Chapter 41

-x-

AN: The last couple of weeks were super busy. Things have been crazy at work and aren't showing any signs of slowing down. Also, my cat got sick and we had to send him on to the Sands Behind the Stars. I think it was a combination of advanced stomach cancer and kidney failure. Fun times.

…Enjoy the chapter!

-x-

There's work to be done… He scoffs sarcastically. Yeah, right.

This isn't exactly the kind of hardship he'd been expecting.

He should've known when Arngeir said meditation, he meant meditation. Sitting cross-legged in a carpeted alcove overflowing with incense, silently pondering the nature of the Voice and the fathomless mysteries of the world.

And sitting… and listening… and pondering… and waiting for something to happen. Anything. Whatever might stave off this all-consuming boredom.

He's been at it for the entire day, from the very first glimmerings of dawn's rays early this morning, and he still hasn't been able to accomplish whatever ill-defined objective Arngeir set out for him. It's downright torturous.

Mull is accustomed to actually doing things, physically working towards whatever he's trying to achieve. But the methods of the Greybeards couldn't be any more different.

He groans and hangs his head. I'm not getting anywhere with this.

Arngeir and another monk – Borri, maybe – quietly enter the modest chamber just in time to catch the end of his lamentation. "Does something ail you, Dragonborn?"

"You could say that," he grumbles as he stands. His knees and ankles audibly pop with each movement. "I'm not cut out for this, Arngeir. I have no idea what I'm doing." He gestures to the woven mat on the floor with decanters of incense and dried herbs scattered around it, all faintly illuminated by a sliver of sunlight peeking through the room's single narrow window. "This is a complete waste of time. I'm supposed to be gaining power, but instead I'm stuck sitting on the floor with my head in the clouds for hours on end! What's the point of this?"

"When you're traveling a road as long as this one, which will take years or even decades to traverse, then perceived wastes of time are surely inevitable," Arngeir solemnly replies.

"That doesn't mean I have to like it."

"Perhaps not." The two monks share a weighted glance as they reach a wordless decision. "Walk with us if you're so inclined, Dragonborn. Where matters of the soul are concerned, a change in scenery can oftentimes prove beneficial."

Mull grunts irritably and stands to follow the pair of hooded men, trying not to show his ill-tempered satisfaction at finally being freed from this glorified prison cell. A change in scenery sounds great right about now.

After weaving through the increasingly-familiar maze of High Hrothgar's dim passageways for a few quiet minutes, the three men eventually emerge through a pair of brass doors into the snow-laden rear courtyard.

Back here again. The weather has worsened significantly since he and Arngeir's previous excursion, with sheets of snow drifting heavily amidst vortices of keening wind. Dense patches of ice have accumulated in areas where the light doesn't reach and the ambient temperature is drastically lower than before. Even though it's currently at the height of midday, the sun's rays are watery and widely dispersed due to interference from a patchwork of clouds.

Mull rubs his arms and exhales through his already-chattering teeth. "Gods above, it's freezing."

"I regret to tell you that the cold will grow much worse as winter deepens," Arngeir candidly informs him. "But luckily, we are already well prepared for that eventuality." A group of circumspect monks step forward from the doorway behind them – Mull hadn't noticed their inobtrusive presence until now – and at Borri's unspoken signal they each present a bundle of furs and fleece garments. Arngeir selects several new articles of clothing with a practiced eye and throws them over his robe. Mull gladly follows his example.

Borri ushers the other monks back inside once Arngeir and Mull are finished donning the new additions to their wardrobes, leaving them alone on the edge of the frigid courtyard. The eldest Greybeard gestures for Mull to come along and ventures away from the walls of the monastery, out into the vulnerable openness where the alpine gusts can pound against them without obstruction.

Oh, this should be good. Mull glares at the back of the monk's head as he dutifully follows in his footsteps, hunching in preparation for an intensely uncomfortably stroll.

But for once, it actually isn't as bad as he expects it to be. The biting wind isn't too painful now that they're swathed head to toe in so many thick layers. The only exception is his unprotected face, where his nose is already starting to go numb.

He sniffles and trudges after the old Greybeard. "What are we doing out here?" he calls.

"We're going to the prayer tower. I believe spending some time there might aid you in your meditations, Dragonborn."

Mull lifts his gaze to the tower on the other side of the courtyard. Although it's respectably tall, it isn't a broad structure by any means. In fact, now that he's really looking, its base seems worryingly narrow compared to the top. He might be imagining it, but he's pretty sure he can see the pinnacle swaying back and forth despite being constructed from solid stone. Icicles are clinging to the windowsills and eaves by the hundreds, lending the exterior something of a hazardous ambiance.

"You're joking," he deadpans.

"I'm afraid I am not."

"You'll need to truss me up like a hog if you want to get me inside that tower."

Arngeir stops and faces him, his face obscured beneath his cowl. "Might I ask the reason?"

"I have some recent history with seeing towers fall down," Mull drily replies. "It's made me rightfully paranoid. And this one doesn't look nearly as sturdy as the others."

"I assure you that High Hrothgar and all its subsidiary structures have been constructed without flaw. With the winter gales that assail us every year, this tower would have fallen long ago if the weather alone were enough to damage it so."

Mull licks his chapped lips and scowls at the offending spire. It continues to sway gently, as if taunting him.

"Why?"

"As I said, for a change in scenery."

"And that's supposed to help us… how, exactly?"

"Accompany me and you shall soon find out." Arngeir continues to the base of the tower without him, leaving him behind in the swirling snow.

…Ah, dammit. His pride won't allow him to back out now. He can't let this senile old man show him up. I should've just kept my mouth shut.

He clenches his fists at his sides, silently stewing in his frustration while the monk draws further away. He's just about to yell something at his receding back when a muffled noise, barely a whisper, sighs at the edge of his hearing. He goes still and listens on impulse, but it doesn't take him long to recognize the strange sounds.

The ever-so-distant resonance of incomprehensible chanting is scarcely audible over the blustery air surging round him, exactly the same as the Sight-echoes he heard out here the other day. That same something is speaking to him from somewhere on the mountaintop, calling insistently for his attention. He's able to tune it out for now when he puts his mind to it, but if he actively searches for the whispers, they're inevitably still there.

He sighs and hurries to catch up with the old monk, posing a question as they approach the entrance of the tower together. "Is there anything further up the mountain? Those stairs have to lead somewhere, right?"

Arngeir hums thoughtfully. "Ah, yes. Indeed, the grandmaster of our order dwells at the summit of this mountain. His alone is the tremendous honor of residing in holy isolation upon the majestic peak where Kyne first breathed life into Men long ago. However, I can say no more on the matter – not even to you, Dragonborn – as this knowledge is reserved exclusively for the elders of the Greybeards."

Mull frowns. "I thought you were the grandmaster."

"I am merely the headmaster of this monastery. But where the order of the Greybeards in its entirety is concerned, I am not the highest authority. That appellation belongs to the grandmaster alone."

"What's the difference?"

"To speak truthfully Dragonborn, I myself am not entirely sure. Functionally there is no difference. Neither myself nor any others who currently dwell in High Hrothgar have ever met our leader in person. The weather is too dangerous and the terrain too deadly upon the upper slopes for us to venture much higher than the monastery itself. It can be done with the use of the Voice – specifically the same Shout that we used to hold back the snows, if you recall – but to force our way into the grandmaster's abode without sufficient reason would be disrespectful in the extreme, and none of us have ever presumed to do so."

"So… how do you know he's really up there? I don't think living at the top of Tamriel's highest mountain would be conducive to a long and healthy life."

"I can only offer base speculation, but I believe his Voice is potent enough to sustain him even in such difficult conditions. We hear it rumbling from the peak on occasion with such power that it shakes the very foundations of the mountain itself. As a matter of fact, it was actually he who first sensed your power as Dragonborn and alerted us to your presence in Skyrim through the use of the Voice. That is what prompted us to Call you here. No, there is no question that he exists, nor that he is a true master of the Voice. Especially…"

"…Especially what?"

Arngeir hesitates. "This isn't something we've yet shared with outsiders, and for good reason. You are the first. It happened several months ago, long before we summoned you to High Hrothgar. We were going about our usual day-to-day business, meditating and seeing to the continued maintenance of the monastery grounds, until suddenly we heard some sort of commotion emanating from the peak. To this day, we still aren't sure precisely what caused it. All we know for certain is that two formidable Tongues suddenly engaged one another in a contest of the Thu'um, one of whom was undoubtedly our grandmaster. He seemingly prevailed, as his periodic demonstrations of the Voice have still persisted in the weeks since then, while the opposing Tongue fell silent. I couldn't say whether it's because they were slain or because they retreated, but it's indisputable that both of them were… incredibly powerful. It was an unbelievable display of control over the Thu'um, and if I hadn't heard it with my own ears, I frankly wouldn't have believed it."

"Do you have any idea who the other Tongue was?"

"We can only speculate. With the reported return of the dragons, some of us have theorized that the two events could be related in some manner. Perhaps it was a dragon that attacked our grandmaster. Or alternatively it may have been some hitherto-unknown rival Tongue. The former seems much more likely to my mind, but as with many things, we simply are not sure."

"Did this happen in Last Seed?"

Arngeir glances at him sidelong. His ice-blue eyes are kindled with curiosity. "How did you know?"

"It was just a guess, but… that's when Helgen was attacked," he somberly answers. "The town is somewhere to the southwest of here, I think. Maybe it was the same dragon. There can only be so many of them in Skyrim, right?"

"Perhaps. If it was, then that would be a troubling coincidence indeed."

"…Did you check to see if your grandmaster is still in one piece? Believe me when I tell you, there aren't many people who could survive a dragon attack unscathed. Especially if they're alone."

"We did not, although our devotion to him is great. We respect his privacy before all else and his Voice resumed shortly thereafter, leading us to conclude that he suffered no grievous injuries in the confrontation. If he had urgent need of our assistance, I trust he would've communicated his will."

Then this all begs the question, why am I hearing the Sight-voices from up there? Who is this grandmaster of the Greybeards? Is he so powerful that I can sense him like a dragon? Is that even possible for a mortal? Or maybe there's a wall with dragon-runes up there, calling for me. That seems unlikely, but you never know.

"Ah. We've arrived." As they pass beneath the threshold of the Greybeards' icy tower, Arngeir pauses and gestures for Mull to enter first. He's so deep in thought that he nearly trips over the doorsill.

Despite his earlier reservations, he limits himself to an unhappy grimace as he ducks inside the tight doorway and mounts the first steps of a steep spiraling staircase. Arngeir enters behind him and together they scale the tower one ancient step at a time. At least they're protected from the wind by the structure's curved walls.

But the reprieve doesn't last long. When they summit the tower and emerge onto its uppermost platform, the wind greets them with redoubled ferocity as it buffets their clothing and unshielded faces. There's a peaked roof above their heads, but the lack of walls around this balcony is already proving to be problematic. Their only consolation is that it offers an admittedly pleasant view of their surroundings.

To the left, High Hrothgar stands regally with its many candlelit windows and sturdy battlements. Directly ahead, the courtyard terminates in its sheer drop-off over the mountain slope, and beyond that is a dusky landscape obscured by dark clouds and slithering mist.

Arngeir simply stands and watches the snowfall eddying around their precarious perch. With nothing better to do, Mull bundles deeper into his coat and takes a seat against one of the pillars supporting the roof, allowing his legs to dangle near the edge of the balcony.

His mind soon begins to wander. It's dead silent here atop the tower due to the dampening snow and their isolation by height, and he quickly sinks into a contemplative mood with the only distractions being the muted breaths of himself and the old monk. Even the wind is conspicuously quiet for now. His brief discussion with Arngeir about the true leader of the Greybeards got him thinking about just how much he still doesn't understand about the Voice, the Tongues, and the Dragonborn.

After an indeterminable amount of time, he shifts restlessly and disturbs the wintery stillness with a question. "I know we already had this conversation, but living here with you monks just doesn't feel right to me. I'm not exactly Dragonborn material, as you know. I'm not cut out for meditating and living like a hermit on top of a mountain."

Arngeir faces him with a sympathetic expression. "I imagine no man would be."

That isn't quite the response he expected. "…How do you mean?"

"I too have given this matter some thought, and… well, allow me to ask you this. What mortal could there ever be – Talos withstanding – who might be worthy or prepared for such a state of being to be thrust upon them? You are a man and yet you also bear the soul of a dragon. You've lived as a regular mortal up until now, sharing the same flaws and vices as we all do, but now you've found yourself caught up in circumstances that preclude you from continuing to pursue an ordinary life. You couldn't reasonably be expected to adapt to your extraordinary circumstances so quickly. I won't pretend to perfectly understand your struggle, but I can certainly attempt to empathize."

"Empathize?" he snorts. "Maybe if you were a lunatic. This is a curse, Arngeir. There are literal voices speaking to me inside my head and dragons are invading my dreams. I hardly recognize myself anymore. You couldn't possibly empathize with this."

Arngeir slowly sits down beside him, groaning as his knees creak loudly. Together they watch broad banks of slate-grey clouds as they scuttle sluggishly across the veiled horizon.

"Perhaps it is indeed a curse," the monk finally replies. "Perhaps the fact that I've been sequestered in this declining monastery for the vast majority of my long life could be considered a curse. Perhaps the same could be said for the unfortunate events in your past to which you've alluded. However, I would like to believe otherwise. Could the regrettable things that have brought us to where we are now, to this very moment, not be considered blessings also? By the grace of the gods, here I am able to converse with one who is Dragonborn of yore. I never dared to imagine I would be blessed in such a way. I will not speak for you, of course, but I sincerely hope there are instances in your life where you've felt blessed. I'm sure there are, whether you recognize them or not."

His thoughts instantly turn to Morven. A part of him detests that weakness, to dwell on someone who's been dead for months. Another part of him is glad for the confirmation that he's retained at least some sliver of his former self, and for the recognition that she was indeed a blessing to him.

"But my concern, Dragonborn, does not lie with man you once were. That is not any business of mine. Rather, my concern is solely for the man you are now."

"Look, I just don't think I'm the right kind of person for you Greybeards," he tries again. "I'm not a good man. I haven't lived a peaceful life like you have, and I've killed more people than I'd care to know over reasons I can hardly remember. Your Way of the Voice sounds great and all, but it isn't for me. It isn't giving me the power I need. I don't think it's going to work." After his attempts to meditate over the past few days ended in abject failure, he's become firmly convinced that Arngeir's teachings were wasted on him.

Apparently the old monk disagrees. "The Way of the Voice is not only for a certain type of person, Dragonborn. It is for all people. Anyone who desires to make peace with the gods may do so regardless of who they are, where they come from, or what they have done. The gods care little for such trivialities. Do no delude yourself into believing that you're unworthy of the right to know the gods better, for that is a lie. The Way of the Voice can be for you if you simply allow it to be. Not merely of use to you, but for you of its own volition."

The monk's tone is undeniably passionate. Mull doesn't think he's making much sense, but there must be some truth to it or else he wouldn't be this adamant. Arngeir's no fool. He's already convinced of that.

"I… I'm not sure I understand." He's admitted that far too often in the past few days, but it's the truth whether he likes it or not. He really doesn't understand where Arngeir's assuredness is coming from. "But if you'll stand by that, then…"

"Take it from me, Dragonborn." Arngeir smiles faintly as he echoes Mull's own words from the previous day. "Through the Way of the Voice, you have the capability to become whatever you wish. This I swear to you, here before the unwavering gaze of Kyne herself. May she judge me without mercy if I speak lies to you."

Mull nods uncertainly. "Alright."

The monk returns his gesture. "Very well. Unless you have any further questions, then let us do what I brought you here to do. When you are ready, please close you eyes and enter into a spirit of meditation."

Here we go again. Stifling his lingering grumpiness, Mull shifts into a more comfortable position and follows Arngeir's instructions. Blackness overtakes him.

"As you have already heard, the Way of the Voice is an intrinsically internal art. What lies within the self is of much greater significance than what lies without. The key to the Way is self-knowledge, but that's an exceedingly difficult thing to grasp. However, you must learn to grasp it if you wish to properly begin the journey that lies before you."

The void behind his eyelids is interrupted only by the vaguest of sensations. Phantom spots migrate along the edges of his sightlessness with every twitch of his blinded eyes. Dim streaks of light intermingle and hover in the corners, faintly indicating the direction of the sun behind the clouds.

"The art of meditation is a difficult thing to learn for those who are unaccustomed to it, but today I shall strive to help you solidify your foundation. First, you must sink deeply within yourself and endeavor to search for whatever lies there. Imagine that you're adrift on the surface of an endless sea, treading water without land in sight in any direction. There is only the abyss above and the abyss below, with naught but yourself floating in between. You cannot go upwards and there is no viable destination along the spokes of the compass, so therefore you can only descend.

"You must freely allow the grasping tides to draw you beneath the waves no matter how uncomfortable it might feel. Let yourself be fully immersed from the soles of your feet all the way to the crown of your skull, until nothing remains above the surface. All around you is the infinite darkness of a vast ocean, where you are alone except for your heartbeat and the rise and fall of your chest. In the entirety of the world, the only things worthy of your attention are yourself and the flesh that houses your soul. Feel the rise and fall of your chest. Breathe."

Inhale. Exhale.

"Breathe."

Inhale. Exhale.

"Breathe. Breathe, and the peace of Kyne will be yours."

Frigid air from outside the tower washes over his exposed face, unforgiving and pitiless as it scours the warmth from his bones. He pushes himself to maintain his focus through the unpleasant sensation.

He forces every muscle to loosen, every knot to unravel, and every source of tension to relax. His mortal body falls away, vanishing beneath the surface of the water, and everything else ceases to exist.

"Now find the centerpoint of your strongest emotions. Find where they flow through you, just as a river would. Is the current strong? Does it have direction? If you can, try to follow it back to its source. Uncover its wellspring."

Mull struggles to keep up with the monk's commandments, but he slowly makes progress as he sifts through the inner contents of his psyche. It's like trying to muddle his way through a deep-sea cave without a torch.

He stumbles along for what might be minutes or hours, and just when he's starting to think he'll never find anything in this aquatic abyss, he suddenly catches sight of what seems like a light at the end of the tunnel. At least, he thinks it's a light. It could be a… presence? An aura?

He feels the weight of it pooling around his feet and sticking to his hands as it flows down the cavern walls like mud. It drips from the ceiling above him in viscid stalactites, covering every square inch of skin on his body as he struggles to move forward. Every step is more difficult than the last, and he eventually reaches a point where he can't lift his arms or legs no matter how hard he tries.

But he doesn't give up, and as if responding to his adamant stubbornness, the light-presence-aura ahead of him starts the grow brighter and brighter. Where once it was colorless and without heat, now it blazes with greedy radiance like a devouring flame, red as blood, and pulsates feverishly with the cadence of a heartbeat.

"Do you have it?" murmurs Arngeir.

"…Yes."

"What do you see there?"

Something profoundly disagreeable roils in his core, churning with the whitecapped turbulence of a typhoon. Rage rises hotly in his breast and presses against his lungs like a sack of bricks. It's the very same rage that's pulsating before him in this strange vision.

"I'm angry." The rage oozes into his words, squeezing between his clenched teeth and taking the form of an ill-tempered growl.

"Do you know why?"

"…Yes."

"Hmm. You cannot allow this anger nor any other tumultuous emotion to fester and grow, for if you do, they will inevitably rule over you. The Voice does not draw its strength from petty things like human passions, but rather from the serenity of unshakeable will. What is it that you intend to do? For what purpose will you use the Voice? For worship and thanksgiving as you call out to Kyne, Queen of Souls, in her own tongue? For war and conflict, battle and bloodshed in the manner of our ancestors of old? For selfish desires and material gain as many before you have also done? This is what you must first determine if you are to make headway in the Way of the Voice. It is your decision to make and no other's."

Once he's finished, Arngeir rises and moves toward the staircase.

"Breath and focus, Dragonborn. Breath."

Inhale. Exhale.

"And focus."

Inhale. Exhale.

With that parting expression, the monk politely leaves Mull to get himself back under control. His eyes remain closed, so he only perceives his mentor's departure by the sound of his receding footsteps.

He knows the source of his anger all too well. It isn't something he wants to think about more than strictly necessary, but it seems like it's been on his mind far too often lately.

All men carry anger within them in some form or another, but not all men go around being outwardly furious for their entire lives. He doesn't know what the deciding difference is, but now he realizes he needs to know. It's easier for him to just let himself be angry all the time and not think about it, but as much as he'd love to keep doing that, he knows he shouldn't. Arngeir said it himself. "Sacrifice." The Way of the Voice requires the sacrifice of these passions. But I'm not sure I can do that.

A stray thought slams into him. What would Morven want me to do? That's something he's done his damn best to avoiding worrying about ever since she died. She gave him a tall order with her parting words. I'm not a hero, Morven. You know that.

But still, she asked him to try for a better life. And has he been trying?

…No. Not at all. She'd kick my ass to Oblivion and back if she were here right now. A wry chuckle bubbles in his throat. Arngeir wasn't lying when he said this wouldn't be easy, but really he was understating it. This isn't the sort of difficulty I'm used to.

He's been given a lot to think about. Again. It seems the old monk has a knack for making my life harder than it needs to be.

He sits there for a long time as he ruminates with the relentless wind as his only companion. By the time he forces open his thickly-gummed eyes, the silhouette of the sun has already descended to rest atop the western horizon where it's veiled behind the ever-present clouds.

He laboriously climbs to his feet. I must've lost track of time.

Snot is running into his beard at a worrying rate and his nose and cheeks are completely numb. He tightly bundles his garments around himself as he descends to the base of the tower. After marshaling his strength, he advances into the courtyard and fast-walks to the doors of the monastery.

Overall, this experience wasn't as unenjoyable as he thought it would be. It wasn't enjoyable, but it served a purpose. At least it was a better use of his time than sitting in that dusty meditation chamber and struggling not to fall asleep.

But gaining proficiency with the Way of the Voice is going to be a long and difficult road. That's already becoming obvious. Morven is probably sitting up there in Sovngarde, looking down on him and laughing hysterically at his plight. She probably thinks this whole situation is hilarious.

I wonder if she hates me, he thinks morosely.

Surprised by the suddenness of that thought, he vigorously shakes his head and grumbles irately.

No, none of that. There's no way of knowing for sure until you're dead, so don't dwell on it. Either way, I think she should get the last laugh fair and square.

How often has he dreamed of her screaming in his face with venomous fury? Too many times to count. She very well might hate him, but if she does, she's rightfully entitled to feel that way. He failed her, after all.

He trudges across the now-empty courtyard and spots a handful of monks loitering by the doors, presumably waiting for his arrival. Before he reaches them, he stops to peer upwards at the imposing dark grey stone of the monastery and the smoky sky above. A gloomy sight for thinking about gloomy things.

He scrubs his face with the back of his hand and keeps walking, ignoring his rumbling stomach. He could use something to eat. He wouldn't have thought meditating could build up this much of an appetite.

-x-

The snows are soon upon them in full force as Skyrim's winter storms begin their assault upon the walls of High Hrothgar with ruthless brutality over the next few days. Gusts of wind screech discordantly as they careen around the monastery's sharp corners and the windows provide even less illumination than before, giving the ancient building's shadowy interior and narrow hallways a distinctly forlorn atmosphere. One monk comments in passing that this is what it feels like to be stuck belowdecks on a ship sailing across the treacherous northern seas. Doesn't sound like something I'd ever want to do.

During one of their tutoring sessions, Arngeir mentions the weather is markedly worse than usual. He hypothesizes it might be an aftereffect of the monks using their powers to Shout back the oncoming snows long enough for Mull to arrive.

Some of the younger monks intermittently clear the courtyard of accumulated snow for Mull's benefit, though he still meditates indoors most of the time. That's mostly by his own decision. He's braved the outdoors a couple of times over the previous days and each venture was more miserable than the last. If he spends more than ten consecutive minutes out there, he's sure he'll turn into a man-sized icicle.

His life has settled into a new routine before he knows it, repetitive and predictable but rarely boring. Most of his mornings and afternoons are spent in the company of Arngeir as he receives instruction in the Greybeards' spiritual methodologies. The elderly monk often sits next to him in silence and offers periodic encouragement as he slowly digests the inner workings of the Way of the Voice. True to Arngeir's word, it really is extremely difficult.

Hours upon hours are sunken into silent self-reflection and contemplation of the Voice, which is more exhausting than he would've ever expected it to be. You wouldn't think sitting in a dark room doing nothing all day could wear you down, but it's consistently done so and more besides. It's mentally taxing in a way that he's entirely unfamiliar with.

He can't just lounge around, smell the incense, and daydream. Instead, he's required to constantly focus on himself and whatever lies within. No outward distractions are allowed, which is why the meditation rooms are usually bare of all nonessential decorations and amenities. It's uncomfortable, tiring, and frequently chilly.

He isn't sure if he's making any meaningful progress in 'knowing himself better' or 'letting go of his anger,' as if such things could ever be so easy. Arngeir insists that he's doing perfectly fine, but it's still frustrating to not be able to physically see his development. If he could, that would at least provide some reassurance that this mountaintop escapade won't be an egregious waste of an entire winter.

Beyond that, the rest of his time is spent eating, sleeping, and occasionally squandering an evening in one of the monastery's common areas along with some of the other monks, mostly younger or middle-aged but occasionally a few elders like Arngeir and his mute compatriots. He rarely interacts with the monks beyond a brief greeting or thanking them for a favor, and they elect to keep their distance most of the time of their own volition – although they certainly don't ignore him. Much to his disgruntlement, they incessantly stare at him with something like awe whenever they think he isn't looking. It's deeply unsettling.

"Arngeir, I don't get why this is such a big deal to them." He hastily amends his statement. "Well, I get that the Dragonborn is important since you've already talked about that. But why is it a big deal to you monks specifically? Why are you so willing to drop everything for the sake of teaching me the Voice? There's got to be more to it than just 'Dragonborn are good at using the Voice because we're blessed' or however you want to say it."

"It's true that the Dragonborn are the greatest of all who speak with the Voice as a result of their inborn gift." Arngeir walks beside him, steering him toward some unknown destination within the monastery as he often does. "But you already know that. The distinguishing factor, so to speak, is Ysmir Talos."

The monk pauses to caress an amulet nestled within the folds of his robe. Mull watches with interest, but the voluminous garments prevent him from making out any details of the necklace.

"There have been many Dragonborn throughout recorded history, and if the tales left behind by our ancestors are to be believed, they were rather more common during ancient times than in recent Eras. So in that sense, you're hardly unique among your gods-touched kindred. Each and every one of you have been blessed in the most direct manner possible. This you already know as well. What is more significant, arguably even the most significant, is that Ysmir Talos-who-was-Tiber-Septim was himself of the Dragon Blood and ascended to godhood as the Dragonborn God six hundred years ago. More now than ever before in recorded history, the Dragonborn are individuals who are so closely intertwined with divinity that it beggars belief. You're practically a demigod, more similar than not to the likes of Morihaus Breath-of-Kyne and other legendary heroes of the ancient past. And I know," the monk forestalls with a raised hand, "that you do not consider yourself to be a man of these hallowed virtues, and I recognize the validity of your perspective. I will not contest you on that. But these are simply indisputable facts, and you would do well to give them due consideration in the weeks to come."

Mull doesn't like that answer, but he accepts it's probably the best he's going to get. "…Understood."

As he replies, they reach the end of the hallway and enter a chamber he recognizes as the central foyer of High Hrothgar. It's the familiar site of his less-than-stellar first meeting with the Greybeards and his more recent initiation into their order. What are we doing here again? I thought we were headed for another exciting round of meditation.

The entire room, including the balcony with the pulpit, is totally devoid of people with three exceptions. Since there are almost always half a dozen monks doing chores around this chamber, that immediately strikes him as out of the ordinary.

A trio of elderly monks are standing in the middle of the foyer, where the serpent-carved pillars crawling along the walls seem to lean in the furthest as they support the arched roof. When he and Arngeir draw closer, Mull is able to identify them as the headmaster's mute associates. Borri, Einarth, and Wulfgar.

Arngeir wordlessly directs him to stand in the center of the room as the monks array themselves in a formation around him. The headmaster begins to speak, but his tone is unexpectedly more grim than usual. He adopts a foreboding and relentless demeanor, tossing aside the outward friendliness of a host or an aide that he's displayed so often in recent days. "You've shown us that you are Dragonborn. You have the inborn gift. But do you have the discipline and temperament to follow the path laid out before you? That still remains to be seen."

This version of Arngeir is a different man from the one he's come to know. He feels intimidated by the wise monk in the way that youthful men often feel overshadowed by their more experienced elders. Among these Greybeards, he's way out of his league.

At some unseen signal, Arngeir and the other monks shuffle inwards to tighten their circle, looming on all sides like hooded gargoyles. "Even without formal training, you have already taken the first steps toward effectively projecting your Voice into a Thu'um. Now we shall ascertain if you are willing and able to learn further."

"…I am," Mull mumbles. He isn't entirely sure if he's supposed to respond to that or not.

The monk inclines his head and continues. "When you Shout, you're speaking in the language of dragons and gods. Thusly your Dragon Blood gives you the instinctual ability to learn Words of Power, for you are among the blessed. All Shouts are comprised of Words of Power, usually up to three at a time, with the Shout becoming progressively more powerful as Words are added. This limitation is a result of the intrinsic constraints one faces when 'pouring out' the contents of their soul-cup – that is, the Tongue can only hold so much of any given concept within themselves at one time. Shouts can be used in relatively quick succession by a skilled and disciplined individual, but you are far from reaching that stage of your training."

Arngeir indicates one of the other monks.

"Master Einarth will now teach you Ro, the second word in Unrelenting Force. Ro means 'Balance' in the dragon tongue. When you have gained sufficient mastery of Ro, you will be able to combine it with Fus, 'Force,' to focus your Thu'um more sharply. This is the juncture at which many novitiate Tongues are confronted with their first great challenge. You may struggle to use this Shout effectively if you fail to properly exert your willpower, as there is a stark difference between a Shout with a single word and a Shout with two words. The meek are not suited for the Way of the Voice.

"Again, you seek to gain power through proficiency in the very language spoken by dragons and gods, and that is no small thing. The dragons are beings much closer to the realm of Aetherius than ourselves, for they once walked the skies with the ease that you or I might stride upon the earth. You therefore cannot approach the Way of the Voice from the perspective of a man, but rather you must allow your righteous desires to flow forth. You must perceive the world through the eyes of a dragon who would never stand aside for the selfish purposes of another."

As Arngeir concludes his oration, Einarth reaches into his robes and produces a rolled-up scroll. He unfurls the yellowed parchment, strides closer to Mull, and presents the scroll for him to read.

A pair of glyphs are inked in midnight-black upon the surface of the parchment, contrasting starkly with the cracked and faded material beneath. They're formed by jagged vertical and diagonal lines that lack embellishment of any kind, a simple and functional alphabet for the language of creatures like Mirmulnir who understand one thing perfectly. Power. He's never seen this word before, but he's able to understand its meaning without even trying.

Ro. 'Balance.'

"You've already shown us your comprehension of Fus, but now you must learn Ro. 'Balance' can often be a difficult concept to fathom for the uninitiated. What does it mean to exist in a state of balance? Shall we delve deeper into this inquiry?"

The monk pauses, waiting for Mull to respond. He inclines his head and receives a nod in return.

"Then please allow me to further obfuscate the matter by first asking a series of subsidiary questions. Is Balance simply an equal distribution of weight by which an object might remain standing steadily upright? Or is it a condition in which multiple distinct elements exist in equality with one another or otherwise in whatever proportions might be deemed correct? Perhaps Balance is itself the counteracting weight that promotes equality, such as the inner mechanism of an astrologer's device. Then there is also the subject of mathematics to consider."

Mull not-so-subtly rolls his eyes, which makes Arngeir's lips twitch upwards. He's never been any good with numbers.

"A Balance, when taken to be a physical object, could function as the central pivot of a lever or a set of scales used for weighing out coinage. It could also be the act of offsetting the value of one thing with the value of another, such as a debtor paying back the borrowed currency they owe to a moneylender. There are many definitions one could use for the term 'Balance,' and most of them are quite different from the others. So, Dragonborn. For the purposes of this exercise, which definition do you believe is most relevant to your current situation? What is the true meaning of Balance?"

"I have absolutely no idea," he sincerely replies.

"And I cannot fault you for your honesty," says Arngeir. "Balance is much less straightforward than Force. The concept of Force is raw and profoundly basic, a fundamental variable of the natural world, while Balance is somewhat ill-defined. It is a noumenon, an unknowable thing. And as a matter of fact, the same could be said for the art of the Thu'um itself. It isn't a physical object that can be observed and touched, but rather it is an abstract." He taps his wrinkled forehead. "An invention of the mind projected onto reality. A spectral cognition if you will. All that to say, this isn't something I expect you to master overnight. Not even you, Dragonborn."

Mull frowns at the man's usage of unfamiliar vocabulary. It sounds like Nibenese to him, but he really has no idea. "I don't think you're talking to the right man, Arngeir. I'm not smart enough for all those philosopher's words."

"Not yet perhaps, but intellect is something that can be cultivated. In time, I'm sure you will begin to feel differently."

He shrugs, entirely unconvinced. "If you say so."

"I do. Remember this, Dragonborn. The minds of mortal men are blessed with the capacity to look to the future, and it's by our actions that we thresh out the paths between our present circumstances and what we desire the world to someday become. The Voice cannot do that under its own power. Only by the yearning and resolve of the Tongue can the world be changed into something more. But that is enough moralizing for the moment. Dragonborn, if you would." He sweeps an arm outwards, as if ceding the floor. "You now know the Word of Power for 'Balance.' Please attempt to utilize it in the form of a Shout."

"…I'll try." He feels like he's being thrown into a deep spot in a river, but you know what they say. Drowning is the best way to learn how to swim.

Mull grounds his stance, straightens his back, and takes a deep breath. He delves into his knowledge of Fus, confirms that he still remembers how he used it to Shout during the Greybeards' ceremony, and then tries to augment it with his nascent understanding of Ro. He doesn't actually know what he's doing, but he's interested to see what'll happen.

He Shouts halfheartedly. "Fus Ro!"

Predictably, nothing happens. His throat doesn't even ache. The words echo more loudly than normal, but that's it.

Arngeir tolerantly shakes his head. "Tongues cannot act with reluctance. Decisive action is required of those who would wield the Voice. If you wish to Force something aside, you must wholly commit yourself to that action. If you wish to offer the gods proper worship befitting of their loyalty to mankind and gain a requisite amount of power in doing so, then you must unreservedly devote yourself to your aspirations."

"So what do you recommend?" He taps his foot impatiently. "How should I approach this?"

"Your Voice is weak because you lack will. There must be clear intent behind the Shout. No, not even only that. It must be a certainty. Whatever you seek to accomplish through the usage of this Shout should be the singular focus of your will. Weak will makes for weak Voice."

The three mute monks rest their hands within their sleeves and nod sagely, agreeing with Arngeir's words of wisdom.

Mirmulnir said something eerily similar. Maybe that dragon isn't completely full of crap after all. He scoffs. Alright, so – weak will. What does that mean? Should I just will my Voice into existence? Are they saying it'll be a successful Shout as long as I want it badly enough? That doesn't seem realistic. The world doesn't work that way.

But also, there's the Way of the Voice to consider. The point isn't just to annihilate my enemies. It should be to make peace with what's inside myself and align the Voice with it… or something like that. Arngeir's said it over and over. It's suppose to be an internal thing.

It all comes down to his reason for wanting to use the Voice. That's where his will stems from. Why precisely does he want this power? Well… for the sake of the power itself, of course. He needs it. He can't live with himself if he continues to be so weak. He can't protect himself and his followers from those who would do them wrong.

Maybe it's his guilt talking. He can't change the things of the past no matter how much he wishes he could. Is he unknowingly compensating for his failures and regrets? He might be.

But if he can become something more than what he is now, then maybe he'll be able to look back on Morven's death and think 'at least I'm better than I was.' Small comfort, that. But it's better than nothing.

What is balance? Is it some unknowable abstract mathematical mumbo jumbo bullshit? Yeah, probably. But what else is there?

More pertinently… what is balance to somebody like him?

That's easy, actually. It's the equilibrium of a well-made sword in his hands.

It's the steadiness of deft footwork over uneven terrain.

It's the evenness of his breathing when trying to make a particularly difficult shot with a bow.

It's the composure needed to keep his head attached to his shoulders when dealing with rival bandits or jumpy employers. The perfect combination of assertiveness and deference learned through painful trial and error across a span of many years.

It has nothing to do with these scholarly esoteric concepts that the Greybeards have been discussing. They might make sense to men like Arngeir, but they mean nothing to Mull. On the other hand, it has everything to do with fighting, killing, and surviving.

Balance is the invisible, indefinable noumenon that drives home a blade into his opponent's vulnerable jugular.

It carries him safely across jagged stones and slippery grass while trying to kill a tenacious pursuer.

It enables him to pierce a man's eyeball with an arrowhead at long range.

It's kept him alive through more than a handful of situations that would've otherwise ended with him lying in a puddle of blood on a dirty floor, forgotten and alone.

But even that's an overcomplication. At the end of the day, balance is an idea and not a thing. Arngeir was right about that. There's no anger or emotion involved. Those are irrelevant. In this moment, the performance of his upcoming Shout has nothing to do with his immediate survival. The only thing that matters is the indisputable fact that it will be swift and precise, the personification of this ideal.

He sets his jaw, determined to make this work. I'll Shout, and when I do, it will have Balance.

He breathes deeply once more, filling his lungs to their full capacity.

"FUS RO!"

A thunderclap accompanies the wave of azure energy that sears through the air in front of him, a visible manifestation of pure unadulterated power. It expands outward in a straight line… and then randomly slants to the left at an uneven angle before dissipating into nothingness, doing no damage to anything or anyone.

Huh. That didn't look normal.

"Impressive. Most impressive." At odds with the Shout's errant pathing, Arngeir and his compatriots smile with apparent satisfaction. "You've already succeeded in internalizing the concept of Ro – imperfectly perhaps, but still, this is an extraordinary accomplishment. Now let us see how quickly you can gain precision with this new Thu'um."

Borri steps forward and visibly gathers himself. He inhales before piercing the calmness of the monastery with a Shout. "Fiik Lo Sah!"

Mirror. Deceive. Phantom.

A greyish-white opaque specter appears from thin air about where Borri had been facing, with wispy tendrils of smoke trailing from its incorporeal head and shoulders. It's the splitting image of Borri if he were translucent and as pale as a ghost.

"Use Unrelenting Force to strike the mirrored shade," instructs Arngeir. "With both words if you can."

Mull readies himself, noting happily that his throat doesn't hurt, and draws on the same revelations that enabled him to use Fus Ro the first time. It's just balance. No different from standing one-legged on a rock. Think about what that feels like… and…

"FUS RO!"

His Shout bears down on the phantasmal shade, threatening to tear it asunder with the strength of a gale-force storm… and then inexplicably veers off-target at the last second, slamming into the ceiling with a muted thump. A cloud of dust descends on the shade as it continues to stare expressionlessly at him, not reacting to its near-annihilation with even the slightest twitch.

"Close, but not quite. Again."

"FUS RO!"

This time his Thu'um peters out entirely before it reaches the shade. The surrounding Greybeards' robes are ruffled by a residual breeze, but nothing more.

"Again."

"FUS RO!"

"And again."

"FUS RO!"

Each attempt is little better than the last. His Shouts careen away in every conceivable direction, never once managing to hit his ghostly target. One even crashes into the floor and cracks a few tiles. He can clearly see the usefulness of adding Ro to his Shout – it feels distinctly sharper and more dangerous, like it would turn Hajvarr Iron-Hand's head into gory mush instead of merely breaking his nose – but it's also much more difficult to control. As soon as the Shout leaves his lips, it tears free from his intentions and does whatever the hell it wants. It's infuriating.

He finally gets fed up with looking like a fool in front of these monks and attempts the new Shout one last time. "FUS RO!"

He manages to land a hit on the shade, dispelling it with a muted puff of pale vapor that doesn't feel satisfying at all, but his throat is seared from the inside out and globules of blood spew from his mouth. He allowed his anger to get the better of him and now he's paying for it.

"You did well, Dragonborn."

Mull graces him with an incredulous glare as he cups his bloody chin. That was good? Are you screwing with me?

Arngeir notes his expression and elaborates with a tone much softer than before. "Even in such little time, you've already made more progress than a normal Tongue could hope to make in an entire year. You are well on the way to internalizing the basics of the Way. The next step is for you to meditate further on these matters so your comprehension can grow."

He pauses to hold a wordless conversation with the other monks.

"That said, I do believe we've done enough for one day. It's difficult to adapt to the Way of the Voice for those who have previously gone without. Recenter yourself, find your peace within the Inner Path, and discover the deeper meaning of Ro. Strive to ascertain a proper understanding of Balance. Only then will you fully realize your potential as a Tongue, and more than that, as Dragonborn."

With that, Mull is dismissed to receive treatment from the female alchemist monk. She doesn't look pleased in the slightest when he strolls into her infirmary with a crimson-soaked beard and nags him incessantly about leaving stains on the carpet.

Once she's taken a good look at him and forced him to drink a foul concoction, she sends him to his room with a bland meal, condemning him to a dinner of cold soup and other liquids to better allow his throat to heal.

He lies awake in his bed as night falls, unable to sleep due to the many thoughts and questions clamoring for attention inside his head. As usual, Arngeir has given him a lot to consider. He sees now what the monk meant when he said Shouting through the Way of the Voice is both more difficult but also more rewarding than Shouting through emotion. Whenever he used Fus Ro against Borri's shade, the Shout felt more in tune with his body. It wasn't nearly as harsh against his throat as it should've been… until he got angry, that is. But still, it finally feels like he's making progress. To be able to use the Voice without injuring himself is precisely why he made this journey in the first place. It's a liberating feeling, like a coil of heavy chains being unwound from around his neck.

A slim ray of hope for the future ignites within him. Arngeir's previous claims have now gained some real validity in his mind. The Way of the Voice has its advantages and disadvantages, but it's still worth pursuing for the utility it can provide him. He mentally recommits himself to a winter of effort and hard work as sleep finally overtakes him, trusting that it'll all be worthwhile in the end.