Chapter 29
The courier is panting and sweating profusely, almost like he ran all the way from the Cloud District. Maybe he did – in which case the Jarl must need Mull for something important. He doesn't like the thought of that.
In a fit of unfortunate altruism, Lydia chooses to takes pity on the man and opens the door for him, completely disregarding Mull's half-joking suggestion that they should pretend not to be home.
He stumbles into the main room of the barracks and bends over with his hands on his knees. His sandy hair is glistening with moisture, and globules of salty precipitation cascade from his brow to stain the wooden floor below. He's wearing a wheat-gold tunic emblazoned with the horsehead sigil of Whiterun across his chest. It's a very official-looking piece of clothing. Which is the point, presumably.
"Is milord Maul present?" the man gasps.
Mull stifles an annoyed groan, puts down his book, and stands from his comfortable seat at the trestle table. Lydia recently purchased feather-stuffed cushions for the benches and chairs, and he's been greatly enjoying them. "It's Mull, but aye, I'm right here. What you do want?"
"I-I bring urgent news from Dragonsreach," he stammers.
"Spit it out then."
"The Jarl w-wishes to inform you that a dragon was sighted to the north of the city. Just this morning."
It takes a few seconds of stunned silence for the courtier's words to register.
When they do, Mull's stomach sinks like a stone all the way down to his boots. …Oh boy.
"Talos above," Torgen breaths.
Behind the courtier, Lydia's face turns as white as a bedsheet.
Mull finally finds his voice. "Where is it now?" he harshly demands.
"We don't know."
"What in Shor's name do you mean, you don't know? Did you lose track of it or something?"
To his chagrin, the courtier has the audacity to nod. "We… yes, milord. It's whereabouts are un-"
He cuts him off with an angry scoff. "You've got to be joking. How the hell do you lose a dragon?! They're the size of a damn house!" Or even bigger.
"Milord, that's the precise reason I've been dispatched to you with this message," the courier hastily presses onward. "Jarl Balgruuf the Greater has charged you with uncovering the answer to that very question. He asks that you proceed to the city's east gate immediately to rendezvous with a detachment of warriors who will provide you with further details on this matter. Your services are duly required for the safeguarding of Whiterun Hold."
Mull carefully considers the courtier's reply, isn't impressed, and responds appropriately. He chuckles darkly, drawing varyingly worried or amused stares from the barracks' occupants. That's just ridiculous. Balgruuf wants me to go find him a dragon? Are we going to play hide and seek on the plains? Like Oblivion I'd do that. What a joke. If I didn't know better, I'd assume the Jarl is trying to get me killed without indicting himself. Hell, maybe that is what he's doing.
As his grim mirth subsides, he stalks forward and roughly grasps the courtier's narrow shoulders. The man – more of a boy really, with the scarce beginnings of a wispy beard – gulps and averts his eyes. Lydia makes an alarmed noise deep in her throat, but neither she nor Torgen make a move to intervene.
"The next words that come out of your mouth had better be something I like," Mull says barely above a whisper. "If they aren't, then I'm going to be very unhappy with you. And I'm not the kind of man you should ever make unhappy. You might not live to see tomorrow, and if you do, you'll wish you hadn't. Am I understood, boy?"
"Yes milord," he answers just as quietly.
"Don't call me that. Just 'sir' is fine."
"Yes sir."
"Good." He releases the courtier and takes a step back. "Now start talking."
The boy takes a deep breath. "The site of the encounter was a lookout post called Whitewatch Tower. It isn't far from the city, certainly not as far as the Western Watchtower. The dragon killed a group of three guardsmen who were on a routine patrol in the open fields just north of the tower. The tower garrison witnessed the attack from afar but didn't intervene as per the Jarl's standing protocol. Afterwards the dragon flew away and disappeared, and it hasn't been seen since. The Jarl wishes for you to examine the site of the battle and glean whatever information you can find in the remains."
"What, and this isn't important enough for Balgruuf to say pretty please in person?" he irritably asks. "Or even Hrongar or Avenicci?"
"The Jarl's household is presently preparing for the worst, should it come to pass. They're preoccupied with a review of the Cloud District's fortifications and couldn't spare the time to appraise you of the situation directly."
Mull grips his nose between his forefinger and thumb. This sounds extremely stupid, he sighs. It's stupid of them to ask me to do this and it would be just as stupid of me to say yes. It's stupidity all around. Godsdammit.
"If the dragon's already gone, then I don't know what Balgruuf wants from me. We have better things to be doing if there really is another one of those monsters flying around somewhere. This is a pointless waste of my time. Did the Jarl give you a response for that?"
The courtier shakes his head.
"Didn't think so," he snorts. "Dare I ask what'll happen if I say no?"
"Uh…" The courtier shuffles anxiously and swallows heavily, but doesn't answer.
Lydia speaks up on his behalf. "My Thane, to defy an unambiguous command from the Jarl would be to dishonor your oath to Whiterun. You simply do not possess the legal right to refuse." She swallows in mimicry of the courtier. "…Were you to do so, then your title, properties, and possessions would be forfeit in their entirety under Nordic law. At best you would face imminent expulsion from the city and the Hold as a whole."
"What about 'at worst?'" Torgen asks with amused curiosity. But his steady voice contrasts sharply with his outwards agitation – his forehead is slick with sweat and his fingers are wrapped so tightly around a drinking horn that it's begun to deform in his grip, dribbling liquid onto the tabletop through widening cracks in the ivory.
Lydia glares at him. "Hold your tongue, you idiot," she hisses. "Now is not the time for your petty jests."
While his subordinates squabble amongst themselves, Mull quickly wracks his brain for a solution. Lydia is making the situation sound dire, but if Balgruuf is convinced that he's Dragonborn, then would he actually be willing to punish him for disobedience? Does his supposed heroic status grant him immunity? Is that an assumption he can risk making?
He wants to avoid a repeat of the battle against Mirmulnir at all costs. That was also supposed to be a simple investigation, and look how it turned out.
But he can't shake the feeling that getting on the Jarl's bad side here would be a poor decision. At the moment, everything he owns – the barracks, his money, his sword and armor, his title – only continue to belong to him at the Jarl's discretion. If Balgruuf decides to take away those things, there isn't much he could do to stop it. He's gained a lot in the last couple of months, but these benefits have come at the cost of his self-sufficiency. He doesn't like that fact in the slightest – self-sufficiency is something he values very highly – but that's a problem for another time.
All told, his status quo in Whiterun is only sustainable as long as he works to maintain it. His agreement with the Jarl to become a Thane and all the accompanying bullshit was decided upon with the understanding that he would take action against dragons when called upon to do so. He does have a choice in the matter, but… frankly, it isn't much of a choice. Not unless he wants to run away and make for the hills.
And as tempting as that option might be, his inner bandit refuses to give up the wealth he's accumulated. He's survived multiple absurd situations to get to where he is right now, and he doesn't want to let that go to waste.
…Gods above, this is a stupid situation. It's currently less than two days before they were planning to depart for the Throat of the World. Of course. Of course something like this would happen now instead of a few days after we're already gone. You know what, Kyne? Or Akatosh, or whoever's responsible for this mess? Fuck you. I don't have time to be dealing with this shit.
He closes his eyes and scowls, deep in thought.
Alright, that's enough bitching. Here's the plan. I'll go to the east gate like Balgruuf is asking, I'll hear whatever his men have to say, and I'll make my final decision then. If it doesn't sound immediately life-threatening, then I'll take Lydia, Torgen, and as many of the Jarl's warriors as I can get. The warriors will be fodder for the dragon if it shows up, in which case I'll haul ass back to the city walls and leave them behind to stall for time. A retreat might be feasible if Whitewatch Tower is reasonably close to the city. And if the dragon doesn't show up, then all the merrier.
He composes himself, opens his eyes, and contorts his lips into an affable smile.
Balgruuf's courtier shudders at his new expression.
"I can't say I particularly liked any of what you said, but you did a good enough job that I've decided not to cut off any of your bits. That wasn't so hard, was it?"
He reaches out again, causing the boy to flinch, but this time only straightens out the lapel of his wheat-gold tunic with a few sharp tugs, tidying a few creases in the fabric.
"Go tell the Jarl that I'll do as he asks. I don't want to, but I will. Be sure to stress that to him. His Thane is not a happy man and is expecting a lot of gold as recompense for his injured feelings. Tell him those exact words."
The courtier nods fervently.
He genially claps the courier on the arm. "Alright. Get going before I change my mind."
The boy doesn't need to be told twice. He spins on his heel and rushes out the door with nary another word. Lydia steps aside to make way for him as he vanishes into the street.
Mull adjusts his posture and mentally readies himself. "Gentlemen. Ladies."
Torgen and Lydia look to him expectantly.
"We're going to go find a dragon. It might be dangerous, but even so, I only have one command for you – that you must prepare yourselves to die today in defense of my affluent lifestyle," he announces with faux severity.
Following a beat of silence, Torgen starts howling with hysterical laughter. He slams his feet against the floorboards and pounds a knee with his fist – the fist still clutching his drinking horn, coincidentally, which sends red ale splashing all over his trousers. He doesn't seem to notice.
The resident housecarl watches Mull inscrutably, waiting with resolute professionalism for him to continue.
When Torgen's laughter has run its course, he wipes the tears from his eyes and settles back against the table. "Kyne be praised, I really needed that." He guffaws one last time. "Whew. Okay boss, let's hear it. What are you thinking?"
He relays the basics of his rudimentary plan without further delay.
Lydia predictably doesn't care much for his way of thinking, but she only voices her complaints one time before accepting that she can't change his mind. She's no match for his iron will – or pigheadedness, as she ventures to call it. He doesn't like this situation either, so he's willing to allow her a free pass with the insult. She isn't wrong, and he's been called many variants of pigheaded many times before.
Torgen isn't enthusiastic either, though for different reasons. He professes exactly zero desire to tangle with a dragon, which Mull can't blame him for at all. He understands perfectly.
But the fact remains that he's already made up his mind. He needs to appease the Jarl even though it leaves an absolutely rancid taste in his mouth. He doesn't want to lose all his money. He's hidden the sum of his newly-gotten wealth in various hidey-holes throughout the barracks, but he's pretty sure Lydia has already figured out where most of them are located. And there's no doubt in his mind who's side she'll take if he and the Jarl come to blows. I really have backed myself into a corner without realizing, haven't I?
The most successful bandits are also always the ones with the most enemies, both present and prospective. They have the most to lose, and the circling vultures have the most to gain from their downfall.
This isn't quite the same circumstance, but it's close enough. He got comfortable with his success – such as it is – and now he's paying the price for it. At this point, all he can do is berate himself for letting his head get too big and do what he can to mitigate the consequences.
-x-
After all that internal agonizing and weighing of pros and cons, the mission to Whitewatch Tower turns out to be incredibly anticlimactic. Go figure.
It starts with a development that convinces Mull he doesn't need to worry about being roasted alive by a flying reptile – at least, not today. Strangely enough, he has Mirmulnir to thank for it.
As he, Lydia, Torgen, and a handful of Balgruuf's warriors depart from Whiterun's eastern gate, he begins hearing what he initially takes to be the keening of the wind. The sound grows louder and more distinct with each step taken northwards, eventually coalescing into recognizable syllables, words, and sentences.
The dragon residing inside his head is not pleased.
'You have failed, Dovahkiin. One of the dov was so tantalizing close and you never realized. He was less than a hundred heartbeats' flight from the Ahrolsedovah, but no longer. He is far from here now. Were I still among the living, even I could not sense his presence anymore.'
"What does that mean?" Mull grumbles under his breath. "Are you saying the dragon I've been sent out here to find is long gone?"
'You have eyes but you still cannot see Monavhen,' he chides. 'Are you truly so blind that you fail to recognize the presiding powers of the world even as they tread upon your threshold? You have much to learn if you wish to enter into your full potential before the turning of the Wheel, and yet it appears that you care not for the greater workings of Nirn. You are so pitiably contented to scrabble in the dirt alongside the rest of the joorre, desiring only your continued participation in this inane contest fit for rodents, racing blindly to an ignoble finish that none value highly enough to name. Your most grave error is that you have not tempered yourself with the turbulent waters of ambition, as is the life-quest of all dov.'
"Start making sense or I'm gonna find a good rock to bash my head against," Mull softly growls. "Then I'll never have to listen to your incomprehensible gibberish again."
Mirmulnir ignores his outburst. 'Your actions are meaningless. With each frivolous breath and each wasted thought, you still gain nothing. Your days are squandered for no greater purpose than the base impulses of joorre, who crave wealth and prestige among their own kind – but these things invariably pass away. Even now you lower yourself to following the whims of insectile mortals who would call themselves mighty. You must learn that even the mightiest of insects cannot stand against the talons of a diving falcon.'
"Same to you, you godsdamn lizard. Now be quiet until you have something else useful to add."
Mirmulnir doesn't stop his incorporeal discourse, but the volume of his various accusations does fall to a manageable level. Mull hitches his rucksack into a more comfortable position and continues marching along the road with the others, ignoring the phantom dragon.
As loathe as he is to admit it, Mirmulnir does make a good point. So much of his time and effort in recent weeks has been spent doing whatever the Jarl has asked him to do, and before that it was Farengar who pulled the strings. That's the reason he agreed to this in the first place – because of the potential consequences if he said no. To be 'following the whims of insectile mortals,' as Mirmulnir put it, really isn't something he wants to continue for much longer. He's never had a problem with following the orders of men he respected in the past, but now it makes him feel pathetic and humiliated. Maybe becoming a Thane has gotten to his head. Now I see what the lizard was trying to say. He could be right for once. I might need to rethink my arrangement with the Jarl while I'm away from Whiterun.
He draws a few odd looks from the accompanying warriors as he mutters to himself, but none dare say anything.
He recognizes a few of these men and women as fellow survivors of the Western Watchtower, meaning they know who and what he is. He feels their eyes roaming constantly across his back. It's irritating in the extreme, but doing or saying something rash would be both uncalled for and ultimately harmful to his future prospects of anonymity. In this situation, it's better to keep his head down even if it's annoying.
'The dov do not hide themselves from lesser foes. We soar across the open heavens where all may behold the fullest breadth of our grandeur, inviting those few who are worthy to challenge our authority while the meek bow their heads and tremble.'
Be quiet, Mirmulnir.
The northern road takes them through a sprawling assortment of farmer's fields. Some are wedged between the causeway and the steep rocky slope of Whiterun's hill while others are huddled along the banks of the winding White River to the east. In a few fields, the resident farmers are busy planting their grains to be reaped in the spring.
As he tramps across the paved dirt, Mull distracts himself by absently wondering what it would be like to live on the same plot of land for his entire life. He's seen a lot of different places and different kinds of people, but he'd gladly give it all up in a heartbeat if he could spend his days on a quiet farm with Morven for the rest of his days.
Although they do say the grass is always greener on the other side. And besides, she wouldn't have been able to do that. She would've insisted on going out and waylaying a caravan for a fun afternoon, or whatever other nonsense she could dream up.
He winces as he sees a pair of burly blonde men bend their knees and lift a huge stone in unison. It must've gotten in the way of their plowing. "That looks like hard work," he comments aloud.
"Honest and necessary work." Lydia falls into place by his side. Her harness jingles with each step and stray locks of her chestnut hair dance in the wind.
"I don't know much about farming," he admits. Agriculture is just about the last thing he would ever find interesting, but he's willing to entertain a conversation about anything to drown out the soft buzz of Mirmulnir's ever-present ramblings. The landscape is flat and dreary, hardly worthy of his attention.
Lydia perks up at being given something to talk about. And talk she does.
"The winter wheat is planted around this time every year – though sometimes later depending on the weather – and is harvested in spring or early summer. Most other crops are planted in the spring, to be harvested in late summer or early autumn. Barley, oats, legumes, peas, leeks, carrots, gourds, cabbage, and lettuce are common in this area of the province. We also have Yokudan crops such as potatoes and tomatoes, certain varieties of which have been successfully adapted to the comparatively harsh climate of Skyrim. Then of course there's tundra cotton, which is grown in our Hold as well as in the neighboring Frost River floodplain of the Hjallmarch. It's a valuable resource but cannot be easily cultivated on a large scale due to the chronic dryness of the Hold's soil and our resultant inability to grow large compact plots. Tundra cotton is planted primarily along rivers for that reason, especially the White River and its tributary waterways. It's also gathered wild by the plains clans and sold in Whiterun to be processed."
She grins with self-satisfaction as she wraps up her dissertation.
"The men of Skyrim and most of Tamriel used a two-field system until Tiber Septim pioneered the implementation of the Dunmeri three-field system. That was one of the hallmarks of the Septim Dynasty's golden age, and a time where our agricultural technology advanced in leaps and bounds. It's a source of pride for us Nords that we've been able to thrive in these harsh lands for generations."
Mull stares blankly at her. "As interesting as that all was, it was also incredibly random. But thanks. Now I can say I learned something today."
The housecarl is clearly affronted by his callous disregard for the intriguing history of northern Tamrielic agriculture, but is mollified somewhat by his gratitude. "…I am pleased to have been of service, my Thane. As always."
They walk in only semi-uncomfortable silence for the rest of the journey to Whitewatch Tower. Which now that he thinks about it, is a rather funny name. Yet another example of textbook Nord creativity.
As they approach their destination, Mull observes that this tower is somewhat different in design from the Western Watchtower. It's actually a set of two towers connected by a stone archway, but one of them appears to have collapsed some years prior. The still-whole tower is topped by a steep wooden roof and is festooned with slits for archers to rain arrows upon their enemies from within. A handful of low stone walls and areas of paved ground surround the towers, the scant remnants of some once-greater fortress or perhaps a settlement. In the entire locale, the only spot of color is a tattered white banner depicting a golden horsehead hanging from the ruined tower.
One of the garrison watchmen points out the field they've been sent to investigate, a short distance to the north of Whitewatch and to the east of the northward road. Mull notes with grim amusement that the men of the garrison are hesitant to wander too far from the shadow of their safe haven. He knows firsthand what a dragon can do, so he doesn't judge them too harshly for their timidity. But if the Western Watchtower couldn't offer any protection against a dragon, then there's no way in Oblivion this stack of rocks could either.
The short walk to the field is monotonous. A few scattered clouds scuttle overhead, casting their long shadows across the barren plains. Dead trees rise here and there like skeletal fingers grasping for the sun. Scattered groups of bison, pronghorn, and elk roam between the mossy ponds and gurgling brooks that serve as their water sources, constantly vigilant for the arrival of wolves or sabrecats seeking to threaten their herds.
The site of the dragon attack is unremarkable except for patches of charred grass and wilted flowers, three dead bodies, and a conspicuous absence of nearby wildlife. Not even songbirds are present. It seems that the local animals are just as scared of dragons as the men are.
The trio of corpses are badly burned, reduced to little more than indefinite piles of slagged steel and overcooked gelatinous flesh that are barely identifiable as human beings. The acrid smell of roasted meat is both atrocious and depressingly familiar. The dragon definitely used fire. That much is clear, and there are no signs of other types of dragon-magic.
He nudges one of the flesh-lumps with the tip of his boot. Sticky globs of blackened skin peel away, sticking to his leather footwear, and he mutters unkind things as he shakes off the offending substance.
He spends a few minutes peering at the sky and kicking around in the grass for appearance's sake, but there isn't much to be found. The dragon didn't leave behind any physical signs of its passage. No fangs. No scales. Nothing. For all he knows, the gods decided to drop a few dozen fireballs from Aetherius down on top of these unlucky fools.
But there's no doubt in his mind that this was a dragon attack. He recognizes the long and narrow swathes of burnt earth from Helgen and from the aftermath of the Western Watchtower. No question about it.
Not that it was really a question to begin with, seeing as Balgruuf's subordinates have been metaphorically pissing their pants for this entire day so far. Still, there isn't a whole lot else to see in this lonely field, so he's afraid he'll have to disappoint the Jarl's men with an early departure.
Without further ado, he turns around and starts heading back to the city. The warriors of Whiterun don't look happy that he's leaving so soon, but he ignores their confused glares. What in Shor's name do they expect me to do? Sniff out the dragon's scent and tell them how many teeth it has?
The leader of the Jarl's detachment, a mustachioed man with a sharp chin and a hawk-beak nose, inquires about the fate of his dead comrades' remains. "Will we bring them back to the city for burial? They deserve to hear the final rites of Orkey's priests at the very least. They've earned it, the poor bastards."
"You can do whatever you think is best, but I'm heading back to Whiterun. Come with me or don't. It's up to you."
The man frowns at his lack of concern about the three dead warriors' grisly fate but doesn't offer a rebuttal. "Aye, lord."
He spins on his heel, barks out a series of orders, and follows after Mull and his two companions as they march towards Whitewatch Tower. At his directive, a team of five warriors stay behind to clean up the macabre aftermath.
Mull lengthens his stride to a strenuous degree, eager to arrive at the city walls. Just as Mirmulnir initially suggested, this escapade has turned out to be a waste of time. But better that than the excitement of another fight with a dragon. Wouldn't be exciting for very long, he thinks wryly. I'll take a waste of time over that any day. If this keeps the Jarl from griping at me, then I'd say it was worth it. Just this once.
-x-
Not unexpectedly, Mirmulnir decides to pay him a visit that night.
As with the first time this happened, Mull almost immediately realizes he's in a dream, though for a slightly different reason than before. It's pretty obvious. Inexplicably finding himself atop the highest spire of Dragonsreach does a good job of cluing him in.
He's never been particularly fond of heights – and especially when not given time to mentally prepare himself – so he curses up a storm and desperately clutches the ridge of the peaked roof beneath him.
The wind howls menacingly. The wooden shingles don't offer adequate traction. One wrong move and he'll go plummeting off the edge to the city far below.
"Why did they have to build this thing so damn high?" he grouses petulantly. "Somebody must've been compensating for something."
"Greetings Qahnaarin. Perhaps even for joorre, the call of the sky is irresistible."
At the unforeseen greeting, he hastily follows the sound of the voice to a broader section of roof on his left, at a slightly lower elevation than his own. Upon the rooftop rests a familiar dragon.
"Mirmulnir. What in Oblivion am I doing up here?"
"I know not, Qahnaarin. The inner workings of your mind are strange to me as well."
"Good to know. Thanks." His teeth chatter, both from irrational fear and the frigid breeze swirling around the corners of the vast building. His sleeping shirt and trousers are wholly inadequate for these conditions. Being barefoot doesn't help either.
"Do not thank me," the dragon rumbles. "There is much for us to discuss."
"That was sarcasm. Do you know what that is?"
Instead of responding, the dragon shuffles his wings and repositions his clawed feet. Loosened shingles slide down the roof and plummet into the Cloud District below.
I hope this really is a dream and nobody's standing down there. They're about to have a bad night. Although they'd probably be more worried about the dragon lounging on top of their great hall. Mirmulnir is big, to say the least, and his scaled bulk is sprawled across the majority of the roof. In fact, now that Mull really looks at him, the dragon's positioning is quite comical. Laying belly-down atop the ridged roof doesn't make him look dignified in the slightest.
Eventually the dragon speaks. "Your lack of proficiency in the ways of the dov is, as always, disappointing."
"Aye, you already said that when I was down on the plains earlier today. Tell me something I don't know."
"Listen well," he orders scornfully, "for only recently has the true depth of your ignorance become evident to me. One of my brethren flew close to the Ahrolsedovah, and yet you knew nothing of his proximity until the lord of the joorre saw fit to inform you. In your weakness you allowed yourself to fall under the dominion of another, as you have often done in the days since you subjugated my sil. Such a failure is unacceptable for my Qahnaarin."
"I don't know what you're talking about," Mull snaps. An especially strong gust of wind forces him to tighten his grip on the shingles around him. "How in Shor's name was I supposed to know there was a dragon roaming around that watchtower? I'm not a seer. I can't magically sense you flying lizards."
Mirmulnir tilts his head and gives him a pointed look. His venomous slit-pupiled eyes blink with an audible snick. "Though you know it not, you speak falsely. Ruth. Your mind is as weak as your Tongue."
Mull grumbles with annoyance as he continues clinging to his perch. At least the stars are pretty, even if they aren't technically real. "Would you mind expanding on that?"
The dragon does so. "All dov possess a certain instinctual ability that is unrelated to the usage of the Thu'um. We are the immortal sons of Bormahu and thus share an intrinsic connection through what we have each inherited from Him. For that reason, when two dov are near to one another, they are each able to perceive the other's presence. We See our brethren even through mountains and across distances considered vast by the joorre. And so although you could not, I could sense the closeness of the yet-living dovah who came near to this place and sent the joorre into a scurrying panic."
An enormous exhale causes the structure beneath them to vibrate worryingly.
"This is a skill that you must learn for yourself, Qahnaarin. It is not a service I can perform on your behalf, and nor would I consent to doing so. The weakest of dov may detect one another with the same ease as which we draw breath. It is intolerable that you cannot do the same."
Mull is taken for a loop by this revelation. "Wait, so… you're saying I actually can sense dragons?"
"Indeed. There are some among the joorre who possess the gift of Sight, and you are one of them by your birthright as Dovahkiin. The invisible truths of the world are laid bare to you, as they are to all dov."
"Sight? Invisible truths? You're starting to sound like a Cyrodiilic cult-priest." He chuckles. "I haven't experienced anything like that lately, unless you count being able to read dragon-runes for no apparent reason."
He pauses.
"Why can I read dragon-runes, anyways? I don't think that was ever explained."
"Because you are a dovah," Mirmulnir shortly replies. "Language is a foundational aspect of our existence. One who does not engage in tinvaak can hardly be called a dov at all. For that reason, it would be inconceivable if you could not inherently understand the lexicon of the Thu'um."
"Oh. Of course. I should've know that," he snarks.
"Are these things truly so perplexing to you who bears the dovahsil?"
"It's been one bizarre revelation after another for about… oh, two months by my reckoning. Cut me a little slack if you don't mind. I've had a lot to keep up with."
Mirmulnir stares him down, clearly unimpressed.
He doesn't particularly care, so he forges ahead with his questioning. "Okay, you're saying I can sense dragons with this 'Sight' even if they're far away. How exactly is that supposed to work?"
"The Sight does not always manifest as an ocular phenomenon. It can take many different forms, including those of smell, vision, physical sensation, or in the case of all dov, the whisperings of the bones of the world. This is how you and I perceive the intrinsic authority that our primeval lineage holds over creation – not by the sight of the eyes, but by that of the soul.
"And this is not limited only to the dov," he continues. "It is also true for those who carry with them the disseminated power of our brethren, such as the ancient joorre who received our blessings in return for their everlasting servitude. You have encountered their ilk already, or what remains of them. But know this. The diil whom you fought against ere our first and last meeting were withered by the passage of time, reduced to pale imitations of the great ones who pledged themselves to my brethren in elder days long ago and received prodigious gifts in return. There were many warriors and priest-kings among our thralls who could annihilate you – even you, a Dovakhiin – with but a single spoken word."
He must be referring to the draugr in Bleak Falls. I heard that music when we were in the draugr-lord's cave, and there were those disembodied voices too. Then during the battle at the watchtower, the same thing happened but much more intense. He shudders at the memory.
"You have unknowingly experienced the Sight before," says Mirmulnir, as if reading his thoughts. "When I descended from the skies to destroy your little host of joorre on the night of my demise, you felt my arrival. You were aware before all the others that I had come for you. Did you not tremble before my might? Were you not frozen with fear?"
He visibly relishes those words.
"That perception of your own mortal frailty was but a taste of the full utility your Sight has to offer. In the future, you cannot witlessly wait for your sil to recognize like-souled propinquity. You must seek out the dov with intention. You are the Born Hunter of my kindred – or rather, I should say of our kindred. If you do not pursue the purpose of your existence with vigor, then your soul with rest heavily within you, always pushing you to walk into the straight paths of fate. You will remain forever weak.
"What I wish to teach you now is the cognizant ability to recognize the presence of fellow dov, to sense that which you couldn't before – not by fortune nor fate, but by your own desire. This will serve you better than leaving such things to chance."
"I couldn't sense the dragon that roasted the Jarl's three warriors this morning because I wasn't actively trying," Mull rhetorically states.
Mirmulnir bares his fangs for a split second, pale ivory glistening in the wan light of the moons. "That is correct. He did not alight directly upon the hill-city of the joorre, but he still ventured close enough that you should have Seen him. But now, from this night forward, you will not make that mistake again. Close you eyes."
That sounds like an incredibly bad idea for a number of reasons, but Mull does as instructed with only a little hesitation. It's just a dream, so as much as he doesn't want to lose his balance and plummet from the heights of Dragonsreach to the unforgiving earth below, he assumes it wouldn't be too big of a deal since he would simply wake up. Hopefully.
"Though you know it not, your instincts demand action while you are in the vicinity of a fellow dovah." Mirmulnir's voice is as deep as the darkest depths of the earth, but now it takes on a new quality. His words echo like they've suddenly been transported into a spacious cavern even though the incessant wind precludes such a possibility. "You cannot allow yourself to show weakness. You must prove your strength and demonstrate that you are greater than your enemies. You feel a blinding need to do so, do you not? Have your adversaries not oppressed you and thus driven you to become a pathetic specimen even among your own kind? Joorre allow these things to be done to them, for their will is feeble. But you are not joor. You are dovah, and as such, you must focus your Sight. Your understanding of your dragon-soul is nascent and shallow, but if you open yourself to the world and its imperfections, then these things will be made clear to you."
The dragon's voice seeps into his mind like water flowing through parched earth, turning it to dense and viscous mud, dripping like sap. He doesn't notice the moment his fears and concerns disappear, powerless to resist as they're swept away before the onrushing tide.
"I am here, Qahnaarin. I am close. I stand before you now, my very presence a monument to your potential. You know that I am here. See me, know me, but not with your eyes. The flesh-eyes of joorre – and even of the dov – are fallible and prone to error. Do not search with them. Search for me instead within your mind."
Mull tries to follow the dragon's instructions but can't make sense of half of what he's saying. He doesn't know what he needs to do. "I don't understand."
"Do not hobble yourself with your thoughts," Mirmulnir chastises. "They will only lead you astray. Do not think. Feel. Feel my presence. Feel my sos."
Blood.
"Feel my sil."
Soul.
"Feel my su'um."
Inner breath.
"They are here, among and within us. You need only to seek them out in the blackness of this innumerable expanse."
When the dragon says that, something clicks into place.
Mull can't see anything with his eyes closed, obviously. I'd be worried if I could. Behind his eyelids is a veil of pure darkness. The 'blackness of an innumerable expanse.'
He peers into the lightless dark, looking for anything out of place, but his efforts are fruitless. Even so, he gets the impression that he's right on the edge of something significant, so close to achieving his goal. He only needs a little push.
"The sil is a flame. It is a never-ending existence that burns for eternity. It cannot be quenched. It may change, twisting and twining as is the habit of fire, and sometimes be reduced to merely embers, but it is always there. Search for that flame. Feel it. Know it. It calls to your blood, setting it to boiling and writhing in your veins."
Something winks into being, but it isn't a visual sensation. He feels it in that same way you know when someone is watching you intently or standing nearby. It's very faint but it's there all the same. He concentrates on that sensation, allowing it to draw him in like a moth to a candle.
He becomes aware of an area of warmth at the edge of his senses, similar to the heat of a torch from several feet away. The warmth caresses the bare skin of his hands and face, neither scalding nor distant. It's coming from the direction of Mirmulnir.
With that recognition, the heat suddenly grows more potent, like it was waiting for him to connect the dots. The warmth dances across his body. Whispers descend from the keening wind, coiling around him and tickling his ears. They murmur and chant and sing, keeping time with the movements of the warmth as it rises and falls in intensity. Like a heartbeat, he realizes, or maybe breathing. The trappings of a living thing.
His arms and legs tingle. His hair stands on end. His pulse quickens.
He knows exactly what this is. It's a hunter's anticipation before a kill, that fleeting yet endless moment where the subsequent course of events is hanging in the balance. He has no idea how to even begin deciphering the convoluted amalgamation of excitement, confusion, fear, and adrenaline that boils within him at that moment.
What he felt in Bleak Falls Barrow and at the Western Watchtower was much the same as this, but not nearly as extreme. Even though Mirmulnir is sitting directly in front of him, he gets the impression that the distance between them – or lack thereof – doesn't matter in this equation. The dragon's inner flame is like a dazzling beacon shining before him, a bright light that would be visible for miles and miles across any sort of terrain. All he has to do is search for that flame, feel for its warmth, and listen for its words.
He opens his eyes. The baffling sensations and whispers all vanish in an instant. It's like waking from a dream, except he's absolutely certain he's still in one. A dream within a dream. That's a strange thought.
Mirmulnir peers at him from the adjacent section of rooftop with shrewd serpentine eyes, now less intimidating than they once were. To his consternation, Mull realizes he's becoming increasingly familiar with those eyes.
"Do you now understand?" the dragon slowly asks.
"No," he admits. "There's a lot I could say that for. But… I felt what you were describing, with the fire and the whispers. The desire to find and to fight. Something like that."
Mirmulnir rumbles, and this time it's a noise of satisfaction.
Something springs to Mull's mind. He'd been meaning to ask this when given the chance but had forgotten until now. "Why would you want to help me kill other dragons? That's why you're teaching me this, right? Aren't I your enemy?"
"You forget that I am one with you, Qahnaarin. We are bound together."
"That doesn't tell me anything."
The dragon releases air through his nostrils in an approximation of a snort, though infinitely more dignified and terrifying. "You will understand in time if you continue to pursue this knowledge."
Thank you for that wonderful non-answer. Very wise. "Alright, last question. When I used that Shout at the watchtower and again at White River Watch, why did it make me feel so terrible?" That isn't a strong enough word for what he experienced, but it's close enough. Internal throat-filleting is a difficult thing to describe.
"You are simply weak, Qahnaarin. You must grow in your strength before you are able to make full use of your mighty Thu'um. You have none but yourself to blame for your own inadequacy. Rectify this shortcoming and only then will you have the right to call yourself Dovah."
Mirmulnir's gaze bores into him with sudden vehemence.
"Time is not on your side. You do not know what is coming to this world. You cannot afford to remain helpless, as there is no tolerance for mediocrity at this stage of the Cycle. You will rise to the heights of greatness or you will die a death unworthy of remembrance. There is no alternative. If there is a single thing that you recall as you awaken into the world of the living, it must be these words."
With that final bit of uplifting motivation, the dragon unfurls his vast wings and raises himself from the rooftop. He jumps off with his powerful legs, sending splintered wood and shingles flying in all directions, and flaps vigorously. More debris rains down into the city.
With a series of miniature thunderclaps from each beat of his wings, Mirmulnir turns to the west and soars away, vanishing into the shadowed horizon.
"You're just full of encouragement tonight, aren't you?" grumbles Mull.
Now that he's alone, he relaxes as much as he's able in such a perilous location and entertains himself by idly observing the night sky. The rust-red bulk of Masser and the smaller pale light of Secunda are suspended above a mountain range to the north, shrouded in a bank of clouds. The moons, stars, and clouds don't seem to have moved at all. The heavens are completely static in this dream.
He spends a while thinking over everything he just learned. There's a lot to consider.
Not only can I use the Thu'um, but I can also apparently feel out a dragon's presence. And not only can I feel their presence, but doing that makes me want to… hunt them, I guess. If Mirmulnir is to be believed, I just learned how to detect nearby dragons even when I can't physically see them. That's really something…
He scoffs and runs a hand through his beard. As he further contemplates it all, he finds himself feeling increasingly exasperated. This keeps getting more and more unbelievable.
The end of the dream and the awakening that comes afterwards isn't nearly as dramatic as the first time he communed with Mirmulnir.
One second, he's still sitting atop windy Dragonsreach.
The next, his eyes are blearily opening to the timber ceiling of his spartan room in the barracks.
He sits up with a groan, presses a palm to his forehead, and reaches blindly for a lacquered wood goblet of water balanced atop his bedpost. His fingers bump into it a little too forcefully and the goblet clatters loudly to the floor, spilling its contents.
He curses and throws off his furs. When he swings his legs over the side of the bed, they alight perfectly in the growing puddle spreading across the floorboards.
He sighs. What a way to start the day.
