I recommend reading 'The Bear's Cub' before this story, though it is not necessary.
This is NOT a happy story. You can find the WARNINGS in the AN at the bottom.
Home is a place not only of strong affections, but of entire unreserve; it is life's undress rehearsal, its backroom, its dressing room ~Harriet Beecher Stowe
The Imperial City has fallen.
It is the latest news from the south. It is the only news from the south. The letters reach the Jarl of Windhelm in the middle of the night, but the unique garb of the Imperial courier – now more brown than yellow from being splattered with mud, gains the man entrance to the Palace of Kings and into an audience with the Jarl. Before the first light of dawn spills over the city the Bear watches as torches are lit to the clamouring of bells and cries of 'Heyra! Heyra! Heyra!'
The small bright specks of fire spread from the richer districts of the city to the poorer, until Windhelm is lit up as only on the Day of Lights. Today is not for celebration though. The entire city seems to be holding its breath, and its residents gather in clusters around the criers. The Jarl orders his soldiers out to form protective rings around them before they are crushed by the frantic mob.
Men shout in anger and dismay and some women wail, their voices soon lost in the general clamour of 'Have you heard about -?', 'What news of -?', 'What do we do now?' and 'Is the war truly lost?' Sleepy acolytes in rumpled robes open the doors to the temples for anybody who wishes to seek solace in prayer.
Hænir retreats as well, but he does not go out to join the panicked masses at the overcrowded shrines. Instead he sets up the small shrine he keeps, the figurines and symbols of which were carved by his great-great grandfather, in his children's room. He prays for Freydís and the Eighth Legion and for Ulfric and the Fifth and for Ísalind without a Legion, because last he has heard she was stationed in Cheydinhal, using her talent at alchemy to supply healing potions to the warriors. He prays to Talos who must know of their peril and the strife with the elves and to Kyne, the Mother of Men, for surely a mother will watch over her children?
The war is said to be lost after that day, the Imperial Legion scattered and retreating, and a doomsayer prophesies to the outraged screams of his listeners that the days of the Dominion have now come, that the Thalmor will enslave all other races. His body is found on the next day, torn apart, and the guard does not bother to investigate.
They all wait. From the lowest dockworkers and fishermen to the merchants and shopkeepers, the Thanes and the Jarl, everybody longs for news of their loved ones. Rumours are what they get, always changing scraps of reports that are gobbled up for the half-truths they might contain, and that are as fleeting and unreliable as Riften day labourers. From one day to another not even the districts of Windhelm are in accord on what is true.
Almost half a year passes before they learn anything more solid. The guards at the outposts send word when the delegation arrives and Hænir stands on the lookout, watching and waiting as he has done for so long already. Eventually they roll into sight; columns of wagons and the foremost fly the banners of the Bear of Eastmarch. He feels his heart surge in nervous excitement and pushes off the balustrade to greet them and stops abruptly at the stairs when something else catches his eye.
The pace of the wagons and the soldiers flanking them is slow, deliberate almost and white flakes upon an empty field of blue fly second, the flags picked up and torn at by the wind. Mourning colours. Suddenly the Jarl cannot draw breath for the ache in his chest.
On the wagons there are three rectangular lumps hidden beneath cloth of the same colour, roughly man-sized.
Three children.
Three coffins.
oooo
A curious numb feeling takes hold of him entirely; Hænir's his hands tingle and when the pain strikes, blinding hot amidst the spreading cold, the world tilts and goes black.
oooo
He wakes up to the familiar sight of his ceiling and the vivid tapestries Líf had ordered made so many years ago in an attempt to make the stone keep a brighter, more inviting place. The Jarl rolls his head, feels a soreness linger in his muscles as if from a cramp and finally his eyes come to rest on Thorsten's slumped figure. His housecarl stirs when his lord wakes and helps him sit up.
Hænir drinks when a cup is handed to him, his mind chasing some elusive memory all the time.
"What happened?" the Jarl rasps.
Thorsten takes the cup and carefully puts it back on the nightstand before answering. Hænir sees that his housecarl has chewed the skin around his nails bloody. "The healers say your heart gave out."
And, just like that, everything comes back.
"You should not get up," Thorsten says softly, but when the Bear struggles out of bed he does not move to restrain him, but to help him get up.
Together they manage to shuffle through the keep and downstairs, and the familiar sights of his home are a blur in the Jarl's eyes. Breathing hurts and walking is agony, but it is nothing compared to the gaping emptiness in his chest where Hænir is convinced his heart has not yet resumed its work. He lets himself be led by his friend and does not understand at first why they stop when they do. Only when he looks up and the haze lifts does he behold the bier and what lies upon it.
The Bear doubles over as if hit in the gut by an invisible fist, one hand clasped over his mouth.
"Out!" he hears Thorsten bark at the soldiers on watch and they hasten to obey the housecarl's orders.
"Freydís and Hamvir," Thorsten gently says as he lays his hand on one lid, head bowed and, more quietly, "And Ísalind."
"What of Ulfric?" the Jarl manages to choke out despite the sudden ringing in his ears. He had known. He had known as soon as he had seen the procession, but... "What about my son?"
"I am sorry. They say he has gone missing."
The Bear sinks down on the nearest bench, vaguely aware of his friend's supporting arm. Other than that they do not speak, each lost in his own grief. He does not know how much time passes as they sit together, whether it is day outside or night. Nothing matters to the Jarl except that here lies what is left of his family. He is the most influential man in Windhelm and yet there is no power that can bring back his children. Hænir had come to terms with his wife's passing long ago because he had something else to keep him going. And now he has... a son reported missing months ago.
His head hits the wall at his back painfully. It would be easy to explain away the tears that spring to his eyes, but in the company of only his best friend he lets them fall freely. Sweet little Ísa who had just wanted to help and Frey, his eldest and heir. She had been such a brave, clever girl. He was no stranger to war and its dangers, but he never really thought that she would not come back. Believed her to be safe with her housecarl, his friend's firstborn. And now they are both gone.
"I was hoping we'd see them marry." The Jarl has to stop and swallow because he cannot bring out another sound and when he finally does it is only half of the sentence. " -was picturing our grandchildren- "
Next to him Thorsten's breathing turns laboured, but his gaze remains fixed towards the front. "They are in Sovngarde."
It is a hollow comfort to those left to linger.
oooo
The funeral ceremony is splendid and afterwards neither Hænir nor housecarl remember any of it, lost in grief and memories of a better, happier time. Life is slow to return back to its old rhythm for the two men. But both have a duty to perform, the Bear to his hold and people and Thorsten to his sovereign.
oooo
Thus, a year passes.
oooo
They have no more accurate news of what is happening on the front. Titus Mede is still negotiating with the Dominion. The Nord and Imperial forces are scattered, one Legion has been annihilated, two more had to be merged into a new one. They are withdrawing ever further, up to Bruma and Skyrim while Decianus is tied down in Hammerfell.
And then, without anything to announce their coming, the riders arrive two months later. The war is over! The Imperial City has been retaken! Both sides are too weak to continue fighting! For the first time there is talk, not of victory or defeat, but of peace.
The outrage when Emperor Titus Mede signs the Whitegold Concordat drives the citizens of Windhelm out of their homes and onto the streets in protest.
The first survivors begin trickle in a short while later and Hænir finds himself more and more often standing atop the battlements, straining his eyes for the blue banners of the Bear of Eastmarch or the blue-white flags that will reveal his son's fate. When they appear on the horizon he is not sure he is prepared to face what he fears is surely coming.
"Galmar!" Throsten bellows in a voice that probably carries halfway to Kynesgrove upon recognizing one of the riders flanking a wagon. The figure rises in its stirrups and waves, and the housecarl laughs and turns to embrace his friend only to stop in the last moment. His expression crumbles slowly, becomes sober again.
"Go," the Bear whispers softly. As much as it hurts, as much as some small, hateful and bitter voice in the back of his head whispers that it should be the Jarl's children returning victorious; he will not begrudge his best friend the joy. He will not ruin it with his jealousy. Thorsten deserves better than that. Instead he moves to follow his housecarl slowly. Ever since his collapse he has to be careful not to overexert himself.
As the wagons roll on more and more spectators gather, names are shouted and tears cried and within a short time the streets are full of people frantically searching for family members. A few carriages manage to force their way through the thong and onto palace grounds. The Jarl stands and watches the chaos wringing his hands, for once overlooked and forgotten.
Further below, out of sight and hearing Thorsten and his son clash together like two armies. Nobody pays the pair much of a mind and with hundreds of citizens crowding around them they have a strange kind of privacy.
"Rolff is somewhere in the back," Galmar tells his father first once they have found their words again through the joy and tears and Thorsten closes his eyes for a heartbeat to thank all the Gods for bringing his remaining two children back to him.
"What about Ulfric?" he asks, not having forgotten about his friend.
Galmar's expression grows troubled and closes; he looks away. "They got him," he admits silently and Thorsten cannot believe what he hears.
"He's dead?" the man asks, dread coiling in his chest, colder than the bite of an icewraith.
Galmar shakes his head. "No," he says but he sounds tired and defeated. "But he spends his waking hours wishing he was."
AN: WARNING for strong language, blood and gore, death, trauma and graphic depictions of every other ugly thing associated with war, the Thalmor and torture.