Spring 39, 511
A man stood at the large front doors to the great and simple building. Naught but a block of wood remained of his possessions, gripped tightly in his bare fist. White bursts of warm breath condensed in the windless air before him, each stroke another reminder that he was indeed more than a statue. Otherwise he remained still, brow bent towards the frozen ground, twisted in thought over a pair of distant eyes.
It was difficult to return. This place was his childhood, his old stories, his history. It was not a place of the present. Nonetheless, it was where he belonged, and he had avoided it for too long. He tried to stay in his late mistress’s hold before, the town which had become his home at her side, but it was no place for a lone bear. The people there did not engage him as much as they did when she made them to, and he had no right over her family to her house or her things.
Belgar knew as well as anyone that this world was not as just or fair as an intelligent mind wished it should be, but nonetheless it saddened him utterly that she was taken before her time. He was the kelvic, the short-lived creature whom a worthy guard would mourn and replace at least once in their lifetime. He was not supposed to see her die.
Everything that had occurred from her passing this point had ultimately led him to this very spot, in front of this old, familiar building. He knew the way; he knew that he needed no special permission to enter again. It was his own conscience that stopped him. Stepping through these doors meant, among other things, that he recognized his innate yearning to find another mate. Crossing into this fortress of ursine honor and strength meant that he would finally have to replace her.
Replace, but not forget. Belgar looked up at the door, drew a heavy breath, and reached out to it. There he entered the barracks once more, for the first time in his life uncertain of the future.