Chapter 38

After a grand total of six exhausting days of climbing – never again will I complain about Whiterun's urban layout – Mull finally catches sight of distant walls on the horizon ahead, constructed of granite masonry clad in prismatic ice that glistens brightly in the sunlight.

This must be it. High Hrothgar. How many sprawling multistory structures of dark stone could there feasibly be on this mountain, especially up so high?

He can't tell much about the monastery from this distance except that it's big. From its lofty perch atop a precipitous northwards ridge soaring above him, it seems to extend across one entire side of the Throat of the World.

As it comes into view, he pulls out the last of Danica Pure-Spring's potions and chugs it. If he's going to be meeting the Greybeards soon, he wants to be able to talk to them without sounding like a frog being flattened beneath a hobnailed boot. The bitter liquid soothes his aching throat, washing away secretions of mucus and the remnants of abraded ulcers. It's still tender and raw, though not quite as painful as it was a couple of days ago.

He gasps as he pulls the vial away from his chapped lips, stuffs it back in his knapsack, and swings the bag around his torso onto his sore shoulders. As he does, his notice is captured by something closer in his field of vision than High Hrothgar.

There's a statue nestled against a barren outcropping on the far right side of the trail, about fifteen feet tall, overshadowing what can only be another one of those almond-shaped shrines. It wouldn't be a particularly impressive edifice in Whiterun or any other city, but it's distinctly out of place here in the alpine wilderness.

He glances at the inviting walls of the monastery, back at the statue, and back once again.

…Bah. Might as well. After hanging his head and otherwise indulging in ample melodrama, he tiredly trudges over to the statue, which upon closer inspection is a wing-helmeted depiction of Talos. He heavily drops to a bruised knee in front of the shrine, readjusts the crude bandage cradling the injured side of his face, and squints at the rows of runes. I'm here and I'm reading your damn inscription. I'd better get a whole slew of blessings for this.

He leans forward to brush away a sheen of snow obscuring one of the lines. This shrine isn't as faded as the others and appears to have been erected somewhat more recently, with its surface lacking the same patchy weather-stains and the letters being more sharply defined against the smooth stone.

For years all silent, the Greybeards spoke one name

Tiber Septim, stripling then, was summoned to Hrothgar

They blessed and named him Dovahkiin

He reads the inscription silently and swiftly, without much regard for its actual content. This is just another shrine among several, a glorified history lesson. It isn't anything special.

But as his eyes pass over that final word – Dovahkiin – it somehow speaks itself into existence through unseen lips, gaining life as an echo in the keening of the wind. Each syllable resonates deeply within him.

'Dovahkiin.'

A wave of goosebumps ripples across his skin. The hairs on his arms stand on end. His foul mood vanishes in an instant, like a candle being blown out and overtaken by the encircling darkness. He shivers, though not from the cold.

Before his eyes, the runes on the tablet suddenly jump out at him with a muted flash of colorless light. They're ignited one by one under the auspices of an invisible hand, smoldering with sparks and ghostly wisps that burn without heat, blazing blue and silver and flame aND IcE AnD BLOOD. It's the same kaleidoscope of colors that rushed into him that night at the Western Watchtower following Mirmulnir's demise.

He blinks and the world around him falls away into shrouded nothingness. Only himself, the shrine, and statue above it remain in his sphere of awareness – or rather, what should be a statue. He takes a startled half-step backwards as he registers that inconsistency.

Balanced atop the pedestal before him is the deific form of Ysmir Talos the Stormcrowned, the Dragon-God, the mighty king-of-the-land who cast down Death itself and pierced clean through its black scales with a star-keen blade.

The statue – no, the man – is awash with an Aetherial glow, the visage of an immortal god returned to Nirn.

His noble helm is aflutter with white-feathered wings and casts an impenetrable shadow over his face.

His rich amaranthine cape is drifting elegantly on an invisible wind, beautifully embroidered with gleaming tresses of silver and gold.

His armored form is wreathed in an aura of celestial polychrome, fiercely alight with every color imaginable in the Mundus.

The air is stolen from Mull's lungs. He's frozen in place, unable to move, not even to twitch a finger as this otherworldly actualization coldly regards him with helm-shaded eyes of deepest blue.

Those eyes bore into him with the weight of entire worlds, howling like whirlpools, crushing him into meat-paste beneath the depths of an abyssal sea. His gear and clothing are utterly annihilated, broken down into the tiniest particulates of their material composition. His organs are ruptured from within and his flesh, muscle, and sinew are sundered from his bones, which are themselves shattered into dust. His very soul is ensnared by this unearthly man's immovable gaze and induced to cower wretchedly in the Void between life and death, helplessly vacillating before it too is ultimately extinguished. His existence is stamped out as if he had never been born in the first place, all by a most trivial exertion of Talos Stormcrown's divine will.

Ruair Gudarsson is no more. He never has been, and he never will be.

…And then the world springs back into being, the vision fades, and the statue is just a statue again.

Mull is kneeling on a snowy mountainside, sterile and white. He can move. He can breathe. He can feel and smell. His body and mind haven't been torn apart by the mere passing observation of a god. It wasn't real.

Holy shit. He falls backwards onto his ass, terrified out of his mind by what he just saw. Everything looks perfectly normal now, but he's positive he didn't imagine that… whatever it was. It wasn't real, but it sure as Oblivion felt like it was.

It's like he was being seen, and inspected, and judged. That all-knowing pair of depthless blue eyes from beyond the veil of stars had clearly found him wanting, and what followed was his immutable condemnation.

'Dovahkiin,' someone hisses directly into his ear. He harshly flinches away, but as always, nobody is there.

A chorus of Sight-voices burst into song, matching the pitch and tone of the whispers from Shroud Hearth Barrow. 'Dovahkiin.'

But they don't stop there. They continuously grow in volume, clamoring louder and louder for his acknowledgement. They swirl around him with no discernable pattern, directionless and flush against his skin and infinitely far away. 'Dovahkiin. Dovahkiin.'

Dragonborn.

He struggles to reorient himself, rests his weight on his rear foot, and exhales a column of wintery vapor as he considers the statue gazing stoically down at him.

Tiber Septim, stripling then, was summoned to Hrothgar

"Tiber Septim, huh?" he shakily croaks. "Is that who you are?"

He recalls the words of the warriors at the watchtower after they killed Mirmulnir, how they'd spoken about Tiber-Septim-who-is-Talos and his ascendance to legend. He weighs the worth of those words, turning them over and over like a coin clutched between rapacious fingers.

The last man who was called to this place and accepted the teachings of the Greybeards went on to found an empire and become a god. A real god, who the Nords believe manifested in his physical form as the Dragon-King to overthrow Mehrunes Dagon during the Oblivion Crisis and cast him out of Tamriel forever. That… that sure is something, isn't it?

He almost feels ashamed for having encountered so much difficulty in climbing the Seven Thousand Steps and for incessantly complaining about the unideal conditions of his ascent. It's disgraceful for one such as him. Surely in the presence of this illustrious company, it's his duty, his obligation, to comport himself in a manner that is worthy of the inborn spirit burning within him. There's no doubt in his mind that his unseemly performance has earned him naught but disappointment and loathing from the Hero-God of Mankind, the greatest Dragonborn of them all.

They are the scions of dragons, and he must be better than this.

At the dawn of time itself, the immortal wyrm-lords presided over the crawling masses with unshakeable majesty and callous righteousness. They bowed to nothing and no one in all of Kyne's creation, not even to the land or the sea or the sky. This is the truth. His soul screams that it must be so.

An incorporeal presence shifts within him, thundering like an earthquake emanating from the subterranean roots of Nirn. 'Indeed, a mere mountain should be nothing before one of the dov,' Mirmulnir affirms. 'And you, Qahnaarin, are among their number – not of the crawling masses, but of the draconic gods to whom they lifted their hands in elden days and cried out for salvation, prostrating themselves into the dust. You are not joor. You are dovah.'

"…Mirmulnir." He shakes his head to dispel that deluge of inexplicable ideations which seemingly arose from nowhere. His voice is phlegmy and rough like sandpaper, but not nearly as bad as it could be, and he's able to vocalize without debilitating pain thanks to Danica's concoctions. "I was wondering when you'd show up. If you're looking for a friendly chat, this isn't a good time. Go bother somebody else." The last thing he wants to do in his current condition is waste time jabbering with this unwelcome ghost. He's still reeling from everything that just happened and needs more time to process the unabashed weirdness of his life.

'I seek only to ingrain into you the realities of your existence.'

"Right."

Mirmulnir scoffs with vehemence. 'You are not joor. You cannot act as they do. You cannot speak as they do. You cannot conduct yourself as they do. You are dovah. You must act as you see fit, eternally fulfilling your inner drive to dominion. You must speak with a Voice that none can match. It is your hallowed responsibility to hold yourself to the highest standards of power, for you are among the mighty.'

The dragon pauses, allowing a pregnant silence to stretch.

'…Or rather, this is how you ought to be. But it is not how you are, and irrespective of my endeavors to the contrary, you still continue to wallow in the mud, in your filth, caked with weaknesses from which you cannot shake yourself free. Again you have nearly been bested and your life snuffed out, but this time by a lowly creature, a mindless beast. The potency of your Voice must be fed like a devouring flame, but you use it only as a crutch and a last resort. It must be cultivated with intention. And yet here you still are, weak,' he spits. 'You. Have. Done. Nothing!'

The dragon punctuates each word with a snarl.

'Even now, you are feeble! You have yet to give the development of your latent abilities so much as a second thought! The power of the dov is yours and you do nothing with it!'

"That's why I'm here!" Mull exclaims as he chops with an outstretched hand. "That's the only reason I'm here! The Greybeards can show me how to use these powers you're so hellbent on wanting me to learn. That'll solve all of our problems-!"

He's overcome by a coughing fit, staggering as they wrack his body.

'You believe these joorre have anything to teach you?' the dragon incredulously asks. 'They are not even worthy of the right to stand in your presence! They know nothing that you cannot learn for yourself, if only you commit to pursuing the knowledge of the dov with the same fervor you have pursued so many other meaningless things!'

"I investigated Shroud Hearth Barrow," he insists, forcing the words through his inflamed throat. "I heard it calling to me, just like Bleak Falls."

'Investigated?!' Mirmulnir cruelly laughs. 'You did no such thing! You allowed the joorre to dictate your actions out of fear for their response!' His laughter morphs into a deafening roar. 'This is not the way of the dovah!'

"Gah!" Mull lurches and clamps his palms over his ears as the dragon bellows deafeningly. It unsurprisingly does nothing to diminish the voice shrieking directly into his mind.

'If power calls out to you, and if you desire to make it your own, then take it! Seize it! Fear is for joorre, the slaves and the cattle. The insects! They do not hold sway over your actions unless you allow them to do so! The resting mound of the ancient joorre that whispered to you in the settlement below was yours for the plundering, and none there could've hoped to contest your might. With the power of your Thu'um, all will inevitably fall before you as grass to be trampled underfoot. If you had truly acted as a dovah, then you would have torn that place to its deepest foundations and claimed the secrets within for your own. But you did not! There you remained, on the precipice of greatness, and you turned your back!'

"I couldn't take on an entire town!" Mull's bloodshot eyes glare at the empty air. "That barrow is a sacred place to them, so there's no chance they would've let me go inside without a very good reason. And I know," he forestalls. "I know you're saying they don't matter, but my Thu'um is still too weak to massacre dozens of people at once, so none of this is relevant anyways! Every time I Shout, I turn myself into a gibbering mute! That's why I need the Greybeards, you basket-headed lizard!"

He's hunched over and breathing heavily by the end of his tirade. His throat is raw and his voice his hoarse, but that didn't stop him from saying what he wanted to say.

Mirmulnir remains quiet for a while, though not long enough for Mull to start thinking he might be finished.

'…The Thu'um is the imposition of a dovah's will upon the world. Where it is concerned, nothing is possible or impossible. Possibility is meaningless. There is only power. If your will is strong, then your power will grow along with it and accomplish all that you desire. Yet not only do you lack knowledge, but you lack the will to use it as well, and so you utterly lack both foundations of power. You must seek knowledge, Qahnaarin. Seek the knowledge interred within these burial mounds. And seek also to strengthen your will. You are not joor. I will repeat this unto the end of days, however I may convince you of its veracity. You are not joor. You can no longer constrain yourself with their laws and their empty moralities. You are dovah. Accept this.'

"All you ever do is speak in riddles," Mull grouses. "What does accepting that actually mean?"

'You must gain the awareness that the only things worthy of your consideration in this world are the will to dominion and the acknowledgement of superior strength. There are those who rule and there are those who are ruled. You are not joor,' he stresses. 'Either you will rule their kind or you will be ruled by them. There is nothing in between. And it is disgraceful for any dov, much less my Qahnaarin, to submit to being ruled.'

The dragon falls silent, allowing Mull to stew in his thoughts.

'…Do you now understand?'

"Maybe." He mutters an idle curse as he shifts to rest on both of his knees, not caring that his cloak and trousers are being soaked by the ankle-deep snow. "I still have a feeling I'm missing something. The voices in my head… are they always supposed to be this… loud?"

'Of course not.' Mirmulnir almost sounds offended. 'They are the tonal god-breath of the world calling out to you, duly acknowledging your nature and proclaiming your authority for all with ears to hear. The bones of the earth know what you are, and they worship you for it. But as of now, your nature as one of the dov is incompatible with the manner in which you choose to live, and so it is natural that your dovahsil should react in this way. No dovah can be content with subservience to those who have not indisputably proven their superior strength, but nevertheless you live in a state of sycophancy to the joorre and their piteous ways. This should not be.'

Mull takes a swig from his waterskin as he thinks over the dragon's words. He doesn't have much water left, but he isn't too concerned about his provisions now that High Hrothgar is in sight. "What exactly do you want from me? To conquer the whole damn world?"

'To act as you see fit. To do as you wish and to refuse that which you do not. To annihilate those who stand in opposition to your will. That,' Mirmulnir stresses with finality, 'is all I ask of you.'

"…I see." His voice feels heavy, as if his words have physical weight, dropping from his mouth like they're made of lead. "I think I understand."

'Do you?'

"Aye." He huffs and stiffly clambers to his feet. His joints crackle and pop with each movement, the vocal complaints of his body after sitting in the cold for so long. "I do understand. I'm not a follower anymore, is what you're saying. That's exactly what I've always been – someone who follows after other people and does what they tell me to do while staying content with my place in their hierarchy. Keeping my head down and securing enough of a profit to make the right people happy without overdoing it – that's the name of the game. Bandit chieftains love that kind of subordinate," he chuckles. "Quiet, unambitious, and good at what they do. Easy to control."

He sighs.

"But now things have changed, and as much as I hate it – and I really do fucking hate it, just so you know – I need to learn how to lead for real, and having Lydia and Torgen follow me around on our merry little goose chases isn't good enough. It… it's got to be everybody, Irileth and Jarl Balgruuf and all the rest of those assholes. They can't tell me what to do. I have to be the one telling them how things are going to be."

He already reached this same conclusion around the beginning of his journey to Ivarstead. He doesn't want the Jarl to hold sway over him, but Balgruuf has coerced him into doing things he didn't want to do multiple times because of what he might stand to lose if he refused. Becoming a mercenary in Whiterun seemed like a fantastic idea at first, but now he's beginning to seriously question it.

It's all part of this very same issue. He should be the one in charge, but he isn't. Up until now, he's been nothing more than a leaf in the wind. A pawn on a board.

He recalls his dream of a soaring dragon at Skybound Watch Pass and how satisfying it felt to be viewed as a god by the mortals cowering below. The memory of that sensation presses at him now, begging for his attention. Yearning to be unleashed.

'You have spoken well,' Mirmulnir purrs. 'Perhaps you do see more clearly than before.'

"Maybe." He stretches his arms and scrapes a few dollops of sticky snow from his pants before deigning to answer. "I do think I understand, but I'm still going to see the Greybeards. I'm already here and I want to listen to what they have to say. It could be useful."

'They are joorre. They have little to tell you that-'

"I've already decided and nothing is going to change my mind. This isn't something I'm willing to argue about."

Mirmulnir's silence is damning. '…You do not have the wisdom to make such a weighty decision, Qahnaarin.'

"And you do?" Mull counters. "You're dead."

This time the dragon doesn't reply.

"That's what I thought." I know you're trying to influence me. I wasn't born yesterday. But I also know you aren't lying about these things, deep down. We'll just have to find out who's more right – you, or the Greybeards.

With that, he steals one final glance at the still-staring statue of Talos, specifically at the thrashing serpent impaled upon the sword planted at his feet. He grimaces and quickly turns away, bleakly imagining himself in that serpent's place as he sets off for the walls of High Hrothgar.

He sways and totters with the wind as he diligently places one foot in front of the other. It's an uphill struggle that's already sapping what little of his strength remains, but he isn't going to give up now. He can't shake the lingering feeling that he has something to prove, and with the penultimate stretch of his pilgrimage finally at hand, he won't allow himself to falter.

Mirmulnir may be right about him being weak, but that doesn't mean he'll accept the dragon's judgement without fighting back. He'll prove him wrong one day, and even if today won't be that day, he'll still do what he can to set the stage.

And whatever happened with that statue, and the strange things he saw and felt… he isn't going to let that be how it ends. He didn't ask for this crazy turn in life to be thrust upon him and he refuses to dance meekly to the tune of whoever is responsible – the gods, the Divines, the damn Hist, whoever. If they decided to turn Mull the bandit out of all the people in Nirn into their oh-so-heroic Dragonborn, then they'll get exactly what they asked for. Whether they like it or not.

-x-

It takes him longer to reach the monastery than he anticipated. The tantalizing closeness of High Hrothgar causes each minute to drag by with agonizing slowness, taunting him at the very end of this sordid journey. His abject exhaustion, the thickening snow, and the blustery breeze don't help matters either.

But eventually, finally, he finds himself standing before the monastery's front gate, huffing and puffing as he regains his bearings.

He isn't sure what exactly he envisaged for the fabled High Hrothgar, but regardless of his expectations or lack thereof, it's certainly an impressive edifice.

The edge of the monastery grounds is bounded by a wall of uneven stone just short enough for him to see over. It's divided by a single wrought iron gate that opens into a paved courtyard.

Beyond the courtyard stands High Hrothgar in all its ancient glory, five stories tall and easily twice that as broad. The structure is festooned with dozens of windows, most of which are emitting the soft reddish-orange glow of firelight. The left half of the building is supported by a natural projection of the mountainside that reduces its effective height to perhaps two or three stories, while the full-sized right half continues all the way over to a cliff face that comprises the broader mass of the Throat of the World. The center of the building protrudes slightly into the courtyard and is the tallest section, taking the form of a steep-gabled tower. A broad staircase begins at the base of the tower before splitting in twain and circling around it, leading to mirrored entrances on either side. The roof is peaked, presumably to better prevent the accumulation of snow, and is shingled with squares of dark grey slate.

Overall, it's a very unique building. He's never seen anything like it in Skyrim or elsewhere.

It's also completely deserted.

The only signs of habitation are the lights in the windows, but he doesn't see the monastery's inhabitants anywhere. His surroundings are utterly motionless except for a few hawks soaring overhead, riding the currents and updrafts as they keep watch over the landscape.

He pauses to watch the birds of prey as he's temporarily enamored by their flight. They seem incredibly distant from the world below, but traversing the emptiness of the sky is such a simple endeavor for them. He glances out over the banks of clouds roiling beneath him, where the mountain falls away to his left. This is the closest I'll ever get to seeing things the way they see 'em.

The wind picks up and he shudders. He returns his attention to more immediate matters and pushes open the wrought iron gate with a muted squeal of metal against metal. It swings on its hinges with surprising ease for something of its size, being at least fifteen feet across. The courtyard beyond is spacious if a little bland. There's nothing here but snowdrifts and grey paving stones.

He stops and examines the main building, wondering what in Oblivion is going on. Shouldn't there be at least a couple of monks out here? I saw some people down at the farming terraces a few days ago, so I know the mountain is inhabited. It's also still light out, meaning you'd think there would be some kind of outdoor activity.

The multitudinous windows are gazing vacantly down at him, refusing to reveal their secrets so easily. The creeping feeling that indicates he's being watched begins to crawl down his spine, but he doesn't see silhouettes in the windows. It could be his weary mind playing tricks on him, but… he doesn't think so. He doesn't like this at all.

He quells his apprehension as he guardedly advances to the beginning of the stairs. Next to the staircase he finds a stone shrine exactly like the others further down the mountain. He stops to read it purely out of habit.

The Voice is worship

Follow the Inner Path

Speak only in True Need

'Lies,' Mirmulnir faintly growls. 'Lies of the joorre. Weaknesses. Servilities.'

Mull steadfastly ignores the dead dragon as he mounts the perron, wincing when his calves burn in protest. At least these stairs are free of ice and don't exhibit the same eroded smoothness as the Seven Thousand Steps. It's a welcome change of pace from the constant vigilance that characterized his trek up the mountain. Tumbling off a cliff wouldn't have been an enjoyable way to die.

By the time he reaches the top, he's even more fatigued than before. His abdomen twinges fiercely in protest after the continuous abuse of the last few days. He takes a minute to lean against the wall of the tower and sucks in a laborious breath as he examines the doorway. A set of brass double doors are glimmering vibrantly like amber, providing the only splash of color to be seen in this place so far.

He hesitates. A part of him can't believe he's actually here, standing before the entrance to High Hrothgar and anticipating an imminent meeting with the Greybeards. It doesn't seem real. Hell, none of this has seemed real. Not since the watchtower, not since Bleak Falls, and not since Helgen.

Despite Mirmulnir's earlier exhortations for him to act in a manner befitting the dov, he allows himself to indulge in his incredulity for a fleeting moment. He can't ignore the ridiculousness of the fact that he of all people is Dragonborn.

It could've been any number of people who are far more worthy, but for some reason it wasn't. For a long time, even after his discussions with Balgruuf and Hrongar, he couldn't bring himself to believe it.

Now, beneath the walls of High Hrothgar, it's finally sinking in. Or rather, the lengthy and gradual process of it sinking in is now nearly complete. He can't deny this any longer, no matter how much he might want to.

He stifles a lethargic groan as he approaches the doors. The Greybeards aren't going to meet themselves. He rests his palms against the unexpectedly warm surface of the brass doors, smooth like glass, and pushes.

They open with an ominous creak. Warm air rushes forth to greet him, causing his numbed cheeks to prickle pleasantly. He shuffles inside as quickly as he can manage and hastily shuts the doors behind him, less out of courtesy and more from a selfish desire to prevent the interior's heat from escaping.

Shadows envelope him. Once the doors have completely closed, the only audible sound is his own labored panting. He takes a few tentative steps forward while waiting for his eyesight to adjust.

An indiscernible distance ahead of him, there are faint reflections of obscured light flickering along the floor, shining from somewhere deeper within the monastery like beacons on the shores of a stormy lake. He reaches out to the sides until he finds a wall, presses his hand against it, and allows it to guide him as he follows the light. After a dozen cautious paces, the wall gives way and he emerges into a larger space.

He's now at the beginning of a long foyer illuminated dimly by a handful of candles scattered throughout. The walls remain shrouded in darkness, giving the impression that the room is broader than it actually is.

The room is two stories tall with a balcony area at the far end accessible by narrow sets of stairs. Some sort of pulpit, vaguely resembling what he might expect to find in a Cyrodiilic temple, is positioned at the forefront of the balcony where it overlooks the rest of the foyer. More staircases vanish into archways on either side. Unlit braziers are crouched in the corners, resting in the cold until their services are needed. Skylights in the ceiling provide scant beams of cloud-filtered sunlight to supplement the numerous candles. Banks of thin lancet windows along the walls fulfill a similar function.

A few sections of the walls nearby are captured within the liminal coronas of candles, and where their light reaches, Mull glimpses intricate carvings that extend boundlessly in all directions. Pilasters at regular intervals are etched with the likenesses of twisting serpents and dragons, so entangled that it's impossible to tell where one creature ends and the next begins.

Movement in the periphery of his vision causes Mull to tear his gaze away from the hall's peculiar ornamentation.

He didn't notice them at first, but there are indistinct figures occupying both the balcony on the opposite end of the chamber and dozens of recessed alcoves along the walls. Their amorphous profiles shimmer in the firelight, appearing more phantom than human. Every single one of them is clad in identical hooded robes. With their hands concealed inside voluminous sleeves, they might be mistaken for lifeless effigies instead of people.

Several figures descend from the balcony, each holding aloft wavering candles or smoldering censers. Columns of blue-tinted smoke trail languidly upwards to the hazy ceiling.

He inhales through his nose. The room smells aromatic rather than musty, as he would've expected from an old building. They must be burning incense.

The rich scent of the incense causes his heavy-lidded eyes to droop against his will. He's reached his limit. The siren call of slumber is becoming irresistible.

His vision swims precipitously. His eyelids flutter. His knees wobble. The combination of his fatigue, the warmth of the foyer, and that comforting fragrance all blend together to emphasize his exhaustion. It's a perfect storm.

Even without factoring in the troll, climbing the Steps was a far more difficult undertaking than he originally hoped. There's something about the air up here on the mountain that makes it harder to breathe even inside the monastery. If he doesn't find somewhere to rest soon, he might just keel over and pass out.

The figures approaching from the balcony are now joined by the others that were concealed within the alcoves. They form two lines along the breadth of the foyer like rows of sculptures bordering an Imperial boulevard, welcoming their lord to his decadent palace. Their road of lanterns and twinkling stars plunges blindly into the cavernous dusk, a wordless invitation for Mull to join them in a place of fair winds and ephemeral dreams.

It's a very nice welcome, if a little too formal and ritualistic for his taste. They must've wasted more time than he'd care to imagine rehearsing this momentous occasion. And incense isn't cheap either.

Unfortunately, he's literally about to collapse. He can already feel it coming. Sorry folks. I hate to do this to you, but…

He stumbles over to a hearth on his immediate left, between his entryway and its twin on the other side of a broad column, and leans heavily against the mantlepiece. The hearth is raised on a tiered dais, freezing and empty with only ashes to its name.

Before he knows what he's doing, he's sliding down onto his rear and reclining sluggishly against the dais. The floor is icy but not nearly as bad as the weather outside. He tucks his chin against his chest and rests his gaze upon his travel-stained boots, too drained to do much else. His backpack, bow, and sheathed sword make the positioning a little awkward, but he can't muster the strength to rearrange them. I could fall asleep right here.

Orange light glimmers on the bare stone floor, gradually becoming brighter as the monastery's denizens draw closer. He somehow summons the energy to look up.

One of the figures is shuffling directly towards him while holding a bowl-like censer swinging from a set of chains. The newcomer is hooded, but Mull catches a glimpse of his features within the shadow of his cowl, dyed orange by burning cinders wafting from his censer. Poking out from beneath the hood is a full silver beard that's bound into a knot, above which lies a wrinkled face and a pair of gleaming eyes. It's difficult to tell through the prodigious mass of facial hair, but the man might be smiling.

He halts a few yards away, maintaining a respectful distance. "Greetings traveler." He's soft-spoken and his voice is scratchy, that of an old man, but simultaneously rich with emotion. "It is my privilege and honor to welcome you to this humble sanctuary."

Mull snorts, but he still acknowledges the greeting with a shallow nod. 'Humble.' That isn't the word I'd use for this place. I can't imagine how long it must've taken to build, up here in the middle of nowhere.

The censer sways gently with the newcomer's idle movements. Mull is forced to tilt his head uncomfortably upwards to keep looking at him. The man's expression is oddly warm. "We have been expecting your arrival."

He opens his mouth to say something about the Call of the Greybeards, assuming the man is referring to Mirmulnir's demise, but then he reconsiders the events of the last few days. "I guess you would've heard that nasty business with the troll," he rasps. "There was a bit of Shouting involved."

"Indeed." The man's smile morphs into something distinctly more worried. "You appear to be injured."

"Aye." Mull raises an arm and pokes at his bandaged cheek. He cringes, immediately regretting that he wasn't gentler. "It happens."

"The Seven Thousand Steps can be treacherous at times. Many travelers over the long years have met their untimely end upon these slopes." The hooded old man sighs morosely. "You, however, have passed the test that was set before you. Kyne has borne witness to your struggles and seen fit to grant you sanctuary within these hallowed halls. Rise, if you will, and follow. A well-earned rest awaits you."

"That isn't gonna happen," he chuckles. "I could barely stand just now. I'm dead on my feet, monk." This man and his fellows are quite obviously the Greybeards. Who else could they be?

"I see. You'll have to pardon me, then." The old monk turns and beckons. At his silent command, a group of figures emerge from the shadows and join him. They're all similarly clothed and bearded except for one, who Mull assumes to be a woman based on her wiry frame and the tightness of her robes across her hips.

Whispers are exchanged between the old monk and the woman. They quickly reach a consensus and softly relay instructions to two bulkier monks, who step forward and hold out their hands in unison. Mull regards them for a few seconds while he gathers the strength to accept their unspoken invitation.

With a shaky exhale, he grasps their forearms and allows himself to be pulled to his feet. The ground spins beneath him. His limbs feel like jelly.

His arms are gracelessly draped across their broad shoulders as they escort him further into the foyer. The assembly of monks recoalesce before him into their two opposing rows, each bearing their own sputtering censer or candle. As he and his attendants pass them by, they vanish behind him like vaporous will-o-wisps.

They slowly ascend one of the staircases, taking it one careful step at a time. He's vaguely mindful of the older monk and a few others trailing closely behind. When they crest the stairs, he glances up from his feet to see a hallway stretching away before him, shrouded in wavering darkness and coiling smoke just like the foyer. His stomach clenches and he makes a concerted effort to suppress a sudden bout of nausea. He realizes his mouth is unbearably parched and laments that his waterskin is empty. I'm in worse shape than I thought.

After that, everything else is a blur. They steer him through a maze of corridors and around far too many corners to count. Later, he can't recall much of High Hrothgar's interior beyond the dimness of each room and the numerous carvings and tapestries adorning the walls. His shoulders burn from holding most of the weight of his body, but he endures the discomfort.

They make one final turn and enter a room that is substantially warmer.

The next thing he knows, he finds himself returning to consciousness while lying on a comfortable bed. It's the softest thing he's felt in a long time.

He cracks open his eyes to reveal a small chamber with a single narrow window providing watery illumination. His dirty and damaged garments have been exchanged for a loose set of ash-grey robes, partially open to leave most of his torso exposed. A man and a woman are leaning over him, poking and prodding at his flesh while occasionally consulting with one another. The man is unfamiliar, but he's pretty sure the woman is the same one from the foyer.

He hisses as the man touches a particularly sensitive spot on the bony ridge between his eye and ear. It must be severely bruised from where the troll's paw made contact – although that's probably true for the entire left side of his face. He hasn't had the opportunity to see his own reflection since then, and he's pretty sure he doesn't want to.

The man and woman make fleeting eye contact with him as they notice his state of semi-alertness, but they afterwards ignore him and quietly continue tending to his wounds. Once they've prodded him to their satisfaction, they begin applying potions and poultices from an assortment of multicolored flasks and jars to his partially-scabbed wounds. Mull grits his teeth as he suffers through their ministrations.

They start with the smallest scrapes and gradually work their way up, leaving the worst lacerations and punctures for last. Glistening ointments are meticulously slathered all over his head, shoulders, and arms.

Last of all, the woman reaches over and gently tears away the crude bandage he'd wrapped around his jaw after the battle, the site of his worst injury. When she peels back the blood-caked fabric and examines his wound, she breathes out through her nose and tsks in disappointment. Even in his delirium, Mull has the presence of mind to feel indignant at her reaction. He's treated his fair share of wounds over the years and likes to think he knows what he's doing.

The cowled woman pours cherry-red liquid from a glass vial onto a clean cloth and dabs at his facial injury. Agony shoots through his head, stabbing outwards like the branches of a lightning strike. He growls and rolls halfway over, narrowly resisting the temptation to swat her away.

The man and woman deftly maneuver a new bandage around his face and secure it in place. The arrangement is awkward but not intolerable, and thankfully leaves his mouth, nose, and both eyes unobstructed.

He's barely aware as they gather their things and depart. He spends a while staring hazily at the ceiling before sleep fully envelopes him.