Chapter 13 - Pilgrimage, Part 2

The morning was still young when Hunfen and Lydia embarked on the ancient path of the Seven Thousand Steps, beneath a sky that promised clemency. The early light pierced timidly through the branches, barely revealing the path that wound along the mountainside, where stone steps had been placed at the steepest points. High Hrothgar, their destination, stood somewhere above them, hidden by the clouds, holding many secrets from ancient times. At this early hour, the path was still deserted. Nevertheless, behind them, the village of Ivarstead was slowly awakening, and the first pilgrims would soon follow.

A few hundred meters from the beginning of the path, a stone alcove stood at the edge of the trail, acting as a solemn guardian of the passage. It housed a large engraved tablet at the base of which various offerings—septims, flowers, and other items—had been placed. Hunfen, lifting his eyes to the text etched in the stone, read aloud: "Before the birth of men, the dragons ruled all Mundus. Their word was the Voice, and they spoke only for True Needs. For the Voice could blot the sky and flood the land."

The young Nord frowned, lost in thought. "It's strange, Lydia," he said after a moment. "The dragon at Helgen kept shouting. The one that attacked Whiterun too!"

"The dragons had disappeared since the Merethic Era," his guardian replied, bowing her head before the tablet. "We don't know why they've returned today, but things have likely changed after all this time."

Lydia, after a moment of silent contemplation, briefly knelt before the tablet, murmuring inaudible words. Hunfen, watching closely, awkwardly imitated her, clasping his hands with a certain reverence. "Should we leave an offering?" he asked, looking at the septims and flowers at the base of the tablet.

Lydia stood up, shaking her head. "Not here. Pilgrims leave something at the highest tablet they reach."

"And we're going all the way to the last one?" Hunfen said, a hint of excitement in his voice.

"Yes, to High Hrothgar. But remember, we're not really on a pilgrimage. We're answering the call of the Greybeards," Lydia explained, casting one last look at the tablet before resuming their ascent.

The path rose before them, arduous and steep, each step carved by centuries of history and countless feet. Hunfen began to feel the weight of the altitude on his lungs, making each breath a bit harder, each step a bit heavier. Lydia walked ahead with her steady and sure pace, setting the rhythm. Above them, the mountain's echo seemed to respond to the cadence of their progress, a natural chorus accompanying their climb. Behind, Ivarstead shrank until it became a mere sketch abandoned in their wake. On this path, only the mountain and their personal quest mattered.

They reached the second engraved tablet at a height where the fresh wind already carried the scent of snow. Hunfen, his cheeks reddened by the cold, read aloud: "Men were born and spread over the face of Mundus. The dragons presided over the crawling masses. Men were weak then, and had no Voice."

Lydia had stopped again, performing the ritual once more before contemplating the tablet in meditative silence. Lost in thought, the child shivered, both from the increasingly biting breeze and the words engraved in the stone. The dragons had dominated men in ancient times. Was that why they attacked upon their return, to regain their power over mortals? "Men were weak." These words resonated strangely within him. He was just a child, not a warrior or a sage, much less a master of the Voice like these dragons; a weakling among the weak. Separated from his father, his former life swept away with him, Hunfen continually felt this relentless vulnerability, like an inseparable shadow. Yet, looking at Lydia, whose determination had led them this far, he wondered if men had their own strength, different from that of dragons. Perhaps not a strength that could tear the sky or flood the earth, but a strength of the heart, one that drove them to protect those they loved, to challenge gigantic beasts with nothing but courage and a sword. He tightened his cloak around him, imagining the first men, small and vulnerable under the dragons' gaze, and felt connected to them by the invisible thread of time. "Maybe I can be strong too," he murmured to himself, a whisper carried away by the wind that continued to caress the ancient steps.

The vegetation thinned out, giving way to rocky outcrops and snowfields where only the cairns marking the way allowed them to keep their feet on the relative safety of the path. The progress was becoming uncertain, sometimes even confusing. The third tablet appeared as the path suddenly turned, setting a deadly trap for the unwary traveler. "The fledgling spirits of Men were strong in Old Times, unafraid to war with Dragons and their Voices. But the Dragons only shouted them down and broke their hearts"

The moment of contemplation gave Lydia a chance to catch her breath. The ascent, already arduous for anyone making the pilgrimage alone, became even more challenging with a child whose steps needed guiding. She observed the mountain, unperturbed by their labor. For his part, Hunfen, absorbed by the engraved words, felt growing indignation. "Shouted down" and "broke their hearts" awakened a deep sense of injustice that revived an unpleasant memory. He recalled the tall, slender figure of a High Elf wrapped in a great black cloak that faintly reflected the sunlight: a Thalmor Justiciar, radiating cold and haughty elegance. He had stopped a traveler, a simple man dressed in the worn attire of local farmers. The tension was palpable, even from a distance, as the High Elf scrutinized the poor man, his piercing eyes seeming to delve into his soul. The accusation of heresy had fallen, dry and unappealable. Hunfen, hidden behind a rock formation at his father's urgent request, had watched the scene, heart pounding. Olfand had given him a meaningful look, a mix of fear and determination to remain invisible to the tyrannical authority. The traveler, kneeling, begged for the Justiciar's mercy, which, in his cold and detached tone, the Elf dismissed every plea. The injustice of the scene had struck the child full force. He remembered feeling a boiling anger mixed with total helplessness. His father had quickly led him away, murmuring soothing words but bearing a sad reality: they could do nothing.

Lydia, sensing the weight of the silence stretching, gently placed her hand on Hunfen's shoulder, softly pulling him from his dark thoughts. "We still have a long way to go," she said in a gentle but firm voice, encouraging the young Nord to detach from the tablet and his painful reflections. Hunfen nodded, his eyes leaving the engraved words, and together they resumed their ascent.

The path awaiting them after the third tablet proved even more challenging. The slope steepened, forcing Hunfen and Lydia to slow their pace, each step needing to be measured and sure to avoid a dangerous fall. Snow was now a constant presence, its thick layers masking the ground's irregularities and making their progress uncertain. As the path zigzagged through narrow passages flanked by high rock walls, they had to stop several times, catching their breath while scanning the mist for the next cairn. Occasionally, the path descended sharply before rising again, as if to test their resolve. More than once, Lydia had to assist Hunfen, the young Nord stumbling in the deep snow or on hidden stones beneath.

After what felt like an eternity, they finally reached the fourth tablet. The text etched in the stone seemed to wait for them, a message from the past meant to illuminate their path. "Kyne called on Paarthurnax, who pitied men. Together, they taught men to use the Voice. Then Dragon War raged, Dragon against Tongue."

Hunfen approached the tablet, curiosity shining in his eyes. Kyne was revered by all Nords as the goddess of the storm, mother of all mortals, and patron of warriors. She was also recognized by other peoples of Tamriel, but for some reason that escaped him, the Imperials called her Kynareth. In the stories his father told him by the fire, Kyne was often described as the one who had given the breath of life to man and had a deep connection with nature and the elements. The name Paarthurnax, however, was entirely unknown to him. It instinctively inspired in the boy an impression of power and cruel authority, contradictory to the tablet's text. Who was he? A forgotten hero? A powerful warrior? A sage? How could he have been Kyne's instrument? The very idea that the Voice might be a gift from the goddess to mortals intrigued and troubled him. The shout he had uttered, driven by fear and despair, which had caused Grelod's death, was it truly a sacred gift? Perhaps, he thought with a glimmer of hope mixed with fear, his Voice was not merely a cry of terror but the key to a greater strength?

Resuming their ascent, Hunfen and Lydia moved cautiously along the winding path, the mountain's silence only broken by the wind whistling between the stones and the crunch of snow under their feet. The path narrowed further, forcing them to proceed in single file. Lydia, in the lead, scanned the surroundings, her protector's instincts keener than ever. Along the way, the child noticed animal bones becoming increasingly numerous. What could have caused such carnage? A pack of hungry wolves? Worse? His imagination ran wild, envisioning all sorts of fierce beasts, dreadful creatures. Could a dragon be lurking there?

Suddenly, a low growl broke the silence, startling Hunfen. Emerging from behind a rock sheltering a recess in the mountain's wall, the figure of a frost troll appeared, fixing them with its three bulbous eyes. Its shaggy fur, whose whiteness allowed it to blend with the snowy environment, was still stained with the blood of its last meal. Lydia reacted immediately, drawing her sword and positioning herself in front of the child to protect him. "Stay behind me!" she ordered firmly.

Paralyzed by fear, Hunfen struggled to recall what he knew about trolls. They dreaded fire! Perhaps his flames could be useful? With surprising agility for its size, the creature advanced toward them, roaring. Fast! Trolls were too fast to be outrun. Despite his fear, the young Nord extended a trembling hand forward and unleashed his magic. Flames burst from his palm, striking the troll head-on. With a furious roar, the creature charged.

Upon contact, Lydia struck heavily with her sword, letting out a cry that rivaled the troll's. The latter, howling in pain, swept the air with a rage-filled paw, hurling the warrior against a rock, leaving her dazed and injured. Hunfen, sensing the urgency of the situation, unleashed another volley of flames at the troll, trying to intensify the heat in hopes of driving the creature away. The monster, visibly affected by the fire, did not retreat; its rage seemed amplified by the pain.

Lydia, struggling to recover from the impact, managed to get up, leaning against the rock. She searched for her ward, her eyes filled with fierce determination despite the evident pain on her face. "Back off!" she shouted at him, before throwing herself into the battle again, sword in hand, despite her obvious injury.

Hunfen obeyed, his heart pounding. Again, the feeling of helplessness overwhelmed him, gripping his throat and stinging his eyes. He felt the limits of his magic approaching. Worse, Lydia didn't seem able to hold out much longer against the troll's brutality. As if to reinforce his fears, the creature raised a powerful arm toward the warrior, taking advantage of an opening in her guard.

"FUS!"

The shout left the child's mouth as suddenly as it had in Riften. The ensuing blast momentarily destabilized the troll, giving Lydia a chance to strike. Hunfen clutched his throat, feeling it burn with sharp pain. Gift of Kyne or not, the draconic power seemed to take a toll on the human body. Lydia, despite the agony that pierced each of her movements, continued to harass the creature with unwavering determination. The young Nord, gathering his last reserves of strength, cast another flame spell, his fingers trembling from exhaustion. The troll, enraged, managed to dodge the attack and, with a brutal backhand, sent Lydia crashing against the rocky wall once more.

Seeing Lydia injured and thrown to the ground with a brutality that echoed the cruelty of the dragon stories engraved on the tablets, Hunfen felt a spark of anger ignite within him. But it was not just the anger of a frightened child: it was something deeper, almost instinctive, like a distant echo of the Dragon Wars. That this troll, with its primitive rage, dared to attack him and his kin triggered in him a new ire, a strange, unknown, and powerful feeling.

The troll charged again, its bloodshot eyes fixed on the young Nord. Hunfen dodged just in time, moved less by fear than by an indescribable instinct. Gathering his energy, he faced the creature and shouted again: "FUS!" But this time, his shout was deliberate; it wasn't just a call for strength but a refusal to submit, a desire to stand firm despite the danger. The pain in his throat, flooding back, proved he was alive. The troll, unbalanced by the force of the shout, stumbled at the edge of the path and, with a scream, fell, tumbling down the mountainside until it disappeared into the snow mist.

As silence returned to the mountain, Hunfen stood frozen for a moment, breathing heavily, his throat sore, his heart filled with a mix of victory and a strange satisfaction that surpassed the relief of having survived. Lydia got up painfully and approached him, a brave smile stretching her lips despite the evident pain in each of her movements.

"You were lucky; I told you to back off," she said for form's sake, before adding, "Well done!" in a voice that tried to sound light. But Hunfen wasn't fooled: the bruises on his guardian's face were visibly swelling, and she kept a clenched hand on her left arm. She must be seriously hurt.

"You're injured," he noted, the concern piercing his voice despite the detachment he tried to maintain.

"It's nothing, just a few scratches. Frost trolls hit hard, but it takes more to bring down a Nord!" Lydia retorted with pride tinged with a touch of humor. Her determination seemed unshakable, but the young Nord could perceive that every move of his guardian was a battle against pain.

They resumed their ascent, Hunfen casting worried glances at the warrior regularly. It seemed to him that her pace had slowed. Beyond the troll's lair, they reached the next tablet. Lydia stopped there, letting her young ward read it.

"Man prevailed, shouting Alduin out of the world; Proving for all that their Voice too was strong; Although their sacrifices were many-fold"

Hunfen contemplated the tablet, his fingers brushing the runes engraved in the stone. The story of the Tongues fighting against Alduin with their Voice resonated within him in a new and profound way. He couldn't help but see in his own shout, uttered in desperation against the troll, the echo of those ancient Nords defying time and dragons. A spark of admiration lit up in his heart for these legendary heroes, but also a glimmer of personal pride. At that moment, in front of this tablet, he felt a connection with these mythical figures, as if he had, in his modest way, picked up the torch of their courage. The feeling of having been, too, a hero, even for a fleeting moment, warmed him amidst the icy expanse of the mountain.

Despite the wind, which climbed the mountain effortlessly, lifting fresh snow and sliding it through every opening in their clothes, the two travelers moved quickly. The path became less winding, and the reappearance of regular steps facilitated the ascent, which grew less steep. The sixth tablet appeared along the way, offering Hunfen a moment of respite in this forced march. Lydia couldn't be as badly injured as he had thought if she was setting such a brisk pace. Catching his breath, he read: "With roaring Tongues, the Sky-Children conquer; Founding the First Empire with Sword and Voice; Whilst the Dragons withdrew from this World"

But there was no more time for reflection. The warrior, having quickly performed the ritual, signaled Hunfen. "The sooner we arrive, the better!" she said, resuming the journey. The boy followed, surprised by this sudden urgency, his mind filled with questions to which the next tablet, reached quickly, offered no answers: he barely had time to absorb the words, "The Tongues at Red Mountain went away humbled; Jurgen Windcaller began His Seven Year Meditation; To understand how Strong Voices could fail," before his guardian was already back on the move, her face tense.

The young Nord stifled a silent laugh, amused by the thought that the ancients might have been just as eager to finish writing these tablets as Lydia was to reach their destination. The engraved tales had become increasingly nebulous to him. What was the connection between Red Mountain and this story? All he knew of this mountain, the highest in Morrowind, was that its catastrophic eruption over a century ago had rendered most of the province uninhabitable, forcing the Dunmer into exile. However, the brisk pace imposed by Lydia left him little time to ponder these questions. He nevertheless cast a quick glance at the next tablet as they passed:

"Jurgen Windcaller chose silence and returned; The 17 disputants could not shout Him down; Jurgen the Calm built His home on the Throat of the World."

This sparked in him a vague memory of a legend in which the founder of the Greybeards, the first of the Tongues, advocated a peaceful path, in contrast with the other Tongues. Was that the essence of the story? Perhaps he would have the chance to learn more once they arrived.

At the turn of a bend, the silhouette of High Hrothgar finally came into view. To the side, the ninth tablet, surprisingly close to its predecessor, stood out markedly. Placed at the foot of an imposing statue of Tiber Septim, the first emperor of his line, who became the Ninth Divine Talos, the ensemble commanded respect. The effigy strongly reminded him of the one in Whiterun, like an echo of power and divinity crossing ages and lands. This time, Lydia paused, seeming to meditate before the grand statue, though it was clear she was mainly catching her breath. She valiantly tried to hide the pain inflicted by her injuries, but Hunfen, observant and worried, could clearly perceive her struggle against the pain. Despite his concerns, he tried not to show it and took the time to read the inscription: "For years all silent, the Greybeards spoke one name; Tiber Septim, stripling then, was summoned to Hrothgar; They blessed and named him Dovahkiin."

A wave of pride washed over the young Nord. The thought that he might share a destiny similar to Tiber Septim, called by the Greybeards and recognized as Dovahkiin, filled him with a sense of exaltation. It was as if the pages of history were turning to include him in their glorious narrative. However, this euphoria was tempered by Lydia's condition. Despite her stoicism, the signs of her suffering became increasingly evident. The sight of his guardian, so strong yet so vulnerable, stirred a deep anxiety within him.

The last steps to the foot of High Hrothgar seemed the longest. The setting sun illuminated the final engraved tablet, standing as the guardian of this sacred place. On it, an inscription seemed to resonate with particular force in the mountain's silence: "The Voice is worship. Follow the inner Way. Speak only in true need." Hunfen, breathless, absorbed the contemplation of these words, perhaps seeking answers to the turmoil within his heart.

A sudden noise tore him from his contemplation. Turning quickly, his heart skipped a beat upon seeing Lydia collapsed on the ground.

oOo

Perched high on Skyrim's most majestic mountain, High Hrothgar stood as a timeless monument, escaping the incessant tumult of mortal affairs. This millennia-old sanctuary, enveloped in the eternal white veil of snow, seemed to watch over the world in silence, its imposing stone architecture carved by the ages telling stories of forgotten wisdom. Around the monastery, the wind itself seemed to hold its breath, as if not to disturb the sacred peace of the place. In this space out of time, the Greybeards, guardians of the Art of the Voice, were in perfect harmony with the elements shaping Skyrim. Their deep and uninterrupted meditation united them with the mountain's whisper, the caress of the wind, and the silent dance of the snowflakes, creating a soothing tapestry of purity and retreat from the world's agitation. High Hrothgar was a haven of serenity, a reminder that even amidst the greatest storms, an immutable calm could be found.

The massive door, usually closed in respectful quiet, was unexpectedly thrown open with surprising violence, pushed back by a determined foot. Hunfen, his face streaked with tears and his breathing ragged, burst in with chaotic urgency. "Help! Someone!" he shouted, his words stumbling in frantic disorder. "My guardian! She… She's not well… A troll…" In his haste, he tripped over an ancient rug, sending a candelabrum crashing to the floor with a metallic clatter. Struggling to his feet, he collided with a rack of ancient weapons, scattering them with a resounding noise.

The Greybeards, torn from their meditation by this tumultuous entrance, exchanged looks of surprise and disbelief. Never had their retreat been disturbed in such a manner, especially not by a child in tears, whose panic seemed almost to profane the sacred calm of High Hrothgar. Hunfen, oblivious to the impact of his entrance, continued to stammer between sobs, "Please… help her… I… I can't…" His voice broke under the weight of exhaustion and terror. In a final desperate effort, he rushed towards one of the monks, but his legs, betrayed by fatigue and shock, gave way beneath him. He slipped on the cold stone floor and his head struck the base of a statue with a dull thud.

Silence returned almost instantly, only broken by the echoes of Hunfen's fall. The Greybeards, their initial shock passing, quickly approached to aid the unconscious child and his protector, their millennia-old wisdom suddenly put to the test by this eruption of chaos.