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Ralof and Hadvar walked into the inn on the third Fredas of Evening Star, a common occurrence for the couple, especially as the cold of winter made herself at home in the heart of Skyrim. It had been about two and a half years since Hadvar had settled down in Riverwood for good, and things seemed to still be going well. Hadvar found it easy to love Ralof, as he always had. For the first year or so, he had guarded himself, waiting for things to go wrong. But things hadn’t gone wrong, so he was still here. Their smiles came easy and free as they greeted the regulars and sat at their usual table. Hadvar shivered, shaking snow from his shoulders.

“Careful snowbear, or Delphine will throw us back out into the blizzard,” Ralof said, reaching around Hadvar’s broad back to brush the remaining snowflakes onto the floor.

“Damn right I will,” drawled the voice of Delphine, the grouchy innkeep herself. “You call this a blizzard? Give it a few weeks, then we'll start seeing actual blizzards.”

Hadvar winced slightly, worried for a moment that she might actually kick them back into the snow. “Ah. Delphine. How lovely to--”

“Your usual then?” Delphine interrupted, disinterested in pleasantries.

Ralof took over, “Yes, thank you.” Delphine rolled her eyes and stomped away toward the counter to grab their meads. Ralof bumped his shoulder affectionately into Hadvar’s. “Old bird gets meaner everyday.”

Hadvar cracked a smile. They sat in companionable silence until Delphine brought their tankards. “Ten septims," she said matter-of-factly.

“Put it on my tab," Ralof answered, unconcerned. Delphine rolled her eyes and walked away, muttering about “godsdamned" and “death of me".

As she walked off, Ralof reached for a parchment in the middle of their table. It was common for advertisements or important news to be made known through this method. He flourished it dramatically, holding it so that Hadvar could read as well. Hadvar's blood went cold as he read: “All true sons and daughters of Skyrim: Go to Windhelm! Ulfric Stormcloak has work for you.” The Stormcloak insignia was stamped boldly onto the parchment. Hadvar grimaced. “Things are getting worse. He’s openly recruiting.”

Ralof huffed and shifted uncomfortably on the bench. “Y’ever think about. . . joining up?” Hadvar tensed up. His own father had joined the Imperial Army and been killed in the Great War against the Aldmeri Dominion a couple decades ago. Ralof knew damn well that he thought about it often, thought about how war had destroyed his family. He had never wanted to go down that path himself. Hadvar was a peaceful man. But it was increasingly difficult to watch the country be torn apart from within, weakened at a critical point when they needed to stick together more than ever so they would be strong enough to face the Aldmeri Dominion when the White Gold Concordat eventually degraded. If ever there was a time to put aside his reservations and do what needed to be done, it was rapidly approaching.

“Yeah. I think about it,” Hadvar said gruffly into his tankard. He took a long swig and felt the heat of fear and drink wash through him. He felt Ralof relax slightly next to him; clearly he had worried that his question would upset Hadvar.

Ralof cleared his throat and sat up a little straighter. “Can’t keep watching these damn elves sink their teeth into us. I know you don’t like the idea but. . . I owe it to Skyrim. She deserves to be free from these pigs.” This time it was Ralof’s turn to take a long drink from his cup. Hadvar felt ill. Surely, Ralof didn’t mean--

“Surely you don’t mean to join the Stormcloaks? Listen, I don’t like the Thalmor any more than you do but what Ulfric’s doing? It’s not the answer,” Hadvar said in a hushed tone. “He’s going to make us destroy ourselves so the Thalmor can clean up whatever’s left.”

Ralof scoffed coldly. “You can’t possibly think that the Empire can do anything to save us? Nord men and women will be the first in line to get fried by those damn elves the second things go to shit. The best thing we can do is have it be on our own terms. We’re not pawns to be put down first on the Emperor’s war board,” he responded, nearly shouting at the end and setting down his tankard just a little too hard, sloshing a bit onto the table.

Hadvar set his down softly. “I see. And what do you think happens when Ulfric’s little band of rebels and the Imperial Army hack away at each other and those ‘damn elves’ barely have to lift a finger to wipe out whoever is left to stand in their way?” Now it was Hadvar’s turn to grow angry. “Not even to mention Ulfric himself. Have you seen what he’s done in Windhelm? Cramming all the Dunmer refugees who fled the volcano into one street? Forcing the Argonians to sleep outside the city and freeze? Is that the man you want to follow?” Hadvar realized that he was standing up. Ralof was staring into his mead.

“I’m not saying he’s perfect, Hadvar. But I can’t just stand by and let the Empire crush us like this,” Ralof said, quieter this time. Hadvar looked around and saw people staring at them. Heat rose into his cheeks.
“Ralof I’m. . . I’m going home. I’ll see you there. We can talk about this later.” Without looking behind him to see what Ralof did, Hadvar rushed out into the cold. It had grown dark outside while they had been in The Sleeping Giant. Hadvar pulled his cloak tight around his shoulders and fought tears as he began the short trek to their home. He had a sick feeling in the pit of his gut. These are the sort of disagreements that end things. Thoughts of his parents and their many arguments flooded into his brain. His father yelling about duty and honor, his mother yelling back about duty to his family. The cold bit harder against his cheek, telling him a tear had fallen against his will.

His boots crunched against the snow that had fallen upon the path to their door. Curses spilled under his breath as the key clattered onto the stones. As he leant down to grab it, another hand reached for it.
“I’m sorry, snowbear. Let me get it.” Ralof’s right hand grabbed the key, while his left settled gently on Hadvar’s lower back as they rose. They went inside silently. Hadvar sat at the little table they shared and Ralof got a fire going to drive the cold from the house.

Satisfied with the state of the fire, Ralof stood and brushed his hands onto his tunic. He walked carefully over to the table and brought the second chair around so it was directly in front of Hadvar’s. The blond Nord held out his pale hands. Hadvar hesitantly reached out and set his hands in Ralof’s. He studied them for a moment, taking note of the many differences. His own hands were smaller, softer. Tan from the Cyrodyllic sun in the Imperial City. Ralof’s were the opposite: coarse skin stretched over his long, pale fingers. But those pale hands had held him close for the past few years, and the summers of years previous. They could get through this. . . right?

“Forgive me, dear. I don’t want to fight about this. I don’t want to fight at all,” Hadvar said quietly.

Ralof leaned forward and kissed his forehead. “I know, snowbear. You’re not from here; I can’t expect you to understand. Once you’re here a few more years, you’ll get it.”

This didn’t sit right with Hadvar and only served to worsen the tight knot in his core. But Ralof gently lifted Hadvar’s chin with a finger and kissed him properly this time. Maybe he was right. Maybe, in time, he would see something that he was currently blind to. The war wasn’t on their doorstep yet, just the winter.

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Ralof awoke with worry still in his throat, despite Hadvar’s strong arms still wrapped around him. He lay there for a while, contemplating his words from the previous night. Perhaps he had taken things too far. Perhaps Hadvar couldn’t be expected to understand the fight for Skyrim’s independence. He would come around. He had to.

Hadvar stirred slightly, running his sleepy hands down Ralof’s bare chest. “Mornin’ sweet,” he murmured into Ralof’s ear. Ralof flipped himself around so that he was facing his lover, huddled in close. He took in the details of Hadvar’s face, softened with sleep, eyes still closed. A strong brow, large crooked nose, square jaw, and behind his eyelids were the brownest eyes Ralof had ever seen. Which was saying a lot in Skyrim.

Hadvar had a way of cooling the fires constantly burning their way out of Ralof’s brain and into his mouth. Ralof could be spitting mad as a skeever and Hadvar would just calmly respond in a way that instantly put him at ease. But sometimes. . . sometimes Ralof wanted the fire. Fire keeps you warm in the winter. Fire can save your life. Fire could cauterize an open wound.

Ralof knew he was going to join the Stormcloaks. He had decided days ago when the Stormcloak messengers who had brought the fliers to the inn had also dropped a few off at the mill. He knew in his heart that Skyrim should be free and that she never would be until men like him made the difficult choice. Until they began to feed their fires. But after seeing how Hadvar reacted last night, Ralof was suddenly unsure of how to break the news.

In his head, the conversation had played out very differently. In his head, he told Hadvar he’d been thinking about it, and Hadvar agreed. Imaginary Hadvar had said that he’d lived in Skyrim long enough to fall in love with her and that she deserved to be free. Imaginary Hadvar had immediately understood.

But Imaginary Hadvar was not laying in bed with him on this chilly early winter morning. Real Hadvar was. And Real Hadvar did not seem to understand at all. Heat rose to Ralof’s cheeks as he recalled his hot-headed words from the previous night. He had, for a moment, considered sitting in the inn for a few hours drinking and brooding, but. . . he’d changed his mind. If he didn’t know any better, he’d think Hadvar had been crying, but it could’ve been the cold wind making his eyes puff up.

Ralof began running through the different things he could say to convince Hadvar to come with him. In spite of his lover’s reservations, Ralof couldn’t help but fall back into his imaginings of the two of them in the same unit. Camping in the cold together, fighting against Imperials, doing something, anything, to help the cause. Together. But when he opened his eyes, Hadvar was still Real Hadvar. Who had probably not changed his mind since last night. Who would probably not be up for a trip to Windhelm.

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When Hadvar finally stumbled out of their bed and made his way to the table, he found hot sunny side up eggs with toast waiting for him. He gave a thankful smile to the man who made it and dug in. After a few ravenous bites, he realized Ralof wasn’t eating, in spite of the plate full of steaming eggs in front of him. “Not hungry, then?” said Hadvar warily.

Ralof cleared his throat and shifted in his seat. “Hadvar I’m-- well, I’m going to Windhelm. Next time a unit comes through here. I think it’ll be a week or so. I want you to come with me.” He said this all very matter-of-factly, as if he was not ruining everything they had built over the past several years.

Hadvar was suddenly not hungry at all. He leaned back in his seat, his mind racing. “What? You’re not going to say anything?” Ralof exclaimed, his ears turning tomato red.

“I’m not sure what you want me to say,” Hadvar said softly. “You’re going to get yourself killed and you want me to come with you? Even if I agreed with what Ulfric was doing--”

“He is doing what needs to be done! Skyrim needs to be free and never will be under the thumb of your Empire,” Ralof interrupted, his fist balling on the table next to his breakfast.

“Oh, it’s my Empire now? Ralof, Skyrim relies on the Empire. It’ll crumble in on itself within a year without the Empire’s protection. You’re helping him rip Skyrim apart from the inside! If you really cared about Skyrim you would fight for the Empire and put this foolish rebellion to rest,” Hadvar said, now raising his own voice.

“Call me a fool again!” Ralof shouted, standing up so fast that his wooden chair pushed over and clattered onto the floor.

“Nobody called you a fool, but you’d have to be exactly that to run off to Windhelm,” Hadvar growled.

“Get out” Ralof’s words hung in the air for a moment that seemed to last the entire winter, but when Hadvar got outside with a small bag of his things, it was even colder than the night before. So it can’t have been that long after all.

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Ralof tossed Hadvar’s breakfast across the house, and his own followed a moment later. His eyes began to sting, but he blinked it away angrily. Hadvar would never understand. He stood still for several minutes in the cold, silent house, breathing heavily. Hadvar had left. Ralof had told him to, of course, but he hadn’t just gone out for a walk. He’d grabbed a bag. He’d packed his clothes. Talos take his stupid temper. Visions swam in his head of his father and some of the last words he’d said before he was found belly up down the river near Falkreath. You’re just like me. Angry. It’ll destroy everything you love. It’ll burn you out and leave you with nothing. You’re going to die with nothing, just like I am. 

Ralof grabbed a rag and went to clean up the breakfast he’d thrown across the room. Hadvar would be back. He shouldn’t come back, but he would. Ralof’s mom always came home. And her husband always did it again. And Ralof would do it again. 

He was overcome with a wave of disgust at himself. He wouldn’t let Hadvar go through what his mother went through. If Hadvar came back, Ralof would turn him away at the door. And then, if the day came where Ralof was face down on the riverbank, Hadvar would not have to grieve.

***

Hadvar knocked numbly on Alvor’s door. His Aunt Sigrid answered after a few moments and her eyes widened in surprise before saying, “Hadvar! Is everything ok? Come in, come in.” She ushered him inside, looking around to see if anything concerning was going on in the street. 

Hadvar stepped through the door and closed it behind him. “Sorry for just dropping in like this. I know it’s early.” He shifted uncomfortably.

Alvor, who was sitting at the table and halfway through eating his breakfast, said, “Nonsense, boy. Everything alright?” He raised an eyebrow, looking Hadvar up and down with concern.

Hadvar plopped into a chair at the table across from his uncle. “Ralof has it in his head to run off and join the Stormcloaks. I told him what I thought about that. He told me to get out.” The words didn’t feel like his own. His voice sounded flat and far away from him.

Alvor rolled his eyes. “Hot-head. He’ll come around.” He bit his lip and paused a minute before cautiously saying, “He didn’t. . . hit you, did he?” 

Hadvar immediately recalled that Alvor had had the displeasure of knowing Ralof’s father and quickly shook his head. Ralof was indeed a hot-head, but he’d never raised a hand to Hadvar, no matter how angry he got. Ralof may have gotten his father’s temper, but he had his mother’s kind heart and was often as quick to cool as he was to ignite. “Should I go back? I--” His voice caught briefly in his throat. “I brought some clothes.”

Sigrid jumped in saying, “Give him a day or so to cool off. You can sleep downstairs. You know you’re always welcome here, dear.” Sigrid and Alvor made concerned looking eye-contact, a silent communication with each other. 

“Just give him some time. He’ll come around. He’s not going to throw his life away on this damned rebellion,” Alvor said, but the crease between his brows betrayed his doubt. Hadvar just nodded his head, choosing to believe what Alvor had said, even if Alvor didn’t.

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Ralof took another drink from his bottle. He’d been preparing himself for what needed to be done for the last couple of days. He didn’t know which would be worse: Hadvar showing up and him having to drive him off, or Hadvar not coming back at all. Both would hurt; there was no way out of it. So when the knock at the door finally came, Ralof took a shuddering breath and stumbled toward the door, grabbing the bag he had put on the bed. He closed his eyes and prepared himself. He opened the door.

“Ralof I--” Hadvar began, clearly nervous. The sight of his timid face nearly undid Ralof. All the resolve he had built up through drink and willpower began to slip from his hands. But his mother’s bruised face swam in his mind and he held tight to what he had intended to do. 

“I’m leaving. I’ll stay with my sister for the week. And then after that you won’t have to see me again.” He said the words coldly, not letting any of his emotions cloud into his voice. 

The shock written into Hadvar’s face burrowed deep into Ralof’s heart and made itself a home there. It was not a face he would easily forget. “That’s not-- what do you mean? Stay with me; we can talk about this. Don’t go,” Hadvar said, his voice thick with fear.

“Don’t you get it? You’ll never get it! I want to go, you don’t. I’m going, you’re not. What else is there to discuss? Let me out,” Ralof growled, not wanting to push past the bigger man blocking the doorway. For a moment, Ralof was afraid that he wasn’t going to move. He knew that if Hadvar pushed hard enough, he would break. But Hadvar was never one to push.

Hadvar stepped out of the way, a broken look in his eyes. Ralof didn’t wait around and stormed toward Gerdur’s house.

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The week passed in agony. Hadvar and Ralof’s home, now just half inhabited, was colder than it ever had been. In the week of mostly isolation, Hadvar had decided that it was time to stand up for what he believed in. Ralof was wrong. Skyrim had saved Hadvar. Given him refuge and safety during the summers of his youth and even more so since he had settled there.

 His father had been an Imperial, but his mother was a strong Nord woman who had always looked out of place in the south. Her pale features, her stubborn nature, and her dislike of the warm weather set her apart from everyone he’d known in the Imperial City. When he was a young teen, she started sending him to stay with Alvor, her brother, for the summers. He had quickly fallen head over heels for Skyrim, and for the local blond troublemaking rascal. Ralof was the one who didn’t understand; Skyrim was as much his home as anyone else’s.

 And Hadvar would be godsdamned if he didn’t fight for her. He was headed for Solitude in the morning to join the Imperial army. As much grief as he felt for his relationship with Ralof, the one person who knew him better than anyone ever had, the decision to go to Solitude had settled his heart and he knew it was the right choice. 

 He got out of the bed he’d spent so much time in over the past several days, dressed, and readied himself for a walk to the inn. He strapped his sword to his belt, always a good practice when leaving the house in such a small, unprotected village. The hilt caught his eye and his thoughts, engraved with his father’s personal insignia. He gazed down at the little carved bear with rubies for eyes, frozen in a roar. Despite their current status, he couldn’t help but think of Ralof calling him snowbear and how much he would miss the moniker. 

 Tonight was his last night in Riverwood for a long while. He would stop in the inn for one last ale and hopefully nobody would bother him. It was a short walk and the longer he breathed the fresh air the better he felt. But the good feeling didn’t last; the first thing he saw upon entering the inn was blue. Men and women dressed in Stormcloak color filled the bulk of the inn and Hadvar cursed his own stupidity. Ralof had told him that the unit would be here in a week. As he scanned the faces, he went pale, for there was his former lover, dressed and ready for Windhelm. His gaze lingered a moment too long and Ralof met it.

 Perhaps emboldened by his new comrades, Ralof deigned to approach. “Where are you going?” Hadvar might’ve imagined it, but for a second, there appeared a spark of hope in his eyes. 
 Hadvar shifted uneasily. He knew if they tried to start a fight, Orgnar would have their heads. But Ralof deserved the truth. “Solitude,” he said. His voice was quiet, but he stood up straight, confident in his choice. 

 Disgust and shock flashed across Ralof’s face in equal measure. “You can’t be serious. You’re so mad at me that you’re going to go die for those elf pigs?” Ralof spat at him.

 Hadvar felt his face twist into a grimace. “Don't be daft. You do whatever you think is right and leave me to do the same. Go help Ulfric rip apart this country you say you love so much.” He knew it was cruel, but the words had come out before he could stop them. How dare Ralof accuse him of being so small and petty? He knew he shouldn’t have called the man daft though, that always set him off. 

 Sure enough, Ralof turned red as a tomato and put his hand on the hilt of his sword. “How dare you!” The other Stormcloaks surrounding him drew their swords, staring at him menacingly.

 He stepped back toward the door. Orgnar was heading over. But Hadvar couldn’t let it rest. “What, are you going to draw on me, Ralof? And what then? Are you and your little friends going to kill me? Coward,” he bit back at the person he loved most in the world. Ralof gave a shout and drew his sword, pointing it at Hadvar but not moving toward him. 

 Hadvar began to turn toward the door but stopped as he remembered an old Skyrim custom Ralof had told him about months back. If a man appears to challenge you, give him your weapon. If he gives it back, you’ll need it. If he doesn’t, you’ll have peace. It had seemed foolish at the time. What reason was there to surrender your means of defending yourself to someone who could use it against you? Why make yourself vulnerable in the midst of conflict? Nords and their honor. 

 But Ralof had pointed a weapon at him. A sharp iron sword that hadn’t tasted blood in years, pointed at him by his former lover. Before he could see reason and stop himself, he had whipped back around, unsheathed his sword, and threw it at Ralof’s feet. There was a great clattering noise and then silence for several seconds. Hadvar turned for good this time, stormed out, and slammed the door behind him. He heard Orgnar yelling at the Stormcloaks in there for causing a ruckus, and Delphine followed Hadvar into the empty street. 

 “Slam my door like that again and you’ll regret it,” she said flatly, pulling rolled tobacco from her pocket. Hadvar stood still in the road with his gaze firmly fixed on the river that had not yet frozen, breathing heavily. She walked up next to him and handed him a smoke. Matches were produced from a different pocket and she lit his first and then her own. 

Hadvar took a long drag before saying, “Sorry about the door.”

“I’ll put it on your tab.” 

And they stood there a while longer in a heavy but not uncomfortable silence. “I’m leaving tomorrow. Heading to Solitude,” he said finally.

“You and Ralof splitting for good then?”

Hadvar nodded, noting the prickle of tears welling in his eyes. He steeled himself only because he didn’t want them to freeze to his face. 

“But you’re going to Solitude for you, right?” she asked. If he didn’t know better he would think she cared for him, just a little.

He nodded again. “Feels right. Not perfect, but when you see the bigger picture of it all. . . it’s the right answer.” 

Delphine ground the remains of her tobacco into the ground under her boot. “Don’t die out there.”

Hadvar offered her a smile. “Thanks Delphine. Really. I’ll be fine.” 

She turned and went back inside, where things had calmed considerably, letting the laughter and song drift out into the street for a brief moment. 

Hadvar took a deep breath, more certain than ever that he was on the right path. Ralof never returned his sword, so Hadvar decided he was better off without it. He was always better with a bow anyway.

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Days became weeks, weeks became months, and Hadvar made himself indispensable to General Tullius, a man he had looked up to as a boy and now served. Despite his reservations, it turned out Hadvar had a knack for war. His quick thinking and skill with a blade got them out of several pinches. It was Hadvar who had orchestrated the great trap that would end the war. 

He and the other legionnaires, a small unit of around 50 men, crouched silently on either side of the road as the small Stormcloak group marched in a disorganized fashion down the path. Hadvar held up a fist and the Imperial soldiers all were still, waiting for his signal. But then, Hadvar’s attention was stolen as he saw a familiar face, pale with ruddy cheeks and yellow blond hair, recognizable in spite of the dirt on his face and the exhaustion in his eyes, glimmering in the light of the torch he held. Ralof looked thin and tired. Hadvar could see that even through the blue cloth hanging over his chainmail. As Ulfric Stormcloak himself got closer, Hadvar was almost too distracted to signal. Almost. 

His breath caught and he straightened his hand and flicked his wrist forward. At once, the legionnaires leaped out of the brush and surrounded the smaller party of Stormcloaks. It seems Ulfric really was travelling light, trying to smuggle himself into Cyrodil to buy support from the Empire’s enemies from within.

The Stormcloaks pulled their swords, ready to fight back, but Ulfric, who had 3 decades of military experience and knew how to count, held a gloved hand up. “Lower your swords, boys.” Ulfric’s voice was a thunderstorm on the horizon, a quiet rumbling full of unseen power. Even Hadvar felt an absurd urge to do as he commanded. The Stormcloaks cursed and spat but sheathed their weapons on his order. They hung their heads in despair and shame. It was dark and Hadvar’s face was obscured by his helmet, but he knew at some point Ralof would look up and recognize him. His guts twisted as he realized what would await Ralof in Helgan. A chopping block for Ulfric and his closest crew. 

There was a primal urge to rip off his helmet, grab Ralof’s hand, and start running. In spite of everything that had happened, Hadvar’s heart was still bursting with love for the headstrong fool. But he knew what he would decide. He knew what was going to happen. He wasn’t going to take Ralof’s hand. They weren’t going to run away together. That chapter had ended badly, and he wasn’t going to let himself get swept up again. This wasn’t a romance, it was a tragedy, and it had been from the start. Two boys who fell in love and the war that would rip them apart. They were doomed from the first time their eyes met; every kiss had been another nail in the coffin.

“Hadvar!” called the Legate sharply. “Strip them of their weapons. Check them thoroughly.”

Hadvar’s heart skipped a beat and he silently cursed her for saying his name as Ralof’s head snapped up to scan the faces of the Imperial soldiers, eventually settling on his. Countless emotions streamed across Ralof’s face, settling on a look of pure hatred. “Yes, Captain,” Hadvar managed to get out without choking. 

“Hands up, dogs! I see any one of you reach for a weapon, you’ll be dead before it’s in your hand,” barked Legate Amata, her voice ringing through the forest. 

The Stormcloaks begrudgingly agreed after Ulfric nodded. Hadvar began to strip them of their weapons and a couple Imperial soldiers, as planned, stepped forward to gag Ulfric so he wouldn’t be able to use the Voice. Hadvar began his task on the side further away from Ralof, trying to put off the inevitable. But the Stormcloaks armor was rather bare bones and there weren’t a lot of places to hide weapons, so it was quick work. By the time he got to Ralof, whose face was shrouded in darkness now that his torch had been taken, his heart was racing like a deer caught in a bear trap. 

He was grateful for the darkness so Ralof couldn’t see the pink heat creeping into his face. His guts twisted into knots as he approached. Ralof’s face was set into a steely grimace of despair. Hadvar hesitated only a moment before starting with the man’s arms. They had swollen with muscles that hadn’t been there last he’d seen him. He thought surely Ralof must hear his heart beating out of his chest as he continued downward. It was sickening to be touching him this way, violating the privacy of the man who once loved him. 

Stop thinking like that. This is your job. He’s just another soldier. He’s just another--

“Your hand is shaking.”

It had been said so quietly Hadvar thought he had imagined it or maybe misheard from where he was crouched down searching Ralof’s legs. But as he looked up, Ralof was smirking in a way that didn’t meet his eyes. It quickly faded. Satisfied that there were no knives hidden anywhere on the man, Hadvar stood and looked Ralof in the eye. He held the gaze stubbornly, only inches between them as he reached down and untied Ralof’s sword from his hip. Ralof winced slightly as it came undone, but straightened his face so quickly Hadvar was sure he’d imagined it. 

Even after the sword was secure in his hands, Hadvar stayed just a second longer. There was so much he wanted to say. So much he wanted to do. But they’d had their chance to talk it out, hadn’t they? All those months ago, back in Riverwood, when the world felt bright and hopeful. He turned away from Ralof and walked toward the General. As he adjusted the sword in his hands, he realized that it was much higher quality than most of the cheaply fashioned iron most Stormcloaks carried. His breath caught in his throat when he took a closer look and saw the little carved bear with ruby eyes, flickering in the torch light.

No. . . it couldn’t be. He whipped back around to Ralof, but one of the other Imperial soldiers was taking a roster of names. Hadvar was so focused on him that he started when General Tullius slapped him on the back and said, “Good work, soldier. I’ll rest easier when his head is separated from his body, but this is a good start.” 

Hadvar straightened up, eyes still on Ralof, whose hands were now bound, and said, “Yes, General Tullius sir. Will they all be executed in Helgan then, sir?” 

The older Imperial man grumbled, “Oh, yes. Show the Stormcloaks what happens to rebels who align themselves against the Empire. We’ll leave them tied for the night at the camp and put them on the carriages that are arriving in the morning. You’ve done well tonight. I had some of the boys set you up a tent to yourself so you can be well rested for tomorrow.”

When General Tullius mentioned a tent, Hadvar realized how exhausted he felt. Suddenly he was so heavy he could barely shake out a nod toward the General. “Get out of here, Hadvar. I mean it, go get some sleep. That’s an order, soldier,” Tullius said gently. 

Hadvar walked the short way through the woods toward the clearing they had set camp in and found a modest tent waiting for him with a large bowl of water and a clean bedroll, rare commodities in war time. He removed his armor and changed into a clean linen shirt and pants that had been laid out for him. The cool water was frigid on his skin, but at least it took away the grime that had built up during the last week of scouting and waiting in the woods south of Falkreath. 

Despite the cleanliness and privacy of his tent, he tossed and turned for what felt like hours and heard the other soldiers return from the road, set a watch for the Stormcloaks, and the rest retire to their own tents. He sat there a while longer, debating with himself. What could be said that hadn’t already been said? Whatever they had was long gone, replaced with something rotted. Ralof had looked at him with nothing but hatred in his eyes. He shrunk just remembering those piercing green eyes staring right through him into his ugly little heart. But the thought of Ralof sitting in the dirt with his hands bound while Hadvar slept in this tent just meters away made him feel ill. 

He looked again at the sword he had taken from Ralof. The other weapons had been piled into a chest in the clearing, but he’d taken the sword with him. It was indeed the very same sword that Hadvar had thrown at Ralof’s feet all those months ago, now back in his hands. The thought of Ralof holding onto it for so long perplexed him. Did he think of it like a trophy? Something to look at and think of his next chance to kill the man who’d thrown it at him? But. . . Ralof was a man of tradition. He hadn’t given it back. He didn’t want to hurt him. Not only that, but he’d held onto it for all this time. Surely, he was smart enough to know that their next meeting might mean the end for one of them.

Chapter Text

Ralof spat on the ground in the direction of the officer on duty. He was tired from their weeks on the road, but still could feel in his bones that this wasn’t the end. He slumped against the tree that Ulfric was bound to. “This is a disgrace. The High King of Skyrim, bound and gagged by these dogs.”

Ulfric grunted a response through his gag. Ralof kicked a rock. The Imperials had been mostly resting in their tents for a good half hour by now, but a figure rose from one on the edge of camp and began slowly walking in the direction of the Stormcloak prisoners. Immediately, irrationally, Ralof hoped it was Hadvar. He didn’t know what to say to the man, but by Talos he’d missed him. He didn’t care if they argued, he didn’t care if they sat in silence, he wouldn’t care if they fucked right there in the dirt, but he didn’t want to die not seeing his face one last time. 

Ralof had accepted that there was simply no reality in which Hadvar would ever understand him. Hadvar grew up rich in the bustling Imperial City, the heart of the very Empire that was destroying Ralof’s home. His father had been a man of honor, and had died honorably fighting the elves that Hadvar now aligned himself with. Hadvar would never understand the loyalty and love that burned in Ralof, hotter than any winter could quell. 

But as the shadowy figure drew closer, and became more and more Hadvar-shaped, Ralof’s heart began to race. He wasn’t sure if it was fear or excitement. Hadvar exchanged words with the guard. Ralof heard something about “tent” and “interrogate one of the prisoners” before Hadvar and the man saluted at one another and then Hadvar continued toward him. 

Without saying a word, he walked up and grabbed Ralof by the shoulder, pushing him back in the direction of the tent he’d walked out of. They walked silently to Hadvar’s tent and Ralof’s mind raced through the possibilities. What could Hadvar possibly want with him? By the time they made it to the tent, Ralof had decided that Hadvar must mean to kill him himself and couldn’t wait until the execution date. Anything else didn’t make sense after what he’d put the man through.

So when Hadvar shoved him inside the tent, stepped inside, and then tied it closed, Ralof was expecting the worst. He flinched when Hadvar threw his arms around him, not sure at first what was happening. But as the seconds passed, and there was no dagger in his back, he realized that Hadvar was embracing him. His hands were still bound so all he could do was lean his head into Hadvar’s shoulder, even though he hadn’t a clue what was happening. Hadvar finally pulled away, keeping his hands on Ralof’s shoulders, looking him up and down.

“You look awful,” he finally said in a thick and gravelly voice, his wet eyes full of unreadable combinations of feeling. Ralof cracked a smile in spite of himself.

“You’re one to talk, snowbear.” the nickname snuck out against his will. 

Hadvar took a shuddering breath and gestured for Ralof to sit on the bedroll. “I’m sorry for. . . well, most of it, I suppose.” Ralof plopped down roughly as Hadvar continued, “I didn’t think I’d ever see you again and I couldn’t sleep knowing you were right out there.” 

“It’s. . . good to see you, I think,” Ralof said, hearing the exhaustion dripping in his voice. As the adrenaline of seeing each other wore off, the severity of their situation sank in. Ralof could see it in the other man’s eyes, grief soaked deep in every crease of his face. Hadvar slowly sank to the ground a few feet from him, and his eyes went to the sword in the corner of the tent. “Ah. Your sword. Back with you where it belongs,” Ralof said softly.

Hadvar nodded. “You kept it.”

Ralof sighed. “Seemed better than the alternative. I never wanted to hurt you. I was a fool.”

Hadvar smiled faintly, just with his mouth, but it faded after only a moment. 

“Hadvar,” he started, barely more than a whisper. “Hadvar, they’re going to kill me tomorrow, aren’t they?”

Hadvar nodded, a tear threatening to fall from his eye. “In Helgan. There’s nothing I can do. They already gave the roster to the Thalmor.” 

Ralof hung his head. If the Thalmor knew he was here, then he was already as good as dead. He had expected this, he had known it to be true beyond a shadow of a doubt, but hearing the man he still ached for after all this time confirming it was different than just knowing. “So. This is it.”

“I’ve never hated you, you know. At any point,” Hadvar said gently, leaning forward and reaching his hand toward Ralof’s face. Slowly, so slowly, Hadvar tucked a greasy honey blond lock behind Ralof’s ear. 

Ralof leaned into his hand which dropped to cup his cheek. “It was never you who hated me, snowbear. It was me. I knew I would never be enough for you. And I knew you could never understand.” Now that Hadvar was in front of him, it was all so clear. It was all so clear and it was far too late. A tear fell down his cheek for the first time since that night on the road so many months ago. “I’m sorry for driving you away.”

Hadvar leaned still closer and cupped Ralof’s other cheek, wiping away tears with his thumb. “We were both just doing the best we could,” he whispered. “It doesn't matter now." Hadvar closed the rest of the gap between them, save for an inch. 

Ralof considered for a moment. He was dead tomorrow. No god or man could stop the headsman’s axe from swinging. Not to mention Ulfric, his king, was also dead tomorrow. Hopefully they would find Sovngarde, but they certainly would not find victory. Ralof closed his eyes and finished what Hadvar had started, kissing the man like it was his last night alive. Because it was, and he'd be godsdamned if he died without tasting Hadvar one last time when they'd been thrown back together in this final hour.

Chapter Text

Hadvar’s heart jumped as Ralof’s lips met his, sudden and intense. He hadn’t realized how much he’d missed the rough, needy way Ralof’s mouth would pull at his, begging for everything all at once. Hadvar’s hands travelled down the blonde man’s body, lean from travel, and in a smooth motion pushed him back onto the bedroll, climbing on top of him. Ralof let out a small aching moan as Hadvar kissed the spot where his jaw met his neck, biting softly. “Careful, sweet. I’m interrogating you, remember?” he growled softly. 

Ralof nodded, and Hadvar realized he hadn’t untied the ropes around his hands. He kept kissing Ralof as he considered, and decided in the end to keep him tied up, just in case someone were to come looking for the Stormcloak. Or, at least, that’s the reason he told himself. Making the most of the situation, he broke their kiss, grabbed the rope, and slowly raised Ralof’s arms up above his head, pinning them there. Ralof squirmed underneath him, and a shudder went through his whole body as Hadvar kissed the base of his throat.  “Shhh,” he whispered in the blond man’s ear as his free hand slid down his chest and under the ragged edge of his cuirass. He paused for a moment, looking into Ralof’s cool green eyes for any sign of resistance, but Ralof nodded aggressively, encouraging him to continue.

So continue he did, finding exactly what he expected. Ralof gasped in pleasure, so Hadvar covered the man’s mouth with his own once more and kissed him furiously. If Ralof was going to die tomorrow, he would die knowing that Hadvar loved him in spite of it all, wars be damned. Ralof whined softly into Hadvar’s frantic mouth and as his breathing began to quicken, so did Hadvar’s hand, and too soon it was over. A sob raked through Ralof, overcome with the flood of it all.

And they lay there for a few quiet minutes, Hadvar gently stroking his hair, dirty and greasy though it was. He began to think of how the fuck they got there. If it hadn’t been for Ralof’s stubborn pig-headed ideas of honor and freedom, things could be different. Hot tears of anger stung his eyes as he realized that none of this would have happened if Ralof had just listened to him and thought things through for a godsdamned moment. He looked up from where his head was resting on Ralof’s chest into his eyes, half closed from exhaustion. He couldn’t help himself from saying, “I wish you hadn’t left.”

Ralof’s face grew cold and unreadable and he averted his gaze to the tent ceiling. “I wish I could make you understand why I had to,” he said flatly. 

The moment was broken as the reality of the situation settled on them like the ashes of a great volcano soon to erupt. Ralof was going to die tomorrow and it was Hadvar’s fault.

***

Ralof was tired. Tired of running. Tired of hating. Tired of eating away at himself over every poor decision he’d made to get here. “You should take me back to the others,” he said quietly, lying very still but knowing that their little respite from reality was coming to an end. “Don’t want your sentry getting suspicious.” He felt a pang of guilt as Hadvar shrunk in on himself and rolled off of him. 

“Of course.” Hadvar rose off the ground and straightened his own clothing. Ralof sat up stiffly, rolling his shoulders. Hadvar lowered a hand to him, and he let him pull him up by the rope still around his wrists. 

As Hadvar started toward the opening of the tent, Ralof found himself saying, “Wait.” Hadvar turned back to face him, grief written in his face once more. Ralof didn’t have the luxury of being able to wrap around the larger man with his hands bound, but he stood on his toes to kiss him anyway. “Goodbye, snowbear. Cry no more tears for me. I go to Sovngarde with my king tomorrow.” Hadvar steeled his features into ones befitting a man of his military station, and led Ralof back to the other prisoners with a nod to the other guard.

He could tell the others were looking at him as he passed, taking his spot back against the tree, beside the king. It didn’t matter. He sank to the ground. Ulfric looked at him with steely blue eyes, but could say nothing through his gag. Ralof closed his eyes and made his peace with death.