I think I’ve mentioned how much I hate being cold…well let it be known that High Hrothgar is -very-cold; the peaks are whipped into a flurry by biting winds, the snow never melts and is more than a meter thick in some places. It is bitterly chill, and I completely understand why The Seven Thousand Steps is considered a pilgrimage point – pilgrimages are supposed to be long, uncomfortable and on some measure completely pointless. Or so I’ve always felt. So, huddled in skins, I made my way up the peak, stopping now and again to read the inscriptions upon the stones along the way.
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 out the sky and flood the land.
I had never heard this story before – it was Nord history, and while my people had our own memories from ancient times and doings in Skyrim, this was new to me. I mused over the capitalisation of the word “voice” but then I had yelled and made a skeleton fall to pieces. Blot out the sky…I shuddered and wrapped my fur-lined cloak round me more tightly.
There were more stones, and more inscriptions – at the time, they only filled with me with foreboding. If you want to know what they say, go walk the Stair and ponder the stones. It’s all I will say about it now, but every passage I read, the more I marvelled, and the more I despaired. There was that word again…Dovahkiin. I had no idea what sort of mystic babble I was about to be saddled with, but I was grimly determined to have no part in it. Ah me…as if I had a choice!
It wasn’t just steps and pilgrims however, up this high I was running into rather nasty creatures as well; at one point I found myself toe to toe with a troll, and it was only with a fair bit of ingenuity and dodging behind what cover I could find to try and stick it with enough arrows before it fell upon me that I managed to take it down. I cursed my luck and bound up my gashes and bruises the best I could – there was probably more of that trouble the higher I went!
Finally managing to fight my way up to the peak, I found the foreboding entry to High Hrothgar before me. As tempted as I was to check the chest at the bottom of the stairs for anything useful, I couldn’t bring myself to do it. I kept getting the feeling I was being watched, and I trusted my instincts too much to ignore it. Bracing myself, I opened the door and went inside.
The entire chamber had been carved into the mountain itself – black, brooding, polished stone. There was a sense of age here which rivalled the interior of the barrow, and that hardly comforted me. The only thing which kept me from turning on my heels was that the robed man striding toward me, old as he was, still lived and breathed. His beard was knotted, and his face was lined and thin as only an aesthetic’s face can be, but his back was straight as an arrow, and his eyes were a piercing, pale blue.
“Ah. Welcome. It is rare for us to get visitors in High Hrothgar, what brings you here?”
“I was told you called for me – well, I heard someone calling Dovahkiin and the others said you meant me but I rather doubt that,” I mumbled.
The Greybeard’s brows shot up on his forehead as he studied me more closely. ”So, the Dragonborn appears at this moment in the turning of the age.”
“I have no idea what you 0r anyone else is talking about, old man,” I replied somewhat tersely, feeling the blood rise in my cheeks. Again, I felt as if my whole world was shifting away beneath my feet, and I was just trying to hold on by my fingernails.
The old man raised a hand placatingly, but his eyes never left my face. ”We shall see, first you must demonstrate your gift. Show me a taste of your Voice. You need not fear, I can withstand it.”
My Voice? I was talking was I not? But now, I could hear the V in the word, and I shuddered. He wanted me to do what I had done before – the Shout. I closed my mouth firmly shut, or tried to – I was determined not to have anything to do with any of this, but whatever power was within me had other ideas.
More of the Greybeards were gathering, and I found myself surrounded my cloaked, silent figures. My cheeks burned, and I clenched my fists, but still, they stood there, waited there, silent and immovable as pillars.
I closed my eyes, and gathered myself, feeling the power build within me. I filled my lungs with air, and released it.
“FUS!”
Again my voice rang out like thunder. Again the air rippled and bent, and hit the man full force. I cried out in dismay as he staggered, but to my surprise, he stayed on his feet and bore it. And then, he smiled and nodded.
“Very good, your Thu’um is powerful and well developed.” He paused a moment, studying me again as he strode forward. ”Which is impressive, as you obviously has never used it before.”
“Only once,” I admitted.
The silent men standing round me turned and exchanged startled glances, and even the one before me looked surprised. ”Then you truly have a gift, and much skill. I am Arngeir, the eldest of the Greybeards. These are my brethen, who are still studying the Way of the Voice and have taken a vow of silence as it is literally unsafe for them to speak while they are still grasping their power. But you…you have learned in a day what it takes years for one of us to master.”
“I…I don’t…” I began weakly. Any protests I had were crumbling away; this really was happening. My whole life was changing, and there was nothing I seemed able to do to stop it.
“It will be made clear to you, or clearer than it is now,” Arngeir said quietly, clasping his hands in the sleeve of his cloak. ”The Dovahkiin, the Dragonborn, is one who commands the Voice, the language of the Dragons. The Voice is the power of the world – it can shape, it can destroy. It is more than a word – it is the understanding of the meaning within a word. The dragons used their Thu’um – the Dragon’s Shout – to bring forth flame, to slow time, to move as quick as thought. It is a great responsibility, and a great burden…and also a great gift.
“Why me?” I blurted out. ”Why do I have it? I’m not even a Nord? I’m not supposed to be here!”
“Why are you born? Why does the sun rise?” Arngeir asked mildly in that maddeningly calm mystic’s voice. ”It is useless to ask ‘why.” The fact of the matter is you have it. You have been chosen, and now you must learn how to control it. If you cannot, you will be at risk to all around you, and to yourself. This is why my brothers speak merely in whispers – their Thu’um is so strong their voices would tear you apart otherwise. But do not despair, Dragonborn, we will teach you what we know, if you are willing to learn.”
I sighed, feeling a wave of unreality washing over me – this was the last thing I wanted to do, but if what the old man said was true (and why would he lie?) whatever power I now possessed was as safe as giving a child a sword without teaching them what to do with it. I still didn’t like it, and I still refused to accept what I was being told, but now I was here, and if they had something to say, I felt I was fated to listen.
“All right,” I murmured softly. ”But I’ll tell you I’m still not happy with all this.”
Arngeir ignored my feeble protests and gestured to one of his fellow Greybeards. ”The Shout you have now is called Fus, which means to “Push”. It literally pushes away what is in your path. However it is only one of three words – the more words of the Shout you learn, the more powerful the effect. The second word of the Shout you now know is “Ro.”
Another of the Greybeards strode forward, and gave my a rather kindly glance. He closed his eyes and whispered softly under his breath – I could hear the “Ro” spoken, and I trembled as even in a whisper, I could feel the power coming from the man. He then gestured with his hand. I saw glowing runes appear upon the floor, in the same harsh hand as they had appeared on the wall in the tomb. As before, they seemed to call to me, and as before I was unable to resist the pull. The Word was inscribed in my mind now – lodged there as if it had been burned in with a brand. I couldn’t have forgotten it if I tried.
“Now, Brother Wulfgar will give you his understanding from his contemplations of Ro.”
I snorted, looking rather dubious as the old man silently stepped forward. ”His understanding? What is he going to d-”
Within moments, a breeze began to whip through the hall, bearing a startling similarity to the dragon’s soul I had taken in that day. Wulfgar raised his arms, and the breeze began to pull tendrils like smoke out of his chest, his arms, his eyes, his mouth. Before I could protest or cry out, the winds tore at my leathers and then surged into me, filling my mind with knowledge I didn’t understand at first, the very word Ro filling my mind. Again, I felt changed, as if I was holding something foreign within me that was not mine – like a vase or a scabbard. I shuddered, but managed to keep from fainting entirely.
“Now, Dragonborn, we will summon a construct for you to demonstrate your understanding of Fus Ro. Knock it down if you can.”
Another of the Greybeards stepped forward and bellowed out two words that made my ears ring. I didn’t understand what was said, but watched, astonished, as the air before me coalesced and formed a clone of the Greybeard who had Spoken. I gathered myself, taking in a deep breath, and again, the Shout sprang forth.
“FUS RO!”
This time the force of my Shout did more than stagger the construct before me – it literally blew it apart. I stared in shock, and after the echoes of my Shout faded, the hall was silent once more.
“Again,” Arngeir said quietly as he observed from the shadows.
Again the construct was brought forth, and again I Shouted. And it was easier this time, it almost felt…well, right.
“Again.”
The final time, I realised I had it. For a moment I felt a sense of pride – I had done it, and learned with ease. I was pleased with my work, and I looked at the Greybeards and beamed.
“Your Thu’um is precise,” Arngeir said as he strode forward and met my gaze with his own. ”Again, it has taken us years to learn such a Shout. That you have learned it in moments is…impressive. This is your wyrd, your fate. So you have been guided, and so you have come.”
I smiled wider, but then my smile faded as the weight of his words sank in. So, it was true then; I was Dovahkiin. I was Dragonborn. My fate was no longer my own, but was guided by something outside of myself – something which saw fit to bring me to Skyrim and dump me there, far from home.
A spark of rebellion, and of anger against the intangible rose up within me. Actually, that’s putting it mildly – I was furious. Furious with the idea that all my life had been put on this path for the ends of some power other than my own. If that was true, what was the point of anything? Why live at all?
If Arngeir saw any of this on my face – and I’m sure he did – he made no indication. Instead, he merely gestured toward the far doors across the hall. ”The first trial is complete. Your further training shall commence in the Courtyard, if you would meet us -”
“No.”
Silence again in the hall as my voice’s echo rang out a moment, then died. Arngeir turned to me, as did the other Greybeards. ”No?” Arngeir said, his hands clasped in his sleeves again.
“You’re telling me that everything I’ve done till now is not my own choice,” I said, nearly shaking with rage. ”Being born, being a thief, getting caught, serving time in prison after prison, being chained to a galley-oar as a rowing slave for a year, nearly getting executed, all of this, all of it, was by design?”
The Greybeards said nothing. Arngeir spoke with the measured voice of a father speaking to a tantruming child – which I suppose I was being at the time. ”We have spent a lifetime contemplating the structure of the world, how it moves, and how it goes on through the ages, Dragonborn. We all have choice, but in my meditations I have realised that all choices are in a circle – sooner or later, if you run from your path, you merely find yourself back upon it at some point. The universe itself is one great Design, and we are merely following upon the threads of the great Work.”
“Well I don’t believe that!” I replied hotly. ”And more to the point, I’ll prove it. Right now. I’m leaving!”
I knew I wasn’t going to get any protest out of these lot, and indeed, they did not react at all. Arngeir merely regarded me with the same impassive calm as before.
“As you wish, Bosmer,” he said. His brothers turned and departed to their meditations without further words, and feeling somewhat embarrassed by my own temper – yet too proud to apologise – I turned on my heel and headed for the door with Arngeir’s final words as an escort.
“I will tell you this, wanderer: your life may be part of grand design, or it may not. But heroes are not born. They are shaped from desperation, and from resolve. And none of those things come easily. When you are ready…we will be here.”
Wordlessly, I left the halls and stepped out into the biting cold. Seven Thousand Steps back down, I told myself I’d never never return to High Hrothgar. I wasn’t Dragonborn, and it wasn’t my fight, and it never would be. I was back to the first steps of finding coin and just getting on with life. Tomorrow I’d make a start on that, just being Dreema. Nothing more.
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