IV - High Hrothgar

It had grown dark by the time Merill had scrubbed the mud from her skin and hair and exchanged her rain-soaked cloth armour for a drier tunic she found in the wardrobe of her tiny attic room in The Bannered Mare. She’d spent the past two weeks living out of the dark, shadowy room, and while it was far away from the bustle of the bar and a bit drafty, it was exponentially warmer than outside. In the south it only rained, and in Markarth there was barely ever snow, just bitter wind. But here, nearing the end of the year, the wind carried in a dusting of snow that rattled the windowpane, the swirling flakes dancing past her window until she rose from the bed and yanked the faded curtains over it.

Merill turned her gaze back into the small fireplace as she curled up in the bed, staring deep into its ashes, remembering the Jarl’s mysterious gaze as she told him what had happened at the watchtower. She felt uneasy, astutely alert of every sound and creak in the walls – in the forest, the only nighttime sound had been the rain outside. Here, in the city, it seemed that there would never be quiet.

Dovahkiin. Dragon-child. A mortal born with the blood and soul of the dragons. Someone who could use the Thu’um easily, without practice, someone who could speak with the words of the ancient dragons.

And now the dragons had returned and the men had called her Dragonborn.

What could the Greybeards want with her, then? To teach her how to shout with a dragon’s voice? What good could it do? She raised her hand, running her fingers along the scar that cut its way across her brow and down through her eye, lancing away at her cheek. No.

She wasn’t here to be some sort of hero – that was a task for a big, scarred Nord man with a war axe, not her – not a scrawny, one-eyed girl from the slums of Markarth. When she had the chance to save Nalimir, to help him, she had run. She was a coward, not a Dragonborn. They must have gotten it wrong, she told herself, laying back and pulling the heavy faded quilts over her, tucking her feet up. I can’t be a Dragonborn.

For the first time in nearly five years, Merill felt tears pricking at her eyes, and once, just once, she allowed herself to think of Brelin, smiling at her as he whittled new arrows for them, showing her how to cut an elk’s throat so it felt little pain, laughing as she scaled a tree and dangled from it by her legs, singing. And Nalimir, quiet around others but so loud with her, joking and teasing and racing her back to the cabin or challenging her to shoot a flying crow out of the sky, his dark eyes racing along the pages of a new book they’d found in the village, callused fingers tracing the lines of the map of Tamriel that they had kept pinned to the cabin wall. She felt the tears leaking out of her eyes, even the dead one, and bit her lip as the wetness leaked down into her hair. Coward, she berated herself harshly. They both died thanks to you. She remained like that, alone in the dusty darkness of the attic, crying silently, until she faded into an uneasy sleep.

* * *

The following morning found Merill, weary-eyed, in the corner of the bar, her left side to the wall to avoid the stares. Whiterun’s boastful residents had plenty of scars of their own, but she’d learned over the years that a short, strong-armed girl like her missing an eye tended to draw more attention than she liked. So she sat with her head down, picking at the seed-bread on a plate before her, her bottle of ale half-drunk.

“Merill, is it?”  She looked up, startled, to see Farengar, the Jarl’s court wizard, striding toward her through the bar, looking terribly out of his place in his blue robes. The other bar-goers glared suspiciously at him as he passed. Merill shifted in her seat, giving him a puzzled look. “Could I have a word?” She narrowed her eyes.

“No,” she said coldly, but Farengar was already sitting, pulling off thick fur gloves.

“I don’t really leave Dragonsreach much, to be honest,” he was saying lightly. “But I wanted to talk to you, and I figured you weren’t from around here, so I guessed the Bannered Mare would be my best bet.” Merill leaned her chair back on two legs, crossing her arms, one boot braced against the table’s leg to balance her chair.

“I guess you want to hear about the attack on the watchtower,” she said. She knew that the Jarl’s men had been sent out to collect as much of the dragon skeleton as they could to bring back to Farengar for study, but she had figured he might want her account of the bizarre occurrence at the watchtower.

“No, actually,” Farengar said softly, staring into his goblet and swilling his wine about uncertainly. “I…well, the Jarl told me what you told him. About being…” Merill closed her eyes, letting her chair fall forward onto the flagstone.

“Being Dragonborn?”

“Yes.”

“I’m not going to the Throat of the World,” Merill snapped. “I don’t know who these Greybeards are or what they want with me, but I haven’t got time to hear about some ridiculous superstition when I’ve got problems of my own.”

“The Greybeards are masters of the Voice,” Farengar started earnestly, but Merill cut him off.

“Are you seriously going to tell me to go? You barely know me. Why should I listen to a word you say?”

 “The tablet I showed you,” he went on hastily. “Something happened when you saw it, I know it did. I saw it in your eyes – er, eye.” He rummaged in his robe and withdrew a scrap of parchment, pushing it across the table to her.

“This is Fus, one of the words inscribed on the walls of the barrow where this tablet was uncovered,” Farengar was saying. “And the first word of a Thu’um. You saw that, didn’t you?” Merill looked up at him, her eye narrowed.

“Why are you here?” she asked slowly.

“Because we need you,” he told her quietly as the door opened again and the ruckus in the bar intensified. “Skyrim needs you. If you’re Dragonborn, then you may be the only one who would be truly able to understand what all this is about. Why the dragons are returning, why they’re attacking…all of it. And, if it turns out you’re Dragonborn, the Greybeards are sworn by ancient law to guide and teach you.” They locked eyes for a moment, staring wordlessly. “I care too much about the dragons to let the questions that come with their return go unanswered, Merill.” He reached into his robe again, drawing out a small beaten, torn and dog-eared book. Farengar took the scrap of parchment and tucked it inside the front cover and slid the book across the table to Merill. “This has all the words of the dragon-tongue we know. Learn them, and go to the Greybeards. See what they can teach you.” He stood. “You saved Whiterun twice, Merill. I hope we can trust you to do it again.”

* * *

The scouts told her that the 7,000 steps began at a village called Ivarstead, nestled just below the Throat’s peak in the always-autumn birch trees of the Rift. The road to Ivarstead wound through the forests along the Darkwater River, running around the base of the great mountain. While she stopped to eat a chunk of bread and an apple on a log near midday, she stared up at the mountain, flipping through the tattered book Farengar had given her. It was handwritten, filled with notes on the dragon-tongue and culture. The Throat of the World, one entry read. Monahven. Merill turned back to a list of dragon-words in the front of the book. Monah. Mother. Ven. Wind. She stared back up at the mountain looming overhead. Mother wind.

The evening was chill, but not cold as she climbed a small hill into Ivarstead, a hardy-looking village that lived off a mill set up over the Darkwater River. Ivarstead was busy, some of its residents still in their fields while others sat outside their houses, watching the sun dip down toward the horizon. They did not seem surprised to see a stranger in their midst as Merill made her way toward the inn, lowering her hood to feel the chill air on her ears. She had risen later than was usual and wasn’t tired, and stopped in briefly for a bottle of ale and some bread before venturing back outside and making her way toward the bridge that crossed the river and led straight to the mountain’s base.

“Here to climb the stairs?” Merill turned and saw an aging man leaning on the bridge over the Darkwater, watching the froth tumble over the stones.

“Mind your own business,” she snapped, and the man raised a brow, unimpressed.

“Be careful up there, then. The way is long and when you get real high up it’s hard to see and easy to slip.”

“I take it you’ve made the climb?” she ventured, keeping her voice guarded, and the man smiled.

“I used to, back before my legs went bad. It’s a long trip, but worth it. The view from High Hrothgar is one ye don’t forget easily. The monks up there, though, they leave a thing or two to be desired.” Merill smiled wryly.

“So I’ve heard.” She stared up the mountain, at its ridges and rocks where evergreens grew and farther up, where the craggy peaks were shrouded in fog and snow.

“Jus’ watch your step,” the man told her, pushing off the bridge and shouldering a bag at his feet. “Not much up there to slow your way but the occasional odd wolf, but the stairs can be slick.” He gave her a friendly smile as he passed, patting one shoulder. “Safe travels to ye, kinsman.”

It was said that the way up to High Hrothgar was marked with 7,000 ancient stairs that wound around the mountain’s snowy crags. Merill began to count the steps as she ascended, but soon lost count and focused more on navigating the narrow ridges that snaked their way up the side of the Throat of the World. Large stone tablets dotted the path, etched with short lines of poetry detailing the history of the dragon war, the days when men were held in servitude to the winged tyrants. Every now and then she used nick a book off the shabby bookseller’s cart in Markarth to read, but she had little patience for the heavy history tomes and long-winded metaphysical studies – nobody else in her gang could read. But the few books she’d found on the dragon war had held her attention, stained pages detailing the cruel life under dragon rule.

The air grew sharper as Merill moved carefully along the snow-dusted steps. She had drawn her hood up over her face and covered her mouth and nose with a thick fur scarf, but still the wind bit at her eyes. She began to lose all sense of time, lost in the rhythmic beats of her boots crunching through snow and the faint whistling of the wind as snow began to fall. The trail cut though the mountain in some parts and sat exposed on its end in others, revealing a view of Skyrim shrouded in cloud.

At some point, snow began to fall, and silence pressed in on the world, broken only by the wind faintly whispering as it brushed of the mountaintop and tumbled down the rocky slopes. There was little other life on the way up. Merill met the occasional lone wolf that shied away into the rocks and every now and then came across a pilgrim or hunter praying at one of the tablets. They seemed absorbed in their task, so se quietly passed them by, leaving them to their meditations.

With the heavy wind and snow, it was difficult to tell the time or see past the cloud, but as Merill sensed she was nearing the peak, the snow began to subside and the clouds started to slowly reel back, revealing a star-choked sky streaked with ribbons of green-and-blue light that made up the northern aurora. She paused a time on the snowy cliffs, staring up at the dazzling lights above her. In the forest, the trees had always blocked the view of the sky, and Markarth was too far west to get a view of the aurora. But she’d heard of it once or twice, and seeing it now made her breath catch like ice in her throat. The wind had lessened, and the path was a fraction wider here, allowing Merill to breathe a little easier as she navigated the ice-covered stairs, trying to avoid the urge to stare upward so as not to lose her balance. She was a good climber, but even years of scrambling up and down city walls wouldn’t have been enough to stop her from breaking her neck on the sharp crags of the mountain.

By the time the heavy stone walls of the temple came into view, Merill’s face was numb with cold and her knees aching. She had never been this cold – the ice felt as if it had leaked into her very bones, chilling her from the inside out. She slowed, though, as she neared the temple, to rest her back against a stone near the cliff and stare up at the vividly clear sky, the shining green aurora rippling gently from horizon to horizon.

When the cold had grown so fierce that Merill could feel her hands quivering, she left her cliffside place and stared up at the two sweeping staircases into High Hrothgar. A chest stood between them, over which a faded and scratched carving had been etched into the stone. Merill picked the left side and ascended to the top of the stairs, where two great bronze doors met her. She took one last glance at the glimmering sky before taking a heavy breath and pulling open the doors to step into the shadow and warmth of High Hrothgar.