In which the Greybeards instruct the Dragonborn on the Way of the Voice

 

~

 

“Finally! By the Divines,” Sven exclaims, shaking off the snow on his shoulders. A faint echo of

his voice replies from the dark.

 

I squint as my eyes start adjusting to the gloom. Inside, High Hrothgar has every appearance

of an ancient Nordic ruin, but the air is not the stale air of a draugr tomb. And a hearty fire

burns in a brazier near the entrance. Rubbing my arms, I wonder if it’s disrespectful to light a

torch.

 

A shudder passes through me. Perhaps I should have waited outside. These ancient Nord

structures always make me feel like an interloper. And it is Sven’s heroic trial, after all. But

then I think about the biting wind outside and decide to stay. If there is going to be fighting,

he might need my support. But mostly it’s the warmth.

 

A voice rings out from the dark, making both of us jump. It has a strange quality to it, almost

a whisper, yet carrying with it the force and clarity of a shout.

 

“So… a Dragonborn appears, at this moment in the turning of the age.”

 

A figure seems to glide out of the gloom, then another, and another, and another. Four in all,

elderly, wizened men draped in robes. All sported - of course - grey beards.

 

Sven takes a moment to gather his wits, but when he answers he speaks with a creditable

facsimile of the figure’s authoritative voice. “You call me Dragonborn. What does that mean?”

Ever the consummate skald.

 

The figure in the middle speaks. “First, let us see if you are truly Dragonborn. Let us taste of

your voice.”

 

“Um.” Sven clears his throat, unsure. “Sh- should I sing to you?”

 

“Strike us with the power of your Voice.”

 

Understanding flares within me. The power of his Voice. That must be what the guardsman

was saying, back at the watchtower when Sven absorbed the dragon’s strength.

 

When Sven seems to hesitate, I step forward and put a hand on his shoulder and whisper in

his ear. “You need to Shout, like Ulfric at Markarth.”

 

He jerks away from me as if burnt. “Stay out of this, woman,” he hisses. “These are the skaldic

traditions of my people. I know what to do.”

                 

I flinch, unaccustomed to the venom in his voice. Biting back a retort, I back off.

 

Sven spends some more time trying to summon his Voice. His shouts, though they

reverberate across the bare stone walls, fail to impress, and the grey figures continue to wait,

impassive. Sven’s shouts become more erratic as he grows more and more exasperated.

 

But I am barely paying attention. Something is welling inside me, a… word filled with an

innate and essential truth that demands forceful expression-

 

The fus of my Shout sends Sven sprawling onto the stone floor. His head snaps to me,

bewildered.

 

I cover my mouth with my hands, mortified. Sven is yelling at me now, but I am miles away,

remembering the moment of the dragon’s death again. My hand slick against Sven’s bare

skin, feeling the corded muscles underneath healing as the last of my magicka leaves me. My

vision swimming as I watch him bury his greataxe into the dragon’s throat with a great cry.

 

That great dizzy rush as burning light engulfed us. I assumed it was Sven that had absorbed

the dragon’s power. Everyone did.

 

“Dragonborn,” the lead figure says - to me - with a slight bow. “It is you. Welcome to High

Hrothgar.”

 

“Wait no, you’re mistaken,” Sven screams, unhinged now. “I am the Dragonborn here, not

this- SHE’S NOT EVEN A NORD.”

 

But the figures have all turned to me now. Sven might as well have winked out of existence,

for all the mind they pay him. “I am Master Arngeir. I speak for the Greybeards.”

 

Sven is purple with rage, and for a moment it seems like he is angry enough to strike - me?

or the Greybeards? - but he doesn’t. After a moment, he turns away, sullen. I call out to him,

feeling guilty, but he refuses to acknowledge me. I am helpless to stop him from gathering

his things and stomping off.

 

...Granted, I don’t try very hard.

 

The Greybeards do not speak again until High Hrothgar’s ornate front door slams angrily

shut again.

 

“Now tell me, Dragonborn, why have you come here?”

 

Many things are on the tip of my tongue. Who are you truly? What is this place? What does it

mean to be Dragonborn?

 

Instead, I say only, “I’m ready to learn.” 

 

“Good. Divest yourself of your worldly garments.”

 

I blink. “W-what?”

 

“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.”

 

I take a deep breath. In for a mede, in for a septim. “I do, Master.”

 

The Greybeard’s reply is terse and to the point. “Strip.”

 

I do. First, the backpack, then the gloves, the boots, the mage robes. Hesitating, I look at

Arngeir for a sign that that is enough. It isn’t. My smallclothes soon join the pile on the floor,

and so, finally, does my amulet of Mara. I miss the warmth of the pendant against my skin as

soon as I remove it.

 

As I shiver in the cold air and try to preserve what modesty I have left, another Greybeard

glides around me and pulls my arms behind me. He is not rough, but his grip is firm and

brooks no resistance.

 

I gasp and feel my face go red. With my breasts and crotch uncovered like this to the gaze of

a group of men (if they are indeed men), I’ve never felt so exposed. I look at Master Arngeir

in wordless query. He merely nods.

 

Something iron closes against my wrists, securing my arms behind my back. Before I can

protest my cuffing, a blindfold is lowered over my eyes, plunging my world into darkness.

 

 

I cry out, alarmed, but Arngeir’s voice cuts in from the dark, soothing and authoritative. “Fear

not. In time, you will not require them, but for now the bindings will give you focus. For what

you’re about to do, you do not require use of your hands, nor your eyes, only your throat.”

 

Arngeir continues to speak, explaining the Words of Power. It takes all of my will to clamp

down on the rising tide within me. Panic, mostly, but also something liquid and forbidden

that starts in the lower belly-

 

“-progressively stronger. 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.”

 

Another Greybeard, the one called Einarth, whispers the word. Ro. The word carries a tinge of

nostalgia to it, like a song once intimately known but now forgotten. I’ve felt that before only

one other time, running my fingers over the word wall at Bleak Falls Barrow. Fus. Then, as

now, there is a gap that I can’t quite articulate. I know the word, but I don’t know it.

 

As I ponder this, I feel hands at my bare shoulders, pushing me down on my knees with the

same firm strength as before. What?

 

A soft hand grips the back of my neck. “As part of your initiation, Master Einarth will allow

you to tap into his understanding of "Ro".”

 

Before I can ask what that means, something hard but fleshy intrudes against my lips.

 

I jerk away, shocked. I am not so completely naïve, despite Sven’s constant jokes to the

contrary. Even blindfolded, and with my limited experience, there’s no mistaking what it is.

 

A cock.

 

“Come, Dragonborn. Attend to Master Einarth.”

 

My mind races. So this is how knowledge of the Voice is imparted.

 

I chew at my lower lip. I know what I have to do, but the profanity of the situation gives me

pause. No, not profane, I correct myself. If this is truly the way of the Voice, handed down

from Lord Father Akatosh Himself, it is the opposite of profane. It is sacred.

 

Still, a residual sense of chaste propriety from a childhood in the priory makes me hesitate.

 

“Attend to Master Einarth, so that he can impart to you his understanding of "Ro",” Arngeir

insists, his voice cool like grey stone. There is no impatience in it, but no compassion nor

room for argument either.

 

In for a mede, in for a septim.

 

Reluctantly, I obey, and open my mouth to accept the entry of Einarth’s sacred flesh.

 

His sacred member glides effortlessly into my mouth, until the tip of it presses against my

throat. I feel the urge to gag, and try to extricate myself, but firm hands at the back of my

head prevent me from doing so. I settle instead for suckling on the fleshy pole, and in

response it seems to swell and harden. If the Greybeards are exalted beings, one part of

them, at least, is mortal.

 

A distant memory from the priory comes to me now, unbidden, of Mother Sion on her knees,

her face buried in the abbot’s lap, his fat hands resting paternally on the top of her head. Deep

in prayer and receiving a boon from the abbot, I had assumed. It wasn’t until later, much later,

spying on Carlotta and Mikael behind the Bannered Mare, that I had recognized it for what it

was.

 

I draw on that recollection now, mimicking the way Carlotta’s tongue moved, the way it seemed

to massage and lick the underside of Mikael’s engorged shaft like a candied apple.

 

Einarth hums in wordless appreciation, a guttural, un-nirnly sound that reverberates through

the very core of my being. His hands snake their way through my hair, kneading my scalp in

sensuous encouragement.

 

It doesn’t take long before he tenses up, and I feel his warm seed spurt against the back of

my mouth. Instinctively I swallow the load, and as Master Einarth’s bitter essence flows down

my throat, it seems to carry with it… revelation.

 

Comprehension explodes within me in an instant of pure ecstasy, and I moan around his

sacred shaft, reveling in the burning clarity of Ro.

 

Embarrassment overcomes me as the ecstasy retreats and I become aware of my surroundings

again - the stone beneath my knees, the hungry, dripping wetness between my thighs… a man’s

softening member in my mouth.

 

Thankfully, having imparted its wisdom, Master Einarth’s spent member slips out of my

mouth. It leaves a slimy trail on my chin as it leaves my parted lips.

 

“You show great promise, Dragonborn,” Arngeir’s voice cuts through the dark. “We will

perform the next trial in the courtyard. Follow Master Borri.”

 

A hand on my shoulder helps me back on my feet, and guides me gently forward. Blindfolded,

but with the knowledge of Ro still fresh on my tongue, I somehow manage to make it out into

the courtyard without stumbling.

 

 

In the courtyard, as I shiver amidst the snow, Arngeir, unseen, speaks again in the same

dispassionate tone. “We will now see how you learn a completely new Shout. Master Borri will

now teach you “Wuld”, which means “Whirlwind”.”

 

A gust of icy wind whips against my bare skin, and I shudder violently, acutely aware of my

naked body. Wuld.

 

If Arngeir senses my discomfort, he gives no indication. “Attend to Master Borri, so that he

may impart to you his understanding of "Wuld".”

 

My stomach knots up at the command.

 

“Master,” I begin uncertainly, ignoring the liquid heat between my legs. “I admit I am

ignorant in the Way of the Voice, but surely this is not-”

 

“There is indeed much that we know that you do not,” Arngeir intones, a hint of reproach

entering his voice. “That does not mean that you are ready to understand it. Do not let your

easy mastery of the Voice tempt you into the arrogance of power that has been the downfall

of many Dragonborn before you.”

 

“I… I understand, Master.” For a moment, I am that foolish orphan girl in the priory again,

being rapped on the knuckles by Mother Sion for stupid questions. Who am I, to question

the methods of the Divine?

 

“Good,” Master Arngeir says, all grey stone again. “Attend to Master Borri.”

 

Chastened, I fall to my knees in the snow, and attend to Master Borri.

 

 

~

 

Later, approaching the ornate front door of High Hrothgar to begin the long descent back down

the mountain, I notice Sven leaning against the wall by the door, his figure shrouded by shadow.

He is eating an apple, but he tosses it aside, half-eaten, when he sees me.

 

My heart skips a beat, then several more. “Sven! I- I thought you’d gone back down to

Ivarstead.”

 

He shrugs, and gives me a rakish grin. “Figured you might miss my company.”

 

“Look, I’m sorry.” I look away, unable to meet his gaze. “About… you know.” Unconsciously, I

lick my lips, and try not to grimace when I taste the remnants of Einarth and Borri’s instruction.

 

Sven shrugs again. “It wasn’t meant to be.” 

 

Doubt coils in me like a serpent. He is certainly taking this much better than I expected. I

know I shouldn’t ask, but-

 

“How, um, how long have you been back here?” I force myself to sound casual, though my

heart is pounding.

 

“A while.” Something in the way he says it makes me look at him. In the half-light, it takes me

a moment to make out the expression on his face.

 

An errant breeze wafts through the room. An electric shiver runs through me, as Sven

undresses me with his eyes.

 

~