Chapter Eight

“I am master Arngeir. I speak for the Greybeards.” The speaker came closer, his wizened face finally coming into the light. “Tell me, dragonborn. Why are you here?”

Gaeolin frowned. “Master, you summoned me…”

“Perhaps, but that was quite some time ago.” Arngeir inspected him. “Had it merely been the initial eagerness of being called, you would have presented yourself much sooner. What stayed your travels? And more importantly, what was the final motivation to appear in our halls?”

“I… I wish to know what it means to be dragonborn, master.”

The monk looked past him, seeing the khajiit who sat near the wall. “We are here to guide you in that pursuit, as we have others of the dragon blood before you. But, your companion has the look of one concerned. Have you neglected something?”

Gaeolin looked behind him, scowling at being betrayed. “I also suffered… difficulties after I slayed Mirmulnir, and the drake near the lake.”

“He means to say that he’s nearly died twice because of this power.” Inigo crossed his arms. “Last time, not only did he run a fever for six hours, it almost started a forest fire.”

“Okay fine!” The elf hissed. “I need to learn how to control this ability before it kills me. Satisfied?”

“For now.” The cat smirked. He made his way back to the bench, absently whistling to himself while his friend reddened.

“But before we begin,” Gaeolin looked back to Arngeir, “there have been others before me?”

“You are not the first. There have been many of the dragon blood since Akatosh first bestowed this gift on mortal kind. Whether you are the only dragonborn of this age…” The old man finally looked him in the eyes. “That is not ours to know. You are the only one that has been revealed thus far. That is all I can say.”

Gaeolin felt a shiver of nervousness. “I’m ready to learn.”

Arngeir paced in front of him as he spoke. “You have shown that you are Dragonborn. You have the inborn gift. But do you have the discipline and temperament to follow the path laid out for you? That remains to be seen.” He paused. “Without training, you have already taken the first steps toward projecting your Voice into a Thu’um, a Shout. Now let us see if you are willing and able to learn. When you Shout, you speak in the language of dragons. Thus, your Dragon Blood gives you an inborn ability to learn Words of Power. All Shouts are made up of three Words of Power. As you master each Word, your Shout will become progressively stronger. However, as you’ve seen there can be danger in this knowledge. When you learn the word, there is no harm. The danger lies in the understanding. When you slay a dragon, you tap into its life force, its memories, to reveal the meaning of the Thu’um.” The old man tucked his hands into his robes for warmth. 

“Dragons do not die naturally. Only the defeat at the hands of a Dovahkiin, or dragonborn in the common tongue, will slay the drake. Therefore consider that you likely will absorb the knowledge of many centuries. To counter this, one must meditate on something to ground themselves. This focus prevents your mind from being overwhelmed by the dragon’s immense knowledge. It also allows the passing of the excess energies from the body. But, this we will discuss further along our lessons.” He gestured to one of his comrades who stood to the left of the room. “Master Einarth will now teach you ‘Ro,’ the second Word in Unrelenting Force. ‘Ro’ means ‘balance’ in the dragon tongue. Combine it with Fus — ‘Force’ — to focus your Thu’um more sharply.”

Einarth made his way forward, never looking up. When he spoke, it was quiet, thought the air seemed to tremble at the word. “Ro.”

The monastery shook, dust raining from the ceiling. The floor cracked, splitting into a formation of lines that resembled the script on the emblems he’d passed on the steps. A whispering sound filled his ears as a glow rose from the text. ‘Ro Bo Wah Fin Balaan Hahdrim.’ Gaeolin whispered subconsciously, somehow knowing in his heart, “Balance comes to the worthy mind…” The etching flared with fire, growing dark mere moments later.

Arngeir nodded. “You learn a new word like a master…. You truly do have the gift. But learning a word of power is only the first step.” He barely looked to his pupil, now staring into the fire that lit the hall. “You must unlock its meaning through constant practice in order to use it in a shout. At least,” he chuckled, “that is how the rest of us learn shouts. You have other methods, dragonborn. For your initiation, master Einarth will allow you to absorb his knowledge of ‘Ro.’ Now remember, when you accept it, try to let it flow in the back of your thoughts, don’t face it directly with your mind. This is how you will avoid the hardships you felt before.”

Einarth stood patiently, ancient eyes shining behind his hood. Gaeolin stood before him, closing his eyes while trying to focus. But on what? Silence slammed inside his head, his shoulders growing tense.

“Peace, child.” Arngeir whispered. “Don’t fear the experience. Let your mind find solace in a place of comfort.”

The wood elf let out his breath. He thought of the Rift, of aspens and deer. He could hear the sound of the waves as they lapped the shores of Lake Honrich. “I’m ready.”

The monk bowed. A rush of warmth bombarded Gaeolin’s chest, his bangs parting with the breeze. Tendrils of light sprung from Einarth to weave around him. Unlike with Mirmulnir, or with the dragon near Falkreath, this seemed serene. He could feel the word ring in his mind, it’s colors, meanings, and power unfolding. He smiled as the sensation waned. Einarth nodded, receding into his former place.

Arngeir roused him from his thoughts. “Now let us see how quickly you can master your new Thu’um. Use Unrelenting Force to strike the targets as they appear.”

A monk stepped forward. “Fiik Lo Sah!” His shout bore a ghostly fog, coalescing into an echo of himself. Gaeolin felt within, reaching for the words.

“Fus, Ro!” A wave of force battered the apparition into mere wisps of smoke. The vases and pottery sitting against the walls shattered, shards flying across the floor.

“Well done. Again…”

The monks repeated the test twice more. Each time, Gaeolin felt the Thu’um grow easier to call forth. By the end, Arngeir seemed pleased.

“Impressive. Your Thu’um is precise. You show great promise, Dragonborn. We will perform your next trial in the courtyard. Follow master Borri.” He motioned to a third monk, standing at the foot of the stairs. Borri turned in silence toward another set of great doors. Gaeolin followed closely, exhilarated by the knowledge he’d gained. Inigo stood, keeping far enough behind to avoid interrupting.

The wind still howled across the mountainside, tiny shards of ice battering them. The bosmer winced as a snowflake hit his eye. It was much colder now, or so it seemed in the shadow of the stone wall. He shivered, cursing the lack of warmer attire.

“We will now see how you learn a completely new shout.” Arngeir cried. His voice was almost lost amid the gale. “Master Borri will teach you ‘Wuld’, which means ‘whirlwind’.”

Borri looked to the snow bound earth. “Wuld…” This time, the snow began to melt, sizzling as the dragon script glowed from beneath. Gaeolin stared at the markings, hoping to feel enlightened.

But nothing came. No sensation, no sense of understanding. Only the wind fell on his ears. Arngeir watched him, seeming to know his thoughts.

“You must hear the word within yourself before you can project it into a Thu’um.”

Gaeolin refocused his attention. He glared at the flames, willing the markings to yield the knowledge. As if from afar, he heard in his mind, ‘Fod fin Sil los aan Wuld, Drem ni Kos.’ He mouthed to himself, “When the soul is a whirlwind, peace cannot be.”

It felt natural. The word was a part of him now, a piece of his soul. He looked to Borri with eyes alight in excitement.

“Prepare. Master Borri will now gift you with his knowledge of ‘Wuld’.”

The bosmer bowed his head, letting his mind come to ease as before. The power flowed from Borri like a spring breeze. This time, he felt the urge to travel, to cross distance. His body twitched with the sense of adventure.

Arngeir led them to a stone monument. “Now, we shall see if you have mastered the Shout. Master Wulfgar will demonstrate Whirlwind Sprint. Then it will be your turn.” He looked down a worn path in the snow. Borri stood there, next to a large wrought iron gate. “Master Borri…”

“Bex!” Borri’s voice caused the gates to snap open. Master Wulfgar faced into the wind, taking in his breath.

“Wuld Nah Kest!” He seemed to vanish, only a rush of power betraying his presence. Gaeolin hadn’t even the chance to blink. He looked past the gate, seeing Wulfgar kneeling at the edge of the cliff. He looked as though he’d expended no effort at all.

“That was amazing!” The elf exclaimed.

“Now, stand next to me.” Arngeir’s beard now looked like it was made of frost. “Master Borri will open the gate. Use your Whirlwind Sprint to pass through before it closes.”

Borri once more shouted. The iron swung apart. Gaeolin braced himself.

“Wuld!” His body sprung forward, the world rushing past him in a blur. He felt a bit sick, but did not release the power. He could see the gates closing. He barely made it through them, his cloak nearly getting caught as he skidded to a stop.

Inigo’s cheers could be heard from the group of monks, making him grin. Wulfgar, Borri, and Einarth dispersed, leaving only Master Arngeir behind waiting. Gaeolin wrapped his cloak tighter around him, standing before the man. “Master, what is next?”

Arngeir actually smiled at him. His aged face looked years younger with pride upon it. “Your mastery of a new Thu’um is… Astonishing. I’d heard the stories of the abilities of Dragonborn, but to see them for myself…”

Gaeolin shirked from the words. He may be glad to learn from Arngeir, but he did not feel praise was deserved. “I-I don’t know… How I do it. It just happens.”

“You were given this gift by the gods for a reason. It’s up to you to figure out how best to use it. You are now ready, for the last trial.” Arngeir led him to the out-cropping. Below sprawled the plains of Whiterun. They could see the Borgas Cliffs, the mountain range that shielded Hjaalmarch from view, and even solitude, far on the horizon. “Retrieve the horn of Urgen Windcaller, our founder, from his tomb. It lies in the marshes,” he pointed to the north west, “in the ancient fane of Ustengrav. Remain true to the way of the voice, and you will return.”

Gaeolin turned to him. “The Way of the Voice?”

Arngeir looked across the land as he explained. “The Voice was a gift from the goddess Kynareth, at the dawn of time. She gave mortals the ability to speak as dragons do.” Gaeolin bit back his skepticism at the truth behind divine intervention out of respect. “Although this gift has often been misused, the only true use of the voice is for the worship and glory of the gods. True mastery of the voice can only be achieved when your inner spirit is in harmony with your outward actions.” He turned back to his student. “In the contemplation of the sky, Kynareth’s domain, and the practice of the Voice, we strive to achieve this balance.”

Gaeolin felt a strange sense of guilt at this. “I… I’ll try to follow the Way of the Voice, Master.”

“That is commendable. But remember this, the Dragon Blood itself is a gift from Akatosh. Do not try to deny that gift. Your destiny requires you to use your Voice. Why else would Akatosh have bestowed the gift upon you?” He nodded to himself. “If you remember to use your Voice in service to the purpose of Akatosh, you will remain true to the way. Before you set out, I suggest you stay long enough to reflect on your lessons here. But for now, no more questions. All knowledge comes in time.” Arngeir bowed to him, speaking a parting phrase. “Lok ko, Zul Kosil.” ‘Sky above, Voice within.’

He made his way back inside, leaving Gaeolin with more questions than he’d had before their meeting. Inigo approached him, smiling in his cheerful manner. “The Greybeards have taught you well and you are a quick learner.” He laughed. “Now you are louder and faster than ever. Let us go get that horn, my friend.”

“Soon, Inigo. But first… I need to think. A lot has happened… A lot has changed.” He walked back to the pillars, kneeling down in the snow. Inigo watched, then joined him in silence.

A lot had changed… But in his heart, the khajiit knew it was just beginning.