Chapter 19
Mull spends the next two days cooped up inside Whiterun's Sanctuary of Kyne, waiting for his throat to recover after the… incident… at the Western Watchtower.
Compulsory muteness is a difficult thing for anybody to bear, though maybe less so for him than most. In the time following the forcible disbandment of his gang, he endured weeks on end wandering the wilds of the Rift alone. His stint with Lokir was the exception rather than the norm in that regard.
But given recent events involving the dragon's death, there are a lot of things he's now desperate to understand. Abject confusion rules his every waking moment. Fear of the unknown chews incessantly at his bones. And of course, he can do nothing to alleviate these troubles because he can't physically ask for the answers to his questions.
And even if he could, he's currently trapped beneath the unrelenting supervision of the priestesses of Kyne, and let it be known to all men that they do not ever shirk their duties. Not in the slightest.
The priestesses assigned to his care have scarcely taken their eyes off him for an instant. They seem to derive sadistic pleasure from fussing over the most ridiculous things imaginable, like whether his bedding is properly folded or if he's diligently washing his hair every morning. Their overbearing vigilance is already driving him mad.
Their behavior is stifling, but he reluctantly admits it isn't an explicitly bad thing either. He gets quality treatment for his injuries, among which is a relatively minor concussion sustained from the rock that struck him in the head when the watchtower was destroyed. It slipped right beneath the rim of his helmet. He's lucky it didn't take out an eyeball.
Restoration magic is finicky for dealing with concussions, so an instantaneous recovery through the use of a spell is unfortunately out of the question. A person's head is the seat of their soul, the place where their physical body meets the noncorporeal, and thus the brain must be treated with extreme care whenever magic is involved – at least, that's what he's told when a priestess tries to explain the issue to him. Most of her lecture goes right over his head. Uh, metaphorically.
But again, it's only a mild concussion. With the healers providing a steady stream of poultices to apply and potions to imbibe, it doesn't take long for him to start feeling a little better.
The rock also left him with a nasty cut on the forehead, but that was a much simpler matter for his caretakers to heal. After a quick slew of Restoration spells, the only sign that it was ever there is a faint silvery scar just above his eyebrow. He's forced to acknowledge that his hosts have done a good job despite his earlier reservations.
That said, his residency within the sanctuary isn't an entirely positive experience despite the priestesses' medical competence. Although he's improved significantly in the days since the battle against the dragon, he isn't completely back to normal quite yet.
First and foremost, his bizarrely wounded throat proves to be more problematic than he thinks anybody expected. Considering the esoteric nature of its source, he supposes that shouldn't be surprising.
The priestesses' preliminary attempts to mend the injury with Restoration magic prove to be fruitless, and when they summon a few older and more qualified healers to give it a go, they also fail. If their puzzled expressions are any indication, that must not be something that happens often.
He gains an inkling of just how big of a deal it really is when nearly twenty priestesses enter his room in single file and take up positions around the perimeter, like so many guards keeping watch over a dangerous prisoner. Bringing up the rear of their procession is a hooded and robed middle-aged woman with blonde hair who carries herself with an aura of authority, looking haughtily upon her surroundings like a lord examining their personal domain. He learns that this is Danica Pure-Spring, the head priestess and master healer of the sanctuary.
"Lady Pure-Spring is among the most skilled and knowledgeable users of Restoration in the entire province," one of the lesser priestesses whispers to him sidelong. "For her to tend to your injuries is a high honor, sir."
The woman strides purposefully to his bedside, glances down at him, and narrows her eyes. She doesn't seem happy to be here. A high honor, huh?
Without even the courtesy a simple greeting, the woman holds out a hand with her palm outstretched and closes her eyes. Motes of golden light blink into existence and begin floating in lazy circles, gently threading around and between her fingers in a casual yet nonetheless impressive display of magical ability. She makes it look easy – there's no telltale scrunching of her brow or tightening of her lips, nor beads of sweat trailing down her face.
He feels an uncomfortable tingling along the inside his throat that nearly causes him to start gagging, like a horde of ants crawling into his body. It's unbearable despite lasting only lasts a few seconds. Any longer and he might've tried to claw out his own esophagus. That kind of sensation is normal for a healing spell – he's been on the receiving end of his fair share over the years – but it never gets any less weird, and especially not when it's being applied to such an odd place.
The auric glow fades and the pinpricks of light vanish from existence, signaling the end of the spell. Mull clears his throat in preparation to speak, but winces and immediately abandons the attempt. It's still painfully raw, no different from before. That isn't a good sign.
Danica Pure-Spring withdraws her hand and lowers her head for a moment, quietly lost in thought. Then her expression softens and something close to a giggle escapes from her lips – or he would call it a giggle if it came from somebody less dignified.
The woman rapidly resumes her severe expression, though she now seems marginally less annoyed than before. "Healing your injury by magical means would appear to be a pointless endeavor."
She says that with all the airiness of somebody discussing the weather, but her eyes gleam brightly in a way that betrays her intense interest. Her lilting Nordic accent would be endearing in any other situation.
"Please open your mouth and push your tongue down as far as it will go. I would like to examine the injury directly."
He tries not to grumble as he follows the woman's instructions. So the spell didn't work. Of course it didn't. That would be too easy.
The priestess hums softly as she abruptly sticks a finger down his throat, taking him by surprise. He instinctually tries to flinch away, but her other hand snakes around to grasp the back of his head with unanticipated strength, locking him in place.
After a few seconds of craning her neck to peer down his gullet, she finally relents and releases her grip. His unhappy glare goes ignored as she exchanges a few murmured words with one of the other priestesses, who inclines her head and departs from the room in a swirl of orange and yellow cloth. Danica rubs her chin in contemplation.
She speaks slowly, giving careful consideration to her words. "Your affliction bears a striking resemblance to a magicka burn, though I must confess that doesn't make much sense to me. I can't imagine how it would've manifested in such an unusual manner."
Upon noticing his blank expression, she sighs and diligently elaborates.
"These kinds of injuries will only occur when a mage attempts to channel too much magical energy at one time, for instance if they perform a powerful magicka absorption spell without adequate preparation or if they overuse certain types of enchanted items. The most commonly affected areas of the body are the hands and fingers, the arms, or in extreme cases certain segments of the upper torso, especially around the heart and lungs. For the magicka burn to manifest inside your throat, however… I've never seen or heard of anything like it. Frankly, I don't know what to tell you."
He expressively shrugs. He doesn't know what to tell her either.
"I'll start with a simple question. Are you a mage?"
He shakes his head. Magic has always been beyond him. Not that he's ever tried particularly hard or received any form of conventional instruction, but there are precious few opportunities to learn the ways of witches and wizards for the average person.
"I see. In that case, I'd be extremely interested to learn the precise circumstances in which you suffered this injury. You might consider it a matter of professional interest on my part. Of course, I realize that you're incapable of speech at this time and thus can currently offer little in that regard. Do you possess the ability to write by any chance?"
He nods. His handwriting has always been proverbial chicken scratch, but he can get by. There aren't many people in the Empire who are wholly illiterate even among the common folk. The priesthood of Julianos is to thank for that – the men and women among their ranks often travel across the provinces to teach reading and writing to whomever they encounter as a testament to their god. The Nord priests of Jhunal might also do the same here in Skyrim, but he doesn't know that for sure.
"Very good." Danica Pure-Spring produces a parchment notepad and accompanying stick of charcoal from within her ample robes and passes them down to him. It seems that she came prepared. "If you would, please describe the event that caused this injury. Don't leave out anything, as even the most trivial detail could have significance. Be as specific as possible."
…Sorry lady. I don't think I can do that. What you'll get from me will be more like a creative interpretation. He has no interest in trying to explain the events of the dragon's demise to anyone, and certainly not through the indirect medium of writing. He still hasn't mentally parsed through everything that happened at the watchtower – and in all honesty, he's been trying to avoid it. Whatever the hell happened out there, suffice it to say that he's nowhere close to understanding it. He isn't sure he wants to. The fact that people were saying he could be Dragonborn…
No. It's far too absurd to even consider. There's clearly some kind of misunderstanding, and he doesn't want to do anything to perpetuate it further.
He furrows his brows as he decides on a lie. His inability to lie convincingly has always been one of his greatest weaknesses, especially considering the nature of his chosen profession, but it's an undeniable fact that the ability to invent a believable lie without missing a beat is critical. If you're staking out a house or shadowing a potential target and manage to attract somebody's unwanted attention, you have to be able to pull a convincing excuse out of your ass to avoid suspicion. He wouldn't say it's a skill he's perfected by any means, but he's suffered through enough trial and error to gain at least some proficiency.
He commits words to parchment as soon as a plan has formed in his head, scribbling his stream of consciousness with as much nonchalance as he can manage. He doesn't want to make it obvious that he's fudging his story – although this is shaping up to be a pretty good lie if he does say so himself.
The dragon used dozens of magical attacks over the course of the battle, and by the time it was all said and done, the landscape surrounding the watchtower was practically barren for all the fire and frost – among other things – that had been thrown around. Again, he doesn't know much about magic, but it makes sense to him that breathing in all that stuff could plausibly result in an injury like the affliction in his throat.
The priestess called it a magicka burn. The dragon magically burned an entire swath of the plains, literally. He was in close proximity to that desolation for at least half an hour. She'll buy an explanation like that… right?
With only a little trepidation, he finishes penning his falsehood and returns the relevant items to the priestess for judgement. He fails to prevent his eyes from sliding away suspiciously, a habit he's never been able to break, but she doesn't seem to notice. She's too focused on his scribblings.
She scans the notepad with practiced swiftness and raises a wry eyebrow. Her lips quirk in a ghost of a smile. "Not all of this is legible to me, but I believe I get the gist."
He grimaces. I did my best. Needless to say, bandits aren't often given a reason to train their penmanship.
"From what you've written here, you seem to be under the impression that your ailment is a direct result of your proximity to the dragon's magic. I suppose that isn't an unwarranted assumption, though I'm certainly no expert."
He doesn't respond. Let her draw her own conclusions.
"Hmm. I don't think it's a bad hypothesis, although it does raise the question of why there haven't been similar cases brought to our attention from among your fellow warriors. Do you have any idea why that might be?"
He shakes his head again. The leading theory is that I'm Dragonborn, but that isn't a possibility I want to entertain. Dragonborn, he mentally scoffs. Yeah, right.
"The mystery thickens then. Perhaps we might be better served by consulting with someone more knowledgeable of the ancient legends than myself. Dragon-lore is an exceedingly obscure topic. It may be prudent to send a messenger to the Sanctuary of Jhunal, or perhaps even-"
She pauses as the door swings open and a robed man hurries into the room. A glass vial is clutched gingerly in his hands. His raiment is identical to that of the priestesses, so Mull guesses this is probably a male priest of Kyne, though there must not be many of them from what he's seen so far. Up until now, every one of his caretakers has been a woman.
The man quickly but calmly approaches Danica Pure-Spring and presents the vial to her.
"Ah, Jenssen. Your timing is commendable as always. Thank you." After she accepts the proffered item, the acolyte gives a shallow bow and retreats to stand among the lesser priestesses still gathered along the wings.
Danica holds up the translucent container for Mull's inspection. The liquid enclosed within the ornate glass is a rich shade of blue, like cornflower. "This potion is derived from an herbal medicine used to treat magicka burns and other related conditions. Though ideally topical in application, you will instead be ingesting this by mouth for reasons that I hope should be obvious. I'm confident it shouldn't cause you any issues in this diluted form, digestive or otherwise."
"Though if it does, please inform us immediately," one of the younger priestesses chimes in. "Even minor stomach pain could be a sign of something worse."
Several of her cohorts turn to her with varying degrees of irritation. Realizing they must've wanted her to keep her mouth shut, the poor girl cowers beneath their exasperated scrutiny.
Uneasiness churns in Mull's gut. That isn't worrying at all.
Without further ado, Danica deposits the vial on his bedside and waves for him to partake. "Whenever you are ready. Please drink all of it."
The way you say that makes it sound like this'll be an ordeal. With a skeptical frown, he grabs the bottle and pops the cork. An experimental sniff reveals a bitter scent like overripe cabbage. He gives it a shake, but the mixture within barely moves. It's practically a sludge.
He graces the priestess with a hard look to convey his cynicism. She crosses her arms and returns the stare, clearly unmoved. There won't be any leeway on that front. It looks like he doesn't have much of a choice unless he wants to start pouting like an infant, and while that's certainly an option, he'd like for it to remain a last resort.
…Alright then. Here it goes. Before he can give himself too long to think about it, he tilts his head back and pours the concoction down his throat.
It's just as bad as he feared. The potion tastes horrible, like some unholy mixture of spoiled herbs, rotting fish, and goblin piss – which he has only ever smelled, thankfully. Adding insult to injury, the draught leaves behind a disgusting film that sticks to the roof of his mouth. The instant he manages to gulp down the last of the concoction, he bends over and loudly retches. He doesn't actually vomit, but it's a close-run thing.
"Well done."
He wipes the excess slime from his beard and glares daggers at Danica Pure-Spring, lamenting that his only available forms of communication are nonverbal. If he could talk, he'd be teaching these priestesses some exotic new vocabulary. Shor's fucking beard, that was horrendous. Gods only know what they used to make that shit. This should be against the law.
The woman continues without paying heed to his disgruntlement. To so skillfully ignore her patients' bad attitudes must be a talent garnered from a lifetime of hospice. "I believe you should see improvement fairly quickly. I wouldn't be surprised if you're able to vocalize without prohibitive discomfort as early as tomorrow. However, you'll need to take at least one or two additional doses over the next few days to ensure a full recovery. The last thing you want is to get an infection. Given the site of your injury, it would be very easy for that to happen."
His glare intensifies. He again bemoans that he can't give voice to the string of curses already prepared at the tip of his tongue.
The head priestess resolutely overlooks his displeasure as she turns and strides toward the door, gliding across the tile floor in her ankle-length robe. "I believe that will be all for today. Thank you for your cooperation."
Just before she steps through the doorway, she stops and speaks over her shoulder.
"I haven't been made privy to many details regarding your battle against the dragon, but you should know that Whiterun values your efforts and your sacrifice. More than you are likely aware. May Kyne watch over you during your recovery."
There's genuine warmth in her tone unless he's mistaken – which he very well could be. He's never been very good at recognizing those sorts of things. Either way, as the healer departs with a stately smile, he reflects that despite his initial impression, she doesn't seem to be an unkind woman. Overbearing, merciless, and utterly without pity for her abused patients, but not unkind.
The rest of the acolytes mutter a brief prayer in unison before filing out of the room in pursuit of their matriarch, leaving him alone for what might be the first time since the beginning of his incarceration in this place. The ensuing stillness is a good thing in some ways, but in others not so much.
On the one hand, it's a pleasant change of pace. On the other, it has the unfortunate consequence of causing his thoughts to turn inward.
One of his many gripes about his captors – er, caretakers – is that they haven't allowed him to receive any visitors, though he gets the impression that none would've come knocking anyways. The powers-that-be probably have bigger things to worry about than the wellbeing of their semi-fraudulent dragon expert, so he can hardly blame anyone for that.
Still, it has gotten a little lonely at times, though only in the sense that he lacks for human companionship. The priestesses don't count, seeing as they're more like prison guards than healers in his eyes. Sitting in a bed with nothing to do except stare at the ceiling gets old very quickly. Sadly, it's the only pastime he has to look forward to in the foreseeable future.
Well, that and one other thing.
'I am appalled by this weakness of your flesh. Hin slen los sahlo. Here you writhe as if trapped within the skin of a lesser being, making a mockery of your own soul. For what reason do you deny yourself?'
…Dammit.
If nothing else, there's always the option of conversing with the voice in his head. It certainly seems eager to do so, seeing as it hasn't stopped talking for two straight days.
He's loathe to indulge the voice. If he did and thus acknowledged its existence, he feels like he'd be giving in to the insanity that has ruled his life for the past several days.
Yesterday morning, he awoke from his post-battle slumber confused to find himself no longer in the great hall of Dragonsreach but rather in this homely little room. He must've been carried to the Sanctuary of Kyne for treatment while still comatose.
It's a nice enough room for the record, quaint and humble but in a good way. It's bare except for a blue tile floor and garlands of dried grass hanging from the ceiling. Everything is made of wood. A simple hearth smolders against the far wall. The space is airy, with lots of sunlight being allowed inside by windows set high near the ceiling.
But as he groggily returned to consciousness deep within the bowels of this holy sanctuary, the priestesses weren't the first to offer their greetings as one might expect. There was another who beat them to the punch.
It was then that the voice which first manifested at the watchtower promptly decided to resurface, spouting nonsense just as before. Ever since then, it hasn't left him alone for more than a few minutes at a time.
Even now a spate of muffled whispering tickles at the edge of his hearing, constantly inducing him to twist and turn in his uncomfortable bed to peer at the dim corners. It was much less noticeable while the priestesses were fussing over his injuries and trying to figure out what was wrong with his throat.
Now that they're gone and silence has descended on the room, his unwanted visitor returns in full force. In a way, the priestesses' excessive attentiveness was a good thing. It was the lesser of two evils.
For what remains of the day following Danica Pure-Spring's visit, the voice obstinately refuses to leave him in peace. He doesn't bother trying to listen to its jumbled words anymore. They never make much sense to him, and he's too tired and frustrated anyhow.
'Your deepest desires are known to me, and that which you seek is no longer hidden. Hahnu ahrk parre. Adhere to me, zeyhmah, and you will learn the true meaning of power. You will be counted among the rankings of the wise ere the inescapable death of this cycle. Grik los hin daan.'
I have no idea what that's supposed to mean.
If nothing else, he does recognize that the voice is speaking in a migraine-inducing mixture of Tamrielic and the dragon language. He can understand both perfectly well, but it's still extremely disorienting to listen to. Every time it speaks, he rolls over and stuffs his woven cotton blanket into his ears in a vain effort to block out the incessant jabbering.
As time wears on and the voice becomes increasingly insistent, he begins to think the ghostly speaker might be insulted by his attempts to ignore it. Good. I hope you're upset. I am too, you relentless bastard.
The possibility that he's gone completely insane does cross his mind a few times. Perhaps it was actually that hard knock to the head, the one that gave him his concussion, that caused all of this in the first place. Maybe now he'll be confined to this sanctuary forever, condemned to rot in a glorified asylum. When he imagines what that kind of life would be, it's almost enough to make him stage a prison break then and there.
The prospect becomes more and more tempting as the hours drag onwards with no relief in sight. Even when the sun goes down and his room is shrouded in candlelit darkness, the voice still refuses to relent. His attempts to fall asleep are universally fruitless. It's all he can do to lie atop his uncomfortable bed and close his eyes, trying not to jump out of his skin whenever the whisperer renews its assault, desperately wishing for the briefest moment of peace and quiet.
Predictably, there are none.
The Jarl had better shower me with enough gold to live in luxury for the rest of my godsdamn life. But even if he does, I still don't think this was worth the trouble. He drapes an arm over his face and noiselessly groans. Not even close.
-x-
The next morning – the third since the battle – one of the younger priestesses enters his room bright and early with breakfast in hand. It's liquids only, doubtlessly part of a grand scheme to torment him by withholding anything that would actually fill his stomach. But rather than giving her usual cheerful greeting, the girl instead frowns at the sight that meets her.
She finds him sitting dejectedly on the edge of his bed with a blanket wrapped around his torso and his eyes framed by dark rings – even worse than usual – giving him an uncanny resemblance to a raccoon. She's displeased by his appearance to put it mildly, and questions him at length regarding his refusal or inability to sleep.
To his surprise, he finds that his capacity for speech has recovered overnight to some degree, though his voice is still scratchy and painful to hear. Danica's abhorrent concoction must've worked as promised. But he isn't quite to the point of being able to carry a conversation without undue discomfort, so he attempts to write out a suitable excuse on a square of parchment left by his bedside for that purpose.
There's no way in Oblivion he's going to tell this girl that a disembodied voice has been speaking to him day and night. He'd be practically guaranteed to be institutionalized.
So, he claims that he was kept awake by a rooster crowing at all hours of the night. He doesn't know if there are any roosters in the Temple District, but it seems like a suitably generic explanation. Lots of people own roosters. He's too fatigued to devote any more brainpower than that to thinking of something better.
The way the young priestess squints at his scrawling sentences indicates she isn't as skilled as Danica Pure-Spring at deciphering poor handwriting. She nods uncertainly and voices her acceptance of his excuse, but it's obvious she has no clue what he was trying to write. Regardless, a win is a win. That outcome is good enough for him.
Once he manages to convince the girl there's nothing wrong and wordlessly ushers her out of his room, he settles back onto his bed to slurp his too-hot soup and wallow in his misery. He's utterly exhausted. He needs all the sleep he can get after the disaster at the watchtower, and his episode of unconsciousness following their return to Dragonsreach simply wasn't enough for his body to be fully satisfied.
As expected, the remainder of the day proves to be a tribulation even worse than the previous. The whispering continues persistently, contributing further to his suffering with each successive word, and all the more so since it's unintelligible gibberish.
'For what reason do you recoil from the onrushing tides of fate? Fin vennesetiid neh oblaan. You have become entrapped within a storm that does not end. To merely drift aimlessly at the whims of these wayward currents is to invite a woeful death. You must break free of your shackles and soar upon your unfettered wings if you wish to return to your rightful place within the domain of the sky. Gramme vaaz fah hi.'
He laments that he's somehow been cursed to listen to this indecipherable drivel for the foreseeable future. None of his attempts to suppress the unwelcome commentary have worked, not even reciting old stories or visualizing some of his past fights. Those are usually good ways to distract himself, but this time they aren't enough.
Maybe it'll go away if I bash my head against the floor. Just a few good whacks. That's all it would take. He doesn't seriously consider it, though he derives some amusement from wondering what Danica would think if she walked in on that.
As the light filtering through the frost-paned windows gradually turns red with the arrival of another twilight, the voice finally, blessedly stops prattling in his ear, leaving him to experience his first period of tranquility since the battle against the dragon. He doesn't know why it suddenly ceases, but he sure as Oblivion isn't going to complain. When you get a lucky break like this, the last thing you want to do is start asking unnecessary questions. You might ruin your good fortune.
It doesn't take long for him to gratefully doze off, overcome by his fatigue. He isn't consciously aware of the moment that sleep engulfs him.
But his gratitude is misplaced. He hasn't been granted a reprieve. Rather, he is now simply facing renewed assault from a different direction. Little does he know that even in his dreams, there is no escape from the one who plagues him.
