The Voice is worship;
Follow the Inner path;
Speak only in True Need.
The words on the tenth and final wayshrine were not an epic. There were no visions of conquest, no echoes of shattering defeats or thunderous victories. They were a quiet conclusion, a closing of the circle.
It was a return to the beginning—a reminder that the Thu'um was not a tool for domination, but an act of reverence.
As Torin read them, the entire journey up the Seven Thousand Steps clicked into place. It was a cautionary tale. Humans, after overthrowing their draconic oppressors, had fallen into the same trap of arrogance, wielding their newfound power for selfish glory.
But they had been lucky. The gods loved them despite their flaws, and they were given a beacon in Jurgen Windcaller—a man whose Voice was not just strong, but righteous enough to shout down the pride of an entire people and steer them away from the brink.
They had been saved from bringing the same ruin upon themselves that they had visited upon the dragons.
This simple, profound conclusion settled over Torin like a gentle snowfall. A sudden, startling sense of peace washed through him, a feeling so deep and foreign it stole his breath.
The ever-present, simmering urge to hunt and butcher—the thirst for bandit and Thalmor blood that had been a constant, low hum in his veins since leaving Whiterun—eased its grip.
It didn't vanish, but it quieted, soothed by the ancient wisdom carved in stone.
He was lost in the tranquility of the moment, the mountain's silence feeling like a blessing, when a loud, piercing shriek ripped through the air.
Torin slowly blinked, the daze lifting. He and Skjor looked up in unison to see a hawk—the same hawk from before—plummeting from the sky.
It didn't swoop past them this time. It dove straight for the wayshrine, its wings flaring at the last second to brake its descent. With a soft rustle of feathers, it perched boldly atop the ancient stone, well within Torin's reach.
The bird showed no fear. It cocked its head, its sharp, intelligent eyes locking directly onto Torin's. It let out another sharp cry.
Skree!
This one didn't sound like a warning or a territorial call. It sounded impatient. Almost... demanding.
Hazarding a guess, Torin slowly fished out the last couple of pieces of dried meat from his pouch. He extended his open palm toward the hawk, a silent question in his eyes: Is this what you want?
The hawk reacted instantly. It hopped off the cold stone of the wayshrine and, with surprising gentleness, landed on his outstretched forearm. Its talons gripped the leather of his bracer with a firm but careful pressure.
Without any further ceremony, it began to peck at the meat, devouring the morsels with quick, efficient bites.
Torin just watched, utterly bewildered, his eyes wide.
Skjor, who had been observing the scene with growing incredulity, finally broke. "What in Oblivion is going on?" he hissed, his hand resting uneasily on his sword pommel as if the bird might be a Daedric assassin in disguise.
"I really have no—" Torin began.
That was as far as he got.
A blur of brown fur shot past Skjor. Echo, having clearly not forgotten the earlier theft of her treat, launched herself at Torin's arm with an indignant roar, determined to drive off the feathered poacher.
The hawk let out a startled shriek and took flight in a frantic flurry of wings, circling once overhead before settling on a high ledge, scolding them angrily.
Torin smiled a weary, bitter smile. He fished out the very last piece of dried meat—a peace offering—and presented it to the huffing bear cub.
"Easy, girl. It's alright." As Echo began to noisily devour her prize, Torin's eyes scanned the courtyard, searching for the hawk.
He soon spotted it. The bird was flying low, not back to its perch, but directly toward the robed Greybeard, who was now, for the first time, walking toward them. The elderly man raised a steady arm, and the hawk glided down to perch upon his wrist, leaning in as if to whisper in his ear.
The Greybeard's gaze, ancient and knowing, lifted and fixed squarely on Torin.
"Hail, Stormborn," the old man greeted, his voice a low rumble that carried effortlessly in the thin air.
Torin's head swiveled, looking right, then left, his mind racing. Was there someone behind him and Skjor? Someone using an invisibility spell?
Finally, he looked back at the Greybeard, clearing his throat and trying to sound as respectful as possible despite his confusion. "My name is Torin, Elder. I'm... I'm afraid you have me mistaken for someone else."
The Greybeard's lips curled into a slight, knowing smile. He flicked his wrist upward, and the hawk took flight, soaring back toward the monastery's spires. "Your name does not change what you are, boy," he stated, his voice calm and certain.
Torin opened his mouth to protest, then closed it. The title 'Stormborn' rang absolutely no bells. He vaguely recalled one obscure text that had referred to Ysgramor as 'Stormborn,' a poetic flourish about his rebirth during the voyage from Atmora, but it was hardly an official title. It was just a historian trying to be fancy. This felt different. This felt... specific.
His frown deepened by the second. He turned to Skjor, hoping for some kind of backup, but the veteran warrior just gave him a helpless shrug, his face a perfect mask of 'don't look at me, this is your weirdness.'
Torin sighed in exasperation and turned back to the Greybeard. "Alright, I'll bite. What, exactly, is a 'Stormborn'?"
The old man's smile widened just a fraction. "To make a long story short, it is one who is particularly loved by the Mother of Men, our Lady Kyne. She is the wind, the rain, and the storm... and we are all her children, after all."
Torin gave him a deeply skeptical look. "With all due respect, Elder, that doesn't make any sense. I've never prayed to any god in my entire life." He paused, a flicker of old guilt crossing his features. "In fact, I'm pretty sure I stole about a hundred septims' worth of parchment from the Temple of Kynareth in Whiterun."
He then quickly cleared his throat. "I did pay that back threefold in donations once I had the coin, but still... that doesn't sound like the resume of someone 'particularly loved' by a Divine."
The Greybeard wasn't deterred in the slightest. If anything, his serene smile seemed to grow more certain. "Is that not precisely why she showed you the visions, then? Why she granted you her peace? So that you might come to love her, as she has always loved you, child."
Torin's confusion only deepened, a cold knot tightening in his stomach. "What? How do you even know about the visions?" The words came out sharper than he intended. Beside him, Skjor was doing even worse; the veteran warrior's face was a perfect blank slate of utter bewilderment, his expression practically screaming, Visions? What in the name of Shor's beard is he talking about?!
The Greybeard ignored Torin's question, his calm demeanor unshaken. Instead, he posed one of his own. "Do you know why the ten wayshrines were erected upon this mountain?"
Torin, thrown off balance, fell back on the intellectual conclusion he'd drawn. "I can't say I know for sure," he admitted, "but isn't it as a warning? A caution to future generations not to repeat the cycle of arrogance?"
The old man gave a slow, approving nod. "That is a part of it, yes. But not all."
He clasped his hands within the sleeves of his robe. "Most who climb the Seven Thousand Steps today do so to honor us, the Greybeards. But there was another tradition, now largely forgotten. Hunters, explorers, those who planned to venture deep into the untamed wilds..."
"...they would make the pilgrimage, meditating upon each shrine. Those whose hearts were sincere would be blessed by Kyne's favor, so that they might walk without fear of the beasts of the land."
His wise eyes, crinkled at the corners, fixed on Torin once more. "Others, however... those who are already blessed by our Lady, receive something far greater from the pilgrimage." He gestured gently toward Torin. "Like you."
Torin looked down at his own body, half-expecting to see some new, visible mark. He even turned his hands over, inspecting his palms as if looking for stigmata.
Finding nothing, he turned back to the Greybeard, his skepticism warring with a flicker of unnerved curiosity.
"And what did I receive... exactly?"
The Greybeard shook his head, his long beard swaying with the motion. "That is not for me to know. A gift from the Mother of men is a deeply personal thing. It will manifest when the time is ripe, and not a moment before."
He waved a hand, gracefully changing the subject. "Regardless, a favored child of Kyne is always welcome within these walls. Our doors will always be open to you."
Torin immediately jabbed a thumb toward Skjor. "Is he included in that welcome?"
The Greybeard's face remained placid, but his answer was firm and immediate. "I am afraid not."
Torin let out a thoughtful hum, rubbing his chin. He turned to Skjor with a completely straight face. "It's his face, isn't it? I keep telling him to do something about it..."
A subtle, almost imperceptible twitch passed over the Greybeard's features, so fleeting that neither Torin nor Skjor caught it.
Seeing no reaction, Torin let out a sheepish chuckle. "In any case, elder, I'll have to pass on the hospitality for now, though I am grateful for the offer. Perhaps another time."
The Greybeard alternated his gaze between Torin and the stoic, unwelcome warrior beside him. He simply nodded, his expression neutral, neither offended nor pleased.
"Anytime, child," he said. With that, he turned and walked back toward the monastery, his robes whispering against the snow.
As the ancient doors closed silently behind him, Skjor gave Torin an inquisitive look. "Are you sure about that, boy? There's likely a great deal you could learn in there. Wisdom we can't even imagine."
Torin watched the sealed entrance for a long moment, the weight of the Greybeard's words still hanging in the thin air. Finally, he let out a short, dismissive breath.
"The Greybeards are a famously vague bunch. They speak wisely, but only in riddles." He turned his gaze back to Skjor. "It would take ten times the effort to pry something useful from them than it would from a dusty old tome in a ruin crawling with undead. Not worth the headache right now."
He then nudged Skjor with an elbow, a faint grin returning to his face. "Besides, I can't very well leave my shield-brother to freeze out here while I enjoy the warmth of their hearth. You'd make..." He let out a sudden chuckle. "...you'd make for a terrible ice sculpture. All scowling and scarred. You'd scare away all the pilgrims for many generations to come."
Skjor scoffed, the sound like grinding gravel. "Mhm. And I suppose you would have made for good fertilizer? Excellent werewolf dung, maybe?"
Torin shrugged, the grin not leaving his face. "Fair enough. But that's enough of that." He stretched, his joints popping, the fatigue of the long climb and the brutal fight finally settling deep into his bones. "I'm done. Physically and mentally spent. Let's find a halfway decent spot to make camp before the sun fully sets. If we're lucky, we can start heading back at first light."
He cast one last, weary look at the majestic, intimidating peak of the Throat of the World. "I swear, I don't think I'll willingly set foot on another mountain for at least three years after this."
...
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