Chapter 45

Before he knows it, the end of Mull's stay at High Hrothgar has arrived.

I need to start packing. The Greybeards promised to provide provisions for his return to Whiterun, but there's still the matter of assembling everything and stuffing it all inside his rucksack. At first he felt a hint of remorse about imposing on the monks for supplies since they've been housing and feeding him for the entire winter, but Arngeir assured him that his concerns were unwarranted.

The old monk explained that although the Greybeards don't have an official place in the political structure of Skyrim, they're nonetheless revered by all Nords as the province's foremost keepers of the ancient tradition of the Voice, and for that reason many Jarls and aristocrats annually donate gold and other resources to High Hrothgar as a matter of course. In other words, the Greybeards have more preserved food, water, and general commodities squirreled away than they know what to do with, which is a great thing for Mull. And I sure am grateful for that. Maybe I should give Balgruuf a little peck on the cheek when I get back to Whiterun – he seems like the type of lord who would contribute a lot to the Greybeards. From the things he's said, I get the impression he reveres them.

He stops by the kitchens to acquire his provisions of bread, jerky, and dried fruit, already neatly packaged and organized just for him. After dropping them off in his room along with the rest of his belongings, he retrieves a pair of books from his nightstand that he needs to give back to the library sometime before his upcoming departure. It would be nice if he could take some of the Greybeards' tomes with him, but Arngeir didn't seem enthusiastic about the idea. He might be able to convince the headmaster to make an exception if he really tried – he's Dragonborn, so he can do just about whatever he wants here – but he doesn't need them that badly. They make for an interesting way to pass the time, but they're also as much a part of High Hrothgar as the Greybeards themselves. Some of them are incredibly old and valuable.

He examines the two books as he walks to the library, turning them over in his hands to scrutinize their worn leather covers. They're called 'The Song of Pelinal, Volume 3' and 'The Dragon Wars,' and they're among his favorites from the monastery's collection.

'The Song of Pelinal, Volume 3' is a segment of the legendary tale of Pelinal Whitestrake, one of the greatest heroes of mankind in Tamriel's recorded history. It's an odd read to say the least. One of the more memorable passages described a battle where Pelinal took a bite out of an Ayleid Elf's neck and ripped apart his throat-veins with his teeth. Mull's seen a lot of crazy things in his life, but that would definitely be a new one.

Another was the death of Huna, who Pelinal 'raised from grain-slave to hoplite' and 'loved well' before their demise, after which Pelinal went mad and slew countless Elves in a raging frenzy. His vendetta against the Ayleids eventually culminated in a wholescale genocide of their civilization.

If you wouldn't kill thousands of people for your woman, do you really love her? Mull snickers darkly, drawing a terrified stare from a passing monk. Not to be self-centered or melodramatic, but I can relate to that sentiment better than I'd like. It's a strange feeling to share an experience so… visceral… with a mythic hero of legend – having lost someone you love so much. I didn't go insane and start slaughtering Elves, but still. The point stands.

He's curious about what Pelinal was actually like as a person, and whether it was only his lost love that motivated him to bring fire and sword to the Ayleids or if there were other reasons behind his actions. This excerpt from the Song of Pelinal didn't go into much detail beyond the fact that he was a participant in the Alessian Rebellion. There are other volumes that might contain more information, but he hasn't seen them around the monastery.

The second book, 'The Dragon Wars,' was written by a Nord scholar named Torhal Bjorik who tells the story of the Merethic Dragon Wars. The subject of his work was intriguing for obvious reasons, being much more relevant to recent events than the millennia-old tale of Pelinal Whitestrake, and Mull found it to be informative. For example, he learned that the ancient Nordic terms for 'dragon' were 'drah-gkon' and 'dov-rha.' The second of those words is reminiscent of dov, the dragon word for their own kind. He's willing to bet that isn't a coincidence.

There were also passages about a blood-soaked priesthood that ruled over the peoples of Skyrim during the Merethic Era with an iron fist, the construction of grand temples and monoliths to honor their draconic gods, and the fact that undead draugr and their mummified 'dragon priests' still haunt the moldering ruins of their fallen civilization in the present day.

I could've told you the last of those without reading it in a damn book. He doesn't know what dragon priests are supposed to be and doesn't think he's ever heard them mentioned before. He didn't see any draugr that looked like priests in Bleak Falls Barrow – not that he's complaining. The regular draugr were bad enough on their own.

According to Torhal Bjorik, the dragons were 'god-kings over men' and their mortal priests exercised authority on their behalf. Their reign lasted many generations, but eventually the ancient Nords rebelled against them and set into motion the long and bloody Dragon Wars.

At first the conflict went poorly for the rebels and thousands were slaughtered by their winged lords in retribution for their disloyalty. Only after great sacrifices did the tide finally begin to turn in mankind's favor when a small group of dragons betrayed their own kindred and taught their former slaves 'magics' to use against them – the Voice, or so Mull inferred. The Imperial Cult claims it was Akatosh who induced his offspring to do this, but there are some who insist it was Kyne's doing instead.

Eventually the dragon priests were defeated, dozens if not hundreds of dragons were slain along with most of their subordinates, and the humbled survivors were scattered to the winds. This must be when the majority of the dragons were killed off. That was a long, long time ago. But unfortunately for us, our ancestors didn't completely finish the job. More's the pity.

To that point, the book's final line is ominous indeed. 'The dragon cult believed that one day the dragons would rise again and reward the faithful.'

Heh. I guess they weren't completely wrong.

He delivers the books to the library, takes a detour to pick up a set of his newly-washed traveling clothes, and retraces his steps to the dormitory. The next couple of hours are spent organizing his things and making sure he can squeeze it all into his bag. Everything fits, though barely.

-x-

It's a good morning for a journey.

The brisk fragrance of dawn's retreating cold is better at dispelling his drowsiness than the most aromatic tea. He feels refreshed despite the restlessness of the last few nights.

The sun hasn't risen yet, but there's already enough light trickling over the horizon to see across the shrouded landscape – a gorgeous sea of white cotton-like clouds broken here and there by scattered hints of color leaking through ever-shifting openings. When he stares hard enough, he catches glimpses of a peculiar lump of indistinct grey that might be the shallow rise of Whiterun's hill upon the plains far below. He's probably imagining it, but it's a nice thought. That's where I'm headed. From up here, it doesn't seem so far away.

He walks down the front steps of High Hrothgar, mentally gathers himself, and starts picking his way through the crowded front courtyard. The entire monastery is assembled to see him off today even though he explicitly told Arngeir he didn't want this to be a big deal. Stubborn old man, he silently grouses. The throng swirls around him, feigning a respectful distance while simultaneously crowding closer to get a better look. Come on, people. I'm not a damn spectacle.

A few of the more familiar monks catch his eye and nod a silent farewell. Among them are the female alchemist who treated his wounds from the troll, a sagely white-bearded monk who made a habit of bringing him tea in the courtyard over the last month or two, and the roguish male monk who saved his sorry ass from falling off the mountain. The last of them offers a toothy grin full of mischief and Mull grudgingly reciprocates. Good times, he thinks wryly.

He finally reaches the front gates and escapes the mass of Greybeards. Only four individuals are now standing between him and the Seven Thousand Steps – Arngeir, Borri, Einarth, and Wulfgar, his mentors assembled in all their hooded and robed glory.

"Dragonborn." Arngeir inclines his head, followed by his compatriots a heartbeat later. They're conducting themselves with the utmost sobriety and ceremonialism, the same as when Mull first entered High Hrothgar and crashed their welcoming party at the beginning of winter.

"Greybeards," he replies with his usual lack of decorum. "I, uh… well… thanks for everything. I'm sure you're happy to be seeing me off. I won't be getting in your hair anymore."

"There is such a thing as too much humility, Dragonborn," Arngeir quietly admonishes. "You would do well to take pride in your accomplishments every once in a while. I assure you, the pleasure has truly been ours." His eyes twinkle with amusement and a hint of something else. "The progress you've made in the Way of the Voice is extraordinary for someone who's spent such a short time with us. Your growth was truly a pleasure to witness." The three mute elders nod along with him.

Mull is taken aback by the man's sincerity. "…I appreciate it."

"It's been an honor, Dragonborn," Arngeir continues. "Know that by allowing us to offer our meager wisdom to one such as yourself, you have made worthwhile our many long years of diligence and seclusion. You have blessed us with your presence." The four monks bow again more deeply than before.

Ah, godsdamn it.

Mull raises his hands in protest. "Hey, that's enough of that. Stop bowing. Please." He glances back at the multitude of monks still loitering around the gates of the monastery. Every single one of them is watching their exchange with rapt interest. "We have an audience, for Shor's sake."

The elders straighten with their features kept carefully blank. "Forgive us," Arngeir says. "But we would be remiss if we failed to offer the Dragonborn these sentimentalities. You are the greatest of us all."

"Aye, you've said that before."

"And for good reason." Arngeir sighs heavily while the other three become even more grave. "That leads me to one final topic we must discuss before your departure."

Mull shuffles his feet impatiently. Goodbyes really shouldn't be drawn-out like this. "Sure. Let's hear it."

Arngeir hesitates for a few seconds. "There is much we could still teach you, were you to remain here. A part of me regrets that you must leave so soon."

"I could stay a while longer," Mull halfheartedly suggests.

"But you don't wish for that, do you?"

He snorts softly. "No, I don't." The months he's spent at High Hrothgar have easily been the most peaceful and enjoyable in the past year. This monastery is disconnected from the troubles of the world in a very literal way. In the time leading up to his journey to the Throat of the World, he often wondered why the Greybeards would want to live in such an inconvenient location as the continent's highest peak – but now he's pretty sure he understands. The sheer magnitude of physical isolation here generates a comparable mental isolation. It's a good kind of loneliness that makes it so much easier to sit and think.

But although there have been positives to living on the Throat of the World, he's still ready to return to the lands beneath the clouds. He wants to see what Lydia's been doing and what sort of trouble Torgen's gotten himself into. He wants to see if Whiterun is even still there, or if it's a smoldering ruin burned to ash by dragonfire. It's been impossible for the Greybeards to receive news of anything beyond the mountain due to the heavy snows of winter. Whatever's transpired since he first climbed the Seven Thousand Steps will only be revealed to him when he arrives in Ivarstead.

"And so you shall leave us," says Arngeir. "But as you go, we would impart unto you a parting task, if you'll hear it. Troubling times are upon us, Dragonborn. I have little doubt that as you've trained your Voice here at High Hrothgar, events in the Holds below have been moving apace."

Mull gnaws on his mustache and nods.

"Skyrim is experiencing its most terrible upheaval in the last two hundred years. Although it pains me to say it, there will come a day when you have need of greater instruction than what we alone can provide. It may not be in the next year, or the next five, or even the next decade, but inevitably you must ascend to the Throat of the World's highest peak in order to commune with our leader. You and I have spoken of him before."

It takes him a few seconds to recall that particular conversation. "Your grandmaster," he murmurs.

"Indeed. You are Dragonborn, and your Voice has matured exponentially in its strength and precision, but even that is not enough to earn you the privilege of speaking with one such as he. And so we reach the heart of this matter."

The monk's features tighten with worry.

"In truth, there have been many events and revelations in recent times that are troubling to us. The mysterious battle fought by our grandmaster atop the Throat of the World is foremost among these, but there is also our discussion regarding the World-Eater to consider."

Mull opens his mouth to retort that the likelihood of a god suddenly appearing out of nowhere is minuscule, but the monk cuts him off.

"Regardless of our differing opinions on the matter, we Greybeards firmly believe that there are dark forces at work in this present time – if not the World-Eater or a long-forgotten servant of his, then some other equally terrible threat. That you have appeared in this day and age, when the world is alight with the fires of war and unending turmoil… it is unlikely to be a coincidence."

He stifles a scoff. More talk of a hero for a decidedly unheroic man. But I get the ominous feeling it isn't going to stop anytime soon.

"So what are you getting at?" he asks.

Arngeir places his palms together in a gesture of supplication. "This is the task we impart unto you. Delve into the depths of Drajkmyr Marsh, located in the northerly Hold that we call the Hjaalmarch, and recover the Horn of Jurgen Windcaller from the ancient fane of Ustengrav hidden therein. Do this, and by our ancient laws you will earn the right to enter our grandmaster's dwelling-place and receive his judgement in person."

Mull struggles to absorb the several unfamiliar terms. He doesn't entertain the idea of trying to pronounce Drajkmyr. "The Horn of Jurgen Windcaller? I don't think I've heard of that before." Arngeir's told him plenty about the founder of the Greybeards, but he doesn't recall anything about a horn.

"I would be surprised if you had. It's an obscure object among the legendariums of Skyrim, especially when compared to more famous tales like the Jagged Crown, Ysgramor's axe Wuuthrad, and other renowned artifacts. As the name suggests, the Horn of Jurgen Windcaller was a blowing-horn belonging to the founder of our order. Its provenance is unknown but we believe it was used for the shaping of one's Voice – although the exact meaning of that phrase has been lost to time. It may have been a tool for learning the Thu'um or it may have simply been a ceremonial object. Some postulate that it was Jurgen Windcaller's warhorn before his discovery of the Way. But regardless, it's an extraordinary relic that holds no small amount of significance to our order."

"If it's such an ancient thing, then how do you know the Horn is still being kept in this Ustengrave place?"

"Ustengrav," Arngeir idly corrects him, "is the burial place of Jurgen Windcaller. I know not why he was interred in such a remote location rather than here upon the Throat of the World, but whatever the reason, his tomb is sequestered somewhere beneath the fane and I can only assume his Horn is there along with him, resting among his bones. It's a long and perilous journey, but I vouch before the gods here and now that it will be a worthwhile effort for you. Show the gods that you're worthy of the powers with which you have been blessed, display the righteousness of your Thu'um, and if you trust in the Way of the Voice then you shall succeed. By doing so, you will earn beyond all doubt the privilege of greeting our leader with your Voice face-to-face."

Mull's first thought is that going all the way to the Hjaalmarch will be a hell of an undertaking. Whatever makes this Horn special, it'd better be worth the effort. "I'm not sure I understand why it's so important for me to meet your leader. I'm not against the idea, don't get me wrong, but surely there are a lot of things I could still learn from you. I'm basically a beginner as a Tongue, right?"

Arngeir huffs with amusement while his fellow elders shake their heads. "You've proven yourself an exceptional student with the potential to grow by leaps and bounds, and there's only so much we will be able to teach you in the coming years. It's true that you've recently taken your first steps along the Way, but one day you will far surpass even myself. History will not remember Arngeir the headmaster of the Greybeards, nor Borri, nor Einarth, nor Wulfgar, but rather Mull the Dragonborn and his actions, whatever they might be. You are the greatest of us. This I believe with all of my heart."

Mull hates that he's rendered speechless when he hears the raw sincerity in Arngeir's words. Not for the first time, he laments that he started to value this old man's opinions so highly sometime during the winter. Things would be so much easier if he hadn't.

Einarth takes the opportunity to step forward and hold out his hands. Cradled in his palms is an amulet threaded with a simple leather band. He silently gestures for Mull to take it.

Mull gently accepts the necklace and holds it up for examination. The amulet itself is unmistakably a symbol of Talos – a wrought-steel sword pointed downwards with its blade piercing through the eye of a double-headed axe, not too different from Torgen's pendant. It's a simple thing but with quality craftsmanship. Mull appreciates that. He always preferred minimalism over gaudiness anyways. Einarth has good taste.

He lowers the necklace and looks at the monk, whose wrinkles deepen as he smiles paternally.

"…Thank you." He pours as much sincerity as he can into those words. He means it. These monks have already done so much more for him than he expected. They might feel obligated to treat him well because they believe he's Dragonborn, but to him, kindness is kindness. The motives behind such genuine benevolence are irrelevant. Arngeir and his subordinates have been generous, patient, thoughtful, and a host of other equally inadequate descriptors. But for some reason, the gift of this simple amulet seems so much more weighty than any of those other things. It's intensely personal.

Einarth responds the his gratitude by inclining his cowled head once more.

In full view of everyone present, Mull loops the pendant around his neck and settles it proudly atop his chest. It brushes against Morven's amulet of Kyne with a muted clink. The monks step aside for him, opening the path down the mountain.

"Go now, Dragonborn," Arngeir gravely intones. "Your road awaits you."

He steps forward. The soles of his boots thump against a smooth stone surface. The last and first of seven thousand steps.

As he passes Arngeir, the old Greybeard speaks softly under his breath. "Jurgen Windcaller followed in the footsteps of the gods, who had great power and willingly surrendered it to bring the very world as we know it into existence. In the same manner, we may honor the gods by using the divine power of the Voice for their sake rather than our own. Dragonborn, use the Thu'um rightly and walk in the footsteps of the gods. There is honor and peace to be found in the giving of oneself. Do not forget this."

He stops and half-turns to Arngeir. The Greybeard meets his gaze.

"There is still much turmoil within you. You've made tangible progress along the Way, but your growth will always be stunted if you cannot surrender your anger and shame. Remember that the gods demand sacrifice. You have done well… but your work is not over."

He gives the old Greybeard a long look. He'd like to say something appropriately momentous for the circumstances, but nothing suitable comes to mind.

Finally he just settles for his honest response. "I won't forget it," he promises. "And… I'll do my best."

Arngeir, Borri, Einarth, and Wulfgar each nod. "That's all we can ever do," Arngeir solemnly replies.

Mull glances back at them one last time before hefting his pack and setting off down the path.

Behind him, Arngeir's voice gently resonates. "Sky above."

He mumbles the proper response for only himself to hear. "Voice within."

-x-

High Hrothgar steadily shrinks behind him as his downhill gait rapidly eats up the distance. Ahead of him, the snowy trail angles to the left as it curves around the bulk of the Throat of the World. On the other side the mountain falls sharply away into an ever-present bank of mist.

The first half-hour of his journey is peaceful and quiet, with the wind whistling faintly and the ice slowly melting into translucent puddles. This high up, there aren't even any birds to disturb the stillness other than the occasional migratory goose honking as it soars overhead.

Unfortunately, it doesn't stay that way for long.

'I see that you've discovered much about yourself, Qahnaarin. All of it lies.'

Mull jumps at least a foot in the air as he's startled by the sudden voice coming from every direction at once. He almost loses his balance, threatening to tumble into an uncontrollable slide down the Steps, but he recovers just before it's too late. His stomach clenches uncomfortably. "You're back," he gripes. "That didn't take long. For a while there I was hoping you were gone for good. Not having to hear your voice for a few months was a much needed break."

'I am a part of you, Qahnaarin, just as you are of me. I will never depart from your soul. Tell me, have you learned all that you desired from the sadon onik muz? Did they live up to your lofty expectations?'

"They did actually, thanks for asking. So what do you want?"

Mirmulnir's response is immediate, like he'd rehearsed it beforehand. 'What have I ever desired but that for which you should also strive? Surely you have seen by now that I seek only to advance your best interests.'

"Alright, just…" Mull halts and closes his eyes. Black rage boils within him. He takes a deep breath and makes a conscious effort to unclench his jaw. It's disheartening how easily this incorporeal pest is able to get under his skin with only a few sentences, even after all these months. It feels like all the progress he's made toward repressing his innermost anger has been undone in the span of seconds. Maybe he's gotten too used to being free from the dragon's harassment. "Whatever you're trying to say, hurry up and spit it out. I'm not playing your games today."

'Very well. As my Qahnaarin, it is my duty to impart unto you the wisdom that I possess. Hear these words and know that they are true. In accepting the teachings of the joorre, you have embraced their weaknesses and made them your own. The dov do not use the Voice for such trivial matters as inner peace or the worship of others.' Mirmulnir's tone makes his disgust abundantly clear. 'The desire for power should be the driving motivator for your every action. That is the only path to righteous strength. This 'Way of the Voice' that is championed by your mortal kindred is contemptible. It is pathetic. There is only one true Way, and you have forsaken it.'

"You're talking about how I Shouted using my emotions the first few times. Sure it was more powerful at first, but in case you didn't notice, that tore my throat to shreds. Walking around mute for days on end was something that got old really fast. Now that I've started mastering the Way of the Voice, I can Shout just as effectively without crippling myself anymore. I can even Shout multiple times consecutively. So what point are you trying to make? Do you want me to limit my options for no reason?"

'Of course not. But you must understand that your flesh is still weak because your will is weak. You lack the proper drive for dominion. Only by bending the world to your whims may you Shout with the full breadth of power innate to your soul and blood. You have grown, yes – but you have not grown enough.'

"Again, you've said that before. And no, before you ask, my answer hasn't changed. I'm not going to go raze a city to the ground or whatever other stupidity you're asking of me."

'Your shortsightedness will be your downfall. Still you allow these petty moralities to govern your existence. Those who stand in between you and your rightful preeminence must be torn asunder.'

"That isn't going to happen," he firmly retorts. "So drop it already."

'But why, Qahnaarin?' demands Mirmulnir. 'What is it that holds you back from accepting what you really are?'

"Oh? What am I really?" Mull sneers. "Enlighten me."

'A dovah,' the dragon grimly answers. 'And a born hunter of our kindred. Despite what the joorre might insist, your path is not one of peace. It has never been. And it never will be.'

Mull's heart twinges painfully. How many times has he told himself those exact words? How many times did he try to convince Arngeir of that same thing? He really, really hates to admit it, but this time Mirmulnir's statement is dead on.

'Their Ways can never be our Ways,' the dragon continues. 'Our Way is fire and blood, tumultuous war beneath frozen starlight, the decimation of our enemies by the tens of thousands. This is the nature of conflict among the dov. There is no peace. There is no mercy. There is no restraint. There is only victory and defeat. Survival and death. Such is our Way, as it has always been since the beginning of the world when our father Bormahu breathed life into our bones.'

He feels his resolve beginning to crumble piece by piece. He disagrees with the dead dragon on a lot of things and generally tries to ignore his ramblings, but this? He can't bring himself to disagree. He would be ignoring the story of his entire life otherwise.

Besides, it's true that he desires power. He doesn't want to answer to Balgruuf anymore. He doesn't want to live in fear of other people's actions.

He stops, spits into a half-melted snowbank, and looks out over the distant landscape below. The mist-shrouded hill that may or may not be Whiterun is still visible to the northwest. "…My answer is still no. Make whatever arguments you want, but you can't convince me that the Greybeards' teachings don't have merit. Aye, you're right about my life not being peaceful. It sure as Oblivion hasn't been so far and I doubt that'll change anytime soon. But…"

He recalls Arngeir's responses whenever they discussed this same topic. He didn't understand most of what he said at the time, but now it's gradually starting to make more sense.

"The Way of the Voice is not only for a certain type of person, Dragonborn. It is for all people. Do no delude yourself into believing that you're unworthy of the right to know the gods better, for that is a lie. The Way of the Voice can be for you if you simply allow it to be. Not merely of use to you, but for you of its own volition."

He rubs his face wearily. "I don't know if you could listen in through my mind or whatever, but Arngeir talked about True Need and choosing which situations are worthy of violence. It isn't like I'll never be using the Way of the Voice for killing people. I'm sure I will. But all your talk about domination and controlling others… I don't want to be a damn king, Mirmulnir. If you're really a part of me, then you know that already. Everyone else can do whatever the hell they want. I don't care. " He pauses, deep in thought. "I just want to do what I want to do without anyone interfering. That's all."

'Yet that is an impossibility. To avoid being dominated by others, you must first dominate them in turn. So long as you are Dovahkiin, your affairs will never again be your own.'

"I know," he sighs. "I know. I've heard it all already. But a man's gotta dream, right?"

Mirmulnir's ensuing silence is heavily laced with disdain, if such a thing is possible.

A thought crosses his mind. "Not that I'm complaining, but why were you silent for the whole winter? Were you laying in wait for me to leave High Hrothgar or something?" He bares his teeth. "Were the big bad Greybeards too scary for you?"

The dragon again doesn't answer, though this time Mull gets the vague impression that he's offended.

Good. I win this round, he tells with his mind churning like a stormy lake, it sure doesn't feel like it.

With the matter of his ornery psychic hitchhiker settled for now, he continues down the Steps and does his best to forget the unwanted psychological intrusion. He can't completely dispel the knot of worry starting to reform in his mind, but he squashes it down as much as he can. Still, he can't help but wonder what Mirmulnir will do or say next. Life without him was blissful and he already misses it.

Not long afterwards, he walks past the statue of Talos crowning the Seven Thousand Steps' second-to-last shrine. The Dragonborn God stares down at him with unseeing eyes. Unlike last time, there aren't any cosmic visions or feelings of impending annihilation. It's just another statue, though with fewer icicles clinging to it than before.

He recalls his previous interaction with Mirmulnir at this spot. Three months ago. Has it really been that long? Since that day, he's learned many new things about the dragons and his own nature – more than he ever thought possible.

Dragons crave rulership, domination, and absolute authority over themselves and others, the freedom to act as they see fit without restriction. Mirmulnir ensured he understands this well.

A part of him, the part that's kept him alive through the struggles of being a bandit for half of his life, agrees that he should use whatever powers and advantages he can get his hands on to keep himself and his allies safe. How he gains those advantages is ultimately irrelevant.

On the other side of things is the Way of the Voice. The techniques it employs can be frustrating in their limitations at times, but those same limitations keep him from hurting himself when he Shouts. It's bothersome but also worthwhile in the long run. And that's just looking at it from a purely practical standpoint, saying nothing of the spiritual.

With the hindsight of three months between now and then, he realizes how miserable he'd been before reaching High Hrothgar. There were days where he felt like he couldn't control his own thoughts and words anymore, especially with the voices of dead dragons and magical runes interposing constantly with their unwanted feedback. There were nights where he honestly thought his overwhelming dreams and nightmares were driving him insane. The more time passed from the battle at the Western Watchtower, the worse those issues became.

Knowing what he knows now, he might've been in such a bad spot because of his unintentional abuse of the Voice. Arngeir said Shouting is like an outpouring of emotion. If those emotions are magnified in the process of using the Thu'um, and if they're negative emotions like mine probably were… He recalls the fight against Hajvarr Iron-hand, the hagraven, and the troll, and how each encounter had its own unique flavor of terror. …Definitely were, he corrects himself. Then using the Voice like that must've made the situation worse. If he hadn't received the Greybeards' teachings and advice when he did, he isn't sure how things would've turned out for him, but he knows it wouldn't have been good.

Is that what it means to be Dragonborn? he thinks with ill-humor. To lose yourself like that? Maybe it's something all Tongues have to deal with, although I didn't get that impression from the Greybeards. Or… maybe it was all me. Maybe it was because I lost Morven, and then everything else that was added to the growing pile of bullshit afterwards. Maybe…

He cringes internally and abandons that trail of thought. Regardless of the pointless details, the Greybeards and their Way of the Voice have helped him tremendously. He was spiraling downwards into a bottomless pit and now he's not.

In more ways than one, it feels like he's walking into a new stage of his life. It'll be a struggle to hold true to the Way of the Voice outside of High Hrothgar, but he's determined to do his best. He's already seen firsthand how much of a positive impact the Way can bring. Mirmulnir will undoubtedly make it more difficult than it should be, but as far as he knows there's nothing he can do to get rid of the dragon's mental influence. He'll just have to live with it.

He grumbles into his beard as he trudges down the Seven Thousand Steps. His journey has only just begun and he's already spent far too much time dithering about these troublesome topics. The next ten or so days will be nothing but more walking and thinking – two of his least favorite activities.

He curses to himself. This is going to be a long trip.