I'm Really Not the Dragonborn.

Ibnor realized the precariousness of his situation. He could feel the strain of maintaining the time stop, a subtle but insistent drain on his energy. The air around him shimmered with the effort, the very fabric of reality protesting against his imposed stasis. He knew he couldn't hold it for long. He had to act quickly.

With a surge of adrenaline, he rushed towards his other self, the frozen Stormcloak axes looming inches above him like macabre trophies. He grabbed the prone figure by the shoulders, surprised by how heavy he was, even in this suspended moment. He dragged his doppelganger away from the immediate danger zone, the frozen warriors remaining motionless, their expressions locked in mid-battle frenzy.

He pulled his other self behind a large, fallen log, a temporary shield from the continuing, albeit now still frozen, battle. Spotting a nearby corpse, a fallen Imperial soldier, Ibnor quickly dragged it over and positioned it to partially cover his unconscious double, hoping to disguise him amongst the other casualties. It was a crude solution, but it was the best he could manage in the limited time he had.

Satisfied that his other self was at least temporarily safe, Ibnor retreated a few steps, his gaze fixed on the frozen tableau. He took a deep breath, steeling himself for the release. He could feel the pressure building within him, the strain of holding back the flow of time. He focused his mind, slowly releasing the restraint he had imposed on reality.

The world lurched back into motion with a sudden, jarring jolt. The Stormcloak axes completed their deadly arcs, now striking only the empty air where his other self had been moments before. The battle resumed with renewed ferocity, the soldiers none the wiser to the brief, unnatural stillness that had gripped them. They continued their fight, oblivious to the fact that they had been frozen in time.

The battlefield was a chaotic scene of clashing steel, desperate cries, and the thud of bodies hitting the ground. Ibnor, still reeling from the exertion of the time stop, quickly retreated back into the cover of the forest. He needed to get away from the battle, to gather his thoughts and recover his strength. The accidental use of his power had been a stark reminder of its raw, untamed nature. He needed more control, more precision.

He glanced back at the clearing one last time, ensuring his other self remained hidden amongst the fallen. Then, with renewed determination, he turned and began the long trek back towards High Hrothgar. He needed to speak with Paarthurnax, to understand what had just happened, and to learn how to master this dangerous power before it mastered him. The encounter had been a close call, a terrifying glimpse into the potential consequences of his time traveling, and he knew he couldn't afford another mistake.

The journey back to High Hrothgar was a blur of exhaustion and contemplation. Ibnor replayed the events in his mind, trying to understand the strange, instinctive way he had stopped time. It hadn't felt like a Shout, not in the traditional sense. It was more like a raw, untamed surge of power, triggered by sheer desperation. He wondered if the time travel itself, the chaotic journey through the temporal vortex, had somehow amplified his abilities, making him capable of feats he hadn't even imagined possible.

The climb up the Throat of the World felt even more arduous this time. The thin air burned his lungs, and his muscles ached from the exertion of the time stop and the subsequent hurried retreat. He pushed himself onward, driven by the need to speak with Paarthurnax. The ancient dragon was his only hope of understanding what was happening to him.

He finally reached the familiar gates of High Hrothgar, the Greybeards once again standing sentinel. Their expressions were less suspicious this time, perhaps sensing the weariness in his posture and the urgency in his eyes. Without a word, they parted to allow him passage.

He found Paarthurnax at his usual perch on the summit, gazing out across the vast expanse of Skyrim. The dragon turned his massive head as Ibnor approached, his golden eyes filled with a mixture of wisdom and concern.

"You have returned, little one," Paarthurnax rumbled, his voice echoing across the mountaintop. "And you seem… tiiraz. Troubled. Lok paaz?"

Ibnor approached the dragon, his breath coming in ragged gasps. "I… I saw myself," he managed to say, his voice strained. "Another me. He was caught in a battle… he was going to die."

Paarthurnax listened patiently as Ibnor recounted the events in the Rift, describing the chaotic battle, the horrifying vision of his other self, and the instinctive, desperate cry that had frozen time. He explained how it hadn't felt like a Shout, how it was a raw, uncontrolled burst of power.

When Ibnor finished, Paarthurnax remained silent for a long moment, his gaze fixed on the distant horizon. The wind howled around them, carrying the whispers of ancient secrets. Finally, he spoke, his voice low and grave.

"You have touched the very heart of Tiid, little one," he rumbled. "Not through the Thu'um, but through a more… direct connection. A connection born of your wundun through the vennesetiid itself."

"But how?" Ibnor asked, his voice filled with confusion. "I didn't try to use a Shout. It just… happened."

"The Thu'um is but one way to influence reality," Paarthurnax explained. "There are other paths, other ways to tap into the fundamental forces that shape the lein. World. Your wundun, journey, your experience of being adrift in Tiid, has awakened a latent ability within you. A raw, untamed form of Chronomancy, perhaps even more potent than what can be achieved through the Kaan alone. Unslaad."

"But I can barely control it," Ibnor protested. "It drains me, and I have no idea how to use it properly."

Paarthurnax nodded slowly. "Indeed. Such Zul is dangerous when wielded without mindok. Understanding. You must learn kod, to control it, to refine it, lest it consume you entirely. Du'ul." He looked at Ibnor with his ancient eyes, a hint of concern in their depths. "Your wundun is fraught with vol, little one. But it is also a path of great potential. With careful aak, guidance, you may yet learn to in, of this gift… or this dur."

Ibnor spent the next few days recovering at High Hrothgar. The exertion of the accidental time stop had taken a significant toll, leaving him feeling drained and weak. He spent much of his time resting, allowing his body and mind to recover. The thin air at that altitude didn't help, making even simple tasks feel more strenuous than usual.

He attempted to engage the Greybeards in conversation, hoping to glean some insight into his newfound abilities or perhaps even learn more about the nature of time itself. However, their responses were cryptic and unhelpful, delivered in low, rumbling tones that offered more in the way of vague pronouncements than actual information. Talking to them, he mused, was only marginally more enlightening than conversing with the stone walls of the monastery. They were beings of profound power and ancient wisdom, yet their communication was often shrouded in layers of philosophical abstraction that left him more confused than ever.

So, as he had before, Ibnor found himself drawn to Paarthurnax. The ancient dragon, with his patient demeanor and vast experience, was the only one who seemed capable of understanding, or at least attempting to explain, the strange circumstances surrounding Ibnor's newfound powers. He would often seek out the dragon on the summit, spending hours in conversation, discussing the nature of time, the Thu'um, and the potential dangers of Chronomancy.

Paarthurnax, now more open and conversational than ever, shared fragments of his vast knowledge, tales of eras long past, and the rise and fall of civilizations. He spoke of the Dragon War, of Alduin's reign of terror, and of the subtle ways in which time itself had been manipulated throughout history. He never explicitly endorsed tampering with time, always emphasizing the potential for catastrophic consequences, but he also didn't dismiss Ibnor's situation outright. He seemed to recognize that Ibnor's ability was not born of ambition or malice, but rather a consequence of his unusual circumstances.

The days that followed settled into a rhythm of recovery, contemplation, and conversation. Ibnor's physical strength returned gradually, the lingering exhaustion from his accidental time stop receding like a tide. While the Greybeards remained enigmatic, their chanting a constant, low thrum in the background of High Hrothgar, Ibnor found solace and a strange sort of kinship with Paarthurnax. Their conversations, often stretching late into the night beneath the watchful stars, ranged across a vast spectrum of topics, from the mundane to the profoundly philosophical.

One clear morning, as the sun bathed the mountaintop in golden light, Ibnor sat cross-legged beside Paarthurnax, watching the clouds drift lazily across the sky. 

"You've seen so much, Paarthurnax," Ibnor began, his voice thoughtful. "Civilizations rise and fall, empires crumble to dust… does it all seem… pointless to you? Nust pruzaan?"

Paarthurnax rumbled softly, a deep vibration in his chest. "Bahlok… there are many bahlok it is better to deny than to nahkip," he said, his golden eyes fixed on the distant horizon. "Dreh ni nahkip. Discipline against the lesser aids in qahnaar… denial of the greater. Paar, ambition, is a powerful Zul. It can build empires, inspire great deeds… but it can also lead to ruin, to vol and dukaan. Oblaan. The end is always the same."

"But if the end is always the same," Ibnor countered, "then what's the point of anything? Why strive, why build, why even… live?"

Paarthurnax turned his massive head to regard Ibnor, a flicker of something akin to amusement in his eyes. 

"That, little one, is the question that has plagued joorre and dov alike since the beginning of Tiid. Vomindok." He paused, letting the wind carry his words across the mountaintop. "Perhaps… perhaps the point is not the end, but the wundun itself. The experiences, the struggles, the joys and sorrows that fill the space between birth and death. Naaktiid and Dinok. The beginning and the end. Grik los lein. Such is the lein."

"So, it's about the journey, not the destination?" Ibnor mused, considering the dragon's words. It was a sentiment he'd heard before, but coming from a being who had witnessed millennia of history, it carried a different weight.

"Hun, perhaps," Paarthurnax conceded. "But even a wundun without a destination can have meaning. Orin brit ro. A fully beautiful balance. The lein is a tapestry, woven from countless threads of Tiid. Each thread, each moment, is significant, regardless of where it leads. Vennesetiid los tahrodiis. The currents of time are treacherous. Even I do not know what will happen. Niid koraav zeim dinoksetiid. We must do the best we can with this world. Ful nii los."

Another day, as a storm raged around High Hrothgar, the wind howling and the rain lashing against the stone walls, Ibnor and Paarthurnax sat within the relative shelter of the summit. 

"You fought against Alduin," Ibnor said, his voice barely audible above the roar of the storm. "Why? Why betray your own kind?"

Paarthurnax's expression grew somber, his eyes reflecting the flickering firelight. "Dov wahlaan fah rel. We were made to dominate. The will to Zul is in our sos. You feel it in yourself, do you not? I lost to that bahlok. But I… I saw a different path. Nust ni hon. I would not follow his thur. Zin krif horvut se suleyk. What is better - to be born good, or to overcome your evil nature through great effort?"

"And you chose the latter," Ibnor said softly.

Paarthurnax nodded slowly. "Geh. It has been a long and difficult struggle. Lingrah morah. But I believe… I hind it was worth it. Paaz. A fair answer. Ro fus… maybe I only balance the forces that work to quicken the end of this lein. Even we who ride the vennesetiid cannot see past Tiid's end… Wuldsetiid los tahrodiis. Those who try to hasten the oblaan, may delay it. Those who work to delay the oblaan, may bring it closer."

These conversations, these philosophical exchanges with the ancient dragon, filled the days. Ibnor learned not just about the Thu'um and Chronomancy, but about life, about choice, and about the enduring power of hope even in the face of overwhelming odds.

When Ibnor was fully recovered, the memory of his near-death experience in the Rift still fresh in his mind, he knew he couldn't delay his attempt to return any longer. The accidental time stop had shown him the raw, untamed power within him, but also its inherent danger. He needed to master it, or at least understand it better, if he ever hoped to navigate the currents of time safely.

He returned to the time wound on High Hrothgar, the swirling vortex of temporal energy, a constant reminder of the delicate and dangerous nature of time itself. This time, however, he approached the task with a more methodical approach, informed by his conversations with Paarthurnax. He understood, at least intellectually, that time wasn't a simple linear progression, but a complex tapestry of interwoven threads. He needed anchors, points of reference to guide him back to his own thread.

He closed his eyes, focusing his mind. He visualized the time wound itself, the swirling vortex before him, as his primary anchor. It was the point of entry, the gateway through which he had first been displaced. But he knew that relying solely on the wound was risky; it was a chaotic nexus of temporal energy, prone to fluctuations. He needed more stable points of reference.

He then pictured High Hrothgar, the ancient monastery perched atop the Throat of the World. Its very stones were steeped in history, a constant witness to the passage of time. He imagined its imposing presence, its unwavering solidity, anchoring him to this specific point in time and space.

Next, he turned inward, focusing on his own soul, the core of his being. It was the one constant throughout his travels, the thread that connected him to his own timeline. He visualized it as a bright, unwavering light, a beacon guiding him through the temporal currents.

He even considered other, more unconventional anchors. He thought of Harin, picturing her face, her voice, the shared memories that bound them. It was a tenuous connection, a thread stretching across time and space, but it was a thread nonetheless.

Finally, he thought of Paarthurnax, the ancient dragon, a being who had witnessed the turning of ages. The dragon's immense age and deep understanding of time made him an unlikely but powerful anchor, a fixed point in the ever-shifting currents of history.

With these anchors firmly in mind – the time wound, High Hrothgar, his own soul, Harin, and even Paarthurnax – Ibnor took a deep breath. He could feel the familiar pressure building within him, the raw power surging through his veins. He raised his hand, not with the hesitant gesture of his previous attempt, but with a deliberate, confident movement. He tore at the air before him, creating jagged tears in the fabric of reality. The tear shimmered and pulsed with different colors, each one a potential pathway through time.

He hesitated for only a moment, a brief flicker of doubt crossing his mind. This was far more ambitious than his previous attempt, a far greater exertion of his untamed power. But he knew he had to try. He had to go back.

With a final surge of will, Ibnor stepped through the nearest tear, the swirling vortex of colors and light engulfing him. As he vanished into the temporal currents, the other tears flickered and faded, leaving only the faint scent of ozone and the echoing whisper of his departure. Where he would end up, and in what time, remained to be seen.

He had meticulously set his anchors – the time wound, High Hrothgar, his own soul, Harin, and Paarthurnax – Ibnor felt a surge of confidence. This time, he was certain he could navigate the temporal currents and return to his proper timeline. He stepped through the tear, the swirling vortex of colors and light engulfing him, pulling him into the chaotic flow of time.

He felt the familiar disorientation, the sensation of being stretched and compressed, of past, present, and future blurring into a single, incomprehensible moment. But this time, there was a sense of direction, a pull towards a specific point in time and space. He could feel the anchors tugging at him, guiding him through the temporal labyrinth.

Just as he was about to reach the exit, a shadowy figure brushed against him, a fleeting presence in the chaotic currents. The unexpected contact threw him off balance, disrupting his focus and momentarily severing his connection to his anchors. Disoriented, he flailed, reaching out blindly for the exit.

He managed to grasp the edge of the time tunnel, but the sudden disruption had destabilized it. The smooth, flowing vortex had become turbulent, a churning maelstrom of temporal energy. The currents surged and crashed around him, no longer guiding him gently but instead buffeting him like a rag doll. He felt himself being crushed by the force, the sensation akin to being trapped inside a violently spinning washing machine, his body twisted and turned, his senses overwhelmed.

Then, just as suddenly as it began, the turbulence ceased. He was ejected from the time current with a jarring force, propelled outwards into the familiar air of Skyrim. But instead of landing gently on the stable ground near the time wound, he found himself hurtling towards the mountainside.

He landed hard, tumbling down the steep slope like a discarded rag doll. Rocks scraped against his body, and the wind was knocked out of him. For a moment, he lay there, stunned and disoriented, the world spinning around him. He felt bruised and battered, but surprisingly, nothing seemed broken. 

His time travels, and perhaps the strange energies he now wielded, had clearly toughened him. He pushed himself up slowly, wincing as his muscles protested. He was back in Skyrim, that much was certain, but where, and when, remained to be seen. He looked around, trying to get his bearings, the familiar peaks of the Throat of the World looming above him. He was close to High Hrothgar, but the disorienting journey had left him unsure of the exact time. The unexpected encounter within the time stream had clearly thrown his calculations off, leaving him stranded in an unknown point in his own past, present, or future.