Chapter 9
A quiet, serene ambience enveloped the stone halls of High Hrothgar. The air was thin at this height, carrying a faint chill that seeped through my cloak. Ancient tapestries fluttered barely even an inch as the wind whispered through the cracks of the ancient monastery. Our footsteps echoed softly across the smooth grey floor, swallowed by the overwhelming silence that defined this sacred place.
From the far side of the chamber, an elderly monk stepped forward—his movements slow but purposeful, each step accompanied by the soft rustle of heavy grey robes. His face was carved with deep wrinkles, as if decades of meditation had etched calmness directly into his skin. His eyes, however, were sharp—watchful, almost piercing.
He was one of the Greybeards, a master of the Voice.
"So the Dragonborn has appeared at the dawn of a new era," the monk announced, his voice surprisingly resonant despite its softness.
"But first, you must prove that you truly are Dragonborn. Let us hear the power of your Voice."
Astrid inhaled deeply. I saw her steel her nerves—shoulders squaring, jaw tightening, eyes narrowing with focus. Frosty air swirled around her lips as she readied her breath.
Then—
"FUS!"
The Unrelenting Force shout burst forth like a shockwave. Dust leapt from the cracks in the stone. The grey-robed monks did not move, but the air around them rippled faintly.
"Ah… so it really is you," the master said with a faint, knowing smile.
"Welcome to High Hrothgar. I am Master Arngeir, representative of the Greybeards."
There was no excitement in his tone—only acceptance, as if he'd been expecting her for centuries.
"So, why have you come here, Dragonborn?"
This scene felt so familiar it gave me chills—almost exactly like the game, but somehow heavier, more real.
"I am Astrid, the Dragonborn," she replied confidently, though her hand trembled slightly. "I have come in answer to your call and to learn what it means to be Dragonborn."
I could've explained everything myself… but if the story diverged too far, I had no idea what consequences it might bring. So I kept quiet.
Arngeir nodded slowly.
He explained that Astrid carried dragon blood, dragon soul—that this gift came from Akatosh, the god of time.
Hearing that name made something twist inside my chest.
The god of time… Could he be related to how I died and ended up in Skyrim?
The thought lingered like a shadow.
"I am ready to learn," Astrid said.
I blinked. Oh—I spaced out again. Astrid was practically gleaming with anticipation.
Arngeir guided her further into the hall. Torchlight danced across the stones as they walked, casting long shadows that swayed with their footsteps. Astrid had already mastered the first word of Unrelenting Force—Fus.
Now Arngeir would teach her the second: Ro, meaning Balance.
Master Einhart knelt and began carving the second word into the stone floor. Sparks flew as his fingertips traced ancient draconic symbols glowing faintly with pale-blue energy. The room hummed softly, as if the mountain itself recognized the sacred script.
Astrid stared intensely.
And then—
Her breathing hitched.
She understood it instantly.
Was this… the true power of the Dragonborn?
Ordinary humans needed decades to comprehend even a fragment of a Word. But Astrid absorbed knowledge the same way she absorbed dragon souls—clean, absolute, overwhelming.
Master Einhart nodded, satisfied.
The power of Ro resonated through the air, brushing my skin like a warm breeze that didn't belong in a freezing monastery on top of a mountain.
After that, we stepped outside into the freezing courtyard. Snow fell softly, covering everything in a thin layer of white. The wind howled like a distant beast.
Here, Astrid learned Whirlwind Sprint.
Her body flickered—then blurred—then vanished in a rush of wind, reappearing several meters away with snow scattering around her boots.
She looked exhilarated.
I… was jealous.
When her training was complete, Arngeir approached us.
"You must now retrieve the Horn of Jurgen Windcaller from Ustengrav," he said, his voice deepened by the cold wind curling around us.
But before we left the courtyard, a question clawed at me—burning hotter than the mountain wind biting my skin.
"Master Arngeir," I began, trying to steady my voice. "How can ordinary mortals… learn a shout?"
Arngeir paused mid-step.
He turned to me slowly, one gray brow arching upward. A faint, knowing smile spread across his face—the kind an elder gives a child who's about to ask something outrageously ambitious.
"Child…" he said, his tone both gentle and amused. "Why would you seek such immense power?"
The wind howled across High Hrothgar, carrying with it the taste of snow and ancient stone. My throat tightened. I swallowed, forcing the words out even as the cold stung my cheeks.
"This world is dangerous," I said. "I want to help—and I want to stay beside Astrid as she walks her destiny."
Astrid's head jerked slightly.
Her eyes widened, and a soft pink dusted her cheeks—not from the cold this time. Her breath hitched just enough that Arngeir definitely noticed.
The old monk chuckled.
Not a mocking sound—more like the warm, breathy laugh of someone who's seen this kind of sincerity a hundred times but still finds it endearing.
His gaze flicked between us, and for a heartbeat, the serene master of the Voice wore an expression dangerously close to mischief. Probably something he hadn't shown anyone in decades.
"Child," he said again, lightly shaking his head. "To understand even a single Word of Power may demand years of unwavering focus. Some spend decades chasing the faintest whisper of meaning."
"I don't care," I said, stepping forward. My hands trembled—not from fear, but because I meant every word. "Just… tell me how. Please."
Arngeir studied me with a silence so heavy it nearly pressed the breath from my lungs.
His eyes were sharp, ancient—evaluating not my strength, but my resolve, my spirit, the shape of my intentions.
Seconds stretched.
The wind quieted.
Even Astrid stood completely still.
And then—very slowly—Arngeir nodded.
"Very well," he said at last, his voice low, as if speaking to fate itself. "If you insist this strongly… then you are ready to hear the truth."
He raised a hand, his tone turning solemn as the wind quieted around us:
"First: Intense Study."
Arngeir lifted a finger, his expression solemn.
"For mortals, the Voice is not something you 'use.' It is something you become. It demands years—sometimes decades—of spiritual purification, breath discipline, meditation, and absolute mastery over one's emotions. Without harmony between mind and soul, the Thu'um tears the speaker apart from within. That is why the Greybeards spend a lifetime in silence: every syllable must carry purpose."
"Second: Aptitude Matters."
"No training can replace the spark one is born with."
He exhaled through his nose, the faintest sign of pity.
"Ulfric Stormcloak trained for nearly ten years under our guidance. Ten winters of disciplined breathing, reflection, and repetition… yet he learned only two Words. The Voice listens differently to each soul. Some are simply not meant to carry more."
"Third: Discipline Over Power."
"Mastery does not come from volume or fury."
Arngeir placed a hand over his heart.
"To shout with anger is to lose the meaning of the Word itself. The Thu'um grows strongest in those who embrace serenity, introspection, and compassion—even toward their enemies. A violent heart may force a shout, yes… but it will never master it."
"Fourth: Extreme Rarity."
"Most people will never understand a single Word of Power," he continued.
"To internalize just one demands relentless devotion, absolute silence of the ego, and a lifetime carved around a single goal. Only a handful across all of history have ever spoken more than one Word with true understanding."
"Fifth: Kynareth's Gift."
"And finally," Arngeir murmured, "remember that mortals shout only by the grace of Kynareth. The breath of life is her blessing—without it, the Voice would be forever beyond your grasp. Yet even with her gift, each Word is a peak few can ascend without the soul of a dragon to strengthen them. To a mortal, a Word is not simply learned… it is conquered."
"So now you know," Arngeir finished softly. "It requires more than hard work. It requires talent… and luck."
The wind sounded colder after he said that.
My heart sank—not completely, but enough.
Arngeir placed a comforting hand on my shoulder.
"Do not despair, child. Many before you have felt the same."
Arngeir's expression softened as he began the tale, his voice echoing faintly against the ancient stone walls. The torches flickered, as if the very mountain leaned in to listen.
"Long ago," he said, "Jurgen Windcaller stood as one of the greatest masters of the Voice. His power was unmatched—so immense that mountains trembled when he spoke, and storms bowed at his command."
The way Arngeir spoke those words carried both admiration and sorrow.
"He was proud. Too proud. In his confidence, he believed the Thu'um was the ultimate path for the Nords to conquer, to dominate, to expand their glory."
I pictured it: a younger Jurgen, standing atop a battlefield, Voice burning like fire in his lungs, surrounded by warriors who worshiped his strength.
Arngeir continued, "He led the Nords against the Dwemer and the Chimer, believing the Voice would grant them victory."
The room seemed colder suddenly. I imagined golden Dwemer machines tearing through Nord lines, Chimer mages hurling spells while Dwemer constructs marched with mechanical precision.
"The battle was devastating. Jurgen unleashed the full fury of his Thu'um… but even that could not overcome the combined might of the Dwemer's machines and the Chimer's sorcery."
Arngeir paused.
His gaze lowered, voice quieting.
"And so… the Nords were defeated. Crushed. Driven from Morrowind in humiliation."
The word humiliation carried centuries of weight—like a wound Skyrim still remembered.
"In that moment," Arngeir continued, "Jurgen's pride shattered. Everything he believed in, everything he fought for, collapsed in a single, bitter truth: the Voice, when used for violence and domination… leads only to ruin."
He lifted his eyes again—calm, steady, but with an ancient sadness.
"So Jurgen left the world behind."
His voice took on a rhythm, almost like a chant.
"For seven long years he withdrew into isolation. No speaking. No shouting. No war. Only meditation. Only silence. Alone atop the mountains, he searched his soul for answers."
I imagined snowstorms battering a solitary figure, his silhouette unmoving even as blizzards roared around him. Nights spent in freezing darkness. Days spent in contemplation, wrestling with failure, pride, doubt.
"And after seven years," Arngeir whispered, "he found clarity."
The silence in the hall deepened, powerful enough to feel.
"He realized that the Voice was never a weapon. It was a prayer. A way to honor the gods—not dominate men."
Arngeir straightened slightly.
"With this revelation, Jurgen returned—not as a warlord, but as a prophet of peace. His mastery was absolute, unshakable. And so his philosophy endured."
The torches swayed with a slow breeze, their light settling over Arngeir like a gentle halo.
I finally understood.
The Thu'um wasn't something to seize.
Or wield recklessly.
Or chase in hunger for power.
It rejected those with ambition in their hearts.
Only someone with a peaceful spirit—someone who saw it as reverence, not a weapon—could truly touch its essence.
"Thank you, Master," I whispered.
My voice sounded small in the vast stone chamber.
Arngeir nodded, eyes warm, as if he saw a spark of understanding he approved of.
Outside, as we prepared to descend the steep mountain steps, snowflakes drifted lazily from the sky, melting on my gloves. The wind was sharp, but my mind felt strangely focused.
If the Thu'um wasn't meant for someone like me…
then I'd simply grow strong in my own way.
Enchanting.
Smithing.
Crafting artifacts that twisted the rules of magic.
I imagined it—armor that no spell could penetrate, robes that made my spells cost nothing, rings that bent the world to my will. It sounded impossible.
But also… thrilling.
All I needed were enchanting materials.
Soul gems.
Powerful artifacts.
And lots of loot.
A slow grin crawled across my face before I could stop it.
Mueheheheheh…
Soul gems cost a fortune.
I wasn't rich.
But I did have a solution.
I'd stick with Astrid on every dungeon expedition.
Spiders, draugr, necromancers—whatever was inside, I'd plunder it dry.
With luck, the next dungeon would be a jackpot.
And this time… I was ready.
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