even if he could, he wouldn't have any answers to offer the housecarl. He's as much in the dark as she is. How did that even happen? What was that vision supposed to be? And the voice… and… that…
'Dreh hi laan hin mulaag, Qahnaarin? For what reason do you question your own strength?'
He stumbles and nearly trips, only rebalancing himself and avoiding the stony earth's unforgiving embrace by some gods-given miracle. There it is again… As if waiting for an indeterminable signal, the whisperer promptly resumes his inane rambling, proliferating the darkness encircling their grim procession. Nobody nearby is speaking aloud, but the disembodied voice is there regardless. He's too fatigued to pay it much attention, yet it does not relent.
'Even now, the weakness of your flesh consumes you. Sahlo slen drun fah saho sil. Can you not see that you needlessly debase yourself to the standards of these joorre? Take up your banner, marshal your strength, and look to the heavens. Lok avok. You are made to take flight upon wings greater than these…'
As he trudges through the dry grass and bracken overgrowing sections of the road, he does everything in his power to keep his body functioning. He focuses on the final dredges of his renewed headache, the burning in his throat, and the soreness of his overworked calves to maintain some semblance of concentration. It also helps him ignore the whispers, which grow increasingly obnoxious and incomprehensible with each passing minute.
None of his fellow survivors have spoken to him in the hour since they left the watchtower. They've restricted themselves to watching him intently, documenting his every move like those of some rare animal. Being observed so closely and yet from a distance makes him feel distinctly uncomfortable. He doesn't like that kind of attention, and all the more so because he can't do anything to make it stop. Again, at least Irileth has left him alone so far. He doesn't want to talk to anybody, though the unabashed weirdness of this night is only part of the reason.
He can't imagine trying to speak right now. The scorching pain in his throat hasn't abated much and each breath threatens to make him wince. At first he tried to breathe shallowly and rapidly, but that almost caused him to pass out. He then attempted to space out his breaths as much as possible, but that also almost caused him to pass out.
And so he's had to endure the pain without any reasonable hope for relief. Drinking from his waterskin didn't help any. It actually made the pain worse, the cool liquid feeling like a draught of molten steel going down his raw esophagus.
Guzzling a healing potion didn't do anything either. That worries him quite a bit, actually. If a healing potion – and a pretty high quality one at that – couldn't alleviate this inexplicable injury, then what could possibly be wrong with him?
He inadvertently inhales more forcefully than usual, pays for it with an increase in pain, and grimaces. At this rate, even if Irileth starts demanding explanations, he isn't sure he could speak at all.
A shadow crosses in front of him, long and thin from the light of the moons resting low on the horizon. He blearily looks up from his grimy boots to see Aela the Huntress falling into line next to him, slowing her smooth gait to match his woeful pace. She glances between him and the road, unwilling to look him in the eye. She's almost always the instigator of their dealings, but now she seems hesitant to do so.
He doesn't feel ready for this inevitable discussion, but he supposes it has to happen sometime. They do have a lot to talk about.
He opens his mouth and tries to speak. A pathetic croak is the only sound that passes between his lips, accompanied by a surge of excruciating sensitively in his throat. He flinches heavily and slams his fist into his mail-clad thigh, having no other means of venting his frustration. Okay, messaged received. Not doing that again.
Aela purses her lips with concern. Her ocean-grey eyes are inscrutable. "That bad, huh?" Then they widen to an almost comical degree. "Shit. What's wrong with you, Mull?"
He's startled by the sensation of liquid wetly flowing down his chin. He dabs at his face with the back of his hand and his leather glove comes away stained with fresh blood. He wipes more forcefully with his sleeve, which also shows signs of turning crimson. He grunts disconcertedly. Now that he's paying attention, there's something sticking in the back of his throat like mucus, but runnier than normal.
Probing fingers against his lips and teeth are moistened red. I'm bleeding internally. That's never a good sign. Unwilling to risk a response, he settles for shrugging and rubbing his bloodied glove across his opposite sleeve.
"If I were you, I'd be more worried than that about blood gushing out of my mouth! Do you know why you're bleeding? Did you bite your tongue or something?"
The normally unflappable Huntress is worried. That more than anything else is what convinces him to take this more seriously – but the issue is that he's already tried everything he can think of.
Seeing as I can't talk right now, what more can I do? Drink some home remedy thyme tea and ask for a kiss on the cheek? Even the healing potion didn't help anything.
"Is it because you used the Voice? I, uh…" She pauses and her eyes go wide again. "Y-you actually used the Voice. And you absorbed that dragon's power. You, Mull! Ye gods, you don't exactly seem like the type. I still can't believe that really happened…"
He raises his palms in a gesture that hopefully conveys his confusion. I have no idea what you're talking about, woman.
The Huntress stews in her thoughts, leaving him to do the same in the renewed quiet of night on the high plains. Sometime during their one-sided discussion, that irritating voice in his head finally decided to shut the hell up, so now he has the wherewithal to actually think in peace. But as he tries to mentally catalogue the events of the last few hours, it proves to be far too much of an effort. He's still too fatigued to sort through everything. With every step closer to Whiterun, he feels that much nearer to giving in to the temptation of sleep and simply collapsing on the roadside. At least the oblivion of slumber would grant him temporary reprieve from his aching throat. He keenly looks forward to that.
As it stands, he only succeeds in making himself feel worse by reminiscing on their battle with the dragon and everything that came after. He never got a good look at how many men Hrongar and Caius brought with their reinforcements, but it must've been a lot. And now they're returning to Whiterun with a comparable number of men that first accompanied Irileth to the watchtower. He doesn't want to even try to guess how many dead are lying back at the tower, strewn across the blackened field like so many bales of threshed wheat.
Aela really saved their asses with her werewolf blessings. He could also say the same for Irileth with her lightning spells and overall levelheadedness. He heard her screaming orders for nearly the entire duration of the battle. As much as it rankles him to say anything good about the Dunmer, if it weren't for her leadership, things would've certainly gone much worse. Then there was Hrongar, confronting the dragon after the earthquake spell by himself and walking away alive. Not whole, but alive.
He's already considered as much, but he still can't believe he isn't among the dead. He attributes the fact that he survived when so many others didn't to sheer dumb luck. There's no other explanation.
But then there's what happened after the dragon was slain. The evaporation of its flesh and that kaleidoscopic cloud of wind or smoke, whatever it was. That strange vision immediately afterwards. It still doesn't make any sense to him.
And after that, there was the eerie voice speaking to him, urging him to…
And then he… he really…
He shakes his head in a vain effort to clear away his turbulent ruminations. That's as far as he's going for tonight. His weariness is worsening further, and now he can't keep his thoughts straight at all.
-x-
His shoulders slump with relief as the walls of Whiterun rise into view. He was beginning to think the endless torment of trudging through the plains would never end. Walking back to the city in his condition hasn't been enjoyable in the slightest.
From somewhere in the pre-dawn shadows ahead, he witnesses Irileth instructing her men to keep their mouths shut if they know what's good for them. She's limping along with the help of one of her men near the front, but her tone brooks no argument and reveals no weakness. "If so much as a whisper of this Dragonborn drivel finds its way into the ears of the city's populace without the Jarl's express permission, then I'll have you all flogged within an inch of your lives for insubordination. Am I understood?" The response she receives is unanimously affirmative.
There it is again. Dragonborn. If I actually did use the power of the Voice… Talos above, why is this happening? What does it all mean? Surely there must be some kind of misunderstanding. His head feels stuffed full of wool, and the notion of this whole situation being terribly wrong never quite goes away.
He sighs internally. I hope this muteness gets better soon. If it goes on for too long, I'll probably go insane.
They're soon passing through the townlands adjacent to Whiterun's western gatehouse. This area is comprised mostly of traders' encampments and rickety houses. The nicer areas outside of the walls seem to be concentrated closer to the river, on the other side of the city.
As they march through the unpaved streets, people begin peering at them from within shadowed doorways and windows, their faces pale with fright. The dragon wasn't exactly subtle. I bet they could hear it even from here. No one dares to approach them. Splattered with gore and mud, and with many of their number bearing injuries, they doubtlessly look intimidating.
Not much longer after that, they reach the western gatehouse with the first rays of the rising blood-red sun. Spear-toting warriors are manning the walls around them and standing guard before the broad gates, which they hastily open when the survivors come into sight. They murmur and gesture with clear agitation, filling the air with hissing whispers that uncomfortably remind Mull of the voice in his head from earlier. At least it's still staying quiet. Small blessings.
A formation of warriors organize around them as they draw near the gate, maintaining a respectful distance but still close enough to ward off curious bystanders or offer assistance as necessary. Irileth and her guardsman-turned-crutch are the first to hobble over the threshold into the city. Another man passes through, and another.
Mull's turn comes and he approaches the entryway with Aela close behind. Something about this moment feels significant, though he isn't sure why. It could simply be a concrete representation of his survival, his returning to the city as a living man rather than a corpse. Regardless, as he steps through the gate, something happens that definitively shoves all such thoughts from his mind.
With no more warning than a lightning bolt and all the viciousness of an earsplitting crack of thunder, the dawn is torn asunder. A deafening Shout echoes through the sky, shaking the very earth they stand upon, reverberating like a dragon's roar from nowhere and everywhere at once.
"DOV-AH-KIIN!"
Mull is rooted in place, overwhelmed by the sheer power exuded from the celestial exclamation. All around them, townsfolk and guardsmen alike whirl about in bewilderment, searching for the source of the thunderous noise. Yet more people emerge from their homes and flood onto the streets to see what had happened.
They're all startled to varying degrees, but Irileth unsurprisingly recovers the fastest and orders their group to continue. "Get moving! We must still report to the Jarl. You lot can go see your families or gawk at nothing afterwards."
And so they traverse the now-crowded streets of a city awoken by divine portent, thoroughly bewildered, wondering just how in Oblivion this night – or day, now – could have possibly gotten any stranger than it already was. Even so, only a rare few understand just how strange it has truly become.
-x-
The Greybeards call the Dragonborn to High Hrothgar, their secluded monastery on the Throat of the World.
Ysmir has returned to the Old Kingdom once again, and the Stormcrown awaits his anointment.
-x-
Mull and the rest of his fellow survivors enter the dim, smoke-hazed interior of Dragonsreach. Ascending the city's many stairs was difficult for all involved. Some had to be bodily carried, though Mull wasn't forced to suffer that indignity.
As their grim procession enters the Jarl's great hall, a startled hush falls over the present assembly of nobles, retainers, and warriors. There are easily hundreds of people packed around the central hearth before the Jarl's throne, no doubt anxiously awaiting news of the battle. The smoldering fires and crimson beams of the sun's dawn shining through the high windows do little to illuminate the space, and Mull has difficulty making out individual faces. Even so, it's impossible to miss the apprehension thickening the air. He can practically smell it, even over his own stench of blood, sweat, vomit, and gods-know what else. His fatigue-addled mind wonders if they all should've taken a detour to bathe in the river before returning to these high and mighty lords, lest they be cast out from Dragonsreach in shame.
Ever-so-slowly, Irileth limps up to the Jarl standing at the far end of the central hearth. Though she tightly clutches her bandaged ribs, she somehow keeps her expression studiously level. The hall is dead silent as she halts and catches her breath.
Mull and the others hang back, remaining closer to the center of the hearth and its inviting warmth. He sways and nearly topples into the firepit, but a firm hand grabs the back of his collar and holds him upright. It's Aela, who uniquely among their number doesn't appear to be on the last dregs of her strength, displaying a tenacity and resistance to fatigue that can only be due to her purported Daedric blessing.
After several long seconds, no doubt agonizing to her audience, Irileth finally meets her lord's uneasy gaze. "The dragon is dead."
Another moment passes.
The hall erupts into frenzied jubilation. Mull flinches at the sheer volume of the elated cries echoing from the walls. Many of the gathered warriors – led on by the conspicuously one-armed Hrongar, he notes – begin bashing their fists and weapons against shields, tables, chairs, other weapons, and anything else they can get their hands on. It's utter pandemonium. Balgruuf is incredibly relieved, favoring his housecarl with a wide grin and laughing gleefully.
After the impromptu celebration has gone on for a while, the Jarl quiets everyone down and waves for Irileth to get on with it. Standing as straight as she's able even as a handful of healers tend to her wounds, the Dunmer gives a detailed report of everything that happened at the watchtower, though she leaves out anything pertaining to the battle's esoteric aftermath.
While she's prattling on, Mull drops into an empty chair and accepts a proffered tray of dried meat and a mug of ale. He needs something stiff to drink considering the sheer amount of bullshit he's still trying to process, not even to mention the discomfort of his damaged throat. The heady liquid makes his throat sting sharply, but he powers through it. Perhaps the pain will be dulled if he guzzles down enough.
The other survivors also accept food and drink, and are quickly swarmed by those too impatient to listen to Irileth's testimony. Aela is lost somewhere in the midst of the tumult. A few of the warriors flash uncomfortable looks at Mull before replying to their questioners that the battle's details should be heard by the Jarl first. He only notices this peripherally, caring far more for his ale.
Many of the people around him are giving him odd stares and keeping a wide berth. He frowns and looks down. His beard and much of his body are still coated in dried blood, both the dragon's and his own, which he had completely forgotten about. Not that he cares much right now.
He's left alone after ignoring a group of curious young men. He closes his eyes as he sluggishly picks at a stringy cut of mutton. I wasn't this exhausted even after Helgen. Or this hungry. The mutton is tempting in the extreme, but he doesn't dare try to eat anything solid given his present condition. He compensates by draining his second mug of ale.
He's soon overcome by fatigue and drifts into a spiraling half-sleep, ignorant of the hall's continuing clamor and the arrival of healers who silently take away his platter to begin tending to his wounds.
His sleep is not dreamless, but he slumbers so deeply that they're unable to fully take shape. He's later left with the impression that he was trying to dream, if such a thing is possible, or perhaps that something other than himself was attempting to do so on his behalf, but it's all for naught. For the first time in a long time, despite the many horrors, fears, and worries that have been and still are assailing him, his sleep is somehow able to be serene. Peaceful.
