Chapter 40
Gods above, this is a sheer drop-off. You'd think they would have a fence or something.
At the edge of High Hrothgar's rear courtyard, Mull is sitting on the edge of a lofty precipice as he gazes over the plains of Whiterun Hold far below. He dimly wonders if there have ever been monks who accidentally fell to their unforeseen demise from these hazardous heights.
It would be easy to do. One loose rock, one bad step, and down you go…
The weather is abnormally clear today, with only a few lonely snowflakes drifting sluggishly on the icy wind. Invisible currents and eddies are sifting through his tangled hair, causing unruly strands to float freely in all directions. Arngeir informed him that the Greybeards are no longer Shouting back the long breath of winter, but evidently the gods have decided to spare them its frigid wrath for at least one more day.
A wide expanse of beige steppe is laid out before him like an unfurled map, hazy and vague. This is the first time the monastery's high vantage has offered him such an generous view of what lies beneath the cloud layer, and now that he's seeing it with his own eyes, he honestly can't fathom High Hrothgar's true altitude. Well, it is called High Hrothgar. It's in the name. But still… it's hard to imagine being this far above the rest of the province even when the evidence is right here in front of me. If there are people down there, they'd be impossible to see from this distance. Not even as tiny specks.
Arngeir is standing a few steps behind, close enough to speak comfortably without looming over him. His robes rustle softly as he shelters his hands within his baggy sleeves. The two of them have the courtyard all to themselves at the moment, but the rest of High Hrothgar's denizens aren't too far off. The booming echoes of their Voices periodically rumble like claps of sudden thunder from elsewhere on the mountainside, interrupting the monastery's peaceful quietude at unpredictable intervals. It's an ever-present reminder of what awaits him as the newest student of the Greybeards. A prelude of sorts.
With the completion of his introductory ceremony in the main foyer a couple of days ago, Mull's quest for righteous power has officially begun. Here on Tamriel's highest peak, he'll finally learn what it means to be a Tongue who wields the gods-given power of the Voice.
At first he was excited to discover what lay in store for him. It could've been anything, and instead of being worried about it, he found that uncertainty to be downright exhilarating. His mind was awhirl with anticipation as he considered the myriad possibilities. He could train his body and mind by hefting boulders over his head for hours on end, like what he remembers hearing from old Redguard legends as a child. Or he could endure the dangers of the harsh wilderness alone with only the clothes on his back to his name, or he could refrain from eating anything for days on end as a method of increasing his strength. Any of those things would be difficult, but he can also understand how they would help him grow.
But whatever he was expecting, it definitely wasn't this.
His first lesson from the headmaster of the Greybeards… is a sermon.
The Greybeards may be Tongues, but they're also monks. That's a detail he seems to have forgotten somewhere along the way, and right now, he's wishing he hadn't.
"Before all else, Dragonborn, we Greybeards are devoted followers of Kyne the Warrior-Wife," Arngeir lectures. "She is Shor's long-sundered beloved and the Mother of Man, just as he was the cunning Fox-King who willingly gave his own life for the benefit of his children. The Voice of Kyne whispers through the wind to all living beings, assuring them of her continued grace and benevolence. She breathed life into our ancestors, blessing us with the gift of our very existence. Would she who possesses sufficient power and mercy to do such a wonderous thing not also be willing to hear our pleas and bear witness to our supplications? I believe that she would. Kyne is present all around us, in the air and in the miracles of nature that she herself has created. Whenever you are in need, ask of her in good faith and she will assuredly speak to you so long as your professed needs are grounded in honest intention."
Mull stifles a sigh, rests his chin on the palm of his hand, and continues scanning the distant horizon with dull eyes. Arngeir has been at it for a while now and isn't showing any signs of stopping. He started with Talos, then talked about Shor, and now he's moved on to the chiefess of the gods, Kyne. At this rate, he might end up going through the entire pantheon before its all said and done.
Ysmir's beard, I sure hope not. It's already been half an hour and it isn't getting any warmer out here.
According to the elderly monk, this is his preamble to the ancient tenants upheld by the Greybeards, which they call 'The Way of the Voice'. For something regarded as the stuff of legends by Jarl Balgruuf, Hrongar and so many others, Arngeir's initial dissertations have been unexpectedly mundane. It's nothing more than a hodgepodge of Nordic religious doctrines with which Mull is already passingly familiar due to his heritage. There are a lot of Nords in Upper Craglorn, as he knows well enough. His father was one of them after all.
"Of course, the answers Kyne provides us may not always be what we wish to hear, but sometimes an answer is all that is all we truly require." The monk faintly smirks, indicated by a wry movement of his beard. "This is the manner in which the gods so often seek to direct and discipline us mortals, their unruly scions. Their interactions with us are almost always of an indirect nature, but they're no less momentous for being so."
Mull has never considered himself to be a particularly godly man, and certainly not someone who can boast a deep understanding of anything pertaining to the gods – be they Nordic, Imperial, or otherwise. The underlying theology of these doctrines is a mystery to him, not that he particularly cares. Other than the contents of their coinpurses, he's never had much interest in the affairs of clerics and priests.
He's waylaid his fair share of Cyrodiilic ecclesiastics and pilgrims over the course of his life, and if there's one thing he can say about them with a smile on his face, it's that they're always easy pickings. A bandit's favorite sorts of people are the ones who never fight back. But commenting on that in his present company wouldn't be appropriate, so he keeps his mouth shut and continues listening to the Greybeard's speech.
Or tries to, at least. His festering impatience has been steadily worsening, as he'd really like to get on with learning about more useful things than the spiritual characteristics of Kyne.
"This," the monk continues, "is a central aspect of the Way of the Voice: The veneration of the gods and of Kyne most of all, for it was she who first taught the Voice to Man, or so the legends tell us. She is the goddess of storm, wind, and sky, and also of the untamed beasts of the wilderness. She's benevolent, yes… but she is also just. Some mistake her justice for mercilessness, but in the same manner that the natural world is unforgiving to those who lack wisdom and respect, so too is she. Kyne speaks to those who would hear her, and one must merely quiet themselves and listen in order to perceive her guidance."
That Karita woman said something similar. That means it must be true, right? He snorts to himself.
He would usually be skeptical of these sorts of dogmatic statements. 'Just listen and the gods will talk to you' sounds like something a madman would say.
But although he's almost ashamed to say it, it's true that Arngeir has grown on him quite a bit over this past week. The old man is different, for lack of a better word. He's completely unlike anyone he's ever met before. When he speaks, Mull can see the wisdom of many long years glimmering in his eyes. He can hear that same wisdom in his tone, but at the same time his words are laced with an impassioned empathy that he genuinely cannot comprehend.
They're strangers. They've interacted often enough in recent days, but they're still strangers. He doesn't know anything about the headmaster of the Greybeard and the headmaster doesn't know anything about him, so he doesn't understand how this monk can treat him – a stranger – with this utterly baffling combination of reverence and unflappable compassion.
It's downright unnerving. Enigmatic smiles are usually followed by a knife in the back from what he's seen in the underworld of Tamriel, but if the Greybeards are harboring any hostile intentions, they surely would've made their move while he was still comatose in bed. Simply put, Arngeir's oddly companionable behavior makes absolutely no sense.
But of course, the answer to that conundrum is clearly his status as Dragonborn. That's why the monks have been treating him this way. He's a hero ordained by the gods in their eyes, which is something he still can't fathom and probably never will.
After the initiation ceremony, Arngeir stopped calling him 'brother Mull' and instead began using a title he likes a whole lot less. Dragonborn. He'll never get used to answering to that. It's another reminder of the absurdity currently enveloping his life, as if he needed more.
But despite his negative feelings on the matter, his interest has admittedly been piqued by the Greybeards and their strange ways. A part of him wants to understand what could drive these men and women to devote their entire lives to worshiping the gods on this desolate mountain, something he can scarcely imaging doing himself. They're an odd bunch, but at the same time they've shown themselves to be extremely knowledgeable about a wide variety of things, not only the Voice. Their extensive library is a testament to that.
For instance, Arngeir wasn't lying when he claimed that his order knows how to treat magicka burns. After chugging a couple of potions and abstaining from hard foods, Mull is already almost back to normal. His voice is more phlegmy than usual, but that's the only lingering symptom of his Shout during the Greybeards' ceremony.
And Mirmulnir has also been quiet, which is a blessing for sure. This would be much less enjoyable if he was blabbering in my ear with his usual enthusiasm. Part of the reason he came to High Hrothgar in the first place was the hope that the Greybeards would have some secretive method for permanently silencing the dead dragon – but so far, it seems that simply being at High Hrothgar is all he needs. Mirmulnir has been conspicuously unresponsive for nearly a week now. There have been times in the past when the dragon was more reticent that usual, but even then there was always a nub of something foreign crouched in the depths of Mull's awareness, as if Mirmulnir could break his self-imposed silence at any moment. Now, that feeling is completely gone.
But even though his resident disembodied dragon has been inordinately cooperative, that doesn't mean all is well with him.
As Arngeir drones on relentlessly, Mull jolts when something else suddenly hisses on the edge of his hearing, almost causing him to flinch. It's a familiar sound, unfortunately. There was a time when he would mistake it for the keening wind, but no more.
A delicate chorus of whispers and chants is descending from the top of the mountain, so faint that they might be imagined, exactly like the voices at Shroud Hearth Barrow. They've been continuously emanating from the imposing snowcapped peak beyond the misty flight of stairs on the other side of the courtyard for some time now, rising and falling in volume without any discernible pattern. They want him to climb to the ancient slopes soaring overhead with all due haste. With each word, they compel him to come closer and seek them out at their source so as to discover precisely what mysteries they hold.
And the longer they go on, the more intense they become. He feels unnatural heat pressing against his skin, almost like a heartbeat. Humid breath washes across the back of his head, tickling the bare nape of his neck and causing his fingers to twitch with a mind of their own.
Something is up there. Something powerful. He wasn't entirely sure at first, but there's no doubt about it now. The Greybeards have a secret sequestered atop the Throat of the World, and whatever it is, it's at the summit of the stairs beneath the shadow of their narrow tower.
If the Sight is leading him to it, then it must be related to the ancient Nordic ruins.
And by extension, that means it's almost certainly connected to the dragons.
As he stares at the mist-laden flight of steps from the corner of his eye, the whispers steadily become louder and more insistent. Whatever's at the upper end of that staircase is undeniably significant. He can feel it in his bones. A hunter's urge to chase after his unknown quarry begins eating away at him, stealing his attention from the elderly monk and redirecting it elsewhere.
It doesn't take long for Arngeir to notice his distraction. "I see that your mind is beginning to wander."
Mull shakes his head and tries to refocus, but the Sight-voices make it difficult. He mutters angrily and rubs his forehead in exasperation.
Thankfully, Arngeir is gracious enough to take pity on him. "I believe we've spent enough time out-of-doors for one day, Dragonborn. Let us retire into the monastery for now. We still have many weighty topics on which to converse."
"…Aye. Let's do that."
He rises to his feet with a heavy exhalation, generating a cloud of white vapor that wisps away into the nothingness beyond the precipitous edge of the courtyard. He gives the mountain peak above them one last glance, mentally committing to investigate it some other time, before turning to Arngeir and following him back to the monastery. At least inside, the whispers shouldn't be able to bother him.
-x-
Arngeir leads him to a cozy annex of the library deep within the bowels of High Hrothgar. It looks to be a private study of sorts, with the walls being covered from top to bottom by bookshelves packed full of dusty volumes. Candles are burning merrily in sconces and he can smell the ever-present scent of incense emanating from somewhere.
Three robed individuals are already occupying the room, but they hastily depart when he and Arngeir stroll inside. The elderly Greybeard settles into a recently-vacated wooden armchair and gestures for Mull to do the same with another. They occupy either end of a table stacked high with tomes of all shapes, sizes, and colors.
"This is one of the most secluded areas of our library," Arngeir announces. "I believe it might be a good place to discuss more… esoteric subjects. Is it to your liking?"
One of the monks that just left, a girl who appears to be several years younger than Mull, soon returns with a steaming cup of tea in each hand. She gulps nervously as she approaches the table, her eyes darting rapidly between the two seated men with every step closer. Once she's within arm's length, she thrusts forward the mugs with shaky hands while leaning away as far as she can. She looks like a tamer of exotic beasts who's carefully trying to feed a wild lion. It must not be every day that the novice Greybeards get an opportunity to serve the headmaster of their order, much less the Dragonborn too.
Mull accepts one of the proffered mugs with a slight grin, amused by her behavior. After she retreats and hastily closes the door behind her, he takes an exploratory sip and hums appreciatively. Elves ear. It's good.
"Sure," he finally answers the elderly Greybeard. "I know I've said it before, but this library really is something else. I'm surprised you're able to have a place like this so far away from civilization."
"Civilization is a relative term, Dragonborn." The monk spreads his hands to the dozens if not hundreds of books around them. "And in this place where the recorded histories and legendariums of our people are shielded from the ravages of time, do we not sit among the trappings of cultural edification? The true mark of civilization is memory, and I assure you that our memories are long."
Mull concedes the point. "Aye. When you put it like that, I can't argue." He swallows another mouthful of delightfully warm tea. "Why are the younger monks so skittish, anyways? Do I really look that scary to them? Have they never seen a man of the lower world before?" he smirks.
"It's because you are Dragonborn," Arngeir states with deceptive simplicity. "You are the ordained receptacle of the gods' benedictions, and their power rests heavily upon you as a result. By a certain definition, you could be called something akin to a walking spiritual experience for men such as I."
Mull's smirk rapidly morphs into a deep frown. "What in Oblivion does that mean?"
"I won't go into excessive detail, as we already have much to discuss. Suffice it to say for now that the Dragonborn are the greatest Tongues of all. The Voice is worship made manifest, and those with the Dragon Blood are the most eminently able to make use of their Voice. By the very nature of their existence, they are closer to the gods than mortal men could ever hope to be, not even we Greybeards. Theirs is an unmatchable inborn gift – or rather I ought to say yours, for you are Dragonborn. And that, ultimately, is my intended meaning. Simply being in your presence and having the ability to interact with you face to face is a very special thing and a true blessing from Kyne."
Arngeir's oration makes Mull increasingly uncomfortable the longer it goes on. Him, special? Yeah right.
He's just a man. Not even a good man, but one who's done many things that this monk would doubtlessly find repulsive in the extreme. He's a man who willingly lies, cheats, steals, and butchers for a living. A man who abandons colleagues and allies without hesitation just to save his own skin. A man who cares nothing for the pacifistic doctrines these Greybeards are espousing.
A man with a vicious dragon cohabitating his mind, and the inexplicable ability to read and understand the dragon language, and who is somehow able to Shout like a Tongue with no prior experience whatsoever…
Alright, point taken. But still, me? The Dragonborn? Just… why? Months have passed since the Western Watchtower and I'm still not any closer to understanding.
He visibly struggles to contain his displeasure. "I, uh… I'll have to take your word for it, Arngeir."
"Of course." The monk settles himself more firmly into his seat, returning to his usual disposition as a model of stoic professionalism. Mull gets the feeling that his elderly host is about to break out the serious questions.
The increasingly tense atmosphere reminds him of one particularly memorable incident where he was interrogated by two pitiless wardens in a Redguard prison near Elinhir. Those bastards didn't have an ounce of empathy between them as they grilled him for information about his gang, who were hiding in the foothills of the Dragontail Mountains at the time. From one professional to another, he recognizes in hindsight that they did a phenomenal job of using silence to their advantage, allowing it to linger heavily in his dirty cell as they waited for him to start talking, or else. But he was younger then and a whole lot stupider. He hadn't yet learned the necessity of holding his tongue around people who had the ability and inclination to beat his ass black and blue for perceived insults. Well, those two wardens made sure he learned his lesson. He learned it well enough to never make the same mistake again.
This is obviously a completely different situation, but it gives him the exact same certainly that he won't like whatever's going to come next.
Arngeir sets aside his mug with a muted clinking of clay against varnished wood. "I do not intend to pressure you, but when you are ready and willing, I would like you to describe your experiences from before you came to us – the details of your ascendance as Dragonborn first and foremost, along with whatever else you deem relevant. There is much I could glean from this information."
Mull slumps his shoulders and internally curses. He knew this would happen at some point, but he was really hoping he'd be able to weasel out of it somehow. This isn't a conversation he's looking forward to at all. "I'm not so good with words, you know," he stalls. "I've never had the knack for explaining things like some people do. Especially things like this."
"I understand, but I would still like you to try."
It's clear to him that Arngeir isn't going to budge on this. He's wearing that infuriating expression of infinite patience that only old men are capable of exhibiting. He saw this exact same attitude from Joren plenty of times back before their gang was wiped out, so he knows the signs well enough. They could sit here all day and this geriatric fart will just keep on waiting.
"Well… alright then," he grudgingly yields. "But you asked for it."
What follows is an abridged account of his time in Skyrim since he arrived in the province earlier this year. He describes the skirmish at the Darkwater, the annihilation of Helgen, his journey to Whiterun, and everything else.
But as he continues to talk, his dissertation soon turns into an unregulated outpouring of his numerous worries, his fears, and the frustration he feels at the sheer ridiculousness of what his life has become. His poorly-suppressed anger rapidly rises to the surface despite his efforts to the contrary and almost instantly runs out of control. Before long, he's bombarding the hapless monk with just about every grievance he can think of.
He vehemently bitches for several minutes straight, listing off his complaints one after the other and adding new ones as they occur to him.
Has he begun to accept his supposed Dragonbornness? Yes.
Does he still think it's exceedingly stupid? Also yes.
"It's a cosmic joke, is what it is," he angrily growls. "Solid proof that the gods have a sick sense of humor."
Arngeir sips at his tea and nods along, completely unmoved by Mull's lengthening rant.
"I've been told by more people than I can count – you Greybeards included – that I must've been chosen by Kyne and Shor themselves to fulfill this role, that I was chosen for a reason. But what possible reason could there be for this?! I'm not a hero! Unless the gods somehow chose me out of convenience or spite, I just don't understand why. There are so many other people who could've, and should've, been Dragonborn. Just about anyone would be more of a hero than I could ever hope to be. Or would ever want to be," he grimly adds. "Take it from me, monk. Bandits don't make good heroes."
The Greybeard glances up from his tea, just over the rim of the mug, and watches Mull with an intensity he previously lacked as he wraps up his tirade with a cute little bow.
"Maybe the gods really did make me Dragonborn," he concludes. "But that doesn't mean it was a good idea. I'm not strong enough for something like this. I'm no godsdamn hero." If he was, then Morven wouldn't have died. It's that simple. This is precisely the reason he needs more power.
"To become an effective Tongue has nothing to do with strength," Arngeir interjects before he can say anything else. "The Way of the Voice is a path to enlightenment, understanding, and acceptance of oneself. The Tongues of old once used the Voice for violence and war, but we do not. We use it for its truest and most worthy purpose – that of peaceful worship."
Mull laughs without humor. "I'm not a man of peace, Arngeir. I mean… look at me."
He gestures to his scarred visage, now even more scarred than before.
"Does this look like the face of a hero to you? I came here to find power for myself, not for theology lessons."
"The gods do not judge what is outside," the Greybeard gently answers. "Rather, they look only to what is within a man. The heart does not lie. The tongue may lie, and so too may the eyes and the ears. But the heart… never."
He scoffs. "That's exactly what I'm worried about."
"…Hmm." With a thoughtful grunt, Arngeir stands and shuffles over to one of the room's numerous bookshelves. He clears his throat and begins perusing a row of leatherbound tomes with his hands clasped behind his back like a lecturing philosopher.
"You profess these things to be true, and yet the fact remains that you've tasted of the Voice. But that's all it was – a taste, a mere glimpse into something far deeper and more profound. So take care not cast judgement too readily, as your journey has only just begun. For our present purposes, I will endeavor to treat you the same as I would any other new member of our order, who we call novitiates. You are able to wield the Voice, but you still know nothing more of its intricacies than an untested neophyte. As you are now, the Voice will instead wield you, and to great and terrible effect. This is the eventuality that the Way of the Voice was designed to prevent."
Mull grumbles and crosses his arms, but doesn't interrupt.
"However, you must understand that the Voice doesn't have a mind of its own. It's more than merely a tool, but it still must be utilized by the Tongue as if it were. And what is a tool? It is a device used with intention to instigate a change in our surroundings and to do something we couldn't otherwise achieve with our hands of flesh and blood. Skill is required to manipulate any tool effectively, and that holds true for the Voice as well. We've seen for ourselves that your technique is without fault, but as it currently stands, the power of your Thu'um is limited by its very nature. Fus, 'Force,' is a versatile Shout, but it lacks focus. Force without Balance is insubstantial. This is something that you will learn better in the coming weeks, if you choose to accept our teachings.
"But for now we shall begin where all initiates do, with the most vital foundation of any meditative art. And that, Dragonborn, is self-knowledge. Or self-restraint if you would prefer, which is the knowing of one's own limits. The Voice is an intrinsically internal art, and whatever lies within the self is necessarily made known through the Thu'um. The road to this understanding of oneself is something we call the Inner Path, which is the Way we must follow to achieve lasting harmony with the Voice."
Arngeir selects a book from the shelf, flips through the first few pages, and returns with it to his seat at the table.
"However, to gain true proficiency in the Way of the Voice, you cannot simply go through the motions with a smile upon your lips. The gods cannot be fooled. You must genuinely commit to bettering yourself and to making whatever changes must be made. An element of sacrifice is involved. How much are you willing to give? What will you surrender? Your pride as a man, perhaps? Your base greed? Your frustration at past slights? These are the things that must be considered and potentially discarded as required. The Way is not easy."
Mull's scowl deepens. Some of those hit a little closer to home than he would've liked.
"Performing the Thu'um is analogous to filling a cup and pouring it out." Arngeir picks up his mug of tea and gradually tilts it over. Droplets of liquid trickle into a nearby candle sconce, causing the oil-fueled flame to sputter loudly. "When using the Voice, you take the meaning of the words into yourself and then project them outwards as a Shout. That is the manner in which the inner self, the Inner Path, affects the outer Voice. The cup must be filled with something. If one's Thu'um is fueled by emotion, then those emotions will be poured into the Shout. These things can be hatred, sorrow, vengeance, lust, envy, fear, desperation, or even love. This was the case for our forefathers long ago, who allowed their passions and desires to direct their Voices, and it is still true for many men today. There are alternatives however, although they may not be as simple or as obvious. Peace, stillness, serenity, tranquility, understanding – these are things that may also form the heart of one's Voice. That distinction is significant, for it is our hearts that rule our actions."
Arngeir smiles morosely.
"But if only our raw mortal emotions could depart from us so easily. They leave their mark upon our flesh, as your Thu'um did when you've Shouted in the past. Destructive emotions can be harsh and abrasive to the heart, and the articulation of any Shout governed by those emotions is bound to be equally unpleasant. You profess to have experienced this for yourself, Dragonborn."
"Yeah," he admits. Harsh and abrasive. That's a good way to describe it. He distinctly remembers his throat feeling like someone had forced him to swallow a mouthful of shattered glass after his first Shout at the Western Watchtower.
"Consider it like this. You taught yourself to use the Thu'um incorrectly – through no fault of your own, of course – and have thus become accustomed to what we might call a bad habit. That habit must be broken just like any other. This is hardly unusual, as many novitiates fall into the same pitfall in the early years of their instruction. I merely wish to make you aware of this fault and to help you correct it before it worsens. Nevertheless, this will not be a straightforward endeavor for you.
"To pursue the Way of the Voice is to devote yourself to a difficult and immensely time-consuming journey. It takes years upon years of diligent training and meditation to master even the simplest of Shouts. Can you commit yourself to spending months or years of your life in the singular pursuit of one goal, which is to know the gods better? It's true that because you are Dragonborn, you will surely learn the Voice much faster than the average mortal due to your dragon soul. It's also true that you might be able to learn Shouts more quickly by acceding to your negative emotions and giving life to your Voice by that method. However, the Way of the Voice is much more… sustainable, if you will. I will touch upon this later, as I see you now have something to say."
This all sounds well and good, but Mull finds himself growing even more uneasy with the direction their conversation is taking.
This isn't him. He isn't the kind of man who should receive instruction in these mystical topics. He can't shake the feeling that if Arngeir knew the true extent of who he really is and the things he's done, then this discussion would have a much different tone. "…You're talking about meditating and discovering yourself and all this nonsense that I just don't understand. You say it'll be difficult, but I think what you really mean is impossible. This just isn't my way. It never has been."
He didn't have to be a bandit. It's rare for somebody to be forced into that way of life without any choice in the matter at all, and that certainly wasn't the case for him. He made his living through thievery and bloodshed because it appealed to his darker nature. That's all there is to it.
The monk considers him for a long moment. His piercing stare makes Mull distinctly uncomfortable. "…Is peace the way of any man? Are any mortals born with goodness in their heart? Or must an attitude of compassion and forbearance not first be learned through trial and error? You shouldn't condemn yourself unfairly, for just as you do to yourself, so too will you invariably do to others."
"Don't patronize me, monk," Mull growls. "You don't know anything about my life or what I've chosen to do with it. Who knows? Maybe a little condemnation would do me some good."
Arngeir calmly drinks his tea and allows Mull to simmer in silence for a while. "…Allow me, if you will, to recount the tale of Jurgen Windcaller – the founder of our order, as you may recall. I've mentioned him once before, but I didn't go into much detail. Now, I believe I shall. Perhaps you will find his story to be somewhat applicable."
Mull takes a series of deep breaths, forcing his heartbeat to slow. He momentarily laments that his tea isn't something stronger. "Go ahead."
"Please make yourself comfortable, for this will not be a brief telling." The old monk pauses to adjust the collar of his robes. "Jurgen Windcaller, or Jurgen the Calm as he later became known, was once a renowned warrior and Tongue among our distant ancestors. His Thu'um was the mightiest of his generation, and in that day there were many Tongues throughout Skyrim. When the fires of war once again enveloped the north of Tamriel, Jurgen accompanied an army that marched to Red Mountain in Morrowind and there fought against the assembled hosts of the Dunmer, Dwemer and Orcs. But at the foot of the blasted mountain's desolate slopes, the warriors of the Nords were ignominiously defeated and driven back to the borders of Skyrim, and so Jurgen went away from the battlefield a humbled man. As was the norm in that time, his Voice was fueled primarily from his passions and his desire for greatness, and so when these things failed him he had little left on which to rely. Jurgen began searching inwards for the answers to his questions, as he could not fathom why the gods-given Voices of the Nords might have fallen so short that day."
This is familiar. Mull read something like this on the shrines along the Steps. One thing he specifically remembers is that Jurgen faced seventeen disputants, though only because he thought 'disputant' was an odd word.
"After a full seven years of introspection and scrutiny of the history of the Voice, he finally gained the understanding that our people had grown arrogant with their Tongues, becoming more like the dragons of old than they had ever been before. The gods did not gift us with the power of the Voice for conquest and dominion but rather for reverence and praise, and Jurgen believed that the downfall of the Nords had been a form of corrective punishment. He thus concluded that the Voice should be used solely for the glorification of the gods and never for the glorification of men. It is a means of attaining enlightenment and not personal power as he had so mistakenly thought.
"With his newfound knowledge of the Voice's true nature, Jurgen then sought council with the other great Tongues of his day to convince them of his epiphany's veracity. But they did not accept his claims, and so Jurgen was forced to do battle with seventeen of the opposing Tongues. According to our legends, Jurgen swallowed the Shouts of these Tongues for three entire days until each and every one of them collapsed, driven to exhaustion by the demands of their Voices that depended so utterly upon their own strength. Afterwards they acknowledged the superiority of Jurgen's Voice and accepted that they failed to defeat him due to the superiority of his new philosophy. They then traveled with Jurgen the Calm to the highest slopes of the Throat of the World, where he established a monastery called High Hrothgar as his new home. He dedicated this place to the furtherance of his philosophy, the Way of the Voice, which espoused peace and inner balance above all else. Those who followed him became known as the Greybeards, and even still in this present day, we devote ourselves to reflecting upon the nature of Jurgen Windcaller's Way."
Mull leans back in his chair and quirks an eyebrow. "That's quite a tale."
"It is. But it's also one from which meaningful lessons can be learned, or so I like to believe. When I earlier stated that the improper use of the Voice is not sustainable, I was referring to the manner in which Jurgen Windcaller defeated the Seventeen Disputants. Rather than actively seeking their destruction with his Voice, he instead outlasted them as they Shouted themselves into their own shameful defeat. A Shout fueled with rage might be powerful, but it exacts an equally cruel physical toll from the Tongue. A Shout performed through the Way of the Voice is fluid and graceful by comparison. Through the Way of the Voice, one may use their Thu'um for a greater purpose, a higher goal, and their Shouts are fueled by this selfless drive rather than selfish emotion. That greater purpose is for worship, by which we might honor the gods in their own language and show them that we Men are worthy of their gifts. This, in simple terms, is the Way of the Voice. Breath and focus."
Mull scratches his chin as he slowly digests Arngeir's exposition. The old monk wasn't wrong earlier. This story of the first Greybeard actually does have some parallels to his own, as much as he hates to accept it. Jurgen Windcaller was a warrior who became a man of peace. Sounds like a fairy tale. It might be one for all I know.
Of course, he doesn't say that out loud. Instead he states something else that's been gnawing at him for a while. "I've got to admit, this isn't exactly what I was expecting when I decided to come to High Hrothgar."
"No? And what were you expecting, if I may ask?"
"Tiber Septim used the Voice to conquer Tamriel, so I came here under the impression that your teachings would be something more practical. Not to insult your ideals about peace, but… you know… I was expecting the 'continental conquest' type of practical. That would've been more relevant to somebody like me, I think."
Arngeir's eyes twinkle with humor as he stifles a chuckle. "Your puzzlement is not unmerited, Dragonborn. Know that you aren't wholly incorrect. However, the Way of the Voice is a fundamentally noninterventionist philosophy. The Thu'um is worship and it should ideally be used only for heavenly veneration. That being said, the misfortunate truth is that we do not live in an ideal world, and there are occasions when our Voices must be unleashed in all their destructive glory for the betterment of another or for self-defense. This was the case during Jurgen Windcaller's confrontation with the Seventeen Disputants. But please understand that these are exceptions to the rule and not the norm, as the violent use of the Voice should be restricted only to times of 'True Need.' This along with the Inner Path is one of the core concepts of our Way of the Voice and is just as important if not more so. Secluded as we are on the Throat of the World, we Greybeards will likely never encounter a situation that merits the invocation of True Need. You on the other hand are Dragonborn, and your moments of True Need will almost certainly be far more numerous than ours could ever be. That was the case for Ysmir Talos and many others who came before him as well.
"However, that isn't an excuse to do as you please in the world below. Many were the Tongues and Dragonborn heroes of Skyrim's ancient years who met their unforeseen downfall due to the ease with which they learned to wield the Thu'um, for it made them arrogant. Their rapid mastery of the Voice inevitably fooled them into believing they were inherently superior under their own power rather than by that which was granted to them."
"But…"
"Yes?"
Mull wrinkles his forehead as he considers the best way to word his question. "…If the Way of the Voice is supposed to be so difficult, then how did I learn my first Shout without knowing what in Oblivion I was doing?"
"The Way of the Voice is not the Voice. It is only a Way." At seeing his confusion, Arngeir takes up one of the tomes lying on the table – the one he took from the bookshelf, Mull recalls – and starts leafing through its pages until he's nearly towards the end. "You slew a dragon upon the plains of Whiterun, did you not?"
Mull hesitates, perplexed by the sudden change in topic. "I participated. I'm not the one who killed him. At least, I don't think so."
Arngeir raises a bushy eyebrow.
"The battle was hectic, and by the time it was over we were hacking the dragon apart like a bunch of wild dogs. It was all we could do to keep ourselves alive." For an instant, his nostrils are assailed by the rancid stench of burning flesh. "Really, calling it a battle makes it sound like something it wasn't. There was no honor involved or any other Nordic virtues. It was survival."
The monk faintly winces before pressing on. "Even so, when this was done, I assume you absorbed the dragon's power?"
Mull shrugs. "That's what it seemed like."
"Then your swift and unpracticed learning of your first Shout is evidently the nature of your dragon soul at work." He indicates the open tome lying open between them, pointing specifically to a handful of scrawling lines. "There are several texts in this library that speak of the ancient Dragonborn, and many of them imply that upon gaining a slain dragon's power, these heroes of old would subsume its knowledge of the Thu'um. I do not know the specifics of this phenomenon – you would likely know better than I – but this must be how you acquired your current understanding of Fus."
So it's all Mirmulnir's doing. I guess that isn't a surprise. He did say he's a part of me, though I never figured out what exactly that was supposed to mean until recently. It finally sunk in when I Shouted at the ceremony.
In that moment, he suddenly remembers something he should've thought about earlier. "The dragon wasn't the only thing, actually."
"Oh?"
"I don't suppose you know much about ancient Nordic barrows, do you?"
"I can't say that I do. I've never had cause to enter such a ruin, though I did occasionally spy them from afar in my younger years."
"Didn't think so," Mull mutters. He assumed that would be the case for a monk who's spent most of his life in this monastery, but it never hurts to ask. "A couple months ago, I got roped into doing a job for the Court Wizard of Whiterun. He sent me to a place called Bleak Falls Barrow, in the mountains on the other side of the White River. It's a Nordic tomb."
Arngeir nods his understanding.
"The wizard wanted me to track down this old tablet for him. He called it a Dragonstone, if that means anything to you. I'd been his assistant for some research he was doing into the dragons, which is part of the reason he sent me there."
The monk perks up. His ice-blue eyes gleam in the candlelight.
"I was loitering in his study one day and he asked me to read through some of his translation materials as a dumb joke. They were transcriptions of dragon-runes. So I picked up one of them and I read it." He gives Arngeir a hard look, hoping to convey the significance of what he's saying. "It was no different from reading something in Tamrielic. I didn't even realize it wasn't Tamrielic until the wizard pointed it out to me."
"And he then instructed you to go to this Bleak Falls Barrow," Arngeir says softly. "Because something there was related to the runes, I presume?"
"Right. While I was down in the barrow with a few other poor bastards, we found this big stone wall sitting at the back of a cave, like a shrine or something." He points to the far side of the room. "It was about as long as here to that bookshelf and back again, and higher than the ceiling. The whole thing was covered top-to-bottom in runes. They were dragon-runes, hundreds of 'em or more, and I could read them just like the ones from before. The thing is… I don't know how to explain it, but these runes were somehow different from the others. It was like they were reciting themselves aloud in my head. Some of them glowed, though I'm pretty sure I was the only one who could see that. At one point, I apparently blacked out and fell asleep standing up for a few minutes. The others who were with me said that I stood there and stared at the wall like I was paralyzed or dead."
Mull pauses to moisten his mouth with some more tea.
"I also found the tablet that the wizard sent me there to retrieve, and what do you know? It had dragon-runes too. But the point of me telling you this, I guess, is that one of the words on the big wall said 'Force.' And that's the Shout I was able to use after we killed Mirmulnir."
"And so it goes full circle." Arngeir sits quietly for a while, immersed in wordless contemplation.
Mull finishes off the final dregs of his drink while the monk does his thinking. This much talking has made him thirsty.
Arngeir murmurs under his breath and stirs from his deliberation. "You've doubtlessly discerned this already, but there is a connection between the dragon-runes and your absorption of the slain dragon's power. As I previously mentioned, it's documented that a Dragonborn gains a portion of a dragon's knowledge of the Thu'um upon its demise. This is something I know very little about beyond what the histories tell us. The issue of the dragon-runes, on the other hand, is a topic with which I'm more familiar."
"Really?" A glimmer of excitement rises inside of Mull. Maybe he'll be able to learn something useful here. He's always felt that there was a significance to the runes he never fully grasped, and he doesn't remember ever getting a straight answer about them. 'You're Dragonborn, congratulations' doesn't count.
"Yes, Dragonborn. We have extensive knowledge of the language of dragons stored here in High Hrothgar, which we call by the name Dovahzul. I imagine this is to be expected, as draconic Words of Power are integral to the usage of the Voice. If the Court Wizard's goal was to decipher the runic alphabet of Dovahzul, then he could've simply traveled to High Hrothgar and requested an audience with us." Arngeir's expression softens, showing he means no insult.
Farengar had agonized over the dragon-runes for weeks during Mull's tenure in Dragonsreach, and for months more before that. As far as he's aware, the possibility that the Greybeards could have wisdom to offer had never crossed the wizard's mind. What a moron.
"As a matter of fact," the Greybeard continues. "We often manufacture scrolls or tablets inscribed with these runes to aid in the study and teaching of the Voice. There are many such documents here within the monastery, and I'm certain you'll see some of them for yourself as you progress in the Way of the Voic. But I must say, it's both impressive and unsurprising that you possess the ability to read Dovahzul without instruction. You are Dragonborn, a dragon inhabiting the body of a mortal, and the language of the dragons is intrinsic to their very being. Their power is their Voice and their righteousness is determined by the strength of their Thu'um. Or so these books have informed us." He taps the cover of the tome in his hands as he closes it with a papery thump. A cloud of dust wafts from between its pages.
Scrolls and tablets, huh? I didn't think about that before, but it does make sense. The Greybeards have to learn the words somehow.
"But there is one thing that stands out to me as a bit peculiar. You said that as you read the runes upon the wall in the barrow, they… spoke to you, correct?"
"Aye. It was a odd experience, to say the least." That's for damn sure. "It was like a dozen people were whispering in my ears all at once. Most of it was nonsense, but I could understand some of the words. And I felt the same thing radiating from Shroud Hearth Barrow down in Ivarstead too, though it was much fainter. Another one of those black walls is inside that barrow. I'm sure of it." He doesn't mention that he's been getting that feeling from further up the mountain as well. He'll ask Arngeir about that at some point, but he doesn't want to totally derail the current conversation. He's getting a lot of good information right now. There's an art to interrogation, as he knows well enough.
For that same reason, he also decides against mentioning what Mirmulnir told him about the ghostly voices and their true nature as a manifestation of the Sight. He isn't sure he could explain it even if he wanted to, since he wasn't able to comprehend half of what the dead dragon said to him.
"Intriguing. Most intriguing." The monk slowly strokes his beard. In the flickering light with his drawn hood and shadowed features, he could pass as a rogue conjurer planning some great and terrible deed. "I've never heard of this before. That isn't necessarily surprising, as Ysmir Talos and his descendants are the only Dragonborn we've known in the last thousand years, and there are few enough records concerning their Dragon Blood as it is. Well, records of any notable veracity I should say. There's plenty of baseless conjecture on the subject." His gaze refocuses on Mull. "Ah, but I apologize. We seem to have gone on a rather lengthy tangent. Pertinent perhaps, but a tangent still."
Mull awkwardly waves away the apology. "That's alright. I've learned a lot already."
"The day is growing short, but while we're here, are there any other questions you would like to ask of me?"
"Aye, I've got a couple." This first one in particular might be considered the question. "Do you know anything about why the dragons have suddenly come back? I thought they were supposed to be extinct."
Arngeir's amiable expression becomes much more guarded. It isn't indicative of dishonesty, but the monk is certainly choosing his words much more carefully than before. "I'm sorry to tell you that we know very little. Their reappearance is shocking to us all. I do truly wish I could tell you more, but… I doubt that I could provide the answers you surely desire. All I will say is that I personally don't believe the arrival of a new Dragonborn at this point in time could be a coincidence. Surely your path is bound up with these newly-returned dragons in some way."
Well that isn't a terrifying thought at all. Not for the first time, Mull shudders as his mind conjures an image of the red-eyed monster that destroyed Helgen. He wants nothing to do with that thing if he can help it. "I hope you're wrong about that," he replies with as much fervor as he can muster.
"As do I," the monk dourly replies. "But I fear that I am not. More shall be revealed in time, as is often the nature of these things."
"If that's what you think, then you probably weren't too happy that I delayed coming to High Hrothgar after your Call. With dragons flying around for the first time in centuries, you monks must've been pissing your pants up here waiting for the gods' chosen dragon-slayer to arrive."
Arngeir doesn't bat an eye at his sardonic tone. "We have waited long for one such as you, Dragonborn. Heed my words when I say the mere few months that elapsed between our summons and your arrival have made little difference to us."
"Aye, maybe not. But it made a hell of a difference to me."
"In what way would that be?"
"…Arngeir, what can you tell me about the Dragonborn?"
The monk hums thoughtfully. "We've already discussed much about your nature and there is still much more I could tell you. However, I believe there's something more specific you want to know, is there not? And perhaps you're simply unsure of how best to ask?
Mull snorts. "I've never had a good poker face, as much as I wish it weren't so. What I'm trying to ask is… what does it mean to be Dragonborn exactly?"
"Ah. A profound question, and one that cannot be answered by simply describing what a Dragonborn is." Arngeir taps his fingers in a sharp staccato on the tabletop. "This will not satisfy you, but I honestly couldn't say what it means to be blessed by the gods in terms of fate and the inner spirit. However, we are here to guide you in pursuit of that meaning, just as the Greybeards have always sought to guide those of the Dragon Blood who came before you. We will do our best to teach you how to use your gift in fulfillment of your destiny. Perhaps then you will be able to find that meaning for yourself."
Destiny, huh? That's one concept Mull doesn't much like to think about. "And… what is my destiny?"
"That is for you to discover. We can show you the Way, but not the destination."
"That doesn't really answer my question."
The monk huffs good-naturedly. "I do not believe I am qualified to answer it."
Coming from the headmaster of the legendary Greybeards, that's really saying something. Mull bites down on a frustrated retort. "Then who is?"
The old man smiles. "If I find out, you will be the first whom I inform."
Mull harumphs with annoyance. "I guess that'll have to be good enough."
Arngeir departs shortly afterwards, citing a need to convene with some other monks before the evening meal to discuss matters pertaining to the monastery, but Mull remains sitting by himself at the book-strewn table with his empty cup of tea for a long time. He isn't accustomed to thinking about things that are this complicated – the life of a bandit is blessedly simple – but he still does his best to make sense of everything he's learned today. One particular revelation is dominating his thoughts.
Mirmulnir's Way is fueled by harsh and abrasive emotion. That's why his throat hurts so much and his voice – his lowercase voice – takes a multiday vacation whenever he Shouts. Those are symptoms he would gladly do without, and if Arngeir is to be believed, the Greybeards' philosophies should offer him a potential solution. He's already seen that the Voice is too beneficial not to use, so giving it up entirely isn't an option.
Mirmulnir said his weakness was the root of his problems. There's definitely some truth to that, but what he's learned from Arngeir is now making him think there's more to it that just petty weakness. It's possible that the Way of the Voice will be completely useless and that his time spent here at the monastery will be a total waste of effort. But if there's any chance that the Greybeards can teach him methods of becoming more powerful, even if it's through the use of their pacifist philosophy, then surely it'll be worthwhile.
According to the old monk, mastering the Way of the Voice will be exceedingly difficult and time-consuming. But if he thinks that'll scare me away, then he's got another thing coming. He won't claim to be the most diligent individual, but it's a fact of life that hard work brings benefit. Bandits who are content to sit on their scrawny rear-ends inside the safety of their strongholds are the ones who waste away their entire lives in wretched poverty, scratching a meager living off rocks. By contrast, those who take the initiative to put themselves in unfamiliar situations are the ones who flourish and make something more of themselves. Assuming they survive of course, which is by no means a guarantee. They usually die faster too.
But nothing that's worth doing was ever easy. Regrettably.
With that happy thought, Mull resigns himself to a winter of hardship and unceasing effort in order to strengthen the potency of his Thu'um.
If that's what it takes to overcome this madness, then it's a price I'll happily pay.
With his mind now made, he blows out the smoldering candles and exits the silent study with a resolute stride. He wanders the shadowy halls of High Hrothgar as he searches for the nearest dining area, eager for a warm meal and a night of uninterrupted sleep. He needs to be ready for whatever will come next. If there's one thing Arngeir made clear today, it's that there's plenty of work to be done.