Chapter XLVIII - Missing In Action

In the weeks after Morthal's campaign many now believed that the Empire had Ulfric on the run - with many hoping for a speedy end to the never-ending conflict. After the news of his party's defeat at Morthal, Ulfric seemed drained and depressed at the loss of his men, general, captains and of course, his Dragonborn. Before the Jarl of Windhelm was sitting at the table of battle and grinning as he was playing with a full house, radiating in his appearance of being untouchable. Now all he had was a single knave, and his enemies all lined the table with better hands waiting to snap him up, lest he let his guard down. Ulfric had a single card left, and he was playing this one mighty close to his chest.

News quickly spread all over the Nine Holds of the Stormcloaks crushing defeat at Morthal. Taverns buzzed with the common and endless theories, fantasies and rumours which often accumulated in these places - not even a thread of truth or knowledge coming from any well-informed mouth as there were none. When news finally reached Whiterun of an Imperial victory, Vilkas felt his hackles go up. He was informed first of Fehn's demise at the hands of the Morthal guards, then of the apparent cause-crushing effects her death had inflicted upon Ulfric's campaign. Vilkas had nodded and listened intently, but his mind kept drifting and returning to one thing; he knew in his heart that Fehn was alive out there somewhere. Taking a swig of his mead, he detached himself from the talk of the tavern and made his way into the back, hoping for a clandestine exit when he happened upon Hulda.

The old Nord was bent over the stew pot and was stirring it slowly, Vilkas was about to tap the old woman on the shoulder and whisper a quick goodbye when he heard a tiny sniffle escape her. Nervously, Vilkas prowled around her and joked lightly,

"So, tears are the seasoning in your stew, eh? Who knew?"

The old Nord jumped and quickly smiled at him. Wiping away her tears, she nodded to the stew,

"Ah, no, this dish has plenty a' onions in it. The onions keep me weeping."

At that Vilkas nodded, saying nothing and pointed to the door,

"I'm heading off now, Huld...You sure that you're alright, I can kick the patrons out if you like?"

Hulda smiled at his worry and leaned forward and pinched his cheek before shaking her greying head,

"M'dear if I kicked out the patrons every time I felt the familiar sadness of loss engulf my old heart, I wouldn't have an inn. No, dear, I'm fine. You go, and be safe."

Returning to Jorvaskrr, Vilkas slipped in the front door without making a sound. As he was creeping through the silent hall, he heard Vignar's voice come from his room. It was strange that he should hear Vignar, since the old coot had became Jarl he had taken up residence in Dragonsreach with Balgruuf's now estranged children - which were now Vignar's wards. Cocking an eyebrow at Vignar's old raspings, Vilkas sneaked over to the threshold of his room and peered in. Vignar was sitting at his desk, his back ro Vilkas with a feather quill in his hand - he was penning a letter. Suddenly Vilkas's eyes widened when the old man said blandly,

"Y'know if you're going to be a sneak, Vilkas, you might aswell change to some lighter armour."

Vilkas let out a sigh and got to his feet. Moving over to Vignar, he took a seat that was across from the old man, yet veered off a little so Vilkas couldn't see what Vignar was scribbling down at lightning speed. They sat in silence for a moment, the only sound was Vignar's quill as it scratched into the thick creamy parchment before Vignar commented in an idle tone,

"Those Battleborn's are up t' something, Vilkas. Mark my words. They've got dealings with those milk drinking Legionares, I'd bet my bonnet on it."

Vilkas nodded in agreement; it was no secret to them in Whiterun - or those who were interested in other's political dealings - that the Battleborn's were staunch supporters to the Empire. The Battleborns and the Greymanes had been locked in a clan feud that had been ignited since the beginning of the rebellion some ten years ago. Vilkas had no time to debate with whose lot was better than whose, but he found himself always siding with the Greymane's, mostly because Eorland was a good friend who kept his bread and butter sharpened and Vignar was one of the senior members of the Companions and deserved his respect as a junior. As Vignar appeared to have forgotten he was there, Vilkas got up and made for the door,

"I know what you're thinking, boy."

Said Vignar in a quiet voice and when Vilkas turned around to look at him, the old man was leaning over the back of his seat - his pale eyes riveted on Vilkas.

"I'm writing to Ulfric now, telling him that we're running an enquiry...You were quite close to that morsel that he sent our way for training, the Dragonborn?"

Confused as to where the old man was going with this, Vilkas nodded and sat back down, waiting for Vignar to speak,

"There's been rumours, that the Empire may have taken a few..."

Vilkas watched him fixated as he searched for the correct word,

"Hostages. As informants. One of them, Vilkas, was my brother's son. You know what I'm saying?"

Vilkas bobbed his head; another public secret in Whiterun was the blame the Greymane's had thrown on the Battleborn's after their youngest son, Thorald, had been apparently killed in battle. The Greymanes outright refused to believe such a claim and for the better part of the last four months, had been badgering the Battleborn's for answers. Vilkas was intrigued to see where Vignar would take this conversation and waited as the old man spoke,

"I can see it in your eyes, Vilkas. You look like my brother. I have had to watch him and his wife look like that for four months for Thorald. They walk around with orbs of glass for eyes, because they know that somewhere out in the world, their Thorald's alive. You look like that for the morsel. D'you think in your heart of hearts, that the child is still on Nirn, or are you just hoping?"

Vilkas's eyes dropped to the floor, he didn't know why he knew that Fehn was alive, just something in his mind was telling him so. It never even occurred to him that he was maybe just simply in denial, but Vilkas had been a warrior and a Companion almost all of his days - he knew when to trust his gut. Returning his blue eyes to Vignar, Vilkas nodded mutely,

"I do think she is alive."

There was another pause from Vignar as he too nodded and his eyes became distant as he thought. Vilkas watched as the old man's eyes glistened and then listened as he spoke,

"All my long years I've watched young people run off to various causes to their deaths...I hate seeing my brother like this, you know...Eorland's a quiet man at the best of times, but these days he walks with a heavy heart, a heavy, heavy heart. I'm only running this enquiry because Ulfric suggested we do, but if I could bring my brother's happiness back, I would do so. Here, you take this, go'n speak to Koldlak, he'll brief you on what you're to be doing."

Vilkas held out his hand and Vignar placed the letter he'd written into his palm. The name on the envelope read, 'Ulfric Stormcloak'. Getting to his feet, Vilkas eyed the letter and was about to leave the room, when Vignar gently brushed his arm,

"I have no children,"

The old man said in a small voice that was thick with memory and emotion,

"My one goal in life was to respect the old ways, to fight for honour, for glory. To be a Nord, Vilkas. My one goal was to be a good Nord, but I have failed because I forgot that to be a Nord is not to forego your family. If I can bring back Thonar, then I have completed my goal, and after that the morning sun can take my in its flames for its own and I would be welcomed into the halls of Sovngarde...Yes, that is a life which is fit for a Nord. Kodlak's beginning to fear death, y'know? I fear for him too."

Vilkas's brow was set as Vignar seemed to be looking past him to the near future and he shook his head as he spoke, his eyes half-lidded,

"I fear I won't find him there, in Sovngarde."