Stormvoice

His peers lowered their arms and knelt, whether in prayer or exhaustion he could not know. Most likely it was a mixture of the two. It had taken great effort to concentrate a Thu’um loud enough to summon the Dovahkiin to High Hrothgar. The man pushed prematurely grey hair from his face and peered through the swirling snow and mist to look upon the plains of Whiterun. Stress, concentration, worry and remorse had sapped his eyesight as much as the colour of his hair it would seem. “The wheel turns upon the last Dragonborn,” he said, in a voice more impossibly low than a whisper. It wasn’t for naught that the other residents of High Hrothgar called him Stormvoice; out of all of them, he alone was still standing, invigorated rather than exhausted from their great shout.

His meditations in the next week were more reflective than not. Though he concentrated his voice, and willed his thoughts into worship, his mind kept slipping into the past…

…He wasn’t sure whether it was he or himself that shivered on the cold rock floor at the Throat of the World. It had only been that morning that he wept, clinging to his fathers robes as he was deposited into the hands of the waiting Greybeards. He was a child of Skyrim, of nobility. Glory, ambition, and dominion were his right. The old man dressed in thick, grey robes, spun him around and slapped him. More tenderly he knelt and whispered “Glory, ambition and dominion are the rights of the gods only, and have even been the downfall of more than a few of them, including the great enemy of our order.”

…He shoved more furs into the rucksack and glanced around to make sure no one was looking as he reached out for a cloth-wrapped wedge of eidar cheese to consume on the steps down.

A note from some childhood friends had been left among the foodstuffs donated by the young man (“was it Klimmek, or Wilhelm? It’s been years since I’ve been to Ivarstead.”) at the base of the monastery. The young Greybeard (“More like Goldbeard”) had found it as he sorted out the various salted meats and vegetables left in the sack. “War,” it read, “between man and mer.” The sons of Talos would be marching like Ysgramor and his companions against the elves of Alinor. It was all the young man could do to resist throwing off his robes right then and sprinting down the mountain to join the march south. But it was cold, and already the days grew short as Frostfall descended on Skyrim. Preparation to leave was needed, and it would only be honourable to inform his masters of his decision.

…He shrunk in fear at the sight of the nightmarish god before him. Arngeir’s only response to the youthful acolyte’s announcement was a quiet nod and a gesture to follow him. Up past the winds and along the steps behind the monastery he led him. Hotter and warmer it seemed as they neared the top of the Throat of the World. Snow whipped around his face until it was blasted away by the breath of the wyrm that reared before him. “Love is the bane of honour, and the death of duty,” Paarthurnax hissed, “be it love of glory, kin, or country.” If the words had been intended to convince the young man it had the opposite effect. His cowardice was replaced with anger, and with it a shout that sent snow, rock and ice tumbling down highest mountain of Tamriel. Whereas the most kingly of men would have been torn to pieces by such a Thu’um, the great dragon quietly chuckled, and then (if such were possible for a dragon), his face grew soft. “Such a powerful Thu’um you have, like the words of Kyne herself. You are Stormvoice. Be not offended. My words are a reprimand for myself as much as they are for you. I was you at one time. Before empires and great kings I had to betray glory, kin and country for a duty far higher and more divine.”

…He stayed…

…He remembered those words over the years, as clear now as they were then. Years filled with learning, meditation, quiet, and remorse. Some said the Greybeards neither knew, nor cared about the outside world. The former was falsehood, but the latter was the goal. Try as he might, he could not help but be moved by the turning of time, though he would never been tempted to leave as he had long ago.

…He barely stirred when he learned of his father’s death, and city left leaderless for the lack of an available heir.

…He did not bother to look up when a note arrived informing the Greybeards that the Emperor had recognized Madanach’s claim to the Reach. His meditation paused for but a moment when, in the same note, he learned that his home had been given to the furious son of Markarth’s former Jarl in an attempt to placate him.

…He barely heard the news that the same man had marched into Solitude and had slain the High King, tearing Skyrim apart.

All of these events, if they had any effect, turned him inward, concentrated his essence, and created with in him a greater voice than had been seen among the Greybeards in their recorded history. It was only natural that when Einarth died, he took his place at Arngeir’s side as the 2nd most respected of the Greybeards. Duty had molded love, pride, honour, and headiness into one of the most powerful instruments of worship to grace Tamriel.

…He gathered with his peers in anticipation. The arrival of the new Ysmir climbed the 7000 steps. A quiet softer than quiet pervaded the frozen monastery. Finally the doors creaked open and the Dovahkiin was welcomed into High Hrothgar. Arngeir spoke, and gestured around him, speaking words of greeting. Finally he gestured to his associate, “Master Ulfric will now teach you Ro, the second word in Unrelenting Force.”