I do not own the Elder Scrolls series.
AN: I have updated all previous chapters as of 9-16-24. Specifically, chapters five and six have been heavily rewritten. As well as some minor corrections to the dates at the beginning of each chapter.
Chapter XI: A Single Step
16th to 19th of Hearthfire, the Year of Our Divine Sovereign 4E 81
"It is the rumbling of the Greybeards that wake him. Though the Empire has crumbled, there are rumors that a chosen one will come to restore it. This new Emperor will defeat the Elves and rule a united Tamriel. Naturally, Wulfharth thinks he is the figure of prophecy. He goes directly to High Hrothgar to hear the Greybeards speak. When they do, Ysmir is blasted to ash again. He is not the chosen one. It is a warrior youth from High Rock. As the Grey Wind goes to find this boy, he hears the Greybeards' warning: remember the color of betrayal, King Wulfharth."
The Under-King, The Arcturian Heresy
Arriving at Ivarstead was so underwhelming that it felt like something of a letdown. They simply strolled into town, barely earning more than a passing glance from farmers harvesting the summer bounties and prepping their fields for the next season. It was barely larger than any of the dozens of farming towns that Sebastien has encountered over his life, though the number of rotting and half-collapsed buildings on its outskirts hinted that the settlement once hosted a more respectable population. Were it not for the leviathan bulk of the Throat of the World dominating the western horizon, it could have been any of a dozen towns Sebastien had seen in his life.
Yet the sheer mundanity of Ivarstead only served to make the mountain seem all the larger. The Throat of the World rose into the heavens, higher than even the tallest peaks of Wrothgar, a singular, jutting monument of stone and snow that towered above all around it. From where he stood, he could see no hint of the monastery of High Hrothgar, though he knew it must be up there, waiting for him. And within it, the answers I seek. Still, he couldn't help but comment on the sorry state of the village. "This is the respect Skyrim shows to such an ancient order?"
"The Greybeards aren't what they once were," Lydia observed, her face mirroring the slight disappointment Sebastien himself felt. "There was a time where it was tradition for Jarls to send their heirs to High Hrothgar to study under them, but the practice has fallen out of favor in recent years. The last ones I know of were Jarl Balgruuf and Ulfric Stormcloak, and… well, you've seen how that turned out."
Yes, Ulfric's use of the Thu'um in his duel with the late High King must have had some repercussions on the Greybeards as well. Sebastien couldn't help but wonder if the Imperials might've blamed them, at least a little bit, for what had happened. If so, it would hardly be fair. Ulfric's choice and all the consequences that came with it, were his burden to bear alone. Then again, Sebastien thought, recalling his near-execution at Helgen. Tullius might not see it that way.
Regardless, they were in Ivarstead at last, though night was quickly approaching by the time they crossed the stone bridge leading into town. A single inn, whose sign named it the Vilemyr, looked to be the only accommodation the town offered. It, like everything else in Ivarstead, seemed a bit shabby, but when entered, it was warm and clean within. Like the farmers outside, the patrons within the inn barely paid any mind to the Breton and his housecarl.
Approaching the bar, Sebastien handed a small purse over to the innkeeper who introduced himself as Wilhelm. "Two rooms, just for the night and feed and water for two horses."
"More pilgrims?" The innkeep asked, taking the coins. "Come to see High Hrothgar just like everyone else?"
"Indeed," Sebastien lied easily, affecting his voice to sound more like a provincial than a Wayrester. "I'm from Alcaire, I was told this mountain was considered sacred to Kynaree." It had been agreed before leaving Whiterun that Sebastien would keep the true nature of his journey as secret as possible. Even without being the Dragonborn, it wouldn't look good for Jarl Balgruuf if one of his Thanes was marching across the Stormcloak-allied Rift.
Dressed in a simple green shirt, black leather vest and wrapped in his fur-lined cloak, Sebastien looked no different than any other pilgrim and with Lydia in her unmarked steel armor, she looked no different than any mercenary.
"You were told right then, though most call her Kyne round these parts." Wilhelm admitted after Sebastien ordered dinner for both him and Lydia. "Don't get many travelers other than pilgrims these days, what with the war going on." He brought them two bowls of hearty soup and a tray of grilled vegetables. "Most are hoping to see the Greybeards, but will probably never get closer than the door of High Hrothgar."
"Yes, I've heard of them, an order of Tongues, I believe?" Sebastien pressed the innkeeper for any information that might've escaped both what he'd been told by the Jarl and the long hours of study with Farengar.
"More or less," Wilhelm admitted, placing a thick slice of bread next to the vegetables. "They're monks who worship Kyne. Don't know what they do exactly, except maybe recite prayers to the sky. You'll hear 'em sometimes, though, using the Voice. Like thunder rumbling down from the mountaintop."
"I take it 'the Voice' is what I heard a few weeks ago?"
"Aye," The innkeeper nodded. "That was them, alright. The whole damn town had to move up to Fort Greenwall just so we wouldn't be blown over into Morrowind. They were summoning the Dragonborn to High Hrothgar, just like with Talos. Probably another reason why there's been more pilgrims coming in, all hoping to see them. Imagine that?"
Sebastien smiled innocently. "We would be so lucky." Tucking into his supper, he asked. "So, you say no one ever actually sees the Greybeards?"
The innkeeper shrugged. "Well, not no one, I suppose. When I was a boy, both Jarl Valnir of Whiterun and Hoag of Windhelm sent their sons to study under them, an old tradition that not many practice anymore." The man paused and leaned closer conspiratorially. "Of course, there's also Klimmek. He's a logger, works for Temba Wide-Arm and her mill. Likes to make the journey up the steps and leave the Greybeards some dry goods, good samiritan and all that. Well, one day, just before the Greybeards make their summons, he goes up to the monastery and there, standing at the foot of the steps, he says, is a Greybeard. Told him to tell the town to head south by the next morning. Don't know how they knew what would happen, but I suppose that's the Greybeards for you."
"That's good to know, thank you," Sebastien said. Klimmek, it seemed, was the one to talk to then. If nothing else, he might be a good source of knowledge on what they would have to look out for while climbing the mountain. The rest of the evening past comfortably, a bard was called to serenade the patrons (Sebastien amusedly noted Lydia trying and failing not to stare at the woman) before he and Lydia retired for the evening. They needed their rest.
They had a mountain to conquer tomorrow.
Yet for Sebastien sleep did not offer any respite.
The dream began at the peak of a lonely mountain. Sebastien stood at the jagged edge of a cliff, snow fluttering down on his shoulders as he trudged through the layers of it across the ground. He stands at the precipice, all of Skyrim is laid out before him, a valley hugged around its rim by towering mountains. Below is a sea of trees, golden and orange in their autumn canopy, bathed in the dimming light of a setting sun.
He stands at the very edge of the cliff, the drop below no doubt hundreds if not thousands of feet. Yet, it doesn't affect him, he feels no vertigo, no dread builds in his belly. How can it? Such fear was for mortals, for joor, and he… he was so much more. Sebastien gazes out from atop the cliff, he gazes at the valley below. He draws breath, the frozen mountain air filling his lungs, and he speaks.
His Voice echoes across the valley like a clap of thunder, a wave of sound and magic that shakes the trees and the mountains to their very roots. For a time, only silence meets it until at last, his Voice is answered by one even greater than it. Dark and terrible, majestic and beautiful, the voice of the Firstborn gives his command and Sebastien obeys. He teeters on the edge of the cliff… and he falls.
Then rises again.
His arms are stretched out, vast wings extended like yards of sail, carried not by wind, but by his own power as he wills himself into flight. He follows the winds blowing into the northeast and trades the frigid mountain air for the scent of ash. He flies over the sprawling grey metropolis of Hiimsejum, the city of their first prophet Ysgrim. He flies away from the mainland and to the newly formed island. In the distance lies the strummah of Yolstrunor. Within the red mountain, he hears the terrible beating of some vile organ, thumping in its stone prison like some doom driven drum.
Doom…doom-DOOM…doom-DOOM…doom-DOOM…doom-DOOM…
The sound is anathema to him, so revolting that he nearly lets his control slip and risk plummeting to the earth. He shook it off, focusing his mind away from the terrible drumbeat. The sky before him is filled with his brothers, their Voices united into a song of awe-inspiring might and wrath as the sky lights up with their power. They converge on a single building on the newly-formed island, a temple turned stronghold against their empire. Below them, their loyal joor war against the dogs of the Usurper, the smaller, weaker Voices mere shadows of what he and his brothers were capable of. The ground around the profane palace is littered with the bodies of the dead and dying the bleached bones of his kin stripped of flesh and animus, but he does not care as his jaws stretch wide the fiery word of Yol already in his throat.
The burning words leave his jaws in a stream of unrelenting flame, a screaming vortex of white-hot heat to bring the abominatio down. His Voice crashed over a series of pillars, the flames so pure and so that that the very stones began to melt into slag, causing the roof to collapse as the pillars faltered. They did their Lord's work, and razed the heretical bastion to its foundation. Nothing could be left standing, not one pillar or statue. It must be razed to its very foundation and buried beneath the snow and the ash. Already, new priests were being sworn in to replace those who had sided with the Usurper, a new Arch-Mage, a High Priest, a new king for Veysenor.
There would be no memorial or monument. No marker to remember this place or the names of those who had fought here. The Usurper's name and deeds would fade from memory and be swallowed up by the sands of time. All of it, every deed, every victory and every betrayal would be forgotten by the world, consumed by the final and true death of anonymity. It was as their Lord had commanded them and they obeyed his order.
The usurper was dead, and the kingdom would last unto eternity.
It was here that the dream ended, it faded into miasma as Sebastien stirred from sleep. The scent of ash on the wind and the air beneath his wings nothing more than a distant fantasy. Light streamed in from the frosted over window of his room, and he breathed deep the chill air of the early autumn morning. Today was the day they climbed the Throat of the World.
To Lydia's slight disappointment, the first of the 7,000 steps had been somewhat anticlimactic. Lydia looked at her foot, sighed, and took another step. Six thousand, nine hundred and ninety-eight left to go. The path to the steps had led them across the bridge and to the foot of the mountain, where it rose sharply up into the rough terrain. The path was narrow and took odd turns and each step brought some new worry the higher they climbed. The stone was slick, and the frozen soil underneath the snow was nearly as slippery as the ice itself. This might be the best way up the mountain, but only due to a lack of any other options.
As she rounded a corner, she found her thane ahead of her, standing before some tablet carved from stone. He stared curiously at the stone plaque in front of him, and when Lydia drew closer, she saw that he was intently studying the words carved into the stone. Sebastien knelt to wipe snow off of the plaque. "What language is this?" he asked, referring to the faded runes carved into the stone face of the tablet.
Lydia knelt as well. "Oh, that's Ancient Nordic, no question." She pointed at one squiggle. "See? That one sounds like the 'a' in 'dragon'."
Sebastien nodded. "And what does it say?"
She blinked at her thane. "What? I don't know!"
"I thought you spoke Ancient Nordic?"
"I was taught Mountain Nordic, so I can talk to the Old Clans. I can't read Ancient!"
"Damn, I was curious." Sebastien sighed. "Hopefully the Greybeards will be able to tell me." He stepped away from the tablet, and approached the edge of the mountainside. Lydia approached and saw what her thane was staring at, and the sight nearly robbed her of breath.
A vista lay before her, hills and trees and ruins of stone and wood stretching away. Valleys and hills seemed little more than ripples against the vast expanse of land, and even the Velothi mountains that hugged the southeastern border of the Rife seemed diminished at this distance. The light of the midday sunbathed the valley below a warm and cheerful gold and amber, like an oil painting hung up in some manor in Nibenay or High Rock.
Sebastien looked out over the landscape below. "It's quite a view," her Thane idly observed. He fell silent for a moment. "In Wayrest, there was balcony on the Palace of Roses that faced the Iliac. Whenever I stayed there, I would wake up every morning just before dawn, just so I could see the sunrise from that balcony. The sight the sun rising over the crystal blue of the bay, the silver of distant Adamantia standing just in front of it… it was always so mesmerizing."
Lydia briefly glanced at her thane, his expression unreadable, before turning back to the sight below. "Back at Whiterun, it was always looking out over the plains. All these trees and hills… feels odd to be above them."
Sebastien glanced over his shoulder. "And this is the mountain's base. Still six thousand, five hundred and seventy-two steps to go."
Lydia closed her eyes for a second. "Umm, hold on. That's… four hundred and twenty-eight? I only counted four hundred and six."
Her thane sighed. "Near impossible to tell. Half of the steps are either buried in snow or so eroded that you can hardly tell they were steps at all."
Lydia shrugged, minding the weight of the pack on her shoulders. "Down in the village, they said nobody ever got the same number of steps right. The only one nobody ever gets is seven thousand. Anybody says they did; they're lying."
He chuckled. "So why were you counting then?"
Lydia smiled. "I wanted to see. Same as you right?"
Her thane returned her smile, before adjusting his own pack on his shoulders. "Come on, Lydia. Let's keep moving before sunset." The climb to High Hrothgar, as they had been informed by the lumberjack Klimmek, was three days under favorable conditions, and as much as nine under unfavorable ones. They had been lucky to start during a time when the weather wouldn't be at its worst.
"Right behind you, my thane."
Four hundred and seven…
They encountered few people on the path, but each had left an impression.
A Breton woman who would not speak of her past or purpose, only the peace the mountain brought. Sebastien did not care for the knowing look in her eyes, or how they lingered on his Marked hand more than once.
A Khajiit clad in brown and yellow robes who called himself the Liar and spoke of impossible things.
A warrior clad in the blue and bronze of the Stormcloaks who whispered of the destruction of Helgen and how she fled at the sight of the black dragon, leaving her brothers and sisters to die as she ran. She spoke of trying to find penance on the steps for her cowardice and Sebastien wished her luck.
An Orc who had saw climbing the mountain as a feat of strength only to find a sense of peace as he made the journey up and down again.
Two Nords, an uncle and his nephew. The uncle was a scrawny man with a sharp face and too clever by half eyes, while his nephew was a brawny wall of a man with shaggy hair and beard who wielded a massive hand-hammer. They had shared a midday meal together, Sebastien and the uncle competed in a game of riddles and wit while both housecarl and nephew looked on in bored exasperation.
No dreams came to Sebastien that first night on the mountain. He would have been relieved if he didn't already know that they would return at some point, likely the very next night. Still, he was grateful for even the brief reprieve from the strange fantasies that had plagued him since that night in Whiterun. Their second day on the Throat of the World dawned with frigid winds and clouds so thick they swallowed all of the valleys below under their grey veil.
Sebastien worked away the pall of mist with magic, sweeping away scores of chilling mists with a slight turn of hand. This high up and so close to the sky, his magic felt brighter and warmer in his veins, even with the sun half-shrouded behind the wall of clouds.
"Eyes on the ground, housecarl," Sebastien called over his shoulder as another bank of pale fog was swept away from magically-directed currents of air. "Wouldn't want our next steps to find nothing but empty air beneath them."
Lydia gave her confirmation in the form of an acknowledging grunt, as both her and her thane were too preoccupied with putting one foot in front of the other to make conversation. Autumn may have made the climb up to High Hrothgar more bearable then if they tried in during the dead of winter, but only just. Sebastien's magic and Lydia's Nord constitution, as well as their layers of thick clothing, kept them from real danger, but the slog up the mountain was no less a miserable experience. Especially with the heavy fog around them, although it was odd how a bit of air was moving. It almost looks like ice. Something almost transparent, but definitely there-
Sebastien leapt back with a cry of shock as something burst out of the fog with a hiss. The creature in front of him was unlike any that Sebastien had encountered in Skyrim so far, it swam through the fog like an eel through water and its serpent-like body appeared to be made from skeletal crystals of ice than anything organic. He let out a burst of lightning that was more instinctual than targeted, only for it to widely miss the serpentine body of the apparition.
Undeterred by the bolt, the ice elemental swam through the air towards Sebastien, lunging at the Breton with its fangs out. The needle-like teeth of ice would have sunk into his shoulder had he not batted the creature away with Longue Memoir. The creature hissed at being struck, but otherwise did not seem harmed by the adamantium. Not daedric then, Sebastien thought, readying himself as the creature came at him again. Then what are you?
Acting swiftly, Sebastien's oft hand lit up with flames, and he directed a burst of fire toward the elemental. It dodged easily however and came again.
Lydia, realizing that something was wrong, intervened this time. Her shield slammed into the creature, arresting its movement. It hung in the air, seemingly stunned. This gave enough time for Sebastien to recover, however, and the monster hissed as another bolt of fire struck it, lighting its frigid body alight. It writhed in a maddened frenzy, whipping back and forth in the foggy air until Sebastien brought his sword down upon its crystalline body, shattering it into jagged shards of ice that fell in a haphazard pile atop the snowy ground.
"Sun and Spire, what was that?" Sebastien was overcome with curiosity as he was faced with something totally unfamiliar to him.
"Ice Wraith," Lydia answered. "Some sort of ice spirit, they stick to the coldest spots they can find." As Sebastien kneeled down to examine the remains, she added. "I think I heard someone once say that they were once the souls of those who froze to death, changed by the high magic of the mountain."
"Are they native only to this mountain?" Sebastien asked, having heard stories of snow demons that lived atop the high peaks of Wrothgar, but having dismissed them as Orcish long tales. He picked up a shard of ice that was vaguely shaped like a fang. Curious, they left solid remains, not like the ectoplasm of regular ghosts. Hmm, perhaps they're a type of nature Fae, like Spriggans. If so, they were a much more animalistic breed. At least Spriggans could be reasoned with. Sometimes.
Lydia gave a shrug that displaced some of the snow on her shoulder. ""Not really," she rubbed her eyes and pulled her hood forward as the snow began to fall harder. "Three, maybe four winters ago we got a whole swarm of them on the plains outside the city. Damn near impossible to track on open ground, but if you light bonfire they'll stay away." She shrugged. "We'll have to keep our eyes open, and light a big fire tonight."
Sebastien was only half-paying attention however, still studying the remains of the Ice Wraith. "An elemental animate spirit?" He bent and gathered the rest of the shards. "Oh, that's very interesting. I've heard that the Wyresses are able to… 'wake up' the Ehlnofey, perhaps someone tried that here, only to find that Skyrim's spirits were a bit surlier than they had expected?"
"I… really wouldn't know, my thane," Lydia said awkwardly, as Sebastien closely examined one of the Ice Wraith's 'teeth'. "Planning on taking a trophy?"
"Not quite," Sebastien muttered, dropping all but one of the handful of ice shards into a pouch. "Spriggan taproot and sap are worth their weight in any currency you can name. Not to mention, they're one of the most potent magical amplifiers we know of," he held up the ice tooth to be better examine it. "If these ice shards are even a fraction as powerful, then I can't wait to find out what can be done with them."
Lydia did not share his excitement. "My thane, we're not exactly short of coin on the moment," she sighed and added. "And with all due respect, there's a reason most people just pay alchemists to make their potions for them."
"Nonsense, housecarl," Sebastien waved her concerns away as he placed the final tooth into his pouch to join the others. "I'm certain there must be something on Ice Wraith teeth in one of my books, I'm sure with a bit of experimentation, I'll find some use for them." Starting back up the path to the mountain, Sebastien called out over his shoulder. "Come along, Lydia. With luck, we might run into a few more of these Ice Wraiths before night sets in."
Again, his housecarl did not seem to share his excitement.
Just as Sebastien had predicted, his peculiar dreams came back with a vengeance that night. As the fire – twice the size of the once they had lit the night before – roared over the gentle howls of the mountain wind, Sebastien lied in his tent, tossing and turning in his bedroll as his mind was lost to his dreams.
He was standing at the edge of the cliff again, all of Skyrim laid out below him like he was just another peak crowning these snowy mountains. He was certainly as ancient as any strummah, surely. He could even feel it the many years that he had been sitting here in wait, each one carved a deeper and deeper notch into his bones. He was an ageless being, untouched by the ravages of time unlike the pitiful Joor below, and yet each new year dug its claws into his flesh-vessel. Only his soul, handcrafted by Bormahu, remained safe from the march of his father's animus.
Once more, Sebastien gazes at the valley below. It's quiet, all is quiet. It is an unbearable quiet though, there is wrongness in this silence that gnaws at him, at his soul. He draws breath, the frozen mountain air filling his weathered lungs, and he speaks. Again, his Voice echoes across the valley, its power untouched and unchallenged by the long ages. It is carried by the wind, by the breath of his father-sister Kaan. Eventually, it fades into the dim quiet once more and Sebastien waits. He waits for and prays for that his Voice is answered by another, by anyone. He waits… and he prays. He prays to his Lord and to their father, he prays that there will be another Voice to match his, prays that his Lord might return. He prays his lonely vigil might come to an end. He prays and he waits…
…There is only silence.
Within Sebastien's animus, something gnaws at him. It is a cold and unfamiliar feeling, but one that has grown more and more apparent with each passing century. It was doubt. Doubt that his vigil had purpose any longer, doubt that his Lord might yet return and restore their empire to its former glory, doubt that their father had any further use for them. Doubt was an alien concept to a being like him, for his soul had been crafted to be above such mortal follies, and yet somehow, it had found purchase within his core self.
That traitorous whisper grew a little louder each night, spreading its filth deeper into his being like the vacuous roots of some twisted tree. It was only the certainty that came with his sight into the flow of time that kept it that black seed of doubt form finding further power over him. The Farsight, their father's greatest gift to them, greater even then the Thu'um. It shows him the flow of time and in that distant shore, he sees his Lord's return, his mighty Voice raining fire and brimstone on those who had turned against their masters, it heralds a new era, a new Dawn. It heralds the time when they will take back their proper place as masters of their father's realm.
He focuses on that singular fixed point in the river of Time. That single day when the wrongs shall be righted. He sees nothing before or past it, only that one singular triumphant moment when his Lord shall return. He waits for the day when he will taste his Lord's Voice on the winds and know that the time of hiding and waiting is over. He will be rewarded for his vigil, for his loyalty. He is his Lord's last faithful servant, and he will prove that he is worthy of his Lord's favor. All he must do is sit and wait for the Day.
Until that day arrives, however, he can do nothing else except wait and pray. And so, he returns to his lonely vigil atop his mountain, as each year carves a little deeper into his bones.
Mirmulnir waits… and he prays.
Sebastien traded one mountain for another as he drifted awake, blinking blearily as his eyes adjusted to the dim early morning light as it crept into his tent. One of the few benefits of climbing the mountain was that the mornings came early and with them, some of the most spectacular sunrises that Sebastien had ever seen in his life. The sense of euphoria that came with literally rising with the sun was near intoxicating. Before he could begin dressing and getting breakfast ready for when his housecarl finally rose in another hour or so, however, a noise came from just outside of the tent.
The Breton froze instantly as the sound of something huge shuffled just outside the flimsy, canvas walls of his shelter. From the sound of it, it was much larger than the Ice Wraiths they had faced the day prior. As whatever was outside the tent moved closer to the center of the camp, it moved in front of the rising sun, casting its shadow onto the walls of the tent and allowing Sebastien to finally get a good idea of just what was standing outside the shelter.
The shadow made an already large creature appear even larger, yet amidst the black silhouette, its form could still be made out. It was a burly and broad chested creature, humanoid in shape unlike the serpent-like Ice Wraiths. Its body was hunched over, and it shuffled across the snow-covered ground on its short and thick hindlegs, dragged forward by its knuckles at the end of its long and wiry arms. By its distinct shadow alone, Sebastien was able to discern just what kind of beast he was dealing with.
Damn it all, it's a troll.
Of the many, many, many beasts and monsters that the Bretons were forced to share High Rock with, the various species of trolls – while far from being the most dangerous – were still a very dangerous adversary despite their dull-wittedness. Aside from their prodigious strength, trolls possessed an incredible healing factor, one that saw what should have been mortal wounds healed in mere seconds depending on the species. In High Rock, trolls were a favored target of questing knights looking to prove their mettle… just as questing knights were a favored prey of trolls in the all too often case that the greenhorn knight in question didn't know how what weapon was best used against these three-eyed brutes.
Luckily for him, Sebastien was far from a greenhorn.
Moving with cat-like stealth, Sebastien crawled as quietly as he could towards the tent flap and pulled it away. To his relief, the troll wasn't directly facing him, allowing him to get a good look at it. The troll in front of him was far different than the river trolls that hid in their shallow caves along the Bjoulsae. It was burlier than those trolls, and its skin was a mottled grey rather than covered in silvery blue scales. Its fur was as white as the snow surrounding it, not dark and matted with algae. Hunched over as it was, it was likely only a head shorter than himself, though Sebastien knew that if it stood up straight, it'd be a head taller as well. With it mere feet from him, Sebastien had to fight the urge to gag from the creature's noxious odor, a blend of rancid meat and feces.
The troll was hunched over the dying fire, its three beetle-black eyes blinking dully beneath its bony brow at the smoldering embers. Sebastien could only guess that the larger fire had been what had attracted it to their camp, or more likely, the lingering scent of their evening supper. Either way, the troll reached out a gnarled hand with three sausage-like fingers close to the ashes and picked up a stone. It held up the rock to its brutish face, blinked stupidly at it… and then promptly shoved the stone into its protruding mouth stuffed with misshapen teeth.
Sebastien stared blankly at the troll for a brief moment. Well… at least it's as stupid as the ones from High Rock, he thought to himself, readying his fireball spell, only to barely hold back a gasp as there came a sharp 'crunch' from within the troll's jaws and it swallowed thickly, having crushed the stone between its teeth. Oh, gods damn you, Skyrim, Sebastien thought, cursing the land and its monstrous fauna.
Understanding that he had no time to put his armor on, as well as the fact that getting close to a troll was a poor idea even under the most favorable of circumstances, Sebastien held his hand aloft and resummoned the fireball. He aimed it for the troll's face, hoping to blind it and perhaps lead it to falling off the cliffside when it suddenly turned its head. Sebastien instantly fell back, concerned that the troll might have either heard or smelt him or his magic. But no, it was even worse than that.
From just behind the tent flap, Sebastien watched as the troll turned away from the fire… and towards Lydia's tent. Straining his ears, Sebastien could just barely make out over the mountain breeze and the troll's heavy breathing, the sound of his housecarl stirring from sleep. DAMN IT! Sebastien panicked, realizing that Lydia was in serious danger. He had to get the troll away from her tent.
Rather than striking the troll, Sebastien flicked his wrist, and the fireball was sent flying into the smoldering fire pit, bringing it back to life. The troll let out a confused hoot at the sound and turned away from Lydia's tent. Approaching the roaring fire, the troll hovered over the crackling flames in confusion. Sebastien patiently waited as the troll leaned over the fire and then struck. Drawing from his well of magicka, Sebastien raised the fire, turning it into a roaring pillar of flame that engulfed the troll's head.
As the troll let out an excruciating howl, Sebastien burst form his tent, bound-lance in hand. The troll turned toward him, its thuggish face a ruined mess of bubbling skin and singed hair. It let out a roar that shook snow from the mountain side and charged him, shockingly fast for its size and ungainly proportions. Sebastien danced back away with ease and attempted to pierce the beast with his daedric lance, only to gasp as his foot slipped on the ice. His bound weapon merely grazed the troll's side, just as Lydia burst from her tent, still in her night clothes, sword drawn.
"My thane!" she exclaimed, before catching sight of the troll. "What the-!"
"Troll, housecarl!" Sebastien shouted, standing up as the troll rose to its full height with a challenging bellow, long arms outstretched.
Before he could pierce it with the lance however, the troll charged Lydia, clambering forward on all fours in a bestial avalanche. His housecarl just barely managed to dodge out of the way, her sword lashing out across the beast's shoulder as it collided with the rocky wall of the mountain, sending snow tumbling down its head.
The gash Lydia left on the troll's shoulder sent spats of steaming crimson blood onto the snow, but the wound barely fazed the creature. Already, the beast's wound was knitting itself shut, muscle and flesh entwining as it stood back up and shook its arm. It let out another pained bellow as Sebastien flung a bolt of fire at its chest, singing it in a way it could not heal from.
Still, the missile did little but further enrage the troll as it slammed its heavy hands on the ground in a rage. The troll stood between them, started from the attack by this new enemy, huffing and growling in anger and confusion. Sebastien took quick advantage of its confusion.
What had been a simple bolt of fire changed as he redirected his magic. The flames were wrapped around his left arm like a serpent and extended forward in one long unbroken whip of molten magic, like the writhing tentacle of some oceanic horror. The flame whip lashed forward, striking the troll across its face and chest as it howled in pain from the heat.
Then, with no warning, it charged once more, focused entirely on the source of the hated fire. Another strike of the flaming tendril stopped the troll in its tracks however, sending the beast screeching in pain as the burning welts spread across its chest and shoulders. Each crack of the whip stirred the troll into greater heights of frenzy, jumping, and snarling, and howling as the burns spread.
Lydia took the opportunity to strike during its latest tantrum. The housecarl charged the troll as it beat its fists against his ruined chest and rammed the tip of her sword mightily through the back of its head. There was a sick and visceral 'crunch' as the gleaming tip of her blade bursts through one of the troll's eyes, dripping steaming red onto the snow below.
The troll's latest howl was interrupted with a rattling gurgle as sharpened steel bursts from one of its eyes. Lydia's sword was buried to the hilt in the troll's brain, what surely would have been a mortal wound… on any other creature. On a troll, however, it only served to make it angrier. What should have been the death blow barely fazed the troll as it continued fighting, regardless of its destroyed brain. Heart's still beating, Sebastien thought, clutching his bound-lance tight. That's all it needs.
Before Lydia could remove her weapon from its livid sheath, the troll had turned on her, shaggy arms swinging heavily. Sebastien's heart froze in his chest as his housecarl was knocked aside like a rag doll by the beast, her body crashing into the mountainside before falling to the snowy ground.
She wasn't moving…
Utter fury overcame Sebastien as the troll let out another bellow and bared down on the Nord's limp form. It raised great shaggy arms over its head, ready to bring them down and crush the life from his housecarl. In his dreamer's eye, Sebastien witnessed her death, watched as those great claws cave her skull in, smash her body to pieces, and bleed her life out on to the snow. He saw himself carrying her broken body back to Whiterun, watched the grief, and scorn, and utter hatred of those who knew and loved her bare witness to another of his failures. He saw not just Lydia, but others, the corpses of friends and loved ones who he had failed in the past. Emile, Amia, Kiram, Ri'Sha, Caenlem, Jehan…
Sebastien saw death approach one more friend and he acted. A moment of pure instinct, destruction and creation, hate and love, despair and hope all melded into one singular forceful Word.
"FUS!"
The Thu'um erupted from his throat with the force of a thunderclap. It roared through the air as a solid, pulsing wave of raw force, pushing creatia away in its wake before slamming into the troll just as it was about to bring its fists down on Lydia's body. The troll was knocked off its feet, its ungainly body crashing into the rocky mountainside once more.
Sebastien gave it no chance to recover this time, however, and before the troll could try and right itself, he was upon it. With the bound-lance firmly in his grasp, Sebastien planted his foot upon the troll's torso and buried the molten tip of the spear deep into the beast's torso, piercing its heart instantly as the troll let out a gurgling death rattle. He didn't stop there, however, and willed as much magicka as he could into the flaming lance and from it, the immaterial fire spread. The starving flames consumed all they could, spreading from the troll's heart and devouring fat, and muscle, and skin, leaving nothing but steaming white bones behind.
He did this until at last, there was nothing but a bleached skeleton left behind, all flesh picked clean and neatly, consumed by the daedric fire. Panting with exertion, and covered in a cold sweat made colder by the frigid mountain air, Sebastien dismissed the bound lance back to Oblivion, to the relief of the atronach whose animus was used to make it. He stared at the troll's remains for a moment longer, still feeling the echo of Fus on his lips and in his chest, until movement from just off to the side caught his eye.
Sebastien turned… and froze. Lydia! Leaving the troll's skeleton behind, Sebastien rushed to his housecarl's side and pressed two fingers against her neck. After a breathless moment, he felt a pulse and breathed a sigh of relief. It was faint, but it was there. Sebastien immediately stood and, moving as fast as he could in foot wraps on ice, ran for his tent. Inside, he rummaged through the collection of bags and pouches, tossing them aside in his frantic search, until at last, he found what he was looking for. A small, water-tight satchel that clinked when moved. Opening the bag up, Sebastien instantly seized a small bottle with a red ribbon wrapped around its neck and ran back outside into the cold.
Kneeling down beside his housecarl, Sebastien gently lifted her head up. "Come now, Lydia," he muttered, tearing the cork out from the bottle. "You can't die on me now, not when we're almost there." He pressed the rim of the bottle to Lydia's lips and helped her down the restorative potion within until it was all gone.
"-dia? Lydia…" Lydia felt as though she was being dragged from beneath the dark waves of a deep ocean, sounds and light growing louder and clearer as she was violently pulled from beneath the oppressive and crushing waters. It was pitch black at first and Lydia's felt a brief flare of panic in her chest. Where did the light go? She thought, before realizing that she simply had her eyes closed. She tried opening them, but it took far more effort and will than almost any other task she performed before, like her eyelids were being held down with lead weights.
At last, she was able to muster the strength to open her eyes, only to immediately feel the urge to close them again with a wince as even the dim sunlight atop the mountain was too bright for her. She resisted however, and blearily blinked as her eyes adjusted to the light. Her vision was blurred, everything around her appeared distorted like it was under water. She could just barely make out a figure hovering above her, dark with two bright green eyes that seemed to glow in the shadows and a pair of pointed ears. For one very bizarre moment, Lydia thought that some great black cat had perched itself atop her chest, but no. Her vision cleared and she soon realized that she wasn't looking at the eyes and ears of a cat, but the near-elvish face of Sebastien Ciero.
"M-my thane?" The housecarl mumbled and grimaced, blearily blinking at the pallid sky as Sebastien let out a near-hysterical laugh in his relief. The fog over her mind was beginning to clear as Lydia struggled to get her thoughts in order. "The troll, is it-wha!?"
Lydia's question quickly ended in a startled squawk as Sebastien's hand snapped forward and forcibly held her eyelid open. "No dilation of the pupils," The Breton muttered, examining Lydia's eyes as holding she scrambled and blustered below him.
"My thane, what are y-" she began as Sebastien retracted his hand, only for him to hold the other hovering over her face, three spindly fingers fully extended.
"How many fingers do you, Lydia?" he asked clinically.
"What? I don'-"
"Answer the question, housecarl!" Her thane's voice was sharp and brokered no arguments.
"I- er, three?" Lydia managed, which made Sebastien relax a little, but only just.
"Correct, now," Sebastien retracted two fingers until only his index finger was left fully extended. "Please try and follow my finger."
Lydia did so for only a moment, following along as Sebastien gently traced his finger through the air before letting out a frustrated groan. "My thane! Enough, please," she said, firmly grasping him by the forearm and shoving his hand out of her face. "What are you even doing?" she asked, rubbing her head with a wince.
"Checking for a concussion, Lydia," the Breton said as she tried to stand on wobbly knees. "Healing potions can accomplish a good deal, but the mind is far more complex organ and one that can be quite difficult to repair once damaged."
After a few false starts in which Sebastien had to help the Nord from falling back down on her rear, Lydia at last managed to regain her balance. Her eyes fell on the bleached skeletal remains of the troll, and she gasped. "Shor's bones." A Frost troll… and he actually managed to kill it!
"No, just those of a troll," Sebastien wryly remarked.
Lydia sent him a look before kneeling before the charred remains of the troll, steam still rising along with the nauseating scent of burning rancid flesh. Three empty eye sockets stared back at her, beneath a bony brow and two protruding horns, partially marred from where her sword had pierced it. A similar skull hung in one of Dragonreach's trophy rooms, another frost troll, killed by Jarl Balgruuf's father, Valmir. A legendary battle as she was told by her father, who had been a young man when Valmir brought the troll's skull back to the palace after a hunt near the border alongside the Pale.
Reaching forward, Lydia wrapped her hands around the troll's skull and snapped it off the spine with a sharp 'crack!' She held the weighty skull in her hands and carefully pried her sword from its bony sheath, before turning and presenting it to her thane. "A worthy prize," Lydia said, passing the skull into the Breton's hands. "Show that off and even the traditionalists in the east will have to respect you."
Truthfully, if Sebastien wasn't already a thane, killing a frost troll would have earned him membership in a number of clans throughout Skyrim. A rare reward for outsiders, even in the present day. Especially since he practically did it single-handedly, she thought with a brief pang of shame. She thought she might have hidden her self-scolding well from her thane, so it came as a surprise when Sebastien placed a gentle hand on her shoulder.
"Don't be too hard on yourself, housecarl," Sebastien said kindly. "We were caught unaware. It's fortunate that we were able to escape largely unscathed, let alone kill it at all."
"I-! How did you..?" Lydia asked, only for Sebastien to chuckle softly.
"It's all in the eyes, housecarl," he said, gesturing toward his own. "Remind me to teach you how to read them sometime." He held up the troll skull and examined it idly. "Likely it only recently settled here, or else someone surely would have warned us." Tucking it under his arms, her thane gestured to the camp. "Come along, Lydia. Let's get everything packed away and start moving again, before you're forced to drag a frozen statue before the Greybeards and call it Dragonborn."
The image immediately brought a smile to Lydia's face, and she quickly went to work helping her thane put the camp away. All while the sun rose bright and shining on their third and final day climbing the Seven-thousand steps.
Though the sky was clear that final day, it had dawned so cold that Sebastien felt his breath freeze before it could even leave his mouth. The fur-lined hood he found in Bleak Falls all those weeks ago was wrapped tight around his head, alongside a strip of thick woolen fabric wrapped around his lower face. Focusing, he willed magicka into his fingers and toes, arms and feet, trying to ward off frostbite and keep all parts of himself before leaving this damned mountain.
They encountered no other travelers this day, and they spoke little as they ascended. With the air as cold as it was, he didn't dare more than a word or two lest he need to inhale too deeply. The Alik'r could be cold at night, the Jeralls he had thought too were cold as could be, but truly, this cursed spire was the coldest that Sebastien had ever been. I truly believe that its sacred to Sheor, for this mountain can certainly go to the devil as far as I'm concerned.
The three-day slog up the mountain wore away at him. Working his way sluggishly through ankle-deep snow. Each step was a mechanical precession, spurred on by its own momentum than any real conscious thought on his part. Any hopes of counting the steps had long faded from his mind. There was only the climb and the vague promise of High Hrothgar at is end.
For all that, though, it was undeniably beautiful. Skyrim was laid out below them, like a vast painting, towns and lakes and forests were smudges of greys, blues, and greens, with ribbons of rivers connecting them. It was a little shocking, Sebastien realized suddenly, just how much higher than all of the other mountains in Skyrim the Throat of the World truly was. It's a difference of breed, I suppose, rather than degree. Truly, the Throat of the World had to be one of a kind.
At last, they came across some type of broad shelf alongside the mountain, wide enough for thirty or forty to wake abreast. Ahead, through the glare of sunlight against the snow, the rocks had a strange regularity-
Sebastien rubbed his eyes. No. Rock that wall may be, but it had been built. As they gained a bit of height, he realized just what they were looking at. High Hrothgar at last.
It might as well have grown out of the mountain, the way it sat upon the slope. Sebastien could just barely make out the individual bricks that made up the monastery, but the many centuries had long worn them away until they were practically indistinguishable, just solid walls of stone.
Lydia let out a low, tuneless whistle. "Wow. I didn't think it would be so…"
"It looks like a fortress," Sebastien observed, voicing the thought as it came to him. It brought to mind the famous Skyspire keep of Betony, carved from the very cliffs themselves by the Bretons during the reign of Reman the II. Skyspire had been built with Betony itself serving as its first and greatest defense and clearly that same thought process had gone into the construction of High Hrothgar. You could throw a thousand storms at it, and I doubt it would even notice.
Another of the stone shrines lay off to one side, though this one is further decorated with a statue. The statue depicted a man more Nord than any Nord Sebastien had yet encountered in Skyrim. His face was stoic and severe, covered in part by a beard long enough to be twice wrapped around his heavy belt. His head was crowned with a helmet with curled goat horns that were longer than his arms. His hands were folded atop one another, resting on the pommel of a great sword that pierced a writhing serpent.
Like before, the shrine had a tablet inscribed into its base, though the inscription was one written in common Cyrodiilic.
Emblem IX
For Years all Silent, the Greybeards spoke one Name
Tiber Septim, stripling then, was Summoned to Hrothgar
They blessed and Named him Dovahkiin.
Sebastien studied that last word. Dovahkiin. He sighed. "Dragonborn." He gestured, and a mound of snow splashed up against the tablet, obscuring the word. "So now am I to be held up against Hjalti Early-Beard as well? Hmph, joyous."
Lydia laughed. "Don't tell me you've got a problem with Talos now? We're in Stormcloak territory; those are fighting words."
"A god to them, and perhaps to you, housecarl, but not such to me and mine." Sebastien buried his hand into his furs, glaring slightly at the statue. "St. Hjalti, he is called. Patron of conquerors. It was a title given begrudgingly, and only to appease the Cyrods and Nords. No mortal, no matter how great, could be Oriel's equal." Truthfully, Hjalti wasn't particularly popular in High Rock. The Bretons had long memories, and many remembered the betrayal of the Nords at Sancre-Tor, how High Rock's allies had turned against her when Tiber appeared and cheered as he sold the Bretons to the slave-houses of Resdayn. The only real reason the kingdoms didn't prolong their war against Cuhlecain and later Tiber was because at that point, they were so sick of the Interregnum, that they just wanted someone to be emperor and put an end to the nonsense.
A shame that it had to be after Emeric had passed. Sebastien glanced at the statue and back at High Hrothgar. Hmm, so this is where the Non-Saint summoned him. Never mentioned any Greybeards in the scriptures. For whatever reason, Sebastien felt an almost instantaneous dislike of both the statue and the man it depicted. Perhaps it had to do with the thought of adding Hjalti's rather dubious legacy to his own sordid past. Either way, Sebastien found that he cared very little for this statue.
"Whatever his accomplishments, or how he might be perceived by the Empire, Tiber Septim is not a man I want to emulate."
"I don't know, there's worse things than being mentioned alongside him." Lydia patted him on the back. "Come on, hopefully, it'll be warmer inside."
A tenth and final plaque rested at the foot of monastery, flanked on either side by stone stairs and sitting above a great weathered chest. The last plaque was nine lines, arranged three by three. One column was in Cyrodiilic, one in that ancient Nord tongue, and the last in what Sebastien recognized as the Dragon language. He focused on the words in the Cyrod column, not letting his gaze stray to the three-clawed-marks on the other.
Emblem X
The Voice is Worship
Follow the inner Path
Speak only in True Need
"Thu'um is worship." He liked that. "And I suppose killing dragons is True Need."
"That's what we're here for, my thane." Lydia agreed.
Sebastien chuckled. "You're not wrong." Killing even a single dragon, let alone a veteran like Mirmulnir, had pushed him to the brink of exhaustion. He let his gaze finally drift to the great door above and before them. Behind them await the Greybeards. "That's why I'm here, isn't it? To learn? I was barely strong enough to keep a single person alive then, and now I am to save all of Skyrim?" He nodded, mostly to himself. "And here I am."
He took his steps slowly, a strange hesitance wrapped around his heart.
He stepped on the landing. The door lay in front of him, silent and unyielding. Like the grave. And past that… He hesitantly raised his hand to open his, before turning it to face his palm. And the black rose that Marked it.
Is this it? He wondered. Is this what I've been waiting for all these years? Is this how Absolution is found? He would have to confront it. What I am. "If I do this, if I learn from them, there will be no going back. I'll be Dragonborn, now and forever." Had all roads led to this place? High Rock, Hammerfell, Cyrodiil, Skyrim? Had ever victory and failure, every death and loss, all the pain and fear… had it all been leading him here? Or were there still many more miles to travel before he slept?
"You're Dragonborn either way, my thane," Lydia acknowledged thoughtfully. "This… this is just learning what that means." A hand fell on his shoulder. "This is a great honor, my thane." She was smiling at him and Sebastien found himself unspeakably grateful for her presence. "I'm proud to be here with you."
He reached up and clapped her on the shoulder, feeling the shape of her armor under her thick cloak. "Thank you for everything, Lydia."
Sebastien turned to face the door. Bowing his head and closing his eyes, he murmured a small prayer. "Bien-aimé Oriel, dieu des dieux et de tout ce qui EST. Je remets mon destin entre tes mains." He lay Marked hand on the door, to let sins open the path to redemption and pushed.
The door swung inwards, a fluttering billow of snow heralding his arrival. Beyond lay a stone hall, plain and unadorned, sitting bathed in the sullen half-light of dimly lit braziers. Five figures in grey robes stood in a rough circle, all facing him.
Sebastien stepped over the threshold, and bowed as low as his tired bones would allow. "My name is Sebastien Ciero… and I am the Dragonborn." He waited but they said nothing. Of course they didn't. They were all wearing gags, thick and as grey as the bears they were pressed against. He raised his head, and noticed that the one in the center had taken a single step forward. He looked into the old man's startling blue eyes. "I am not a Nord, and I am not of Skyrim, but I am here all the same."
The Greybeard nodded, once. He waved a hand, and the great doors inched shut with an echoing slam. Sebastien flinched once at the sound, eyes closing for just a moment and when he opened them, the old man was not five feet away.
He raised his hand, and undid the gag wrapped around his mouth. Sebastien braced by instinct, awaiting… anything truly.
And at last, the Greybeard spoke.
"I am Arngeir, a follower of the Way of the Voice. I speak for the Greybeards. Be welcome, Dragonborn." He turned to Lydia, and bowed slightly to Lydia. "Be welcome, Shield-Thane of the Dragonborn." He bowed to Sebastien once more. "Let us begin."
"Bien-aimé Oriel, dieu des dieux et de tout ce qui EST. Je remets mon destin entre tes mains." Translation: "Beloved Oriel, god of gods and all that IS. I place my fate in your hands." Language: Modern Bretic.
St. Hjalti: Hjalti Early-Beard, a warrior youth from the island kingdom of Alcaire, known to the Nords as Talos of Atmora, and to the Cyrods as Emperor Tiber Septim. While Cyrodiil and Skyrim proclaimed his divinity following Tiber's death, the kingdoms and Church of High Rock renounced their claims. For restoring the Empire, Hjalti was given sainthood, though it was given at sword point from the Imperial Cult. Hjalti Early-Beard was anointed as the eighty-seventh saint in the Church of the Heavenly Court, patron of the Third Empire, of conquerors, and – as some whisper – of traitors and slavers. Though Alcaire may boast of their prodigal son, there is no evidence he ever returned to the island nation following his coronation as Emperor of Tamriel. Any favor Tiber Septim may have shown to High Rock was limited to having the heirs to the Ruby Throne be raised and trained among the kingdoms of Greater Bretony.
Non-Saints: Non-Saints, also referred to as 'Demiurges' and known as Shezzarines in Cyrodiil, are curious figures in the Orthodoxy of the Church of the Heavenly Court. They are considered beings of great but terrible power, and their existence inevitably leads to mighty and irreversible change and upheaval in the world. Both terms refer to the source of their power, Sheor, Devil and dead god of calamity and change. Their powers do not come from the Court of Heaven, so they are not thought of as saints, though their positions as agents of Sheor grants them a certain level of wary reverence. Famous among their number are the names of Hans the Fox, Pelinal Whitestrake, and Wulfharth Ash-King. Whatever form they take, or whatever change they bring, one thing is consistent among them. They are cursed beings, plagued with the harrowing Void-Touch of Sheor on their very souls. They live short, violent lives, often filled with madness and bloodshed.
AN: Hey there. Been a while. I took a break from this story, did quite a bit of rewrites, published a new story. But now I am back at it. I won't force myself to write one chapter a month any more as that was seriously affecting the quality of writing. But I am incredibly happy to be writing this fic again. One last thing, I've gotten a few private messages from people claiming they want to talk with me about creating art for this or other stories. I've learned that these are likely scammers trying to get me to pay for AI artwork. So, if you are a scammer and are reading this, would you kindly PISS OFF. In the unlikely case that anyone does want to create fanart of this, you don't need my permission and if I wanted to pay someone for art, I'd commission an artist I actually like to do it.
With that all said, it's nice to be back and I'll be writing the twelfth chapter of Broken Dragon real soon. Take care, folks. - Bones
