Chapter 43
The winter solstice has arrived, the darkest night of the entire year. The winds are howling outside High Hrothgar's walls like hordes of baying wolves and the alpine cold is seeping deeply into the bones of the monastery's inhabitants. They do what they can to stave off the encroaching chill, but their efforts are never quite enough.
Mull would love nothing more than to spend this gloomy evening sitting in front of a crackling hearth while sipping a mug of hot tea, so he's understandably disappointed to be attending a mandatory gathering in the spacious, uninsulated, and godsdamn freezing central foyer of the monastery instead.
According to Arngeir, every single Greybeard residing on the Throat of the World is summoned to this chamber during the winter solstice each year, including the exiles from the lower monasteries further down the mountain. It's one of the few occasions they're allowed back into High Hrothgar.
Mull estimates there are conservatively a hundred people assembled in the room alongside him, a multitude of monks hailing from various communities and walks of life all milling about aimlessly or softly conversing with one another. It's easy to think of the Greybeards as some tiny hermetic order of no more than twenty members due to their isolation from both the wider world and oftentimes from each other, so even having lived in this monastery for two months, he's still surprised by the sheer number of people that have been mustered for this evening's event.
Tonight the Greybeards are hosting their annual Vetrblót, a Nordic holiday coinciding with the winter solstice. He assumes it must be the regional version of the Imperial Old Life Festival, which is observed in one form or another across most of Tamriel, but he can't say for certain. He's more knowledgeable than most foreigners about Nord culture due to his father being a Nord and his early upbringing in quasi-Nordic Craglorn, but that isn't to say he's perfectly in tune with the ways of his patrilineal kinsfolk. Having lived in lowland Hammerfell and Cyrodiil for most of his life, he's definitely still an útlending in all the ways that matter.
A flicker of movement near his elbow catches his attention and he turns to find one of the Greybeards lingering within arm's reach, a young woman who timidly smiles and offers him a lit candle. The chamberstick is carved with blocky labyrinthine patterns, causing the wrought iron to gleam strangely in the firelight.
"Uh… thanks. I think." He accepts the candle with all the majestic grace of a beached horker and the girl scurries away at her earliest opportunity.
After that, nothing else happens for a good fifteen minutes. He loiters uncomfortably with his gleaming candle amidst the press of bodies, occasionally stealing confused glances over his shoulder and wondering what he's missing here. The rest of the Greybeards are subdued and quiet, like this is somebody's funeral instead of a holiday.
He tries to fade into the background and imitate the others without being too obvious about it, which is nearly impossible since he's always the center of everybody's attention in this damn monastery. Even now, he can feel countless pairs of eyes trained on him.
Finally he's rescued from the mounting awkwardness by the timely arrival of Arngeir, who emerges from the crowd and halts next to him. "Thank you for taking the time from your busy schedule to join us, Dragonborn."
"Sure," he replies unhappily. "But I've got to ask, what exactly is this about? Aren't we supposed to be celebrating the new year?" He stares pointedly at the surrounding monks and their downcast demeanors. "Doesn't look like much of a celebration to me."
"The Vetrblót is hardly a festive event." Arngeir reaches over to kindle his own candle using Mull's flame. "If you'll pardon me."
He grunts and repositions the candlestick to make it easier on the old man.
"It's an appreciation and a recognition," the monk continues, "but not a celebration."
"I see." He actually doesn't, but one thing he's learned from his many interactions with his elderly mentor is that you can't rush him. Getting impatient will only make him go slower. "So I'm assuming we won't do a barn dance for Magnus, guzzle down some free mead, and stumble home drunk in the wee hours of the morning. That's a bit disappointing."
"There will be mead, rest assured, but perhaps not in the same excessive quantities as with other holidays in Skyrim. I understand that we Nords have something of a reputation for overindulgence among the other races of the Empire," Arngeir responds with a hint of humor. "But the Vetrblót is different from the standard fare. It usually takes the form of a ritual animal sacrifice performed atop a sanctified altar – and as a matter of fact, there are likely a thousand such occasions taking place in the world below us on this night. However, High Hrothgar doesn't have the necessary facilities to raise or maintain livestock, so we must adhere to other methods of appeasing the World-Eater. Votive candles and burnt offerings are our preferred substitutes, as you shall see for yourself soon."
Mull cocks an eyebrow. "What does appeasing the World-Eater have to do with anything?"
"That is the central purpose of Vetrblót," says the monk. "To assuage the malice of the Twilight God and to maintain the constancy of the Mundus for another cycle."
"…To what now?" he mutters with a puzzled squint.
Arngeir's eyes twinkle with hidden laughter. "Forgive me, but I often forget that you lack in-depth knowledge of our peoples' traditions. Allow me to explain, and please bear with me."
The monk rests a hand on Mull's shoulder and herds him away from the other monks. They retreat to an alcove that houses an iron brazier on the far side of the foyer. He wants some privacy for this. Strange.
Arngeir continues once they've gained some space. "We're gathered here tonight to engage in a sacrament of sacrifice, but not necessarily in the literal sense. The definition of sacrifice is manyfold. For instance, it might mean to give up a part of oneself as we've previously discussed regarding the Way of the Voice. In the case of this blót however, 'to sacrifice' is to cut short the potential of someone or something. The World-Eater is the Twilight God. He will arrive at the end of time to consume all of creation, thereby extinguishing the potential of Nirn's continued existence. As we sacrifice to the World-Eater in order to keep him at bay for another year, we are ourselves performing a fundamentally similar act. Whether it be the life of an animal cut short by the slaughtering knife, the physical and mental effort exerted to create a work of art, or merely the time we spend in contemplation and acknowledgement of life's brevity, whatever we surrender upon the altar of the World-Eater's continued slumber will invariably carry an echo of greater meaning that the gods recognize. So you see, the ritual butchering of livestock for Vetrblót is a time-honored tradition among most Nords, but it isn't strictly required for the ceremony to be executed correctly."
Mull slowly parses through the monk's impromptu lecture. "Do you really think your Vetrblót is what's keeping the World-Eater asleep? How could you know that for sure? Maybe I'm a skeptic, but that seems like wishful thinking to me."
"It hasn't failed us thus far. We perform these rituals every year and still the world turns."
He snorts loudly. "I suppose you've got a point there. If it ain't broken…"
He briefly raises his gaze to the arched ceiling above, shrouded in a cloud of brown smoke from a hundred candles, and finds the unblinking eyes of a dozen stone dragons staring right back at him through the musty haze. The lifelike ceiling décor had startled him the first few times he saw it, but he's spent so many days practicing the Voice in this room over the past couple of months that the shock factor is beginning to wear off.
As he studies the intricate details of the serpents' chiseled scales and gaping jaws, he's suddenly reminded of a book he recently read in the monastery's library called 'the Alduin/Akatosh Dichotomy.' According to the book, the exact relationship between the World-Eater and the Cyrodiilic Divine called Akatosh is apparently a matter of intense scholarly debate, with some people believing they're the same entity and others saying they're entirely distinct. He's heard plenty of arguments advocating for both sides over the years, but it isn't an issue he feels strongly about. He isn't a priest.
"So there's no worshiping Akatosh for you Nords here in the Old Holds, huh?" he wonders aloud. "That's the norm in Cyrodiil and most of Hammerfell for these seasonal holidays."
Arngeir's expression darkens minutely. "No. If the scant surviving records of the Dragon Wars are to be believed, our people gave up their reverence of the Time Dragon many millennia ago. The ancient Nords were enslaved by the dragons for countless generations and only earned their freedom from tyranny through unimaginable bloodshed. If they were subjected to these hardships, then is their disdain for the worship of the Time Dragon truly so strange? I would think not."
"Aye. Maybe so." As he speaks, he and Arngeir emerge from the safety of the alcove and return to the larger mass of monks. They'd begun to congregate beneath the pulpit at the back of the hall during Arngeir's private lecture, so the ceremony must be scheduled to begin soon. While they walk, Mull tilts his candle back and forth to curiously examine the carvings on the decorative chamberstick. "What's the idea behind these candles? You mentioned they're supposed to be votive."
"They are merely useful props," Arngeir supplies. "A tangible way to represent the passage of time. The life of a candle has a beginning, a middle, and an end, at which point its nurtured flame is starved and extinguished. Our mortal lives are much the same, as is the life of Nirn itself."
Mull stares at his candle as it continues to burn, steadily reducing the wick to scattered ash and the wax to a half-melted puddle. It's already shrunken noticeably in the twenty or so minutes since he received it from the monk girl. At this rate it won't last much longer.
When he and Arngeir reach the main crowd of monks, several elders try to usher him to the front of the congregation where they say a place of honor has been held for him. But he shakes his head and gestures in the negative, and after another minute of nagging they eventually have the decency to give it up. Too many of the Greybeards are staring in his direction already, as they always do. He doesn't want to invite even more attention. Although he knows their curiosity is harmless, it still makes his skin crawl with unease. Being the center of attention was never a good thing in his former line of work, since it usually meant you were about to walk into an ambush or something equally unpleasant. The best thing to do in that sort of situation is to turn tail and run.
A hooded and robed figure ascends to the pulpit with his hands hidden inside baggy sleeves, presenting himself as a faceless statue presiding over the gathered Greybeards. From this distance, the only distinguishing feature Mull can make out is the man's salt-and-pepper beard trimmed into a sharp point. This must be the speaker for tonight.
He turns to Arngeir. "Shouldn't that be you up there? You're the headmaster."
"I do perform some formal duties, but not all," he murmurs. "A younger master usually takes responsibility for conducting the Vetrblót. It tends to be a bit too… morose for my liking. And on that note, there are still a few things I must attend to elsewhere in the monastery before nightfall – overseeing preparations for the communal meal and the like. It wouldn't do if we were to run short on mead, would it?" The monk smirks. "I trust you'll be able to enjoy the ceremony without my company."
Mull is taken aback by his mentor's abrupt goodbye. "Uh… sure, sounds good. See you around."
Arngeir nods at his halting farewell and quickly vanishes into the crowd.
Now that he's alone and has nothing better to do, he settles in to watch the Greybeard at the podium along with the rest of the monks just as he begins to speak. "Nirn is shrouded in the shadow of winter's long breath," the Greybeard rumbles. "Darkness lies behind and darkness lies ahead. But here, among our fellow Men, light and life shine still…"
Most of his speech is like that – rhythmic and allegorical. It isn't long before Mull completely loses interest. Arngeir has a way with words that keeps him invested in their lessons even when he gets longwinded, but this man is soon jabbering on and on to make himself sound more important than he actually is. It's a nice enough speech and he clearly put some time into practicing his delivery, but this just isn't Mull's kind of party.
His gaze roams around the foyer, taking in the spectacle of a hundred silent monks with candlelit faces glimmering orange and red beneath their cowls, the orator preaching at the pulpit, and carved wyrms nested in the dark ceiling. It's an ominous scene fit for an ominous night. I wonder how many outsiders have had the chance to witness something like this. I'd guess it isn't many.
The ceremony is a somber affair. According to the monk at the pulpit, this is a time to reflect on the ways that the gods have blessed you, to be thankful for the good things in your life, and to recognize that it could all be taken away in an instant by the World-Eater. There are a few times where the entire assembly responds to a question or exhortation, but since he doesn't know the words, Mull always stumbles over the recited lines and makes himself sound like a fool. He pulls his hood down farther and tries to keep his voice low to avoid attracting anyone's notice.
The speaker wastes several long minutes dwelling on the inevitability of the World-Eater's return, calling him 'the dread wyrm that gnaws on the bones of the world' and plenty of other creative epithets. Mull reckons it must've taken them hours of brainstorming to come up with all the different kennings and titles. Surely you don't need a dozen different names for a single god.
He doesn't particularly enjoy the feeling of grim foreboding that descends over the room as the bearded monk verbosely discourses on the nature of the World-Eater as a destroyer and a cleansing flame who will renew the cycle of the cosmos. It shouldn't be surprising that the Greybeards would talk about these things – if anything, it's more surprising that they haven't talked about more religious dogma during his time at High Hrothgar – but that doesn't mean he likes it. This sort of thinking is too depressing if you ask me. If everything could be ripped away with the snap of a god's fingers, what's the point of caring about anything? I hope there's more to life than that.
His jaw unconsciously tightens.
Morven thought so. And for her sake, I…
He sighs and mentally shoves away that trail of thought.
No. I don't feel like doing this to myself tonight.
He wrenches his attention back to the Greybeard's sermon.
Overall, the ceremony is long but not too long. The speaker wraps up his oration just before Mull falls asleep on his feet and the monks disperse to the dining halls for food and mead. He blinks the sleepiness from his eyes and breaks away from the main group when he finds an opening in the crowd. Once he's sure there isn't anybody tailing him, he inconspicuously ducks into the kitchens to swipe a platter of food and spends the next couple of hours wandering aimlessly around the monastery with his head in the clouds.
He should be resting for tomorrow's meditation sessions, but he's feeling too fidgety after the Vetrblót. All that talk about the Nordic dragon-god and the meaning of life has gotten him worked up. He does a lot of thinking about the real dragons while pacing around the dim hallways. The one that turned Helgen into a graveyard, his old friend Mirmulnir, the distant aftermath of the raid north of Whiterun that slew three guardsmen… and of course, there was the room full of dragon tapestries here in the monastery that he stumbled across earlier this month. Despite his lingering curiosity, he hasn't ventured back there and doesn't intend to anytime soon. He's seen enough of the dragons to last him a lifetime.
He eventually winds up roaming near the northern dormitories in the same wing as the library, munching on a strip of seasoned elk meat that's gone cold while idly examining some kind of altar adorned with strands of dried lavender.
He's interrupted by the sound of soft footfalls approaching from behind and steps aside to let the person move past in the narrow corridor. But instead the newcomer stops nearby and shuffles their feet, patiently waiting for his attention. Their shadowy silhouette coalesces into the familiar form of High Hrothgar's head monk.
"Dragonborn," says Arngeir by way of greeting.
"Arngeir. Long time no see."
"A long time indeed." The Greybeard briefly inclines his head and pointedly refuses to acknowledge the attempted joke.
"How'd your kitchen duty go?"
"I'm happy to say it went well. Personally, I derive much greater satisfaction from helping supply food and drink to the rest of the order than from attending the Vetrblót. I've taken part in these ceremonies plenty of times in my life and I'm sure my presence won't be missed for one year here and there. Speaking of which, what did you think of the ritual? Am I right in assuming it was your first time?"
"Aye, you are. And… it was fine." He doesn't have much else to say that wouldn't be outright negative. It wasn't what he usually looks for in a holiday. Instead of being a nice way to forget about the worries of life for an evening, it was the exact opposite. Introspective. He hates that word.
Introspection is a dangerous thing, especially where topics like dragons and the meaning of life are involved.
"I'm glad you thought so." Arngeir pauses to adjust his charcoal-grey robes. "It's grown late, Dragonborn. The monastery's curfew has already begun and you will have much to do tomorrow."
I was wondering why there wasn't anybody around. Now that I think about it, it's been an hour or two since I last saw someone. "You weren't out looking for me, were you?"
"I was, in fact." The monk doesn't sound upset at least, though he does seem conspicuously neutral.
"Ah. Sorry about that, old man. I must've gotten lost in my thoughts."
He scarfs down the last bite of his venison and gestures for Arngeir to lead the way. He knows they're somewhere near the library, but he isn't sure exactly where.
As the elderly monks leads him back towards the area where his room is located, he musters the resolve to ask a question he's been putting off for a while now. "Change in subject, but not too long ago, I found this room in a deeper section of the monastery that I hadn't visited before. Inside were a bunch of old tapestries hanging from the ceiling that each showed a different dragon. It didn't seem like the kind of place that gets too many visitors. Do you know where I'm talking about?"
"Ah, yes." If Arngeir is confused by the new subject, he doesn't show it. "I do. There are many of these vaults sequestered throughout High Hrothgar, where the remnants of our peoples' history are hidden away for safekeeping against the ravages of time. We rarely make use of them except for the continued recording of knowledge and whenever routine maintenance is necessary."
Mull grunts affirmatively. "That sounds like the one. While I was there, I saw a specific tapestry that I wanted to ask you about. Another monk was passing through at the time and he told me the tapestry depicted a battle between the World-Eater and three ancient heroes. I assumed it was just a regular old dragon at first, but he claimed otherwise. Is that true?"
He hopes the answer is no. The dragon at Helgen looked very, very similar to the one on that tapestry, and if it's supposed to be an image of the World-Eater, then… What in Oblivion could that mean?
The monk gives him a lingering look, like he's piercing through layers of armor to find the intent behind his oddly specific question. "I believe I know the one of which you speak, and yes, that is correct. According to legend, the World-Eater was confronted by three of the greatest heroes in Nordic history at the summit of the Throat of the World during the Merethic Era. Seeking to free their people from enslavement, they overthrew the dread lord of dragonkind and cast him down from his heavenly perch through the power of their Voices, although one of them was slain during the battle and ascended to Sovngarde. The World-Eater was not slain however, but was instead banished beyond the boundaries of Nirn to dwell in perpetual exile in the Void. He hasn't been seen by mortal eyes for the thousands of years since that fateful time."
"Wait, this battle happened at the top of the mountain?" Mull points out of a nearby window. "Your mountain?"
"Indeed. This peak is considered to be sacred for more reasons than one. It's where Kyne first breathed life into Men, where Nirn reaches closest to the holy realms of the gods, and also where the World-Eater was prevented from bringing about the end of days. The world is old, Dragonborn, and the Snow Throat has borne witness to much of its long history."
"…Well then. That's a strange thing to think about."
So not only is the Throat of the World where Tiber Septim received the teachings of the Greybeards and Jurgen Windcaller founded his monastery, but it was also – supposedly – the site of the World-Eater's defeat at the hands of some powerful Tongues during the Dragon Wars. I swear, the more I learn about this mountain, the more I'm convinced the gods picked the wrong man to come learn from these monks. I don't exactly fit in, do I?
Once he's brooded for long enough, he shakes away his musings and gets back to the matter at hand. "And you're absolutely sure the black dragon on the tapestry is supposed to be the World-Eater?"
"I believe so, assuming we're speaking of the same one," answers Arngeir.
He frowns. "Is it accurate? I mean, you wouldn't think the exact details of a dragon's appearance could be faithfully passed down for thousands of years without being changed. Are we sure that's what the World-Eater actually looked like?"
"Why the sudden interest, Dragonborn? If you don't mind my saying so, this fascination with academic minutiae is… unlike you."
Now that he's arrived at this part of the discussion, he wants nothing more than to shut his mouth and let it die in silence. What if by speaking his concerns aloud, he somehow makes them real? But despite his misgivings, he reluctantly forces himself to go forward with it. He needs to know. He's spent too many fitful nights agonizing over this.
"It's just that… well, I was at Helgen when it was attacked. I don't know how quickly you receive news on this mountain, but Helgen was destroyed during Last Seed by a dragon. I was there when it happened." He swallows a painful lump in his throat. "That dragon looked a hell of a lot like the black one on the tapestry. Eyes, horns, flames, and all. The resemblance is downright uncanny. You wouldn't think a picture could look so much like the real thing, but… it does. Right down to the twisting horns and the eyes that feel like they're staring into your soul."
"Hmm." Arngeir rubs his whiskery chin and drops his gaze to the floor, deep in thought. "In the stories that have been passed down to us, the World-Eater is universally described as a black-scaled dragon of terrifying proportions. That much I can say with certainty." He peers at Mull intently. "And you believe this dragon could've been the World-Eater?"
"Stuhn's balls, I hope not. If it were a god, surely none of us would've made it out of Helgen alive. It could've used its magical god powers to drop a mountain on the town and squash us all like ants."
"But you suspect this. You believe it to be a possibility."
"…Aye. For some ridiculous reason, I do. But it's just a feeling, and I sincerely hope that's all it is."
Arngeir purses his thin lips. "Why, if I may ask, is that so ridiculous?"
"How is it not? Gods don't go around razing towns for free entertainment. That's what regular dragons are for, from what I've seen."
"And you're an expert on the gods and their habits?"
"No, I'm definitely not," he concedes. "But still. You get what I'm saying, don't you? It doesn't make any sense." Even to his own ears, it sounds like he's desperately trying to convince himself.
Arngeir is tactful enough to avoid commenting on it. "I understand your perspective, Dragonborn," the monk assures him. "However, I can't help but disagree with you assertions. As mortals, it's in our very nature to not understand the gods. That's true for you as well, even though you are blessed."
Mull's scowl deepens. "I wasn't claiming otherwise."
"I know," the monk kindly replies. "But my meaning stands. Who are we to comprehend the gods' reasons for doing anything? Perhaps the dragon that attacked the town of Helgen was in fact a lesser dragon… or perhaps it was the dragon-god himself returning to Nirn with destruction and death as his herald. Is that such an impossibility?"
"I sure as Oblivion hope so," he sardonically replies. "Talos save me from this madness. You know what? Just forget I said anything. I shouldn't have brought this up in the first place. It's an outrageous idea anyways."
Now that he's finally confided in someone else with these worries, it feels like a hazy miasma of anxiety and terror is beginning to dissipate from his mind. All that unwanted detritus is being cleared out, making room for him to think logically again. He only needed to get out of his own head to realize the absurdity of this whole self-invented crisis.
A god wouldn't attack Helgen, because of course it wouldn't. It's like saying the stars will fall from the sky or the moons are made of cheese. What was he even thinking, getting himself worked up over something like this?
And on top of that, surely the World-Eater can't be the only black dragon out there in the Mundus. The return of the dragons is already unbelievable enough. Why is he going and making things more complicated than they need to be? All this outlandishness must finally be getting to him. Yeah. That must be it.
Arngeir hums thoughtfully. "Why are you so adamantly opposed to this prospect? I do not understand."
"Huh?" He glares incredulously at the monk. "What's there not to understand? It would be a godsdamn nightmare if I were somehow proven right. The World-Eater is the bringer of the end times. I don't think anyone in their right mind would want him to show up and have Nirn for a midnight snack. I'll admit I'm not a devout follower of the gods – couldn't give a shit about 'em most of the time, to be honest with you – but I have a funny feeling most people would agree with me on this."
He isn't the most religiously-inclined individual and he's had a lifelong penchant for cynicism, so his theological opinions have always been limited in scope and depth. The gods are obviously real and only a moron would think otherwise, but as a Twilight God, the World-Eater occupies a much more ambiguous position than the rest. He isn't like the others, who can directly influence the world in observable ways to varying degrees. Basically, Mull's seen neophyte priests who received the blessings of Mara and almost immediately exhibited the ability to heal horrific wounds with his own two eyes, but now that he thinks about it, he's never heard or read about any evidence of the World-Eater's existence that couldn't be called into question for one reason or another. They're mostly stories that date from the early years of Skyrim's history, having been passed down through oral tradition for countless generations, and so could hardly be considered reliable narratives.
Point being… What if the World-Eater isn't even a genuine god? That's plausible, right? Was he based off of a real-life dragon? When you think about it, this World-Eating business could've all been fabricated by a priesthood who wanted to maintain the loyalty of their devotees. 'If you don't worship our gods, the World-Eater will consume us all and it'll be your fault.' Something like that. Maybe all this worrying is for nothing.
During Mull's internal back-and-forth, Arngeir steeples his fingers as he carefully considers his next response. "Allow me this question, Dragonborn. Do you believe it is wrong to burn away a forest in order to make way for new growth?"
"…I don't think so."
"But wouldn't this be detrimental to the birds and beasts of the land? Wouldn't their world be torn asunder by all-pervasive devastation as their nests are enveloped by flame and their younglings suffocated by smoke? It would seem to them as if their entire reality was ending. And yet we can still agree that this action is not morally wrong."
Mull clenches his fists. He can already see what the monk is trying to do with these word games. "Whatever you want to say, just spit it out."
"Very well then. Who's to say that the return of the World-Eater would be an objectively bad thing? This plane of existence may cease to be, but I personally believe whatever comes afterwards will be much greater than our mortal minds could ever imagine. It would be a new and wonderous heaven. A destiny to look forward to with an open heart. There would be no more suffering, no more grief, and no more death as the entire race of Men is lifted up to the sacred halls of the gods, where we shall dwell alongside them in eternal bliss forever. Is that truly such a horrible outcome for this cycle?"
"…I don't even know what to say to that," Mull growls. "That's got to be the stupidest thing I've ever heard. This life-!" He jabs a finger at the ground. "-As far as we're aware, is all we've got. I don't know what'll come after and I'm not going to pretend to. Maybe we'll all get into Sovngarde and hold hands while we're dancing under rainbows with mead raining from the sky, and maybe we won't. I don't know. And as long as I don't know, I'm not gonna pretend it's okay for people to die for no godsdamn reason after living out their entire pointless fucking lives, and just move on after they're gone like nothing bad ever happened! That's what you Nords love to do, isn't it? 'Oh, those poor folks died, but they died well enough for the gods to accept their souls into heaven so it's all okay in the end and who fucking cares.' Like Oblivion! Don't tell me with a straight face that there's nothing wrong with what you just said! You don't know what it's like to lose someone, you sniveling geriatric shit!"
He glares daggers at the monk for a long moment before whirling around, unable to stomach looking at him any longer. He sucks in a long heated breath to calm his feverish heartbeat, beating like a drum in his chest, drowning out all other noise and making it impossible to think straight. He let his mouth run wild just like the good old days, and now it's far too late to take anything back.
But even if he could, he doesn't think he would. He isn't wrong about any of this. He can't be. For Morven's sake… he can't be.
He curls his fingers into his unkempt hair and grits his teeth. The searing-hot core of wrath that the Greybeard elders have advised him time and again to focus on unraveling is now pulsating painfully within him, refusing to let him calm down. When he thinks about these things, he just gets… so angry. Once it starts, there's no stopping it.
Arngeir waits long enough to be sure his tirade is over before breaking their silence. "This is base conjecture and ultimately pointless. We should not have had this discussion. I apologize from the depths of my heart for driving you to anger, Dragonborn."
"Don't," he quietly replies. "There's no reason for that." He sighs heavily and drops his hands to his sides. "I'm the one who should be telling you sorry. I got carried away. I don't know why I bothered to say any of that to begin with. It isn't your business anyhow."
Arngeir harumphs expressively. "So long as a Dragonborn resides within the halls of my monastery, I will not hear of any apologies from him."
"Too bad," he grumbles tiredly. He doesn't regret what he said, but he recognizes this wasn't the right time, place, or person for it. Admittedly, there'll probably never be a right time, place, or person for… that.
"Hmm. Very well then." Arngeir inclines his head and gestures down the hallway. "Perhaps we should brew a fresh pot of tea before retiring for the night? It's never advisable to sleep with a disordered heart, else our demons may find renewed purchase in our waking minds."
Knowing an olive branch when he sees one, Mull faces the monk and waves for him to get on with it, studiously ignoring his ice-blue eyes filled with paternal concern and remorse. "I could go for some snowberry right about now. Were you thinking the western dining hall?"
"I was, unless you have another preference."
"Works for me. I'll let you take the lead."
"As you wish."
They meander to the nearest kitchen, drink their tea, and part ways in awkward silence about half an hour later. Not for the first, second, or third time, and certainly not for the last, the headmaster of the Greybeards has given Mull a whole hell of a lot to think about.
He doesn't understand how somebody could view the world through the lens described by Arngeir and still be able to live with themselves. Again, what's the point of life if everything could be ended in an instant by the whim of a higher being? In what world could that possibly be a good thing?
There must be something to it – after all, Arngeir has proven himself to be a wise old geezer in many different ways – but Mull just doesn't see it.
And as for the issue of the World-Eater… the less said about that, the better. He shivers as he walks back to his quarters, and not from the bone-chilling cold.
He's convinced himself that he must've been mistaken. There's no way the dragon at Helgen was a god, and the fact that some dusty old tapestry of the World-Eater looked eerily similar to that monster isn't definitive proof of anything. Only a naïve child or a raving lunatic could believe something like that.
He buries that dreadful theory deep within his psyche, and after the next few days it's already been completely forgotten. He doesn't waste anymore of his energy giving the tapestry an undeserved second thought.
But although the theory is cast aside and neglected, it isn't entire discarded. It lingers in the hidden depths of his mind, festering and evolving into something truly vile. He no longer dwells on the legends of the World-Eater… but they dwell on him. Every night his dreams become worse and worse, and when he startles awake in the gloam of early morning, he often glimpses the afterimage of serpentine blood-red eyes glaring at him from the dark corners of his room.