THE THU’UM IN MY LUNGS

SKYRIM — “THE THU’UM IN MY LUNGS”

I didn’t ask for this mark on my soul,

but the Greybeards heard me before I even knew my own voice.

One shout, and the world tilted—

like the mountains themselves stepped back to watch.

People look at me like I’m chosen…

Nah. I’m just trying to make sense of why dragons woke up

the same day I crawled out of Helgen’s ashes.

Every step feels like the gods rolling dice

and I’m the only one stuck playing the table.

I breathe in… the sky tightens…

and something in me answers with power I don’t understand.

Skyrim’s cold cuts deep,

not just the wind—people’s eyes are colder.

Every hold wants something:

Jarl needs a favor, guard wants a bribe,

mages want answers, vampires want blood.

And me? I just want a path that doesn’t end in a grave.

Two choices every time:

save a village or let it burn,

follow the prophecy or break it,

trust the Blades or trust the Greybeards

even though both act like they own my fate.

Still… every dragon I face reminds me—

I’m the only thing standing between this land

and fire raining from the clouds.

Dragons fall, and their souls rush into me

like the world is trying to fill an empty vessel.

But I’m filling up—

with fear, with purpose, with voices older than the Alps.

Every shout feels heavier:

Fus Ro Dah cracking through stone,

Yol Toor Shul lighting up the sky,

and that whisper of Dovahzul I never learned but somehow know.

Three souls, then ten, then more—

and each one drags me closer to something ancient.

Some days I wonder if I’m still me

or just a walking echo of the dragons I’ve slain.

I carry the voice of kings,

but no crown sits right.

The world bows when I roar,

but the silence after scares me more.

Call me Dragonborn if you want—

I call myself the one who never got a choice.