Interlude 5 – He Who Gnaws
A desolate range of icy mountains pierce heavenward like bitter spears tipped with diamond, little different from their kindred spanning the breadth of Skyrim save only for their isolation and sheer frigidity. This far from the lowlands below, the wind is terribly cold and drifts of snow float thickly on the air. For practically any creature imaginable, to spend even an hour in such an environment would assuredly be a death sentence. As such, were there someone present to observe this place, they would be greatly surprised to find that these mountains aren't entirely devoid of life, though the nature of that life might be even more surprising.
Atop one of the highest peaks is perched an enormous winged creature. His sable scales are so dark that he's practically invisible in the wavering light of the moons and pale stars, even against the glittering backdrop of the mountains. The aforementioned wings are folded along his flanks. Gnarled horns twist from the rear of his skull, crowning a terrifying visage. However, other than periodic puffs of mist from his scaled nostrils and the occasional blink of his scarlet eyes, the creature is completely motionless. The hypothetical observer might question if he were even still alive.
They couldn't be any more wrong to do so. Though in all fairness, to debate whether an existence such as this being is truly 'alive' in the mortal sense is something of a fool's errand. The point stands regardless.
The creature – unmistakably a dragon to those who know such things – silently monitors the world beneath his taloned feet. Clouds swirl below in a sea of somber grey, sometimes flashing rust-red or pale blue wherever their undulating surfaces catch the light of the moons just right. Further beyond, featureless darkness stretches to the horizon, a land of forested hills and glaciated plains shrouded in the blackness of night soon before dawn. The frigid ocean gleams distantly at the very edge of sight. It's a beautiful vista in spite of the adverse weather.
The dragon doesn't spare so much as an instant of thought for such things.
Events are unfolding with great rapidity. His erstwhile followers are gathering. Some few have survived the Eras of Men by taking refuge in forlorn wastes and are just now returning to Keizaal, heeding their master's call.
Others, the vast majority of their kind, still yet lie in ignoble repose within crumbling tombs and wind-shorn mounds, awaiting his arrival with the infinite patience of the dead. Some of these he has already raised to life, granting them ownership of their immortal souls once more, but there are many who have yet to receive this honor. They will in the near future, though that day hasn't arrived.
On this day – or night, more accurately – his attention has been drawn elsewhere. Through the fog and snow, across distances that the joorre would find boggling to their insignificant minds, Alduin the Firstborn watches a battle unfold.
Not a great battle, as some of the joorre might be inclined to describe it, but merely a battle. In comparison to the havoc and slaughter of the Dragon Wars, where the firmament of Nirn itself nearly came crashing down into the yawning Void, such a fleeting confrontation is less than nothing. Doubly so in the eyes of a god, one who has seen the Kalpic Cycle repeat itself without end and everything such a fact entails. This event barely merits the dragon-god's briefest interest.
But 'barely' doesn't mean 'does not.' His scarlet eyes narrow imperceptibly, wells of unfathomable depth that strike fear of imminent [null existence] into all who are misfortunate enough to behold them.
On the treeless plains of Ahrolsedovah far below, one of his subordinates pursues his mortal quarry in a storm of frost and flame. Mirmulnir seeks to test the resolve of the joorre as a means of determining their ability to resist what is coming for them. Perhaps he wishes to curry favor with his thuri through this action.
The dragon-god snorts, releasing larger than usual clouds of vapor into the air. The intent behind the action does not matter. If nothing else, this conflict – if it even merits the term, being miniscule as it is – will provide a suitable opportunity to witness the capabilities of the joorre of this Era, and in doing so will be worthy of this paltry degree of consideration.
For a time, the dragon-god is content to observe the distant battle. The joorre are predictably weak, though they do not debase themselves with cowardice either. His initial impression was that the men of this Era are generally lesser than those of the time of old, pale imitations of their ancestors who were yet slaves. But these joorre in particular display an uncommon propensity to fight back. It matters not either way, but it is a noteworthy observation nonetheless.
The dragon-god's interest piques ever-so-slightly as a large body of joorre depart from the stronghold constructed around Ahrolsedovah, transport themselves across the plains using their beasts of burden, and enter the battlefield to confront Mirmulnir.
His servant's simple application of Yol reduces many of their number to a cloud of ashes upon the bitter wind. He continues to encircle those who would challenge him, slaying them one by one with contemptuous ease.
But then the tides of battle recede. Even from this distance, the dragon-god senses an indefinable shift in momentum. Mirmulnir roars forth his indignation as he flaps his wings – awkwardly, now – and sheds altitude. Seconds later, he plows into the earth and does not return to the sky.
Those among the ranks of the joorre who survived Mirmulnir's depredations now swarm around him like so many insects to a rotting corpse. He Shouts into being his spitefulness for their inferiority, slaying many more, but still he does not fully acquit himself. To take desperate action would be to admit desperation, and Mirmulnir is haughty even among the rankings of the dov.
And so he is overwhelmed and reduced to a wretch, little better than a mindless animal in his final moments. Rent with many wounds weeping crimson blood, he cries out at the last and collapses to the earth. Thus he dies as his life-breathe departs from his flesh.
Mirmulnir has been brought down by the pathetic efforts of the joorre. He entertained himself with his prey, indulged his pride while failing to commit to battle with the seriousness befitting a dovah, and has now paid the fated price for such folly.
Pride is a universal characteristic of the dov. Mirmulnir can hardly be blamed for adhering to his inborn nature.
The same cannot be said for Alduin, who is to the dov what the dov are to the joorre. The dragon-god sees these things with a clarity that no creature, mortal or immortal, could possibly hope to match. And so, at the onset of the battle, he perceived the instant that Mirmulnir succumbed to his base desires and is now unsurprised that his indulgences caused him to fall.
The glow of Mirmulnir's soul, a burning star in a lightless vacuum, suddenly winks out of existence. It's replaced by a new much fainter light an instant afterwards, little more than a candle next to what was once a roaring furnace. Even he, Alduin the Firstborn, is barely able to perceive it at this extreme range.
The inexplicable appearance of such a miniscule soul can only have one meaning. Dovahkiin.
He doesn't know which of the ant-like joorre gathering before Mirmulnir's fleshless bones is responsible for his demise, but he recognizes that a Dovahkiin must assuredly among them.
This is further confirmed some hours later, long after the joorre and this nascent Dovahkiin have departed from the field of battle, when a Thu'um rings across the mountains and valleys of Keizaal.
"DOV-AH-KIIN!"
This Thu'um is wavering and ephemeral, quite obviously a Thu'um of men. Regardless, its meaning is evident. Only a dovah could have sensed the true significance of Mirmulnir's death, and only one among their number would willingly communicate news of that event to the joorre. His erstwhile brother, his traitorous lieutenant, he who once exerted his authority over all of Keizaal before turning against his own kind.
Paarthurnax. My wayward kin.
That, however, is a problem for another time. They've already clashed once since Alduin's return, during their unforeseen meeting immediately after his corporeal form emerged from [time-chaos], and he does not feel any urgency to do so again. Not yet.
He considers departing from his alpine perch, descending to the fields of the Ahrolsedovah, and destroying this Dovahkiin now. It would be quite effortless.
That said, it is also quite unnecessary. No mortal, Dragonborn or otherwise, has ever been able to defeat him. The only exception would be the three Heroes who opposed him with the cursed kel at the summit of the world, they who were responsible for casting him through [time-chaos] into this Era.
He surmises that was something of a special case. And even so, he would not call it a defeat. A mere postponement only, a means to cast his inevitability onto a later generation of joorre. Such a thing is hardly a victory.
So, no. He is not concerned in the slightest by the appearance of this Dovahkiin. Blessed by fate though their kind may be, there is no man in this or any world who possesses the power to oppose a transkalpic god. It is simply impossible. It cannot be done.
Mirmulnir was old and weak, withered by the relentless passage of time in mind if not in body. His demise was somewhat unexpected, yes, but not entirely so. It is unfortunate that his soul will nourish the nascent Dovahkiin's knowledge and ability, but that is inconsequential in the grand denouement unfolding for the destiny of this world.
The black dragon gradually unfolds his enormous wings, blocking out the moonlight over a vast swathe of the wintery landscape below.
He flaps once. Twice. Great gusts of wind send boulders and sheets of snow plummeting down the mountainside.
He rises ponderously into the sky, each beat of his midnight wings causing the air to quake.
This Dovahkiin may not be a threat, but its appearance does raise certain concerns. If Mirmulnir could be defeated, then others of his lesser brethren will be prone to suffering the same fate as well. He must hasten to the east, for there he senses the long-entombed remains of many more of his fallen disciples. Raising them from their mounds earlier than initially planned will necessarily accelerate his designs, perhaps to his own detriment. The longer he simply allows the joorre to sate their lust for conflict with one another, the greater his pool of consumable souls will grow in this age of catastrophe.
However, he is ultimately unconcerned. The full span of time on this side of eternity is at his disposal, to do with as he pleases. The details are meaningless.
He will fulfill the purpose of his existence as the World-Eating God. He is Alduin the Destroyer, the Devourer, He Who Gnaws on the Bones of the World.
And the end of this Kalpa is nigh.