Chapter Twenty

The southern wing of High Hrothgar was silent. Shadows filled the halls, broken intermittently by burning fires. Arngeir knelt before one such brazier, the faint light from outside pouring through the glass to illuminate his weathered features.

His eyes were closed, his breath slowed in profound contemplation. The wind howled against the outside of the Temple. From afar he could hear the opening of the great doors. He opened his eyes, looking ahead, knowing before he even stood who it was. He saw Gaeolin through the dust that filled the air. 

“Dovahkiin, you have returned.” It was not a question, but rather of a confirmation. Gaeolin pulled the horn out of his bag offering it to the priest. “Ah! You have retrieved the Horn of Urgen Windcaller. You have now passed all the trials. Well done.” He took the horn gently, tucking it into his robes. “Come with me. It is time for us to formally recognize you as Dragonborn.” 

As they walked, he nodded to another of the Masters. Borri returned the gesture before silently disappearing down a set of stairs.

By the time they reached the vestibule, the rest of the greybeards had already gathered there. Arngeir stood at the Eastern corner of the diamond shaped pattern in the stone work. “You are ready to learn the final word of Unrelenting Force. ‘Dah’, which means push.”

Wulfgar stepped forward, his beard pressing into his chest as he spoke to the floor. “Dah.” the monastery began to rumble, the power of the priest’s voice imprinting the word into the ground. Inigo watched from the sidelines as Gaeolin studied the markings. Arngeir nodded in approval when the wood elf stood. 

“With all three words together, this shout is much more powerful. Use it wisely. Master Wulfgar will now gift you with his knowledge of ‘Dah’.”

Wulfgar bowed toward him, magics winding from his body in a fiery torrent. Gaeolin had to brace himself, as it seemed the sheer knowledge of the word was demonstrating its meaning through physical effort. Movement, commanding, insistence… It was a word of domination. As he absorbed it, he found himself realizing its significance to the Thu’um. Fus was merely the raw energy of it. Ro brought the power to a controllable level, a way to focus and direct the energy by will. Dah was the final factor, literally the ‘push’ to drive the shout against an enemy or obstacle with purpose and resolve. Gaeolin’s spine tingled as the simple thought of the Thu’um caused his blood to flare with ferocity. 

“Unrelenting force is formidable when used correctly.” Arngeir seemed to know his thoughts, adding as a warning. “Remember though, that just because one can use it as an instrument of war, does not mean it is the only meaning and application of it.” He ushered Gaeolin to the center of the room. “You have completed your training, Dragonborn. We would speak to you. Stand between us, and prepare yourself. Few can withstand the unbridled Voice of the Greybeards, but you are ready.” Gaeolin suddenly felt hesitant. What did he mean by that? He made his way slowly, unsure how he should prepare for what was in store.

The Greybeards spoke in unison, the ceiling raining dust upon them as their words threatened to topple the ancient monastery.  “Lingrah krosis saraan Strundu’ul, voth nid balaan klov praan nau. Naal thu’umu, mu ofan nii nu, Dovahkiin, naal suleyk do Kaan, naal suleyk do Shor, ahrk naal suleyk do Atmorasewuth.” The power of their voices brought him to his knees. The entire world must have been shaking. He struggled to his feet once again as they continued. “ Meyz nu Ysmir, Dovahsebrom. Dahmaan daar rok.”

As the deafening words settled into quiet, Gaeolin collapsed to the floor. The simple effort of standing had covered his brow in sweat. Inigo, it seemed, had given up on watching long ago. He hid in the archway to the left, his ears pinned back and his hands holding them down. Arngeir approached Gaeolin and helped him up. “Dovahkiin. You have tasted the voice of the Greybeards, and passed through unscathed. High Hrothgar is open to you.”

The elf teetered slightly, ears ringing. “What was that all about? Were you shouting at me?”

“Not shouting, but speaking. Those were the traditional words of greeting for a Dragonborn who has accepted our guidance. Our order has not uttered them since long ages past. The same words were used to greet the young Talos, when he came to High Hrothgar, before he became the Emperor Tiber Septim.”

“What did you actually say?” Gaeolin asked. “I only caught a few words.”

Inigo staggered forth. “What?” He shook his head, wobbling in lack of balance.

“Apologies,” Arngeir began, ignoring the Khajiit, “I forget that you are not yet as versed in the dragon tongue as we are. This is the rough translation; ‘Long has the Stormcrown languished, with no worthy brow to sit upon. By our breath we bestow it now to you in the name of Kyne, in the name of Shor, and in the name of Atmora of Old. You are Ysmir now, the Dragon of the North, hearken to it.’”

Gaeolin bowed to the master. “I wish I knew how to feel about all of this.”

“Perhaps the greatest way to accept the mantle, would be to continue as you have thus far.” The old man lifted him by the chin, placing a tender hand on his shoulder. “You bow to none of us, child. We appreciate your respectful manner, but to you we are not masters. We are, as you will, advisors, teachers, and allies. When you first arrived, I could feel a greatness in your wake. The others feel you have more potential than any before you. We are honored to know and guide, Gaeolin Stormcrown.”

Gaeolin watched as Borri, Wulfgar, and Einarth vanished to their prefered corners of the monastery to meditate. “There are only four of you here?”

Arngeir thought for a moment before responding. “Five. Our leader, Paarthurnax, lives alone on the peak of the Throat of the World. When your Voice can open the path, you will know you are ready to speak to him.”

“I can’t meet him now?”

Arngeir shook his head. “The journey to him is itself a test.  Strong winds circle the mountain constantly, and you would surely be thrown to your death. Patience, child. You will meet him in time.”

With that Arngeir left him alone to ponder the day. Inigo grinned his way, his left ear still slightly angled back in pain. “So, you have attained full Dragonborn status. Being shouted at by a group of old men has never been so rewarding.”

He smiled in return. “That’s a way to think of it, I guess.” He stopped as a stone fell from Inigo’s bag, rolling away from them down the hall. “What’s that?”

Inigo shrugged. “I’m not sure. It must have fallen out of that bundle of furs I looted from that Bandit camp a few days ago. I never checked to see what was wrapped in it.” Gaeolin went to it, reaching out to pick it up. As soon as he did so, he leapt back, clapping his hands to his ears as a powerful voice filled his head.

“A new hand touches the beacon. Listen! Hear me and obey! A foul darkness has seeped into my temple. A darkness that you will destroy. Return my beacon to Mount Kilkreath, and I shall make you the instrument of my cleansing light.”

He looked around, seeing nothing but the stone walls and Inigo. He hesitated, testing the white gem with a finger. Nothing happened. He juggled it, looking confused as he returned to his friend. 

“Where is Mount Kilkreath?”

Inigo tilted his head slightly in a question. “Haafingar, why?”

“Apparently, we’ve been requested…”