Chapter 42
Time passes surprisingly quickly at High Hrothgar. The days steadily meld together as Mull becomes more accustomed to the regularity of his new routine. Days turn into weeks and weeks to fortnights, and soon an entire month has elapsed before he realizes.
He enjoys living among the Greybeards. They're a peaceable sort, very different from what he's used to, and the serene environment of their monastery is a welcome change of pace. Their whole lives seem to revolve around meditating in dim incense-filled chambers and practicing their Voices on the cliffsides surrounding High Hrothgar, with everything else being either a grudging necessity or an extraneous distraction. The attention he receives from the younger and more curious monks is always annoying, but as time goes on he starts to notice it less and less.
After his semi-successful first attempt at learning to use Ro, Arngeir instructed him to commit the next several days to meditation in order to get back in the right mindset. Sitting on the bare floor while thinking about his feelings is always a frustrating endeavor and feels pointless most of the time, and he doesn't make headway in unraveling the burning knot of anger festering at the center of his soul-sea. But eventually, he's able to make enough painstaking progress for the monks to declare that he's ready to retry his first true delve into the Way of the Voice.
So he's escorted back to the great foyer by the four eldest Greybeards, who coach him again on the meaning of Balance with plenty of philosophizing and wise adages. It goes faster this time around, and soon they have him practicing Unrelenting Force with the Voice-summoned shades much like before.
The results are almost exactly the same. After failing to produce a Shout strong enough to dissipate the phantom forms – Einarth's this time – he gets too aggravated and accidentally Shouts without using the Way. The shade is dispersed but his throat suffers for it.
Mull repeats this cycle ad nauseum over the following weeks, contemplating and meditating until Arngeir takes him to the foyer for another bout of practice and inevitable failure. But each time he gains a little more accuracy, a little more power, and lasts a few minutes longer before succumbing to his frustration and pouring out his emotions into a final blood-breathed Shout.
During this time, his understanding of Force and Balance continue to slowly but steadily grow. As it does, he swiftly reaches the realization that his metaphysical sense of Balance is absolutely atrocious. His Voice has always been directionless, and the only reason he was ever able to use Fus effectively in the past was, according to Arngeir, due to his emotions subconsciously directing the intent of the Shout. Now that he's adhering to the Way, he doesn't have the option to lean on that same crutch anymore. He needs to do the directing consciously, and that's where Balance comes into play. To quote Arngeir, 'Force without Balance is insubstantial.' That statement is becoming more important with each passing week.
And so, after a full month of going around in circles, Mull finally achieves the breakthrough he's been building towards for so long.
When he clearly perceives Ro for the first time – not through his own personal perception, but through the more nuanced way the Greybeards and the dov view the concept – it seems so absurdly simple in hindsight. Where a fist bounces away ineffectually, a sword pierces through because of the balanced keenness of its edge. A punch is a Force applied sloppily, wildly, and with no forethought. In contrast, a sword is a Force applied with precision and accuracy. Were a sword and a fist to be swing with the same strength by the same arm, the sword would bite much deeper because of its form and nature. It acts with Balance where a fist does not.
Over the course of his instruction, Arngeir spoke a lot about fundamental understanding and finding the deeper meaning of the Words of Power. It seemed like esoteric gibberish at the time, but now Mull thinks he might have an inkling of what the monk was trying to say. There's a difference between knowing that a sword pierces better than a fist and actually comprehending how that difference is a basic truth. What does it mean to balance? What does it mean to exert force against something?
His understanding of Balance during his first practice session was nascent and simplistic. Standing one-legged on a rock and windmilling your arms to keep from falling over isn't balance. That's just reacting, maintaining, preventing the oncoming and inevitable failure. Balance – real balance – is implacable. It's constant. It doesn't falter even when outside forces decide to intervene. It doesn't fail under any circumstances. It simply is. Balance is a state of being without end. And so, when it's paired with the application of Force, together they become irresistible.
That's what it means to have Balance. Ro. Unrelenting Force. It's like something finally clicked into place behind his eyes.
The day after his revelation, Mull and Arngeir return to the foyer and perform their usual exercises with the other Greybeard elders. Wulfgar produces a Phantom Form, Mull goes through his mental checklist of grounded stance, even breathing, and still mind, and he unleashes his Thu'um on the hapless shade.
"FUS! RO!"
The instant it leaves his mouth, he can tell there's something different this time. His Voice flows forth with shocking effortlessness. He wouldn't call it easy, but it's definitely unlike his previous attempts. There's no struggle. There's no pain. It just… happens.
A faint ring of azure energy accompanies a shimmering wave of pure force as it screams through the translucent copy of Wulfgar. The monk's visage evaporates, blown away into a cloud of shimmering particles like sand on the wind, which themselves fade after a few seconds longer.
After the booming roar of his Shout, the silence of the chamber seems much more poignant than before.
Did that…
A round of clapping interrupts the stillness and Arngeir steps forward to address him. His face is steadfastly regal even as a smile visibly struggles to break free.
Mull wipes a sleeve across his forehead and it comes away damp. His hair and beard are soaked in sweat. Was I really concentrating that hard? I didn't even notice.
"That was most impressive, Dragonborn," says Arngeir. "You learn a new word like a master. You truly do have the gift."
"Thanks." He accepts a wineskin from Borri and takes a long swig. "Although that took me a whole damn month, so I really can't say I feel like a master. I… uh…"
Wait. I can talk?
After every previous Shout of comparable intensity and volume, he's always been left mute for at least a full day. Right now, that clearly isn't the case. The same can be said for his ability to drink the wine without internal discomfort.
"You've done well," Arngeir continues. "No longer does your Voice hold sway over you, but rather the opposite. I must confess that I'm astounded with the progress you've made. You've been residing here and accepting our instruction for only a paltry five weeks. It's incredible, to be frank with you."
Mull gives him a critical glance. "Incredible seems like too strong of a word."
"With respect, I beg to differ. Your learning of Ro has been exponentially faster than I've ever seen before, not even from a prodigy. The level of proficiency you've gained in such a short span of time would've undoubtedly taken anyone else years or decades to achieve."
"…I see," he mumbles.
"Do not indulge yourself to celebration too early, however." The other monks nod in agreement with Argneir's exhortation. "Learning a new Word of Power is only one step of many. You must continue to discern the deeper meanings of Ro in order to expel it as a Shout reliably. As Dragonborn, you have the additional advantage of being able to absorb a slain dragon's life force and knowledge directly just as you've done before, but that is no substitute for unceasing effort. You must still walk the Path as we all do. However, yours will be significantly easier than most if the natural ability you've displayed is any indication."
Mull takes a few seconds to work through Arngeir's words. "So basically, I can learn to use a Shout by absorbing a dragon's power – which is how I'm able to use Fus – or I can learn a Shout through meditating on the Way like what we've been doing with Ro."
"That is correct. And I feel a need to reiterate that neither method is wrong. They differ primarily in their availability. One can be accomplished by any man with sufficient time and dedication while the other is a path open only to Dragonborn. The Way of the Voice is much more relevant where the consistent usage of these Shouts is concerned rather than in their preliminary comprehension, although it can play a role in that as well."
Arngeir's voice grows scratchy until it falters completely and he coughs heavily into his wrinkled fist. Sometimes it's easy for Mull to forget this monk is an old geezer. He's always so passionate and involved when he's talking about the Way of the Voice. After a brief hesitation, he holds out the wineskin to the Greybeard and gestures for him to take it. Arngeir looks amused as he grasps the skin and raises it to his lips. Once he's quenched his thirst, he continues with his dissertation.
"Such things, the Shouts and the Ways, are learnt through a lens of intended utility. A blacksmith who intends to forge iron will practice with iron and one who intends to work bronze will practice with bronze. By learning Ro through the curriculum of the Way of the Voice, you have opened yourself to its intended use for benevolence and worship rather than for future dominion. That is an important distinction. On the other hand, directly absorbing a dragon's knowledge is a route that inherently requires conflict. True Need is a valid method of advancement for Dragonborn such as yourself, but it isn't a peaceful progression like the Way of the Voice. Both are legitimate, but they each carry positives and negatives that should be taken into account."
"Huh." Mull scratches his beard thoughtfully. "That's a lot for me to think about. I feel like I've been saying that a lot recently," he finishes with a chuckle. His success left him in a good mood.
Arngeir, Borri, Einarth, and Wulfgar each press their hands together within their flowing sleeves and bow deeply from the waist.
"It is an honor to instruct you as a fellow follower of the Way," Arngeir intones.
-x-
Not long after Mull's breakthrough with Fus Ro, Arngeir and the other Greybeard elders begin teaching him an entirely new Shout. They call it Whirlwind Sprint after the first word of the Shout, Wuld, which means 'Whirlwind.'
When they show him an archaic scroll with the Word of Power inked upon it, he notes that its lettering is longer and more complex than Ro. It has horizontal lines in addition to vertical and diagonal, and it also has a couple of dots. He wonders if that means it'll be more difficult to learn.
He also wonders how the Greybeards learned dovahzul in the first place if none of them are Dragonborn, but when he asks about it, Arngeir tells him they've been passing down this knowledge from generation to generation and that nobody knows when or where it originated. Strange, but no stranger than anything else on this mountain.
The Greybeard headmaster instructs Mull to first contemplate the meaning of Whirlwind before trying anything else. "Wuld is associated with turbulence, capriciousness, and the boundless power of the wind and sky. It's difficult even for experienced Tongues to control the full breadth of its power."
That's his only piece of advice before sending Mull off to the meditation chambers, sentencing him once more to a monotonous hell of incense and candlelight. I'm sure there are worse hells out there. But that doesn't make this one any better.
Just as before, he tries his damnedest to delve into the deeper meaning of the word without really knowing what he's doing. Unsurprisingly, he isn't successful in his endeavor at all. Shouldn't Whirlwind be pretty self-explanatory? It's just wind that spins around in circles, like a cyclone. What is there that requires a deeper meaning? Sure, Arngeir gave him the whole spiel about turbulence and capriciousness, but that's simply part of the definition. Whirlwinds are obviously turbulent and capricious.
It's much more difficult for Mull to make meaningful headway with this Word of Power than with Ro. Maybe it's because Ro was the second word of a Shout he'd already begun to master whereas Wuld is something entirely new.
As a result, he isn't looking forward to his upcoming training session when Arngeir and the other Greybeard elders retrieve him after what they deem to be an appropriate amount of meditation. As they shepherd him to the central foyer to test Wuld, he's overcome with anxiety about his impending failure. He still has no clue what to do. But in spite of his trepidation, Arngeir is still somehow able to talk him into giving Wuld an honest try.
Let's see how this goes.
Once everybody's arranged in the middle of the foyer to Arngeir's satisfaction, Mull squares his shoulders, takes a long breath, and searches within himself for the introspective understanding of this new Thu'um. There isn't a whole lot to work with.
As always, a gut-reaction tide of emotion begins welling up within him and offers itself as the fuel to his Voice, but he successfully resists the temptation of easy power just as he's practiced many times. The deep-seated core of anger inside of him hasn't diminished in the slightest, but he's at least getting better at ignoring it.
Instead he calms his thoughts with a quick breathing exercise, inhaling and exhaling deeply until his heartbeat becomes sluggish, and mentally reviews the reasons he wants to use this Shout. It isn't for personal gain. It isn't because he wants to harm anyone or destroy anything. It isn't because he wants to feel strong for the sake of his own pride. The reason he wants to Shout is because he needs greater power – raw, unfaltering, limitless power with which to alter the world as he sees fit. He wants the ability to protect the people he cares about and to defy those who seek to control him. That's why he's here, and it's why this Shout must succeed.
He steels himself for whatever's about to happen next and vocalizes the Shout.
"Wuld!"
An incredibly strong gust of wind suddenly overtakes him, swirling from all directions in a storm of utter chaos. One arm is pulled to the right, one leg is yanked to the left, and his feet leave the safety of solid ground as he tumbles weightlessly through the air with limbs splayed like a dead man.
The next thing he knows, he's lying on his back a good dozen feet away from his starting position and staring at the panorama of detailed engravings decorating the ceiling. He can already feel massive bruises forming all across his aching body.
He shakily sits up and groans. He somehow managed to throw himself all they way to the balcony at the rear end of the foyer. The partially-overhanging pulpit is sitting directly above him.
His vision wobbles nauseatingly. He rubs the back of his head and discovers a tender knot hidden within the tangled strands of his hair. Gods above, that hurt. I'm lucky I didn't bash my brains against a wall.
Soft footsteps draw his attention. Arngeir and the other monks are gliding towards him with hands folded inside their robes and faces set into expressionless masks. When they reach him, Arngeir leans forward to extend a hand but he waves away the offered assistance and clambers to his feet under his own power. No need to add insult to injury.
"Your ability to call upon Wuld with such ferocity is impressive for a first attempt," the monk states mildly. "However, your control was minimal from the outset."
"Yeah, I can tell." Mull cringes as he regretfully reflects on the days he wasted meditating ineffectually. After that display, it doesn't seem like he accomplished anything at all. "Didn't turn out too great, did it?"
"Perhaps not, but that's hardly unusual for a novice Tongue." Arngeir gestures for him to accompany the monks back to the center of the room.
"I'm not just some novice Tongue," he grumbles. He had a sinking feeling this would go about how it went the first time with Ro – which is to say, poorly – but that doesn't mean he's happy about making himself look like an idiot. He's grown accustomed to using Unrelenting Force without deviating from the Way of the Voice, but with Wuld it feels like he's starting over from scratch.
Arngeir's ice-blue gaze sweeps over him. "I do not want you to become discouraged, Dragonborn. You've committed to learning an entirely new Thu'um and that is no small undertaking. The tempestuous squalls of Wuld are especially wild and unpredictable. You will fail just as you failed so often in your first attempts to master Ro – but remember that you succeeded in your pursuit of Balance with a rapidity that even I could not hope to match. In the same way, I have faith that you'll meet with success in this endeavor as well."
They return to Mull's starting position and the monks reorganize themselves around him.
"Now we shall try again, and this time don't be so hasty with your Voice. Breathe even more deeply. Search even further within yourself. The answers to what you seek will be there. Do not hurry, for the accumulation of wisdom is not an endeavor that can be rushed. Most of all, please remember that Shouts used to enhance your physical attributes can be extremely dangerous. You may have the soul of a dragon, but your mortal body is still fragile."
I wish you'd said that earlier. Resigning himself, Mull forces his tense shoulders to relax and refocuses on his breathing, doing his best to ignore the throbbing pain from his tumble across the floor. Alright, you've already done this once and you can do it again. Sure it took you a whole month, but you did it. That's what matters.
He inhales, holds his breath, exhales, and repeats the cycle.
"Wuld!"
-x-
By the morning's end, Mull is bruised all over and thoroughly exhausted from throwing himself across the foyer with Whirlwind Sprint for hours. At least I only hit the ceiling once. He still isn't sure how he managed to do that one. The old monks weren't pleased with his performance, but they didn't seem disappointed either. They were completely impassive. In Mull's opinion, that's almost worse than outright disappointment. He'd rather know what they're thinking than be left making blind guesses.
He finds himself some lunch and meanders to the monastery library in search of a distraction, anything to take his mind away from the long weeks of painful training and tedious contemplation that doubtlessly lie ahead. He's never been a prolific reader of any kind, but a good story or legend told around a campfire at night was always a mindlessly enjoyable way to pass the time. Reading in a library can't be much different from that. This'll be the first time I'm going to an actual library to read something. Looks like I'm turning into a real scholar. Next thing I know, I'll be drafting documents with Farengar. That's a scary thought.
Mull scans his surroundings out of habit as he arrives in High Hrothgar's expansive library. There are a few monks spread throughout the spacious chamber, but when they catch sight of the new arrival, they scurry to other more remote areas of the library or otherwise distance themselves. A few of them stop to stare at him from behind corners or bookshelves.
Their behavior is a mildly amusing but even more obnoxious. They do realize I'm here to read a damn book, right? What do they think I'm going to do, start Shouting the place to smithereens? They're like children, the lot of 'em.
He ambles over to a recently-vacated table, drops into a plush chair, and starts surveying the stacks of volumes scattered across every available surface. The sheer number of books being stored in this place is staggering. He's never seen anything like it and he has no clue where to begin.
At random, he selects a thick leatherbound tome with embroidered patterns around the edges and no discernible title. He flips through its musty pages in search of anything that looks interesting. After a few dozen pages, he finds an illustration of what he's pretty sure is a man-sized monkey with powdered fur wearing an ornate cloak.
He snorts disbelievingly. What is this? It looks ridiculous. The strange drawing piques his curiosity and he decides to read through a few segments of the adjacent text.
'The Marukhati Selective danced atop the White-Gold for one thousand and eight years in order to reshape the Elven god-king Auri-El into the dragon of time called Akatosh, cavorting to the tune of the structure of the world. In doing so, the followers of the Prophet-Most-Simian made of themselves Architects and Musicians.'
In the left margin, a past reader has scrawled a few lines of their own. 'The Snow Throat as a Tower?' 'Marukh's Abyss?' 'Architects of Tonal Magic?'
Uh… right. Unable to make any sense out of it, Mull returns the book to its previous spot and grabs another. This one doesn't even have a cover. It's simply a stack of manuscripts bound together with twine. He handles it with exaggerated but presumably deserved care. It looks old.
'A Commentary on Vekh's Teachings, as inscribed by Svilin the Tongue'.
'The Thu'um is the language of the gods. The great goddess Kyne, harbinger of Sovngarde, Shouts storms into the world and whispers the very winds themselves into being. We Greybeards honor the gods – and Kyne most especially – through our temperate use of the Voice in holy emulation. The Thu'um is concept-made-real. The Tongue tastes of the deepest nature of life-flame and so becomes capable of insisting upon that same nature. Anuic self-insistence drives the reaction, little different from an alchemical ingredient. The only limitations in this process are knowledge and willpower, and in lieu of knowledge, will is all-powerful. This is fundamentally related to the Tribunalite concept of Amaranth, that which is Love-Lies-Bleeding, as has been previously discussed in…'
Mull flips back to the cover page with a sigh. He understood the beginning of that paragraph, but he was totally lost by the end. What in Oblivion is life-flame? Or self-insistence, or… any of that? The monk who wrote this must've been a whole hell of a lot smarter than me. Though in all fairness, that isn't saying much.
After perusing a few more tomes, he eventually digs up two or three that manage to hold his interest. He finds 'the Dwemer Inquiries' written by one Thelwe Ghelein to be especially fascinating. He knows nothing about the Dwarves beyond their propensity for constructing dangerous subterranean ruins and even more dangerous mechanical servants, so it's an educational experience for him if nothing else. More pertinently, it does do a stellar job of distracting him from his worries.
'The Migration of the Deep-Elves from their ancestral Dwemereth, now Morrowind, is a generally accepted fact. Recorded history supports this, specifically mentioning the Rourken Clan's refusal to join King Dumac in the forming of the First Council…'
-x-
A few hours later, Mull walks back to his room after a hearty meal in the dining hall. Between practicing with his new Thu'um and reading such a dry and academic but nonetheless interesting book as 'the Dwemer Inquiries,' he's ready for a good night of sleep with a belly full of food.
The monotony of life at High Hrothgar is tolerable most of the time, but he occasional feels stifled by the sameness of each day. He's like a prisoner condemned to a cell for the rest of his life, with only identical cycles of the sun and moon to look forward to. He obviously isn't an actual prisoner, but he's definitely feeling the tedium at this particular moment. Without the monastery's vast assortment of literature or delectable meals to occupy his thoughts, he finds himself worrying yet again about how long it'll take for him to master Wuld. The prospect of failing to finish before the end of winter is perturbing. Of course, if that ends up being the case, he'll be even more perturbed when his housecarl kills him for his tardiness. I know it's only been one day of practice, but it already feels like I'll never be able to control the whirlwind. It seemed impossible.
Becoming so lost in his own thoughts has the unfortunate side-effect of getting him turned around in the identical hallways of High Hrothgar. He treads down unfamiliar passages, most of which are poorly illuminated with scant torchlight, and soon starts investigating every nook and cranny in an effort to find his way back to a recognizable area.
He turns down a narrow corridor, decides on a whim that it looks promising, and marches resolutely ahead. There aren't any torches in here, but he spies orange firelight flickering in a larger room at the far end. The contrast of the light with the relative darkness in the hallway makes Mull imagine he's walking through a cave towards the outside world bathed in sunlight beyond its exit.
He emerges into a long gloomy chamber devoid of any furnishings. A meager handful of candles are sitting in sconces along with walls, preventing the edges of the room from being shrouded in darkness but accomplishing little else. The place smells like mildew, an unusual scent in High Hrothgar due to the monks' prolific use of scented aromatic plants and incense as well as their overall affinity for cleanliness. This room must not be used very often. I really am lost.
Something about this isolated chamber makes him uneasy, like he's an outsider trespassing upon hallowed ground. Which actually isn't too far off the mark. This is High Hrothgar.
As he quietly treads through the center of the chamber, he notices several irregularities hanging from the ceiling on either side, patches of slightly darker and less reflective material over the background of unadorned stone. He nudges one of the anomalies with his hand and finds it both soft and malleable. A tapestry, he realizes.
Driven by his curiosity, he retrieves a candle sconce from the wall and holds it closer to one of the tapestries as he peers intently. The shadows retreat, unveiling a pair of red eyes peering right back at him.
Shit! He leaps away with a startled curse and nearly drops the candle in the process. When he registers that he isn't actually in danger, he mentally berates himself for being spooked so easily. It's just a picture, idiot. Get ahold of yourself. You aren't some helpless maiden.
He looks at the tapestry again once he's regathered his wits. The illustration depicts a black dragon with unusually vivid crimson eyes, more so than what he would've thought possible from dyed and woven threads. The dragon is in the process of emerging from a backdrop of orange and vermilion flames, which makes the darkness of its horned visage seem that much deeper. Its fangs are bared in a terrible snarl.
Three figures are standing before the dragon with weapons raised in defiance, two swords and an axe. One of the sword-wielders is female and the other two are male, though the stylized nature of the tapestry makes it difficult to glean any other details. They look puny and helpless before the immense size of the dragon and the all-consuming inferno raging around it.
The colors are faded – save for the dragon's eyes, oddly enough – and the fabric is fraying around the edges. It must be very old, especially if it's been hanging in this room without any external sources of wear and tear.
He glances at the neighboring tapestries. Aye. More of them. Each one also shows a dragon in one form or another. Some are red, others are grey, but none are the same shade of stygian black as the dragon on this first tapestry. Which looks a lot like the dragon at Helgen, he belatedly realizes. Even those eyes are the same.
Sudden footsteps alert him to the presence of a passerby walking into the room, presumably one of the Greybeards. He calls to the person over his shoulder and gestures to the tapestry. "Hey, what can you tell me about this?"
The monk is striding swiftly with his cowled head lowered, like he's deep in thought or has someplace to be, and jumps at the unexpectedness of the question. "I-I apologize," he stutters. He sounds young, but his hood is obscuring his features. "Could y-you repeat that?"
You got stones in your ears? "I'm wondering what this artwork is supposed to be." He steps aside to give the young man a better view of the tapestry.
"Oh. Uh, that's the final battle of the Dragon Wars when the World-Eater was defeated by the ancient Nords. The three heroes who vanquished him were Hakon One-Eye, Gormlaith Golden-Hilt, and Felldir the Old."
The names of the three heroes don't mean anything to Mull, but the first one certainly does. "The World-Eater? Really?"
"Y-yes."
"…Huh." He'd been anticipating the name of some random dragon, not the Nordic dragon-god. It seems strange to him that a god would battle against three mortals, even if it's only in a legend. "You're sure about that?"
"Yes, D-dragonborn."
"Don't 'Dragonborn' me, boy," Mull grouses. "Just…"
With a sigh, he stops himself from saying something undeserved and waves the apprehensive monk away.
"…Thanks."
The young monk hastily bobs his head and flees.
Mull hardly notices his departure. Now he's got even more on his mind than before. Alduin World-Eater, the dragon-god of destruction and harbinger of the end times. Farengar mentioned him way back before the battle at the Western Watchtower, when I delivered him that tablet from Bleak Falls Barrow. The tablet said 'here rest our fallen lords until the power of Alduin revives,' if I remember right. Didn't the wizard say it was some kind of coincidence that the World-Eater was mentioned by name in that engraving? But what's so coincidental about that? I'm sure those old barrows have a lot of inscriptions talking about the gods, like the Kyne mural in the Hall of Stories. Doesn't seem so strange to me.
He shudders as he always does when recalling the events of Helgen. Maybe the coincidence was that the World-Eater is supposed to be a big black dragon, and the dragon that destroyed Helgen was big and black too. But you'd think there are lots of black dragons out there, dead or otherwise. Just like there are black squirrels and black wolves and black whatever the hell else.
Well… That does raise the question of exactly how many dragons are alive in Tamriel. And that raises the question of why they're coming back in the first place. And that makes him start wondering how they're coming back at all. He's never been the type of man to worry himself over the whys of life, as the physical realities are generally much more important and worthy of his concern. The reasons things are the way they are tend to be irrelevant to his immediate survival. But with an issue like this, it's impossible not to start questioning how life could've gotten so insane in such a short amount of time.
Dragons are supposed to be extinct. So were they hiding away for hundreds of years or something? That seems plausible enough in his uneducated opinion. If that's the case, then why are they returning now? Is it… because of me?
The thought slams into him like a stack of bricks. He breaks out into a cold sweat and weakly leans against the wall. No. That couldn't be it. That wouldn't make any sense. The black dragon attacked Helgen long before the possibility of him being the Dragonborn had ever been theorized aloud. Okay then, so do Dragonborn only show up when there are dragons around? But what about Tiber Septim? Does that mean there were dragons in the Second Era that he had to deal with? There could've been, although he's pretty sure dragons were already mostly extinct by that time.
It's like what one of the warriors of Whiterun said at the Western Watchtower. "I never heard of Tiber Septim killing any dragons." If he had killed dragons, then surely there would be stories about it.
Stumped there, he circles back around to his initial theory. Did the black dragon attack Helgen because I was there? Again, it seems like such a ridiculous theory. He immediately dismisses it, assuring himself that it simply isn't possible, and ignores the traitorous part of his mind that insists he shouldn't dismiss it just because he doesn't like it. It's a hell of a coincidence either way… but that doesn't mean it isn't a coincidence.
No. That can't be the reason. He doesn't believe he could be at fault for something so calamitous. There's just no way. He could be wrong, but he resolutely ignores the possibility for the sake of his own sanity. Such a thing is just… too terrible to imagine.
He barely remembers finding the way back to his room afterwards. The rest of the evening passes like a blur as he struggles to suppress unwanted memories of dragons and death. Whenever he blinks, it feels like those evil blood-red eyes are staring into his soul from within the ephemeral darkness.
Sleep brings him no solace. He's besieged by nightmares of Helgen and the Western Watchtower, the sight of dead men, the stench of battle, and the sound of hopeless screams. When he awakens in the morning, he's bedraggled and in no condition to focus on the many tasks ahead.
One thing's for sure. It's going to be a long few weeks.