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cherryheairt · 4 months ago

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Dragon Dreamer pt. XI

part eleven y'all. The closer I get to the season ending, the more nervous I get, I hope I can make do with book summarizations, though canon will be changed around. it has been two weeks since Jaehaerys' death, for time to move forward.

tags: @alexandra-001 @beebeechaos @emery-aka-emmy @r-3dlips @watermel0nsugarhigh @delaynew @pedro-pascal-love @purple-1995 @reyndaisy @theadharablack @thatkindofgurl @thelastemzy @saintkittykat @hueanhdang @littleblackcatinwonderland @fall-winter-heart97

cw: mention of violence and death

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Dusk had made it quite far, traveling a lot further in less time than Cregan could on horseback. Around him, Cregan saw through the direwolve's bright eyes. The men had rallied quickly, saying swift goodbyes to loved ones before they left. The greybeards had already started their march to The Twins, leaving the younger men to follow after them with their larger force. It would not be weeks before they reached the Riverlands, but their pace was steady, and the men were rearing to fight for their Queen at Lord Stark's command. Ahead, Dusk met with Lord Henry Hornwood, the man who would lead the greybeards in Cregan's stead. His son, Germen, was old and experienced enough to lead if Henry did not return. None of the greybeards did.

"Lord Stark," Henry bowed slightly toward the wolf, sensing the look the wolf gave him to be all-too-knowing. "We have made fine progress, and have picked up more fighting men along the way. Each House swears themselves to your cause–to the Queen's cause."

Cregan, or Dusk, nodded firmly. The only thing that hindered him when he warged was the ability to talk being taken away from him. Everything else was a bonus; faster speed and strength, hearing, stealth.

"Dragon!" One of the bannermen shouted, causing many of the Northerners in the camp to duck down for cover.

Cregan looked up, Dusk's sharp eyes spotting the nearly invisible white dragon passing the army of men. Against the clouds, only the movement of wings could be seen. Morningstar. Daenys was coming to Winterfell.

Cregan sent his mind back to his own body, blinking rapidly to adjust to the sudden shift. He could leave Henry to deal with the rest for now, knowing Dusk would be following them until Cregan could start his march with them. Back in his solar, he sat up in his chair. Good or bad news, he needed to prepare for the Princess' arrival.

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As Morningstar landed, she seemed to call out for something, or perhaps someone. Daenys pet her neck with a short 'thank you' before hopping off from her wing and marching toward the gates of Winterfell. They were already wide open, Cregan standing the open space surrounded by the two guards who always manned it.

"That was fast," Daenys commented, amused. "I didn't think you would know of my arrival so quickly."

"I have my ways," he said vaguely, grinning as he kissed her hand. When Cregan leaned back up, he kept the hand gently placed in his. "I have chambers and a meal prepared for you—"

"We cannot stay." She said curtly, shaking her head. "I wish we could, but this is more urgent."

"We?" He asked, bemused.

"Ser Alfred Broome has been murdered. An assassination attempt has been ordered for the Queen by the usurper. Luckily, she was saved by her Queensguard. We are still left without A Master of War."

"And what does that have to do with your visit to Winterfell, my Lady?" He asked hesitantly, already able to guess why she had come to him.

"I offered your name as a potential Master for the Queen's Council. Rhaenyra has accepted." Daenys told him.

"A seat at the council?" His brow furrowed, looking down at Daenys with a conflicted look. "I am commanding my men as we speak, sending ravens nearly every hour to rally the houses to fight."

"Can ravens not be sent from anywhere?" Daenys challenged. "You are smart, Cregan. Smarter than those power-hungry fools on my mother's council. They wish to push her out, lead in her stead and lead the realm into a war that it would never recover from. They need a strong voice of reason, another man that they might actually respect in Daemon's absence." She pleaded, placing her other hand over the one that held hers.

"Daemon has gone?" He asked.

"To Harrenhall, where I hope to meet him and bring him back to Dragonstone. He is not sending any news of his success in the Riverlands, so I can only assume he is acting in his own best interest."

"Please, Cregan. Come with me." Daenys squeezed his hand lightly, a pleading tone to her voice. "The Queen would be grateful for your council."

Cregan avoided her stare this time, knowing he was weak to the Princess' whims. With a sigh, "I will come to Dragonstone with you, my Lady." He conceded. The guards behind him stood up straighter, shocked at the news. They shared a glance amongst themselves.

Their Lord was ready to go into the snake pit for this war.

A Stark had never sat on a Monarch's council, only ever used for his men and fealty.

"Alaric, send for a servant to pack my things. Leon, tell my council that I will be gone for a while and to send all my important ravens directly to Dragonstone. The Maester will lead in my stead." He barked behind him, earning obedient nods as the men scurried off.

"Allow me to feed you, at least, before we depart. You must have been flying for a while."

"Please, Cregan—do not make me eat." She stepped back from him stiffly.

When he stepped forward to comfort her, she shook her head. Cregan stilled. "But I won't deny a pig or cow for Morningstar." She asked hopefully. The flight back would tire the dragon out, she knew.

"Very well." Cregan nodded, biting his tongue. "I will send food for her. Give me only a few moments, Princess." He tucked back into the Great Keep to fetch a guard to send for food.

When Cregan returned minutes later, a servant carrying his things followed behind. A butcher, Daenys presumed, exited another part of the keep with a pig being lead outside of Winterfell's walls. Daenys nodded towards the man gratefully when he shuffled past her back inside, Morningstar having eaten her fill.

Cregan, clad in his lordly Stark sigil and pelts, met Daenys near the dragon.

Daenys hummed curiously, glancing around. "Where is Dusk? I figured the pup would have seen you off."

He adjusted Ice on his shoulder restlessly. "He has gone off with my men to act as a scout." A half-truth, but Cregan truly did not know how to bring up his ancestral talent, for it was such a hard thing to explain to southerners. He knew she would understand, but the information was unneeded currently.

"A shame. I would've found a way to take him with us." She smiled up at him cheekily.

Daenys clipped his cases onto a storage part behind the dragonsaddle, reaching out a hand for Cregan to take. Nearly blushing like a maiden at the offer for help, Cregan took it anyway and sat behind his Lady.

"You will burn up in those clothes, Stark." Daenys said, nodding towards his heavy clothes.

"The price I pay for you, sweet girl." He huffed, though held no animosity towards her.

"Ready?" She asked. Cregan could only nod, clenching his jaw and firmly wrapping his arms around her torso.

She'd never sat a man grown on her saddle before, only her younger brothers. It was strange to have someone sat behind her and not in front. Humming, Daenys ordered her dragon up, "Sōves!" Morningstar trilled as she took flight again, already knowing the way home without Daenys having to steer.

Cregan held tight to her for the entire liftoff, mearly buried into her neck while holding his breath. When the dragon steadied herself above the treeline, Daenys laughed at his still-tense hold. She grabbed one of his hands from her belly, intertwining it with her own. "Scared, my Lord?"

"I would be a fool not to be. I must be the only man of no Valyrion blood to ride a dragon. I don't know if I should praise or curse myself." He laughed nervously.

Daenys shook her head softly, laughing more boisterously than he. "I praise you, good Lord. Not every man would be so brave to even get close to a dragon."

He squeezed her hand back, twice. "I guess I must get used to it. After all, my Lady wife having a dragon at her disposal means that I must grow accustomed so such flights."

Briefly, he ran his fingertips over the emerging scar on her forearm, still in the healing process from her bite. The small scar on her neck was already healed up, leaving a white line cast halfway across her neck. None but Cregan knew of them, due to her long-sleeved dresses and shorter height. She shivered at the delicate ghostly touch, earning a breathy chuckle right into her ear.

"Do you want for one of your own?" She teased, glancing back at his pale face.

"I think I will be content with Dusk, safe on the ground." He jested, overlooking the sights that they passed. At the dismantled campsites were abandoned firepits or forgotten items men must have left behind in their haste to get ready. As they flew further, Cregan and Daenys were able to spot the marching greybeards easily. The mass of over 2,000 men spanded far across the winter desert. As they walked, they formed a sea of greys and browns that Daenys had grown accustomed to seeing northerners wearing.

Morningstar passed them quickly on her way towards the Riverlands.

Daenys thought for a moment, "I should like to stop at Harrenhall before we return to Dragonstone."

She knew it was her only chance to help Rhaenyra outside of the council. Not that she spoke during the meetings, anyway. Her, Jace, and Baela were practically disregarded by the old men once they started to speak, thinking that their experience overruled their titles. Rhaenyra would refuse Daenys' ask to fetch Daemon personally. Both the husband and wife were incredibly stubborn, refusing to give in to the other. The Queen didn't wish to put her children in harms way again, but they needed Caraxes and Daemon back quickly.

Cregan stiffened behind her. "Harrenhall? Where Prince Daemon is staying? What exactly is your plan of action for talking your uncle into coming back to Dragonstone?"

Daenys rolled her eyes, grateful that Cregan could not see her face in front of him. "I will simply aid him in treating with the Riverland Lords. Gods know he will only make them riled up with his disrespectful attitude. We need allies, not enemies. Daemon has never been good at making friends."

Cregan stayed silent at her words, conceding to her once again. He hoped the stay would be brief, only a few days or less. He did not wish for Daenys and himself to be exposed at Harrenhall, so close to the Crownlands and not protected by water like Dragonstone was.

Daenys felt faint halfway through the flight, glad it was almost over and done with. Perhaps the lack of food was getting to her. She felt the panging of her stomach starting to hit her only now. Perhaps the only time she wished to eat was when she camping with Cregan, sharing their kills that had roasted over the fire from their own hard work. Being so used to working for her every meal for weeks, then being served plates three times daily made her feel spoilt. Even more so for throwing them away like a bratty child.

Daenys would eat at Harrenhall if there was time. It would make the headaches go away, according to her basic knowledge of the body. Either from hunger or stress, there were little other reasons for such sudden pain. Only one was an easy fix.

She breathed deeply, trying to wish the nausea away, waiting for the castle to come into sight.

When it had, already in the very late evening, Daenys grimaced at the sight. It was hardly a great castle anymore, with no guards keeping watch outside of it or at the doors. It would be easy for Daemon to claim, as well as any of their enemies.

Caraxes howled out at the sight of Morningstar's bright scales. In the night sky, sun barely below the horizon, her magnifice stood out against the dark skies. Any higher, and she could perhaps be mistaken for a true star. Morningstar roared back, greeting the elder as she was guided to land.

Daenys dismounted outside of a large and ungated entrance, a field holding a weirwood tree. "I didn't know there were many weirwoods so far south. I thought the Old Gods were abandoned by Southerners." Cregan commented, slowly following her footholds and climbing down.

"There are only a few. Namely in the Riverlands, and one in King's Landing. Some descending from the First Men have stayed loyal to their ancestors' gods, others moved on." Daenys shrugged, not having much opinion for either religion. The trees were beautiful, though. A haunting and deep aura surrounded them. Almost intimidating, if it weren't a tree.

"Go find Caraxes. Stay with him, and call out at any sign of more dragons." Daenys commanded the dragon, watching her fly off to the rocks that Caraxes made his temporary home.

Daenys takes Cregan's outstretched arm as they walk into the gloomy hall. As they wandered through the dark, damp halls, it took an embarrassingly long time to find the dining hall, where Daemon sat. A young boy sat in front of him, looking flushed and nervous under the intense eye of the prince. An older man sat in, too, who Daenys guessed was Simon Strong–Harwin and Larys' granduncle.

The man had watched over Harrenhall alone ever since Lyonel passed away with Harwin. Since the estate passed to Larys, the knight had been left at his own nephew's mercy ever since. But now, seeing as the old man was not dead, he had allied himself with the Blacks.

Ser Strong and the young boy stood when Daenys entered, shock apparent on their faces.

"Ser Simon Strong, my Lady. Castellon of Harrenhall. We were not expecting the company of a Princess, as well as the Prince—"

"King." Daemon sharply interrupted, eyeing Daenys suspiciously.

"Yes, the King Consort has been staying with us for a few days now while we await the Riverland houses to pledge to your mother." He bowed politely, sitting himself back down at her acknowledgment. Vaguely, she was happy to meet another one of Harwin's family.

"M-My Princess." The boy bowed deeply, hand tightly clutching the pommel of his sword. He wiped the other hand on his breeches, obviously nervous. "I am Ser Oscar Tully. I have come in place of my grandsire, paramount of Riverun." He stammered his way through his sentence, glancing back between Cregan and Daenys.

"Sers." Daenys nodded her head. "This is Lord Cregan Stark. I am escorting him back to Dragonstone upon the Queen's request. I hope you do not mind our intrusion. We hope to sit in on The Consort's meetings with the Riverland lords."

"My Lords." Cregan followed her polite action, though more tense than she. In front of other lord's presence, his voice changed from the soft-spoken and low one he used with Daenys. It was more serious and lordly. He seemed to fill a room with his presence and demand respect.

At the title, Daemon bristled once more. "I have this handled well enough, I believe your mother is expecting you to stay by her side as you always are."

"That is a husband's job, not a daughter's." Daenys said. Before Daemon could start a fight in front of respectable allies, Daenys sat herself down right next to Oscar, who got more flushed if that was even humanly possibly.

"And does your grandsire pledge for The Queen, Ser Oscar?" Daenys asks softly, knowing exactly how it felt to be in his shoes. A young man, too green to be taken seriously surrounded by older and more experienced men.

"As I was telling His Grace," Oscar glanced between Daenys and Daemon, unsure of who to address formally. He had only arrived minutes ago, not yet saying his piece in place of his grandsire. "My grandsire is incapacitated. He lies in a kind of waking sleep, unable to do much more than take meager drink."

Daenys nodded, sympathizing with the riverland boy. Her own grandsire was in similar condition for years before his passing, forcing him to practically be a corpse in his bed, haunting the Red Keep.

"So, he's alive?" Daemon asked, displeased with the information.

"Yes, gods be good." Oscar brightened considerably.

"Well, my time is short, and I am in need of an army. Perhaps you might place a feather pillow over his head and speed along your inheritance?" Daemon leaned closer to Oscar, speaking of the boy casually murdering his own kin like it was nothing.

Oscar leaned back, closer to Daenys. The Princess placed a comforting hand on his shoulder, appalled. She looked to Cregan, who had the same look that she did.

"Daemon!" She hissed. Clearly, she was right in needing to be here to mediate.

Daemon stared at Oscar, waiting for his reply.

"I love my grandsire, like a father." He told the Prince adamantly. "My own Lord father died suddenly, himself a young man. Lord Grover raised me in his stead."

Daemon sat back, sighing deeply as he rubbed his temples. "Very touching, indeed. Are you here to speak with your grandfather's voice?"

"While he still lives?" Oscar asked. It was an uncommon thing to do, though not unlawful in dire times like these. "That is not our way."

"Then you're of no use to me."

"I can see why the Blackwoods and the Brackens did not fear to start a war." He spoke again, this time to Ser Simon. "House Tully is a fish without a head. Remind me which one of your countrymen pledged for Aegon? Was it Bracken or Blackwood?"

The barrage of insult rendered the Tully speechless, merely staring at Ser Simon for help.

"It was House Bracken, Your Grace." Simon wisely covered for the boy.

"Who could remember?" Daemon scoffed, standing from his seat and grabbing Dark Sister along the way. "Summon House Blackwood here. I require men of action to lead my host of Rivermen." He barked, passing Daenys without another word.

Ser Simon pursed his lips, comfortingly patting Oscar's shoulder before speaking. "Princess, my Lord, I will have proper chambers and meals set up for you both for the duration of your stay. Excuse me."

Simon left to order for their accommodations as well as send the necessary ravens.

Daenys sighed, glad for the conversation to at least be over.

"Allow me to apologize for my father, Ser Oscar." He turned to her, stormy blue eyes finally meeting her own now that Daemon's absence no longer frightened him. He truly was a fish out of water, sent to meet with a King at his young age with no advisors at his side. How irresponsible of his grandsire to not make preparations while he is in such a state. "No one is expecting you to do such treasonous actions just to be able to succeed your grandsire. The Crown sympathizes with your troubles, as we have experienced such things ourselves."

He smiled gratefully, looking downtrodden. "I truly do wish to help you–help Her Grace get her throne back. But, my grandsire believes Aegon to be the rightful king, and I can not declare otherwise while he is still Lord Tully. I'm sorry, Princess."

Daenys smiled, standing from her seat with all the poise that her septas forced upon her. This time, unlike with Cregan's first meeting, she knew how to perform confidently. Oscar stood to meet her, standing only a few inches taller than the Princess.

"Please, Ser Oscar, I implore you to stay for at least the night. I'd hate to see you start your walk back home when it is dark out. I'm sure Ser Simon will not mind. Many of these rooms are thus unoccupied."

Shifting on his feet unsurely, he nodded. "If you wish it, Princess. I will leave after breakfast on the morrow. Goodnight, Princess, my Lord." He bowed his head, very briefly passing a kiss on Daenys' knuckles before he strided out of the dining room.

Cregan, behind Daenys, turned to her, finally able to speak alone. "Your father is quite the character. I'd heard of the Rogue Prince, but to tell a boy to do such a thing..." He trailed off, raising a brow at his betrothed.

Daenys took his arm, guiding him to sit back down next to her while they awaited supper. "No one can be prepared for him. I hope the Blackwood's are not easily offended, lest we lose another great house to the Greens." She stressed, fiddling with the cuff of his sleeve.

He sat back in his seat, sipping at the wine a servant had left when the meeting was being held. "They are known for their boldness, Blackwoods are. They will take any excuse to fight, especially for what they believe is just. Even Daemon couldn't scare their Lord off." Cregan told her reassuringly.

They supped together peacefully, making small conversation about what had occured in their lives during their small separation. Eventually, they both finished their plain stews and were shown to their rooms. Adjacent to each other, Cregan turned to Daenys before they entered. "If you need anything, tonight, come to me." He whispered to avoid an echo in the hallway.

"I will." She said, leaning up to kiss his cheek 'goodnight'.

The room was decently spacious, with windows overlooking the sea. The sound of dripping in the castle had started to become a white noise for her, growing used to the sound and even finding its rhythms soothing.

Daenys lay in bed, dressed in a shift given to her by a maid, apparently having no Lady's clothes in the castle being used for a while. While those collected dust, the maid simply allowed the Princess to borrow one of her own. She slept only a few hours, dreamless and pleasent. She was only awakened by heavy footsteps striding past her doors. She tiptoed to her doors, cracking open one to see Daemon's ghostly robed figure walking back to his room, cup in hand. Daenys, ever curious, made her way to where he had come from.

She found a lit kitchen, with a pretty black-haired lady dressed in an apron working over the counters. "Oh, forgive me—" Daenys began to apologize, not wishing to interrupt the woman's work.

The woman did not glance up, busy with her herb grinding, though she did speak. "Wandering the halls so late in the night seems to run in the family." Her voice was accented, though not too differently from Daenys' own. She seemed to be from the Riverlands, too, but did not sound like Simon or Harwin.

"Yes, he woke me up with his parading through the halls. I don't know how you get much sleep in these halls, with all the echos."

The woman looked up at her, smiling knowingly. "You grow used to them. Well, some do. Most run off when they get spooked. Shame, really. Harrenhall has been quite peaceful for me."

Daenys hummed, slowly approaching her table. "What is all this?" It didn't look like kitchen ingredients, but more so poultice, salves, and teas.

"Poisons." The woman says plainly.

Daenys meets her eye, which holds no amusement. Was she serious?

Before Daenys could question her, the woman snorted. "You are quite like the Rogue Prince, aren't you? So serious."

Daenys huffed, taking a seat in front of the counter on a raised stool, watching the woman's work with interest.

"A Princess must be cautious of strangers." She said. "Are you...a witch?" She used the word lightly, knowing of its negative connotation but not having a better word for it.

The woman's almost glowing green eyes appraised the girl in front of her. "Do you think I am?"

Daenys blushed, not knowing if the woman would be offended or amused. "I think witches are interesting. They can do things someone like myself could not imagine, though they've gotten shunned by men who do not understand their ways." She tactfully avoided the direct question.

She nodded thoughtfully in turn. Pausing to lick whatever residue had gotten on her thumb, "I am Alys. As of right now, I am simply making a tea." Quite the complicated recipe for tea, but Daenys did not question it.

"You're a maester, then? For Harrenhall?" She wouldn't be surprised, with so few staff for the castle, a woman having to be its maester was a likely thing.

Alys' eyes sparked with amusement. "That's what they ask of me. The last one fled in the night, and I am the only one with the stomach for it, it seems."

"Fled? Is Harrenhall so bad?" Daenys asked.

"Just never settled in. How are you settling in, Princess? I hear you often experience poor sleep. Tonight shouldn't be much different."

Daenys shook her head, noting the knowing tone of Alys. She seemed to not judge, so Daenys didn't mind being questioned about it. Who would she tell, anyway, in this abandoned fortress?

"I was sleeping just fine here, until the Consort woke me. What are you doing working in the dead of night?"

Alys smiled, "I work better in the quiet and dark. Like a nocturnal animal, I am. The moon gives me inspiration."

Daenys laughed, feeling the tenseness start to melt off. Perhaps Alys doesn't enjoy the company of Harrenhall, though she fit its aesthetic perfectly. The witchy woman looked as haunting and dark as the place she lived in.

"Hm, since you're 'a maester', you can make poisons, yes?

"I can make much more than poisons. I find them boring, too simple. The mind is what truly controls and kills the body." Alys told her. It reminded Daenys of how the Green council controlled Viserys by keeping his mind muddled by milk of the poppy for years straight. He never attended court, never helped the realm, and could not do anything but sit in bed and rot. Poison would kill a man immediately, but the smarter route was to control them.

"Would you like a tea, to help find sleep?" Alys offered, reaching a chalice out to Daenys. She eyes it a moment, considered.

"I have to be up soon, anyways. I'd hate to meet Lord Blackwood in a groggy state. But, thank you, Alys. Maybe another night."

Alys nodded, placing the cup onto her table, watching the Princess leave for her chambers.

On the way back, she passed Cregan's. She hesitated at the door before deciding against entering. She need not wake him for nothing. Daenys spent the rest of her night watching the rain drizzling down to the sea from her window.

Come morning, Daenys dressed with the help of the same maid that offered her night slip. Overnight, the maid has washed the dust from formal dresses that were stored away. Daenys wore a simple dress that might have once belonged to Ser Harwin's mother, who she regretably did not know the name of. It was a light blue with red accenting, two colors she was already used to wearing for her houses.

She met Cregan in the hall, nodding to him. "I could ask for some clothes to be given to you to borrow. You must be miserable in those." While he forwent his pelts, he still wore his thick tunic and leathers, along with sigil on his chest. She tugged at a strap crossing his chest, raising a concerned brow to him.

Cregan smiled at her concern. "It is only a bit of discomfortable weather, not a problem you need to worry about, my Lady."

They entered the dining room together, Ser Simon Strong already there at the head of the round table to greet them. Oscar sat in the middle of it, to not be in anyone's way. His face lit up from his bored expression when he saw her walk in. "Princess!" He stood, stumbling slightly when the chair got caught on a crack.

Daenys stifled a laugh at the action, not wanting him to feel embarrassed. "Good morrow, Oscar. Simon, I hope you did not mind him staying last night. I asked it of him for my own peace of mind."

Simon smiled kindly, waving her off. "All guests are welcome. We so rarely get any." He reminded her a lot of Lord Lyonel, which was obvious considering they were uncle and nephew. Though, Larys' genes clearly did not come from either of these kind men.

Cregan sat next to her when she took a seat next to Oscar, hoping to send the young man off with a pleasant mood. "Did you sleep well, Oscar?" She asked, splitting her roll of bread to butter it.

He nodded energetically, looking much more himself than the day before. Daemon tended to drain people of their energy. "I did, my Lady, thank you. And you?"

"Pleasently, yes. The rain was quite soothing." She said. After so long with all light snow and no rain like she had grown used to on Dragonstone, she had missed the calmness of it.

He nodded, digging into his own heavier breakfast for his walk today.

"How are the Blackwoods, Oscar?" Daenys asked. "I've heard they carry bold temperaments, but you must know them personally."

He nodded, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. "At times, too stubborn for their own good. Samwell was their Lord for some time, though the battle at Burning Mill unfortunately led to his brother Willem taking over until his son grows to be of age."

She nodded, intently listening. "And Willem, do you think he'll be a smart choice to lead the Riverlands in Lord Glover's stead?" Daenys asked tentatively, not liking the fact that Daemon was trying to replace the Tullys as rightful paramounts of the Riverruns, even temporarily. Lord Glover was paramount for many years for good reason, and Oscar was his rightful heir. Calm-tempered and sweet, not so bloodthirsty like Daemon clearly was.

"He leads the Blackwoods well in place of his brother. His son and sister are quite like him, hard-headed but loyal. They will serve you, or I suppose the Prince, well." Oscar complimented. Daenys nodded between bites, praying to whatever Gods Harrenhall followed that Daemon wouldn't offend such stubborn people, ones that had recently lost their kin.

"Thank you, Oscar. I hope all goes well today." She said, softly sighing and leaning back into her sest after finishing half her breakfast.

His stormy eyes meet hers again, kind smile reassuring. "If they do not like the King Consort, then I am certain they will like you. Anyone who doesn't would be a fool."

Daenys blushed, feeling a girlish laugh escspe her. "You are very kind, Ser."

When the young Tully decided that it was about time he set out, to check on his house and grandsire, Daenys bid him farewell at the entrance.

"Safe travels, Oscar. Please write to us at Harrenhall with updates. I wish for your grandsire's good health."

He thanked her, promising to write with a gentlemanly kiss on her hand. On his horse, he headed back to House Tully.

Daenys walked back to the dining room, where Cregan and Simon were lightly chatting. It was barely another hour before a guard escorted three people inside the room.

"Lord Willlem Blackwood, his sister Alysanne Blackwood, and his son Davos Blackwood." Before returning to his post outside of the doorway.

The three who were previously sitting down stood to greet them, bowing their heads in greeting. Simon spoke first, "welcome to Harrenhall, my Lords and Lady. May I introduce Lord Cregan Stark and Princess Daenys Velayron." He coughed slightly, sitting himself down once more. Daenys clasped her hands together in front of her, assesing the three in front of them.

Willem has a handsome man only slightly younger than Daenys' mother, with brown hair and facial hair to show his maturity. His sister Alysanne was a tall, slim woman with strong features and pure-black hair. She had a sharp and assesing look in her own brown eyes. Davos, the youngest of all, was Daenys' age with forest green eyes and shaggy dark brown hair. Comely, like his Lord father.

"My Lord, it is pleasing to see you have arrived here with no trouble. We are only waiting for Daemon before we start." She said politely, nodding towards the table for them to sit.

Willem, Alysanne, and Davos sat in a line across from them. Davos was straight across from Daenys, while Alysanne sat parallel to Cregan. Willem sat near the opposite head of Simon, waiting for Daemon to join.

"I wasn't aware that two Valyrions would be meeting us at Harrenhall. I must admit, I was surprised when Prince Daemon summonded me from Raventree. Usually, when people summon armies they send ravens. Or come personally." He nodded toward Cregan. "Word has spread far and wide that three dragons were sent to be messengers for the Queen."

"Yes, my brothers and I treated with houses across the realm. The Queen thought it to be more personal, but the King Consort reigns differently." She told him, sipping her wine. She felt the internse stare of Davos on her, which she met curiously. His hair was quite different from most men she had seen, the style shorter in length. He had a small white scar spanning from his top lip to his nose, though it did nothing to make him seem less handsome. Daenys found it hard to keep his gaze, and he knew it, smirking into his own cup when she looked back to Willem and Alysanne.

"No worries, Princess. It was a short journey to Harrenhall." Willem said dismissively. He seemed like he didn't care if he stayed at home or came to the castle, a more easy-going individual. Daenys was relieved at that, at least.

Alysanne, on the other hand, was bolder than her brother. "I think the Queen's command to be more convenient for the houses. If the King Consort is asking for men, why is he not coming to us directly? You are the ones with dragons, after all."

"Daemon must hold Harrenhall. Caraxes is a deterrent for the Green's dragons, he must stay here at all times. I'm sorry for the inconvenience, my Lady." Daenys said.

"And you? Must your dragon also stay?" She challenged.

"My stay in Harrenhall will be brief. Daemon is the one who called for the Riverland houses, not I. It is only appropriate that he meets with the Lords."

As if on cue, Daemon comes stumbling in as if he were sleepwalking. He sat down next to Willem Blackwood, staring ahead at the cup clutched in his hand. A tea? Daemon rarely drank enough to be drunk, and would certainly not be irresponsible enough to do so before a meeting.

Simon, again, made introductions, and gestured for Willem to say his piece.

"Your Grace, the Blackwood House and all of its men pledge to the rightful Queen Rhaenyra. I now rule as regent until my nephew Benjicot comes of age, but he swears himself to her cause, too. The Brackens are venal cravens, and they must pay for their treachery against the laws of gods and men. And against the Crown."

Daemon seemed to breath in deeply, as if he had to think about his own bodily functions in order to perform them. He placed his cup down, looking between Willem and Simon. "Who are you?"

The room was dead silent. The Blackwoods shared glances that Daenys couldn't quite read. She had half a mind to kick him out and conduct buisness herself.

Cregan, too, sighed beside her quietly.

"Ser Willem Blackwood of House Blackwood, your Grace. As I said." Simon said, pointedly.

"Well met." He murmured back, still bleary-eyed. "What might I do for you?"

Daenys clutched her hands together tightly over the table, pursing her lips to prevent herself from saying something she'd regret. Across the table, Davos held an amused look, smirk still plastered on his face.

"...it was you who summonded me, Your Grace." Willem looked regretful now, unknowing if a cruel prank was being played on him. Surely, this was not the King Consort. "I was given to understand that you wanted an army."

"Well, who doesn't these days?" Daemon said plainly. "You Blackwoods certainly never miss a chance to bloody your swords, do you?"

"Some twenty years ago, my Lord bent the knee to King Viserys and acknowledged the Princess Rhaenyra as his rightful heir."

"So, you fight for this old oath? Not, of course, for your thousand-year-old feud with the Brackens?"

Willem shifted in his seat. "I once vied for Queen Rhaenyra's hand, before she wed Ser Laenor. I always liked her spirit. She had the true blood of the Dragon."

Daenys' brows nearly raised all the way to her hairline. Couldn't he have simply said, 'I am loyal to the Queen' instead of telling the King himself that he once tried to ask for his wife's hand.

"And you're prepared to march without the leave of your lord..." he trailed off, attention caught by a servant girl coming into the room. He stared at her for an uncomfortably long time, as if seeing a ghost. The rest of the room sat in the silence, wondering what in the seven hells was going on. When she finally filled his cup and left, Willem started again.

"Once you and your dragon bring the Queen's justice to the Brackens, our armies will be yours." He swore.

Daemon nodded, but Daenys was unsure if he was aware of what Willem had said. He left immediately after, looking haunted by something no one else could see. Daenys was quick to attempt a recovery.

"Daemon will deliver justice to the Brackens for your house, for Her Grace. He may be crass and dismissive at times, but I assure you, he does not break his oaths." She stood from her seat, leading the others to follow.

Willem nodded, a tired look on his face. "I hope so, Princess. I will leave, back to Raventree Hall. My son and sister will remain—"

"I will not." Alysanne told him, looking around the crumbling castle's hall. "I do not wish to sit around in his hellhole for any longer. I will lead my own betallion, one with men I trust from our House." The Lady said, insistant.

Daenys bowed her head to her, "I am grateful for your eagerness to fight, my Lady."

Alysanne left first, presumably to her horse outside.

Davos, too, started to protest. "If Alysanne gets to lead her own men, why must I stay here?" He started, quickly being shut down by Willem.

"I trust you to discuss matters in my stead, Davos. It will not be forever, just until Daemon keeps his part of the deal." Davos clutched at his dagger's pommel, irritation at being 'useless' evident all over his face and stance.

Willem soon left after, calling for Davos' horse to be escorted to his own stall in the stables. Daenys looked to Cregan briefly, unsure of how to comfort someone left behind as a means to an end. He could offer nothing but a sympathetic shrug. "Ser Davos," she started, watching him turn to her with a clenched jaw.

"We are glad to have you here. I promise, it will only be for a short while while Daemon figures out how he wants to go about the business between the Brackens. You will get your chance to fight." She said, stepping forward a few steps closer to him.

His gaze softened ever so slightly, not wishing to release his anger on the wrong person. "Hm." He nodded. "Is Lord Stark going to be leading his men, or has he been called upon by the King to also stay in these damp halls?"

Cregan stiffened next to Daenys, "I am here at the Princess' bidding. To join the Queen's council."

"Ah, so you won't be fighting."

"Who says that?" Cregan asked.

"Never met a councilman who actually led men to battle. Most prefer to stay in their castles, safe and comfortable." The Blackwood snickered.

"My betrothed asked me to come to the Queen's council as an advisor. Once my men follow on foot, I will take my leave to lead them." Cregan said, firm and absolute. Daenys felt a shiver crawl up her spine at him calling her 'his betrothed'. Imagining him calling her 'his wife' was something she couldn't even fathom.

"Bethrothed?" Davos asked, looking to Daenys with a rasied brow. "Hm. I thought the Princess' hand had been free for many years, now."

She felt her face grow hot, "it has. The betrothal is recent."

"So, not solidified, then?" He asked, nodding to himself.

Daenys moved to answer, to say that she had no intention of breaking her oath, but he didn't notice and continued.

"May I see your dragon, my Lady? I saw the two from afar on the way inside, but I know better than to approach one alone." Davos asked, a light look replacing his smug one.

Daenys, bemused, looked out to the nice morning weather. "You wish to approach Morningstar? For what reason?"

"Morningstar. That is a fitting name. 'Lightbringer' they call her, right? I simply wish to know what it means to be in the presence of one, take it as you fulfilling a silly boyish dream I've always had." He said, bashfully. Beside her, Cregan rolled his eyes.

"It is a fitting name for her." She smiled, "I will show you to her, of course."

Cregan eyed Daenys, but did not question a princess in front of another so brazenly. He ignored the triumphant look Davos shot him, thinking himself above childish games.

The weather was the most pleasant thing about Harrenhall, when it was not storming furious upon the castle. Daenys, Cregan, and Davos made a line while walking on top of the rocky sealine towards the two perched dragons. She did not understand how they lounged so comfortably on such jagged rocks.

Caraxed whined out as he spotted Daenys, a familiar face he had not seen in weeks. It seemed that Daemon had neglected the poor red beast, leaving him without good company until Morningstar arrived. Morningstar huffed at the sight of Daenys, making her discontent plainly seen. "Spoiled girl, we can not always sleep in snow blankets or dragonpits." She cooed, rubbing her chin.

She turned to Davos, who stood many feet behind herself and Cregan. He hesitated now in the presence of an actual dragon, breathless as he stared at her majesty. Cregan smirked at him, pointedly rubbing the dragoness' snout himself.

Daenys waved him closer, nodding her assurance. "She will not harm you, though she may think herself a grand jester when she knocks you over. It makes some of the dragonkeepers nearly shit themselves with fright."

Davos, not at all comforted by her words, stepped foward slowly, one foot at a time. The dragon silently allowed him to stroke her snout, eyes shut with content at bring given so much attention at once. Spoiled girl, Daenys smiled.

The Blackwood boy grinned boyishly at the achievement. "No one will ever believe me when I tell them I pet a dragon."

"Our secret, then." Daenys mused.

Soon, they went back inside of the castle, leaving behind the two dragons (though not after Daenys gave a bit of her attention to Caraxes, who did not let the boys near him like Morningstar did). Davos went off to his guest chambers after leaving a prolonged and dramatic kiss on Daenys' hand.

Cregan huffed beside her, now left alone with only each other in a broken down hallway.

Daenys, waiting for his next words, looked up to him. He didn't speak his thoughts on Davos, knowing that they were perhaps too childish and jealous to speak in front of his lady.

Comfortingly, she patted the arm that laced with her own. "Come, Cregan. Show me how Northerners pray. I would quite like to learn, now that I have an opportunity."

He seemed shocked at her ask but agreed eagerly nonetheless. They made their way through the twisted halls to the outside of the castle, where they had first entered from. The weirwood stood tall and strong on top of the enclosed hill.

Though ancient, the tree was still vibrant with life. It's red leaves were like blood against the stark white trunk and roots. Cregan kneeled in front of it, urging Daenys to do the same with a keen look. "There is no certain way to pray. It comes naturally to everyone. I like to speak my thoughts when I am alone, I find it relieving to speak what I cannot usually say. The Old Gods do not judge, but simply listen. In your head or aloud, they will hear."

She might have been able to speak her thoughts to the Old Gods if she were alone, but it would be embarrassing in front of another. Cregan must have thought the same, bowing his head and closing his eyes as he looked at peace.

Daenys followed his actions, thinking of whatever first came to her mind. Was she supposed to merely speak to the Gods, or ask for something? Perhaps that was overthinking it. It should not be a conditional ritual.

She thought of her brother first. Young Luke, a bright light lost to the storms. She missed him every minute she was awake, wishing things could change.

She thought of her mother, who wore a crown too heavy for her head. Visenya, Luke, and now Daemon and her own council causing her so much grief and distress in such trying times. She wished that Rhaenyra would keep her strength and stand tall always.

She thought of Helena, so close to her now while she stayed at Harrenhall. If she could only fly to her, plead for her to save herself from the war. She wished for her safety.

She thought of Cregan. The man right next to her, a permanent warmth at her side. She wished he might always be there, where he had begun to fill a void in her soul.

Daenys opened her eyes, finding Cregan already watching her. His expression was thoughtful, affectionate. A similar look he wore when they were on top of The Wall.

"What?" She breathed out, confused by his distraction. "Aren't you going to pray?"

"I already did." He answered.

"That was quite short."

"I only asked for one thing."

"And what is that, my Lord?"

"You to stay by my side." He laced their hands together, squeezing once as the feeling and his words made her heart flutter.

She brought his hand to her lip, closing her eyes lightly as she pressed them to his knuckles. "You need not ask the Gods for that. I would do so anyway."

🗡

Daenys disobeyed her mother when she ushered her and her brothers to their temporary chambers at driftmark. She did not wish to sleep again, not after Laena's funeral—and the vision that preceeded it. She was tired of death. At least she qas allowed to hide her mourning for Ser Harwin amidst the guise of Laena's funeral.

Daenys was saddened by Laena's death, truly, but she had never met the woman except in her one dream weeks ago. Her death was not preventable, not my maester or Daenys. Ser Harwins, though, was. A fire, a trapped door, the hazy smell of smoke that filled her lungs and suffocated her the same way it did Lord Lyonel. The man refused to leave his father's side, even through the unmoving door. She was forced to stand there, behind Ser Harwin, unable to command him to leave the cursed place and save himself, she watched as he succumbed to the flames.

Merely days later, it was a similar scene with Lady Laena. The woman approached her dragon, face wet his tears but eyes hardened with decision. Daenys watched as Vhagar, ever loyal, hesitated to follow her rider's command. She, too, succumbed to fire.

Daenys began to resent fire. Even the flames of her own dragoness, she avoided. When it came time for Morningstar to sup, Daenys swiftly made her leave, though she always used to dine with her. How many would fire take from her? Perhaps she would succumb to her own fiery fate, one day.

She sat outside of Driftmark, with Morningstar as she usually did. To avoid everyone and her own mind, the cold sand and salty breeze welcomed her. Driftmark was a far cry from King's Landing's stench and filth. Mayhaps she was biased, though, seeing as the ocean was so much more serene in such a place. Unoccupied by loud fishermen and port traders.

Daenys' head lifted from her lazed resting spot in the sand. A small shadow was moving across the grassy hills nearby, black against the moon's light.

She sat up, curiously moving to follow it. It did not take long, with the figure moving cautious and slow.

Ahead by a few feet, she made out Aemond's white head of waves. "Uncle?" She called out, sliding herself down a grassy knoll while trying not to slip on her skirts.

He turned to her as if he was caught committing a crime, looking behind her for any more unwelcome guests.

"Daenys." Was all Aemond muttered, waiting for her to meet him

"What are you doing, sneaking about? Shouldn't you be with Aegon, drowning in his cups?" She had meant to sound teasing, but with such little energy she only sounded tired and plain.

Aemond sneered, scoffing at her suggestion. "We do not share interests. I have always kept to my studies, as a prince should. That fool wouldn't know his histories or High Valyrion if it smacked him on his fat head."

Daenys snorted, covering it with a hand. Her septas would surely have scolded her for such things. "On that, we can agree. But you avoid the question at hand, uncle."

Aemond lost his amused smirk, looking to the grass and kicking at it with his shoe tip. "Going for a walk. I mourn Lady Laena greatly."

"You've never met the woman."

He rolled his eyes, looking up at her from her slightly lifted spot on the hill.

"I am owed a dragon. And I will not let the opportunity pass me by, it may be my only one." He answered, puffing up his chest like a knight.

She nodded, pursing her lips. "It may be your only opportunity because she'll either kill you or accept you. There is no middle ground."

"I will take the chance," he said confidently. "I am tired of being the only one of my family to not own a dragon. I am the only one who cares to learn of our heritage, the only one with proper blood–" Aemond cut himself off from his rant, flushing red at the slip of tongue.

Daenys merely stared on, unphashed. It was not news to her, nor anyone else, of what others thought of her family.

"We do not own dragons. We are dragons." She stated.

He stared at her this time, bemused. "You will not stop me? Vhagar is your late aunt's dragon."

She shrugged, "dragons have no inherited bond. If she is Rhaena's, then she will eat you. I do not care who the old beast chooses, so long as she gets some rest from her long days."

Aemond smiled slightly, a much more pleasant expression that the serious one he usually forces. "We should fly together, once I claim her."

Daenys laughed shortly, nodding her agreement. "I won't deny a peaceful night of flying, but you should take your first ride alone. You won't want the memory sullied by another."

He thought for a long moment, almost speaking again, before he built his last bits of courage and marched towards a sleeping Vhagar.

Daenys watched from afar as he bonded with the oldest dragon in the world. Briefly, she felt a sense of pride in knowing his confidence was not misguided. Her sympathies went to her cousin, but she had high hopes for Rhaena to find another dragon. There were many wild ones, after all, who've gone unclaimed for years.

After what must have been an eternity for young Daenys to wait, Aemond landed with Vhagar, leaving her saddle to meet Daenys at a side entrance to the keep.

"Did you see us!" He exclaimed, breathless from his exhilarating flight.

Daenys nodded, sharing his excitement. "She is a beautiful dragon. 'The Queen' for a reason. How was your first flight?" She asked, curious. It has been so many years since her first, but the memory never left her mind.

"Indescribable, I thought I would fall off a million times, but!—" His wild gesturing was cut short by a yell. Jacaerys, Lucerys, Baela and Rhaena had met them in the entrance hall to Driftmark.

The rest was history. Daenys stayed to the side during the scuffle, being the eldest she thought the boys would settle it amongst themselves and grow tired fast. That is what always happened when Luke and Jace fought. She was wrong. Never in her life would she imagine that sweet Luke would bring a dagger to a childish tiff, much less use it.

Aemond wasn't innocent, though he was outnumbered greatly. The look in his eyes as he stood over Jacaerys with the rock caused both Luke and Daenys to charge forward to protect their brother. Luke, being closer, unfortunately got there first. He slashed Aemond's eye, making him drop the rock in agony. Daenys clutched at Luke's tunic, dragging him back into her embrace as Aemond clutched his eye.

She knew what Luke did was an act of defense, a justified blow. But if she stopped him that night, gotten to Aemond a mere second sooner and grabbed the stone from his grip, Luke would still be alive years later.

The children of Viserys and Rhaenyra stood beside their mothers. Alicent and Rhaenyra both protectively stood beside their children. Aemond was being taken care of by a maester, while Alicent vied for Lucerys to have his eye taken in retribution. Both Viserys and Rhaenyra vehemently denied the Queen's request.

The night became a blur. Daenys was loyally plastered in front of Lucerys all night, if Ser Criston decided he wished to disobey the King on a sudden whim. Her mother ended up with a slash on her arm but barely flinched as it happened. Daenys wondered if it was her fiery Targaryen blood or her motherly fury that allowed her to be so strong. She couldn't imagine herself being like Rhaenyra, not in a hundred years.

She did remember sharing a glance with Aemond, her eyes filled with unshed tears for her Uncle. His only eye was muddled with a plethora of conflicting emotions, before he left her gaze.

"Do not mourn me, mother. I may have lost an eye, but I gained a dragon."

She would grow to regret her encouragement.

She wished it was her that had taken Aemond's eye.

She wanted his other.

🗡

sorry for kinda putting cregan on the sidelines during the meetings. There's not really much for him to say during them and he's not the type to interrupt in a conversation that isn't his. Trying to add sweet little moments between them and the big drama parts 🙂‍↕️

cregan when Oscar tries to flirt with Daenys, knowing he's just a harmless boy: 😐

Cregan when Davos looks her way: 🤨

yall i like davos way too much i might just write an au one-shot of the three of them getting together i cannot do this #creanyvos

also alysanne is NOT meant to sound like a bitchy character, I imagine her as defiant towards authority and challenging their every word, respecting only those who earned it. I got rid of the suggested temporary like she had for cregan (sorry!!!) bc i think she'd be wanting to dive deep into battle with her men, not left behind politicking.

Kind of want to establish relationships between Aegon, Aemond and Daenys. Gives the feud and war more meaning, I think. A more mutual understanding and hint of friendship between Aemond and Daenys, for being targets of Aegon. A more one-sided hate for Aegon from Daenys. He has mostly no care for her at all, only thinking her another annoying bastard of his sister. Also! Aemond deserved to feel a little happiness right after claiming Vhagar, its sad he ran into the Velayrons right after, although Rhaena had the right to be upset.

Currently regretting naming the dragon Lightbringer so early on in the story. It would've been so much more fitting if Daenys and Morningstar had earned the title in a battle, instead. Maybe if I rewrite the series in two years when s3 comes out lol

cough light blue is a stark color cough red is a targ color cough cough

this already is getting posted too late so i can't include the big event that i had planned for the chapter, it'll be way too long and convoluted and must be its own chapter. next one might be thursday, we'll see though.

#dragondreamer #cregan stark x reader #cregan x reader #hotd fanfic #cregan stark x oc #cregan stark #hotd #hotd season 2 #hotd fandom #hotd x reader #hotd oc

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inkwolvesandcoffee · 2 years ago

Text

Mokum Part 2 (Alfie Solomons x Reader, Modern AU)

Genre: Romance, Angst, Humour, Modern AU

Pairing: Tattoo Artist!Alfie Solomons x Dutch Fem!Reader

Word count: 20K

Warnings: Swearing/Cussing, allusion to eating disorders, lots of self-doubt and melancholy, Alfie being a tooth-rotting fluffy gentleman, vaping, Papa Solomons/Wolfy antics (yes, that is a warning in and of itself).

Summary: Sequel to Mokum Part 1.

Alfie

It’s funny, innit, ‘ow I get to meet the little dove in a city that’s called a safe haven. A place where I don’t ‘ave to worry about the business or me whole bloody kingdom. Yeah... real nice place, Mokum.

Exactly what I saw in a recent revelation too. I saw myself sittin' at a window, a cup of coffee in front on the table. The scenery outside was as evanescent as always, slippin’ through Time and Space like the steam from the coffee. Unsteady, waverin’, fluid. Impossible to catch and anchor, to make a concrete world, an existence to fully live in.

But there’s also always another presence across from me. I merely assumed the shadow in the other chair was a person, a spectre of myself to forebode the end or Yahweh ‘Imself wantin’ to talk or give me a proper send-off to Hell. Never assume things you aren’t certain of, right, because you end up makin’ big mistakes that way.

I was wrong.

It was Y/N.

Inside the little bubble in that vision, she stopped time and gave me a chance to live. To forget me health and enjoy the minutes I have left.

I want to live slowly with her.

I don’t fully understand yet why or the weird effect she ‘as on me. But what I saw will come to fruition one way or the other. Even if I will only get to enjoy it for a second, right, I will do my damn best to get through that thick pretty ‘ead of ‘ers and ‘ave that moment.

A last cup of coffee with my little dove.

Afterwards, I can let go.

Open the cage and set ‘er free.

Y/N

There is something wonderful about chasing dreams, an ideal like Love. You keep thinking you are worthy of it until you have it because it’s unfamiliar. The heat seeps into the walls you’ve created to protect yourself, crumbling them bit by bit. Yet you fight to prevent them from collapsing, terrified of the aftermath should it happen.

But sometimes it’s worth the wager, the ruin of those high walls. After all, who knows what might arise from the ashes?

One wolf tried and failed, a false victory on my behalf. To this day I regret I didn’t end the war with my heart and mind sooner.

However, now it’s Alfie who’s knocking at the gates with books and coffee.

And I stand on the other side of the door, twiddling with the key.

The sound of butterfly wings being torn ringing in my ears.

Author’s Note: Oh my days, here it is at long last. My hand definitely slipped with this one. However, I won’t lie, it kinda makes me want to dabble into novellas. Maybe I should properly attempt NaNo this summer. Anyway, cracking on!

I’ve thrown some Russian and Dutch into the mix of languages this works seems to become quite rich in. Nevertheless, as before and the same goes for the use of Yiddish, if you see any mistakes when it comes to Russian, please let me know! I will edit the text immediately.

TH Masterlist

Tag List: @hecatemoon87 @potter-solomons @buttercupsandboys @zablife @babaohhhriley @rose-like-the-phoenix @dreamlandcreations @elijahssuit @liliac-dreamer @alikaheroes @wandawiccan60 @vir-tual

Shoutout to the fathers who believe the blatant lies of their daughters.

“That’s a nice scarf. Is it new?”

“Yeah, I bought it recently.”

Shoutout to the fathers who don’t ask any relevant questions.

“What are you dressing up for this early?”

“It’s Saturday, remember? The fabric market.”

Shoutout to the fathers who don’t converse with their daughters.

“Ah, right! Well, have fun.”

Here’s a shoutout to their absence, their silence.

And the hidden life we daughters live in it.

There’s only a limited amount of luck in a day, but it seems I used up two days worth yesterday.

It isn’t unusual nowadays for there to be a strike and it influencing public transport.

Neither is it for my sister to ask me what I’m up to, although it is strange I have to lie to her. Normally I would never for it is sometimes better to keep my silence rather than tell the sometimes harsh gods-honest truth. However, the question for who the Delftware and white fluffy wolf plushie is came a little too close for comfort.

“A friend. I’m meeting up with them after the fabric market for a pumpkin spice latte.”

Not a full lie.

A half-truth, half true.

I smiled to myself, temporarily having forgotten the rush to get to Amsterdam Central Station.

Funny, that sounds like something Alfie would say.

Shoutout to the sisters who readily accept your word.

At last I reach the destination. I mingle into the crowd to get off the train, but slip from the throng of bodies once my foot hits the platform. As per usual, they stream right to the escalator, where they form a new queue. It will be a miraculous day if the same happens at the stairs a little ways ahead.

Clutching my bag tight and pulling Alfie’s scarf closer, basking in his familiar scent and grateful for its lingering, I descend the steps into the station hall. No matter how many times I’ve been here, I always have to look both ways to make sure I head in the right direction.

Left.

Right.

Ah, there's Starbucks.

Right it is.

Outside, it’s as chaotic as ever. People walk between the trams, aggravating the drivers to no end. All around there are hellos and goodbyes, fragments of various languages on the wind which interrupt the incessant noise from the construction that is still going on. Then again, maybe it isn’t a far-fetched guess to say it’s started anew because of whatever it is they have broken up terrain for this time.

I scan my surroundings in hopes of finding Alfie. Yesterday it was fairly easy to spot him, towering above the rest of the people in the mostly empty parking lot. However, this is a spot where finding a person whose number you don’t have is like searching for a needle in a haystack.

Anyone with a Vape?

The thought makes me uneasy, worry making my fingers itch with the urge to clutch his arm and beg him to stop smoking. Unfortunately, I am not in a position to ask such a thing from him. After all, we only have today. Besides, why would he listen to a girl he barely knows?

I fish the white and Deltware wolf plushie I made out of my bag and look wistfully into its beady eyes. Whatever the outcome of today, I have no regrets having put hours into making the wee thing. If anything, it was good practice.

Though I hope it gives him something to remember me by.

A moment.

A memory.

But you’ll stay with him, won’t you? Until the end.

My breath hitches, my throat constricted by dark melancholy. The world slows down, bodies blurring and melting together, each face as vague and indistinguishable as the next one.

I have to find him. Jaysus fuck, where are you, Wolfy?

It’s ridiculous, a grown young woman clutching a stuffie frantically looking around. But what else can I do, desperate for what little time we have and a reason to apologise?

What if… What if he gave up? Left because I’m late? No, dear gods, no.

A wave of relief lightens the burdens off of my shoulders when I notice a long grey tweed pea coat and wolf cane by the metro entrance. Today’s outfit consists of a navy blue knitted cardigan with a beige tartan blouse underneath, both of them hanging open, and a grey button-up shirt with the top buttons undone. As I approach, I notice some of his chest hair peeking out, dark brown peppered with grey.

Fluffy wolf. Oh my days, where’s your sanity, woman? Your honour?

“Alfie, I’m so sorry, but I got held up at home and the bus was late and then my train got cancelled and-’’ I blabber, my knuckles turning white like the plushie in my hands as my nails dig into it. Even to my own ears, the apology sounds silly.

“Shhh,” he places a hand on my shoulder, “Take a deep breath, darlin’.”

Basking in the warmth of his touch, I inhale deeply and exhale through my mouth.

“There. That’s better, innit?” I nod, indeed feeling a bit better. A twinkle illuminates his eyes. ‘‘You’re wearin’ my scarf. Like it that much?’’

I tug at the fabric, the tips of my ears warmer than before. ‘‘Yeah, it’s- it’s nice. I can return it, though! Right now or I’ll wash it and send it.’’

‘‘Keep it. It looks good on you.’’An eyebrow raised, he shifts his attention to the plushie in my hands. “Who’s this?”

“Oh, right!” I present the half-forgotten surprise gift to him. “I made this for you. As a, let’s say, little ‘thank you’ for yesterday and my leg.”

Alfie takes the plushie from my hands. A smile slowly spreads on his lips as he looks it over. “This little chap needs a name, doesn’t ‘e? I’m not gonna travel with someone without knowing their name, way too dangerous, right, because you don’t know who or what you’re dealin’ with. Then again, yeah… I think I know.”

“Know what? A name?”

“Wolfy the Second,” Alfie proudly declares.

“Who’s the first?”

“Me.”

Is he serious? Judging by that grin, he is. That… That’s kinda cute, though. You’re an idiot.

I press my lips together, cheeks aflame and not from the lingering summer heat. “I see.”

“But ‘e goes by Velvel. Means ‘wolf’ in Yiddish.”

“That’s kinda on the nose, innit?”

A twinkle sparks in his eye at my response. “We could also go with another variant of the name. William or Vladimir, which do you prefer? Or maybe Volf?”

Head tilted, I purse my lips. I snap my fingers at the first idea that pops up. “How about Vladimir Volf?”

Alfie makes a face.

Okay, maybe not.

“Hey, he’s your travel buddy now. You decide.”

“But you’re ‘is creator. You choose.”

“He’s yours to look after.”

“You brought him into this world. A name is a powerful thin’, makes one whole. The honour is yours.”

“Are we seriously debating a plushie’s name?”

“We wouldn’t ‘ave to if you bloody decided.”

I open and close my mouth, gobsmacked by his argument. “Excuse me? If I decided? I gave him to you.”

“You’re cute when you get angry,” Alfie smirks.

Were you simply trying to rile me up just so you could say that? You… you bloody bastard! You idiot!

“I hate you.”

“Now, now, ‘’ate’ is a strong word, don’t you think?”

I cross my arms. “Well, you won’t like the alternative.”

“Which is?”

Don’t make me say it.

“Y/N,’’ he lowers his voice, slowly yet clearly pronunciating his words, ‘‘what’s the alternative?”

I lose the will to remain defiant when he leans in, my body ready to submit in the face of power. “Meanie.”

Alfie laughs heartily. “You don’t ‘ave a bad bone in your body. I think I’ll go with Velvel.”

“Ve- Vel-’’

“Velvel.”

“With a schwa?” He nods. “Velvel. Yeah, you know what? I like that.”

“That’s decided then, innit?” He stuffs the wee thing into his backpack. “So, my fair guide, what are we goin’ to do today?”

“I thought I’d show you Mokum through my eyes. I mean, the Dam and Rijksmuseum are nice and all, but there’s more to Amsterdam. Although, the Rijks does have a nice art collection, so, if you’d like, I mean, I don’t know how much you like art galleries-’’

“‘Ow do you think I gain inspiration for my designs?”

“Well, uhm…’’ I rub the back of my neck, eyes averted to the ground, ‘‘Internet?”

“Fucking ‘ell, I’m only pullin’ your leg. You’re not wron’, though. ‘‘But,” he rests his hands on the handle of his cane, “if my guide thinks it barbarous for me to miss the, ‘ow’d you say it again?”

“Rijksmuseum, often nicknamed ‘het Rijks’.”

“R- Rey-’’

“Rijks. I can’t really think of a word in English that has a similar ‘ij’ sound.”

“Ij- ij- Rijks. ‘Et Rijks.”

“Not bad, not bad at all,” I beam at him. “But it’s quite a wee bit away from here and I think it might become too much for your leg.”

“Darlin’,” he boops my nose, “stop worryin’ that pretty little ‘ead of yours. I’ll strain meself ‘owever fuckin’ much I want. First things first, though, let’s get you your pumpkin spice latte.”

You remembered!

However, there is no chance to let myself be swallowed by the storm of butterflies inside my body to drift on their wings, because my companion seems to be in a rush.

Alfie starts walking ahead, head held high and with a resolute stride like he is on his way to proclaim victory on a battlefield. I scramble after him, gobsmacked by his confidence. “Do you know where you’re going?”

Surely you haven’t spent enough time here in the city centre yet, having been busy with the convention?

Then again, I don’t know what he did before I arrived, after I left, or at night. Who he spent his time with.

I swallow the bitter taste on my tongue and force myself to unclench my jaw while trying to catch up with him. Although his leg is a problem, it doesn’t seem like it is today considering how swift on his feet he is. Alfie is even faster than I am during rush hour and high on caffeine.

“To the Starbucks near the Dam,” he says casually. “It’s the only place I can find ‘ere. You’d expect you’d be able to find anything you desire in a city that claims to be a safe haven.’’

‘‘Maybe your greatest desire right now is a cup of coffee,’’ I say in between breaths, closing the last bit of distance between us with a light jog.

How fast would you be if you were revved up on caffeine and your leg wasn’t hurting?

Alfie blinks, eyebrows raised with a sudden realisation, and then hums in something that holds the middle between amusement and displeasure. He slows his pace to match mine. ‘‘Could be, yeah, but I still need your guidance. Otherwise, I don’t know where your world is. And I’m done with wanderin’.”

“The bookshops of this city are part of it. If you lose me, look for me there. Or, you know, shoot me a message over IG.”

“Or we could call.”

He loops his arm through mine to safely guide us across the street, where we come to a halt. Alfie fishes his phone out of the pocket of his jeans, creates a new contact, and hands it to me. Apparently, he named me Funny Accent. “I promise I won’t make unsolicited calls. You ‘ave my word, darlin’.”

I frown and glare at him. “My accent’s not funny.”

“It is, considerin’ who you are.” He bounces on his feet, chuckling. “You give me your number, I change the name.”

“To what?”

“You won’t know till you put it in, won’t ya?”

“I could also not give it at all.” I shrug. “Guess I’ll remain the lass with the funny accent.”

“Except you don’t want to be, do ya?” He tilts his head, full lips pulled into a lop-sided smirk. “Your number, Y/N.”

Grumbling about how he can so easily read me, I fill out my details and hold out his phone to him. “There. Now please change it.”

“Because you ask so nicely,” he purrs. “A promise is a promise.”

Alfie bites his lip, dreaming up a gods-only-know what kind of nickname. Then he nods, types it out, and shows me the screen. “‘Ere. ‘Ow’s that?”

Little dove.

Hardly capable of not giving into the warm fuzzy feeling inside, I nod. “Better.”

“I also have an alternative.”

“Which is?”

A sly smile spreads on his lips. “Let’s first get to know each other a little better and maybe, yeah, if you play your cards right, I’ll tell you.”

“So mean.” I shake my head and place my hands on my hips with feigned hurt. “Here I am, kind enough to be your guide and this is how you treat me.”

“I am terribly sorry, my lady, but we ‘aven’t known each other that long, ‘ave we? Your ‘umble servant merely stated a fact.”

You’re not wrong, though. This is only the third time we’ve seen each other.

“That may be so, but I might forgive your transgression if you give me your number as well, good sir.”

A few people turn their heads and look at us, puzzled by our theatrical bickering. Alfie and I exchange glances. He raises a sarcastic eyebrow and rolls his eyes. I giggle and curl a finger under my nose, head bowed. When I look back at him, he’s grown still, observing me. “What?”

“Nothin’. Never mind, just me old mind goin’ places.” He clears his throat and holds out his hand. “Your phone.”

I pull it out of my bag, create a new contact, and hand the device to him.

“Wolfy?”

Caught red-handed committing a blatant crime of the heart, I turn my face away. “Yeah. I- I can change it.”

“Don’t.” His fingers fly over the screen, typing out his number. Then he hands my phone back to me. “And call me that as much as you like.”

“Wait- You- Hang on, you seriously won’t mind? You know I was being weird when I said that, right?”

Is he for real? Surely he’s joking.

“You were bein’ yourself. And,” he groans, muttering under his breath as he continues, “I kinda like it. Very much.”

“Wolfy,” I tug on his sleeve, lips pulled into a pout and filled with an uncharacteristic amount of bashfulness , “can we please get a pumpkin spice latte now?”

“‘Ow am I supposed to say ‘no’ when you do that, eh?”

“Do what?”

“Entshant mir.” Alfie’s expression brightens when he notices I perfectly understood him. He holds out his arm and instinctively I clutch his bicep. “Let’s go, you clever little dove.”

Unsurprisingly, the coffee shop is stacked to the brim with people, most of them foreigners and teenagers. I let go of his arm and scan the area, but there’s no available seating. “I can check if there’s another branch nearby. Hopefully, we can plop down there. Although, the station has a Starbucks as well and there’s always room.”

“Or we stay ‘ere, I chase a few people away, and we ‘ave a nice and quiet coffee moment together. ‘Ow about that, eh?”

I turn on my heel, searching his face for a clue he doesn’t mean what he said. “You can’t be serious. About the ‘chasing people away’ part, I mean.”

“I am. Really, it’s no trouble.” He runs a hand through my hair. “You get me a cappuccino, right, and I’ll find us a place to sit.”

“No intimidating people. Stay here.’’ I grab his sleeve when he makes to go on his coffee shop war. ‘‘We’ll order together and drink it outside.”

“And where do you think to sit, hm? Maybe I wanna do some people watchin’, a bit of drawin’.”

“What would you draw? Also, no working. It’s your day off.”

“I draw for a livin’, Y/N, but also for pleasure. And maybe,” he leans in close enough for his breath to ghost over my lips, “I want to draw my little dove enjoyin’ her pumpkin spice latte in a nice and cosy environment.”

“You could also do that somewhere else.”

“Nah, my vision is of you, the place ‘ere. It’s good to be stubborn as an artist.” He slips me his card and kisses the tip of my nose. “Go on. Wolfy will find a place to sit.”

With total disregard for the mayhem he unleashed inside me, he mixes into the throng of people. I gawk at him as he does so, my tongue paralyzed, incapable of calling him back.

Which might only make matters worse.

I’m fairly certain an exploded heart is lethal.

He… He kissed me! The tip of my nose! What- What the fuck?

I flip his card between my fingers, biting my lip to suppress the smile tugging on the corners of my mouth.

That was actually quite nice.

A sweet little fragment to be left with.

The queue moves forward at a snail’s pace, but fast enough for me to start panicking about how to order.

One cappuccino, medium, and one pumpkin spice latte, small. No, wait. One venti, is that the medium size? Or grande? I’ll just say medium. And a tall pumpkin spice latte. With no cream. Or should I go medium too? And a focaccia, to share. Yes.

I repeat the order over and over in my head, silently mouthing the words as inconspicuous as possible. Step by step, the moment approaches.

And passes without too much hassle. Well, without too much stuttering and plenty of effort to maintain my composure. Nevertheless, the order came out much smoother than anticipated.

I join the rest of the people waiting for their drinks, scrolling through Instagram to gain some inspiration for future tattoos. However, from underneath my lashes, I scan the café to look for Alfie. Casually I glance around the space when the former doesn’t work out, my chest tightening with the suspicion I look like a skittish moron.

The feeling fades, though, when I notice him sitting by the window. The sunlight illuminates the grey strands in his hair, which form silver highlights in his tousled locks. Sitting at an angle that allows him to watch everyone from the corner of his eye, he’s drawing on his tablet while Velvel watches over him.

He looks as serene as he did in the harbour yesterday, lost in thought as he taps his Apple pencil against his lips. To be honest, I’m glad that in moments like this he seems removed from the world.

Unable to see other women staring at him.

Lusting after him.

Out for what’s mine.

Although, is he really? Alfie can be humorous, casually playful or for reasons yet unknown. But the kiss on the nose, the argument about Velvel’s name, the way he insisted on being noted down as ‘Wolfy’ in my phone, the whole of yesterday.

Is there an ulterior motive?

Or is it plain fun, something to pass the time?

My breath hitches, my fingers growing cold and restless with the need for warmth.

For assurance.

A safe anchor to ground me in reality.

I wish you were right here, holding my hand.

Like he’s read my mind, Alfie turns in his seat and our eyes meet. Whatever he’s seen in mine makes him ready to get up, hand already on the handle of his cane. Nonetheless, he sits down again when I gesture for him all is well.

Sort of.

“A cappuccino and pumpkin spice latte for Y/N?”

“Yep, that’s me!” I turn and grab the drinks.

“Enjoy.”

It’s funny how the mind works. One minute you’re in the present, and in the next a cruel wave of nostalgia hits you with a half-forgotten memory.

The same drinks.

Chris sitting in one of the worn leather chairs in the middle of this very same Starbucks, drawing in his notebook.

Chimes.

Norigae.

Dark eyes bright with a joyous tenderness I’d never seen before when my ghosts sits down across from him and passes him his cappuccino.

Once again testing his ‘puppy taste buds’ even though he clearly hates coffee, nose scrunched for a moment before he forces himself to drink it anyway.

Laughter.

Our laughter.

The high screeching of the steamer pulls me from my reverie.

Shit, Chris, where are you? Do you… Do you still think about me?

The world turns watery while my heart feels like it’s forced through a shredder.

Are you still in love?

I inhale a shaky breath, mentally chastising myself for such a display of weakness.

Turns out I still am. Have been all along.

I breathe in deeply, blink a couple times, and sniffle.

No, this isn’t fair towards Alfie.

Cruel, isn’t it, how the heart remains engraved with the stories you thought had ended long ago? But it isn’t only the heart.

You remember.

Like the forest does.

Acting as if nothing happened, I rejoin the man by the window’s company and put the medium cup in front of him. “There you go. I also got us something to eat.”

He doesn’t pay the food nor coffee any attention, gaze focused on me. I sit down on the chair next to him and take a sip from my pumpkin spice latte. “What?”

“Nothin’,” he grumbles after yet another moment of scrutiny. He clenches and unclenches his fists, the beads of the bracelets around his wrists rattling. “Nothin’.”

“You sure?”

“Yeah.”

For a while we remain silent. Alfie occasionally sips his coffee when he’s not looking at or poking the cup, nibbling on a piece of focaccia I feed him or drawing on his tablet in the meanwhile. I watch the massive crowd manoeuvring the street, tourists trying to make sense of the trams, some afraid to be run over by a car or bicycle, unaware of the policy of ‘just bloody go’. You need to be daring if you hope to get anywhere in this damned city.

“At this rate, we won’t make it to the Rijks.” I glance at my watch, almost half past one. If we are to have proper lunch, surely there won’t be much time to leisurely wander around the museum.

“Mhm.”

“You don’t mind?”

Alfie shrugs, still drawing. “There’s next time. Besides, you owe me a museum trip now.”

I lean in, not that it will prove I misheard him. “I owe you?”

“Let’s phrase it like this. I, yeah, owe you a museum trip. For today, live slow with me.” He smiles softly. “You always seem so rushed.”

“I’m Dutch, we always have business to conduct. We’re merchants.”

He pokes my head. “I mean up ‘ere, mostly, ya silly girl. But so am I. I think we need to do somethin’ ‘bout it.”

“Oi!” I put my coffee down and rub my forehead. However, my stomach churns when his words dawn on me. “What goes on in yours?”

“You don’t wanna know.” Tenderly he kisses my forehead and hums like a pleased wolf when he nuzzles my nose with his, his whiskers ticklish on my skin. “Live slow with me. Let’s just sit ‘ere, drink coffee. I’ll draw, you read. Velvel would like it too.”

“Attached to him already?” I take a big sip from my latte to swallow the last piece of the bread, basking in its spiced warmth.

“Maybe.’’ Alfie pets Velvel with his Apple pencil, moving it in between his ears. ‘‘I’m still jealous, though.”

“How so?”

“You made ‘im. ‘E knows the power you ‘old. Your touch.”

I put my cup down again and reach out to trace his jaw. His beard is coarse yet smooth against my fingertips as I run them through it. “You do as well.”

Brow knitted, his lashes flutter shut. A low groan erupts from his throat as he leans into the touch. “Only, hm, only like this, yeah. Very shallow.”

His hand snakes up my thigh, leaning on it without putting his whole weight on it. It’s the same kind of grip he used back in Birmingham, securing my leg without hurting me. I suppose it can be said it’s rather thoughtful.

Nevertheless, it tightens when I trace his bottom lip with my thumb, using me for support while he rushes forward. In reflex I flinch and lean back, hands on his shoulders to maintain some distance between us. His breath is shallow, his whole body shivering with restraint.

Alfie swallows hard and moves his hand to the side to clench the edge of my seat. “I’m sorry, Y/N. Can’t behave, can I?”

I wrap my fingers around his wrist to put his bear-like palm back on my thigh. “I’m not well acquainted with your touch either.”

“You’ve already seen its rough side.” Lips pulled into a straight line, he brushes my cheek. The touch is light, close to jittery. Like he is handling precious porcelain and mortified at the thought of breaking it. “It ain’t swollen. No damage. Did it ‘urt much after I… crossed the line?”

“No, it was okay again by the time we drank coffee.”

“Right.’’ His voice is lacking conviction, cold in its acknowledgement of what happened yesterday.

“It’s okay, Alfie.”

“Right.” He traces the shell of my ear, barely touching it and quick to retract his hand. “Drink your latte. Enjoy the view. Let me do the work and capture this moment, eh.”

So we sit, the chaos of conversations held behind us dimming into a low buzz. Alfie occasionally sips from his cappuccino, but only when I throw him a hint it’s still there. Brow furrowed, his lets his stylus glide over the screen while sometimes mumbling under his breath in Russian, Yiddish, or English. The frown only fades when he glances at me, his features smoothing out into studious wonder.

In the meanwhile, I’m reading on my phone. Nevertheless, it’s difficult to focus on the story when I’m continuously wondering whether Alfie likes books and what he would recommend. Then again, given he’s fascinated by religion and symbolism, I wager he at least likes stories. But does he lean more towards fiction or non-fiction? Or does he prefer the fine line between the two of them?

Outside, Amsterdam gradually transforms into an impossible to navigate sea of people. It’s perhaps the thing I loathe the most about the city, be it here or abroad. It’s gets too busy, too chaotic, too fast. Yet, today, it’s actually less irritating since there’s no obligation to pull us away from here, pop our bubble and throw us back into the throng for work or suchlike.

We sit here, enjoying ourselves in the warm sunlight.

Basking in each other’s presence.

Happily on a date.

Could… could we call it that? I mean, I’m simply his guide, just a friendly local. But, he did kiss my nose. And then there’s what happened just now. Does that mean… no, no, it’s not. This isn’t a-

“Penny for your thoughts?”

I snap out of my reverie, blinking in astonishment. Alfie’s looking at me, head tilted and a frown marring his handsome features. “What do you mean? I was just looking out the window.”

“No, you weren’t. You were too far away for that, darlin’.” He puts his tablet down and leans on the table. “Don’t even think about lyin’. What’re you lookin’ so pale for?”

I squirm in my seat, embarrassed by my own words. “I- I was just wondering if this is… a- a… you know…”

“No, I don’t,” he answers matter-of-fact, but the gleam in his eyes tells me he wants me to use my words.

Like a good girl.

His good little dove.

“Alfie, you know very well what I mean,” I grumble, though even to my own ears I sound like a whining child.

“Go on. Say it.”

“Oh, come on.”

“Say. It. You’re a clever little thing, so use your words.”

“A date,’’ I relent. ‘‘I- I was wondering if this, here, now, is a date.”

“Seems pretty obvious to me.”

“Not to me.” I avert my gaze to my hands, clasped tight in my lap. “I’m a little stupid, so please tell me.”

A big warm palm covers my trembling fingers, a pleased hum vibrating through them. “It is.”

“Don’t say it if you don’t mean it.”

It’s okay. I wouldn’t blame you. There was nothing there to begin with, was there?

Above the buzz of conversation and woven into the tunes playing over the speakers, the strange sound I have been hearing since we met resonates in my ears. Like butterfly wings tearing apart.

Rip.

The squeeze he gives my hand was meant to be encouraging, but is firm to the point it hurts. Alfie’s words match the gesture, hasty and desperate despite the effort to keep his emotions under control. “I do. And before your funny little mind is gettin’ ideas again, this is the first time, right, the first time I’m doin’ this. Ollie would be ‘avin’ a bubble if ‘e ‘eard me, but it’s true.”

I look up to take him in, waiting for the lie to break the mask of frantic blue eyes. “You’ve never before-’’

“You’re the first girl, listen, bloody first girl I’ve met up with outside work. The first in a long time, in general.”

“Never married?”

“Never.”

“Partner?”

“I avoid permanent intimacy.”

“Flings?”

“Don’t like ‘em. Only when I couldn’t take care of meself.”

“So, you’re not one for relationships.”

“Don’t mean I’m not willin’ to try.”

“You just said you, and I quote, ‘avoid permanent intimacy’.”

“Maybe I’d like to change that?’’ His features soften, a hopeful calmth smoothing the lines in his face and making him look younger. ‘‘Never simply assume, yeah, makes for dangerous business. You don’t sign a contract you ‘aven’t read, do you?”

“Uhm, well…” Truth be told, there have been times in the past where I blindly signed a contract, simply glad to have a job, a form of income.

He pokes my head again, stressing each word with an additional poke. “You’re indeed a little stupid. Never sign anythin’ without readin’, ya hear me?”

“Yeah, yeah.” I swat his hand away, a dull pain throbbing between my brows.

He grabs my face like he did yesterday, fingers digging into my cheeks. Alfie lowers his voice, a threatening tone lacing his drawl as he leans in, our noses touching. “I asked if you ‘eard me.”

“Y- Yes,” I stammer, caught between panic and the haze caused by the combination of the warmth between my thighs and his presence.

“Yes what?”

“Yes… Alfie?”

“Almost.”

“Yes, Wolfy.”

“Good,” he purrs, loosening his grip. “Glad we’re on the same page again.”

He packs up, drinks the last of his coffee, and puts Velvel in one of the side pockets of his backpack before he slings it over his shoulder. Cane in hand, he looks at me expectantly. “C’mon. Let’s carry on.”

“Hang on, give me a second.” I finish my coffee too and scramble to my feet. Clutching his arm, we leave the building. I hold him a little tighter as soon as our shoes hit the pavement.

“Busy, innit?”

I hum in agreement.

“Easy to lose each other in.”

I grab him a little tighter, reluctant to let go.

What’re you on about?

“Let go of my arm, darlin’.”

“Why?”

What if I don’t want to?

“Because otherwise you’re bound to lose me in this fuckin’ ant nest. Go on. Let go.”

I do as he says, forcing myself to stop clutching him.

But the hesitation immediately disappears when he grabs my hand, his palm warm and rough against mine. “There. Much better. Now we can’t lose each other.” A satisfied grin spreads on his lips. “Where are we off to?”

In spite of trying to suppress it, I hum contently. Only to crumble in the next second, having forgotten the routes I planned for us on the way here. “Um, well, we have two options. Either we crack on to Scheltema, which is a very large bookstore and go from there. Or, we first go to the fabric store I frequent that’s a little outside the centre and work our way back to Rokin, which is just past the Dam.”

“I like option two. It would be good for me leg to get some exercise. ‘Sides, I’d like to see the little seamstress in her natural ‘abitat.” Lips pursed, he tilts his head. “Though, you’re not that, are ya. You’re more like this goddess who creates life with needle and thread.”

“Well, I wouldn’t go so far as call myself a goddess. I’m just a girl who sews.”

“Dos meydl hot geshafn lebn fun di keytn, vos zi hot opgeshnitn fun dem volf, vos hot zikh farvandlt in a mentsh, gekhidusht fun ir magish.”

A girl… something about a wolf… a human, person, individual, whatever, and something ‘bout magic. C’mon, this isn’t fair.

“What did you just say?” I raise an eyebrow. “Don’t shut me out by switching to a language I don’t understand.”

“Just a little story of the woods. One your words made me think of.” He gestures in the distance with his cane. “Lead on, my fair guide.”

“Not until you tell me what you said.” I try to yank my hand out of his grip, but Alfie holds on tight. A flicker of disappointment flashes over his face, mixed with a strange sentiment I can’t name.

“It’s part of a story me mum used to tell me, an old legend of her people. But it’s also a tale told by the people in Scandinavia. In fact, it’s originally a Norse myth. ‘Owever, it’s a strange one since I found it bore similarities to an Irish myth I ‘eard from a couple of Travellers. It’s almost as if it’s a fusion of things. Then, when I was in Israel, and according to my faith, the story was also linked to the life of one of the prophets.”

“What’s the full story?”

“I’ll tell you some other time, yeah.” A weathered look, which makes him look older than he is and tired to the bone, twists his handsome features. “It’s quite a long one.”

“If you don’t wanna tell me, just say so.”

A shock of butterflies kickstarts my body when he kisses my temple. “Come to England and I’ll tell you. There’s an art piece in the British Museum about it, so I’ll get to make good on that date, eh?”

“Promise?”

“I solemnly swear so, my fair lady.” He gives my hand an encouraging squeeze. “Now, can we carry on?”

“That eager to see me browse a fabric store?”

“It’s part of your world, innit, which also makes it part of your mind. Gives me an inklin’ of ‘ow it works. So of course I am.”

I chuckle and shake my head. “Weirdo.”

“I’m a little funny, yeah.” His gaze turns distant. “Both mad, but sharing the same insanity.”

A gift given to a select few so you told me in Birmingham. I’m glad we both have it.

“C’mon, Wolfy, let’s go.” I gently tug on his arm.

As planned, the nickname brings him back to me.

To us.

Here.

Together.

We navigate the mass of bodies back to the crossing near the central station. Some people make way to let us pass after being glared at by Alfie, who keeps me close at his side and towers over me like a human shield. In the meanwhile, I scurry after him, half hidden in his coat. After making a left, we cross the bridge.

Alfie points at the hotel we pass with his cane. “Currently stayin’ ‘ere. Ain’t bad, but it’s a shame there’s a two-person bed when there’s only one of me.”

I follow his gaze, staring at the edifice too. “Sometimes it’s nice, though, to have a big bed all to yourself.”

“Still feels empty. ‘Aven’t been sleepin’ well ‘cause of it,” he grumbles in response.

There’s more to that comment, isn’t there? I’m hard-pressed to believe you missed me so much it kept you awake.

“You don’t have to anymore.” His brow furrows at my remark, questions floating around his head. I nod to the wee plushie in the side pocket of his backpack. “You got Velvel now.”

A dark chuckle bubbles from his throat. “I do, don’t I? ‘E don’t take up much space, though.”

I would. I’d gladly take his place.

Glancing around the plaza with its brown cafés and restaurant, I clear my throat. “Let’s… let’s move on, eh. We’re almost there, just gotta walk right on through.”

We enter the narrow street leading away from where we stand. It passes through Chinatown and leads towards Nieuwmarkt. It’s a big square where, honouring it’s name, there’s basically always a market going on. In the middle of it stands The Waag, a fifteenth-century building that was once part of the city’s walls and acted as a gate. At one point in time, it’s been a guildhall, museum, anatomical theatre and much more.

Totally did not look it up in the train and rehearsed the entire Wikipedia page.

While telling Alfie about the building, we pass by my favourite boba shop. I point at the sign depicting a bunny drinking a milk tea. “That’s one of my favourite places to get milk tea. Shame we just had coffee, but otherwise I’d say we get us some. Or, well, me. I- I’d quickly go get some boba. I mean, I don’t know if you-’’

Fortunately, as he seemingly tends to do, he saves me from breaking out into a ramble. “Never ‘ad it. That’s that Taiwanese drink, right, the one everyone’s losin’ their damned minds over? The one with balls in it?”

I snort at his description. “Yeah, but those balls are called tapioca pearls. And I used to be a sceptic, but it’s actually quite good. However, I have to be in the mood for it. Especially since it’s also a calorie bomb. It’s definitely good for when you’re low on sugar, though.”

“It ain’t wrong to indulge every once in a while,” he says, the grim twist to his mouth hardly hidden beneath his beard. “Food isn’t meant to be worried ‘bout.”

“I like to watch after what I eat. Nothing wrong with that, right?”

“You’re pretty as you are. There won’t be any worryin’, right, when you eat or drink with me. Not ‘ere, not when you come to Margate, not ever. Only, yeah, I, me, Wolfy, gets to worry. ‘Bout the bill tonight, ‘bout being able to provide properly for you. The only thing you get to worry that little ‘ead of yours about is what you want on your plate later.”

Surprised by the twist in the conversation, I squint as if it would help me discover whether I heard him correctly. Judging by his humourless expression, I did. “I didn’t know we were heading out to dinner.”

“We are. We’re on a date and I want to treat you right. Coffee, dinner, a nice long walk, explorin’ the city. Livin’ slow together.” He comes to a halt, grabs my chin with his free hand and tips it upwards, forcing me to look at him. He tenderly swipes his thumb over my bottom lip, in the same way I did earlier. “There’s little I’m serious about when it ain’t business. But I am ‘bout this. Greed is a sin, but one I seem to be guilty of committin’ yet again.”

“How so?”

“Because I want you all to myself today.” A shadow casts over his face. “But that boy, the one who drew in ‘is notebook, ‘e’s still on your mind too, ain’t ‘e?”

I step away, slipping my hand out of his, and shake my head. “No, he isn’t.”

“Don’t lie to me!’’ Alfie roars, but tones down his volume when he notices how it scares me. Nevertheless, he doesn’t do the same for the rage boiling inside him. ‘‘‘E’s the reason you spaced out. ‘Ow much did you two do? Did ‘e take you out like this? ‘Ow far did you go?”

We likely didn’t even make it past the beginning. I created a false start.

One step forward.

“What’s ‘is name?”

One step back.

“Doesn’t matter. None of it does. Yes, I do still miss him sometimes. But I am here with you. With you on my mind.”

“You’re dealin’ with a man now, not a boy” He grabs my sleeve, putting thought into grabbing a part where there’s only fabric, and pulls me to him with enough force to not make me stumble over my own feet. The distance between us closed, Alfie leans in, lets out a deep sigh, and nudges my nose with his in apology. “A man, damned as ‘e is, who will show you what it’s like to be treated right. Because that’s what you want, innit? To be treated well, to be loved right.” He places a hand on my hip and pulls me closer against his warm body, its heat tempting to trigger the uncharacteristic tendency towards complacency I seem to have around him. “By a man older than you. A man with experience. A king.”

I put a hand on his chest to gently push him away. To create some space to breathe.

To make room to forget.

Alfie’s gaze flits my hand to my face. Eyes squeezed shut, he grimaces as he mumbles something in a berating tone under his breath. With a slight tremor in his hand, he envelops my fingers.

“I’m sorry. It’s just,” he begins, his voice devoid of its former fierceness, “I ‘ave this funny thought. Really funny. So much so I loathe it.”

“I think I know what you mean.” I rub his upper arms. “But we’re going very fast.”

“Perhaps we are. Yet, you deserve to know my mind. At least this part.”

“I… I thought, no, never mind.”

Maybe this won’t be a one-time thing.

“Let me do the thinkin’.” He cups the back of my head to draw me in for a kiss on my forehead. “I want you to simply enjoy yourself today. Which means, no thinkin’, no worryin’, no nothin’. You deserve a break.”

“You do too.”

“I wouldn’t know ‘ow. It’s always one fuckin’ thin’ after another. This comes close to it, though, bein’ ‘ere with you.”

“You have my number now. You could call or text me for a break.” Feeling bold, I move in to hug him. Automatically, he wraps me up in his arms. “When I finally get to England, I want you to take a proper break. Put your feet up, have a glass of rum, unplug.’’

“I still have to teach you ‘ow to shave a man, though.” His chest rumbles with a cheeky chuckle. “I do see it as self-care to put you in me lap for a trim.”

A flush of heat treks through my body as I imagine us sitting on the edge of the tub. His dreamy eyes are focused on me while I glide the razor over his skin. He’d easily be able to pick me up and place me wherever he wants.

“What if I mess up? Cut you?”

“You might, but it won’t matter.” He curls a finger under my chin again to make me look at him. “I won’t get angry, I promise. You’ve never done it before, so ‘ow could I expect you to do it perfectly on the first try, eh?” He frowns as he thoughtfully hums. “Funny.”

“What is?”

“Funny,” he repeats. A moment after, as if pulled from a fevered dream, he blinks. “Anyway, enough dawdlin’. Lead on, my fair guide.”

We move on, crossing the Nieuwmarkt and following one of the streets leading off of it. A little further ahead, we round the corner, stepping onto Nieuwe Hoogstraat.

I point to a shop on our right. “Here we are.”

The fabric store consists of three narrow but deep spaces filled with everything you could possibly need for a sewing or knitting project. In the utter left and utter right space, the walls are lined with rows upon rows of fabric. In the middle, you can find the smaller things like buttons and patches. It’s truly a seamstress’s Valhalla.

“Anythin’ you need in particular?” Alfie asks while trailing behind me.

“I use a specific kind of fluffy fabric for the bottom of my plushies. Should be somewhere round here,” I answer as I nod to the woman behind the till and crack on to the space on the right.

The roll of fabric I’m looking for is in its usual spot on top of the display near the front window. I look at it from where I’m standing, mentally cursing my height. “I hate being small.”

Alfie makes a dissatisfied sound. I raise an eyebrow even though I can already guess the reason behind his displeasure. “Being tiny can be a curse.”

But I’ll admit it’s a blessing when it comes to you.

Without waiting for his response, I grab the nearby ladder and set it up. I set a foot on its lowest step after giving it a slight shake to test whether it’s steady.

From behind, rough fingers warm the back of my neck, giving it a light squeeze. “Let me.”

“Really, it’s no problem.” I turn in his grip, oddly comforted by the hold, but don’t step down. “I’ve done this before.”

His hand falls away to push his cane towards me. “Hold this, darlin’.”

“Alfie, you’re not going up the ladder.”

“Well, I sure ain’t goin’ to stand ‘ere while you’re riskin’ your neck.”

I put another foot on the ladder.

“What’re you doing?” A note of sternness mixed with caution sharpens his voice. He taps the floor in annoyance. “Get down.”

I cross my legs and plop down on one of the steps, staring at him in defiance. “Either it’s me who goes up or you who goes down.”

Alfie cocks a sarcastic eyebrow. “Threatenin’ me, int’ya?”

“For your own good.” I sigh in exasperation and roll my eyes. “Alfie, I’m serious. It’s alright, I got this. Like I said, I’ve done this before.”

“I don’t want you to fall, Y/N. Maybe it’s different for you, but I, yeah, I don’t particularly fancy a trip to the ‘ospital. Even less so to drop you off.”

“Just hold the ladder. It’ll be alright.”

He opens and closes his mouth, but groans when he realises protesting is of no use. Instead, he does as I ask and keeps the ladder steady while I clamber up.

With a bit of pushing, pulling, and forceful manoeuvring, I manage to pry the roll of fabric free from the pile.

“Look at you, doin’ big girl things,” Alfie calls from below. There’s an oddly proud yet affectionate twinkle in his eyes, which makes my heart somersault.

“Oh, shut it.” The roll of fabric tucked under my arm, I clamber down.

Alfie puts his arm around my waist once I’m in reach, holding me tight while guiding me down. ‘‘C’mon, nice and safe on the ground. Next time, I’ll go up. No negotiatin’.”

He continues to grumble under his breath about his leg and how he’s perfectly capable.

I giggle and pat his arm. “Okay, okay, no more ladders. Anyway, this is everything I need. If I start browsing, we’ll be here for quite some time.”

“Wouldn’t mind it.”

You say that now. Just you wait until I get going. You might regret it, love.

“But I want you to see more of my world.” I nudge his shoulder with mine. “My favourite bookshops are next, if you don’t mind.”

“Bookshop?” Alfie perks up.

“You like to read?”

“I do. Whenever I ain’t workin’, I’m down at Foyles. You ever been?”

“The one on Charing Cross Road?”

“Yeah, you know it?”

“I’ve been to London multiple times. ‘Course I know it. It’s one of my favourite spots in town.”

“We could spend a day there, if you fancy.” He rubs the back of his neck. “I’ll show you my world. Not just me kingdom in Camden and Margate.”

I nod, abuzz with excitement. “I’d like that.”

Yay, a bookshop date!

“Good,” he purrs. “Good.”

While we wait as the fabric is being cut, I feel Alfie reaching for my hand again. Hesitantly, his fingers brush past mine, asking for permission. I wrap my fingers around his thumb, feeling like a silly girl yet indescribably pleased. After paying and receiving the plastic bag with the fabric, we step outside.

Me still holding his thumb.

“‘Appy?” Alfie asks once we step into the street.

“I am.”

“Good.”

“Right, now, let me check Maps to see how we need to get to ‘het Spui’.”

“That sounds funny.”

“What? Het Spui?”

“Yeah. What does it mean?”

“Ah dinnae ken.’’ I shrug. ‘‘I just know it’s where the Waterstones and American Book Centre are and that it’s close to Rokin.”

“You ‘ave Waterstones ‘ere?”

“We do, but only in Amsterdam.” I chuckle. “That’s another reason why I like England so much. There are Waterstoneses… Waterstone… multiple branches in one city.”

“Careful now. Don’t let the Irish hear ya.”

“Oi, no one does the book trade like the Irish. Although, I mean, Dublin is the best place bookshop-wise. The rest of the country does it, well, so so at best. Don’t tell them I said the English and Scots do it the best.”

“I won’t,” he muses. “Or else me and the London boys will take care of it.”

“There you go again, protecting me.”

“Because I’m fond on you.” I give him a quizzical look. Alfie squares his shoulders, each word perfectly clear and proud. “Yeah, you ‘eard me and I’ve no shame sayin’ it. I’m fond of ya, Y/N.’’

Regardless of it being nice to hear, the confession leaves me conflicted. I turn my face away from him, focusing on the road ahead. “Hm.”

You barely know me. We’re talking of me visiting you in England after only having met twice. Of dates like we’re a thing. I’m holding your hand like this because you make me happy, but I’m scared shitless at the same time.

Everything comes at a price and those who say they’ll stay or like you will end up leaving. People can’t be trusted, especially men.

Men like him, who come on strong to women half their age making promises of a rosy future. And if they’re handsome, it makes you question where the line is. Perhaps, this time it’s different. This time he’s serious.

Until you get to the part where you’re talked into sex, the only thing they’ve wanted from you all along. Afterwards, you’re either discarded or as a piece of meat to satisfy their urges.

Chris wasn’t like that.

Or perhaps he is and I simply never found out.

I suppose the walls I kept up left me too guarded, too blind to the possibilities with a wolf boy I used to call mine. Or maybe the solemn fort I have locked myself in has protected me from a gruesome yet sad truth.

Guess I’ll never find out.

Something squeezes the back of my neck.

My fingers hold air.

“… you, little dove?”

I frown, surprised to find ourselves on Rokin. It’s strange how your subconscious can be there and nowhere at the same time. How your body can move in a set direction while your mind wanders.

“Sorry, you were saying?” To hopefully add credit to my show of casualness, I look left and right to situate us.

“I wasn’t sayin’ anythin’. I was askin’ you where you were.”

“Just lost in thought.” I grab his thumb again and point across the street. “Right. We need to cross the road and take one of the side alleys.”

“Sure you were,” Alfie says, ignoring my directions and evidently not done with the topic. All the same, he lets me guide him. “Lyin’, right, ain’t proper. Now, then, tell me what funny thought you ‘ad.”

Halfway.

“Does it matter?”

“Yes, it does!” Little specks of spittle fly through the air while some get stuck in his beard.

Safely across.

“It fuckin’ matters to me! Look at me. I said,” he grabs my face like he did earlier today when I don’t, coercing me into looking at him, “look at me. I, yeah, ‘ave been nothin’ but ‘onest with you. I care, right? I bloody care about you.”

“You’re only saying that.”

“Why would I, eh? Why would I?”

I pry myself loose, hardly finding any resistance as I wrap my fingers around his wrist and push him away. In hopes of concealing my shaking shoulders, trembling with hardly contained sobs, I try to keep my voice even. Nonetheless, I can’t prevent it from cracking with each word. “This is only a joke, innit? Just some charade to talk me into sex.”

Eyes wide with disbelief, he gawks at me. “You think that’s what this is?”

One step forward.

One step back.

“You fuckin’ think that?”

“A girl can’t be too careful around men, Alfie.”

“If I wanted sex, right, only sex, then tell me why I feel like this. Why, right now, it feels like me chest is being ripped open and me ticker pulled out of it, put right through the fuckin’ shredder. Why I feel like there’s a brick in me stomach and a ball of cotton in me throat each time you drift off or seem upset. Fuckin’ tell me!” His chest rises and falls in quick succession, nostrils flaring and panting plush lips parted. There’s a crack in his voice too when he continues. “Tell me because I don’t understand it.”

“You feel that way?’’ I sniffle, blinking away the tears obscuring my vision. ‘‘You’re not pulling my leg or anything?”

Give me one thing to believe. Prove to me I’m wrong, that it’s different this time. That this is real. Legit.

“Fuck, Y/N! I would never lie to you. I swear so on every holy book in this damned world.” He points at the bag in my hands, his rings reflecting the sunlight. “If you don’t believe me, smack me with that. If you do, come closer.”

I’m a little stupid.

So, after a moment of assessing him, I step forward.

And place my hands in his as he closes the distance.

“Can this old chap be really selfish?”

“Don’t cross the line.”

Alfie leans in, nudging my nose with his. Our lips brush past each other, his whiskers ticklish against mine. “Is this?”

“No.”

His lips are soft and tender, genuine in their affection. I answer the kiss in kind and cup his cheek, feeling how he leans into the touch. I clutch his shirt, holding on tight to the fabric with determined fists. A warm palm rests on the small of my back, pulling me further against him.

Further into our own world.

From which we have to retreat sooner than expected.

He’s the one to break away, to let the moment end with a shivery breath longing for more and a kiss on the tip of my nose. “I’d never touch you, yeah, without your permission. I’ll wait till you’re ready, but know this ain’t about sex for me. I won’t lie and say it wouldn’t be a nice addition to what we ‘ave. But this, right ‘ere, us, it’s about you. That kiss? Because I like you. Fuckin’ ‘ell, that don’t even begin to describe it.”

“Same here.”

“Yeah, you like me too?”

I bite my lip and nod.

He lets out a pleased sound holding the middle between an amused chuckle and satisfied hum. “Glad to ‘ear it because I ‘ave plans for us. Speakin’ of which, I ‘ave one right now. One which involves you givin’ me one more?’’ He taps his slightly swollen lips. ‘‘For the road?”

“Sure,” I say, smiling into the gentle peck he steals.

“Can’t get too greedy.”

Fingers entwined, we leave the argument behind us and crack on with renewed vigour.

On to the next moment.

Since Alfie is more than familiar with Waterstones, I propose going to The American Book Centre first. I hear him take in a short sharp breath like he’s preparing himself for a difficult task before he makes to cross the plaza. Using my body, I gently redirect us to walk around it instead.

Brows knitted together, he looks down at me.

“The cobblestones,” I point to the side. “They’re uneven.”

He lightly squeezes my hand as he hums in gratitude.

We walk towards the bookshop, where Alfie holds the front door open for me. I shuffle through the small opening and he follows closely behind.

Before us is a big round open space lined with magazines. A man is leaving through a gardening-related one while a girl sits on the steps with the latest issue of a gossip one. On our left are tables and a small section with books related to tattoos and the art of tattooing. In front of us and to the right, next to the tills, are racks with stationary.

A soft groan falls from his lips when Alfie spots the big staircase leading to the first floor. Walking already takes a heavy toll on his leg, so I can only imagine the amount of pain he has to suffer through when climbing stairs. A stone sinks to the bottom of my stomach when I recall how he had to pay the price for straining himself too much yesterday.

And I refuse to put him through that again.

“There’s a lift.” I nod to the other side of the shop.

“Would you…” he begins, hesitant yet suggestive. Though I know little about him, I have noticed it’s difficult for him to admit his weaknesses.

“I’m claustrophobic, but I’ll brave it for you.”

He pets my hair and wraps his fingers around the back of my neck. “Attagirl.”

I let out the breath I’d been holding when we arrive on the first floor.

“Proud of ya,” Alfie murmurs into my hair, kissing the top of my head.

“I’m glad to be out in the open again, not gonna lie. Anyways, here we have fantasy, sci-fi, crime, thrillers, young adult and the romance section. Upstairs are the non-fiction, general fiction, spiritual, drama, poetry sections.” The mechanical whirring of a coffee grinder resonates loudly in the background. “Right, there’s also a wee café here.”

He looks around, leaning on his cane. “What do you like to read, darlin’?”

A warm fuzzy feeling spreads in my chest at his bright expression. It would seem we are both in our natural habitats, a place where our worlds overlap.

“Well, I’ve found myself drawn more towards general fiction since my studies. Even then, though, I still pick up canon literature. Call me a bloody classist, but they don’t write like the writers of old anymore.” I smile wistfully as we walk among the shelves and navigate among the other customers. “They don’t write letters either.”

“What did you study?”

“English literature with a particular interest in Irish lit.”

“What a surprise,” he chuckles.

“Oi, say what you will, but it’s hard for me to find anyone who writes like W.B. Yeats and James Joyce.”

“Favourite books?”

“A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man and The Picture of Dorian Gray. Hands down the best. And my professor was right about the former. It was life-changing.” A wave of peace and contentment washes over me as I recall the feelings the novel instigated, my mind filled with the memories of the moments I could identify myself in Stephen Dedalus. “I finally felt understood. Found someone with the same vision. I felt… legit? No, that’s not the word. Ehm, what’s it called again when you feel like you finally matter? Are part of something?”

“Validated?”

“Yes! Validated. I felt validated. I should re-read it, actually.”

“Out of pleasure or,’’ his shoulders drop as he slows his pace, ‘‘a need to be accepted?”

“Both, perhaps,” I admit.

Because the world has little to no place for people like me. Not anymore.

“I see you.” We come to a halt at the end of the rampway. Alfie lets go of my hand to brush my cheek. “I am curious about your mind. Your vision. The artist within.”

“She’s a little twisted.”

“Likely less than me.”

“Read Acts of Desperation. I think it could enlighten you a little about how she thinks and feels.”

“Maybe I should pick it up then, eh, if we ‘appen to find it.”

We saunter back over to the grand staircase to check out the romance section. Usually I skip it, but occasionally I like to see what titles are currently being published and what type of stories publishers are apparently looking for.

“Anything you recommend?”

“Ollie would be havin’ a bubble if ‘e ‘eard this, but” Alfie sighs and bites his lip, “I like Jenny Colgan’s books.”

I blink, gobsmacked by his answer. “Jenny Colgan? Small town romances concerned with bakeries and bookshops Jenny Colgan?”

He shifts his weight, groaning in discomfort. “Don’t tell anyone, alright? It’s a guilty pleasure. A more innocent vice, basically. But otherwise I can recommend The Half Drowned King by Linnea Hartsuyker or The Last Kingdom by Bernard Cornwell. Recently I also picked up this book called River Kings. Can’t remember who wrote it. It tracks the heritage of a certain bead and shines a light on the Viking expeditions to the east.”

Unable to help myself, I clap my hands in excitement. “That one’s so good!”

“You read it?”

“Yeah, picked it up during my last trip to Ireland. In Cork. I normally don’t like non-fiction, but give me anything to do with Vikings and you make me one happy lass.” I calm down a bit and lead him back up the ramp forming the walkway between the sci-fi, horror, and fantasy sections. “I don’t really like fantasy. High fantasy, that is. Take Ben Aaronovitch’s books, for example. Those I like. In fact, I recommend them.”

Alfie scans the shelves, focusing in on the row with the author’s name. “Which one’s the first? Or are they standalones?”

“They’re a series of standalones connected by a red thread. The first is called Rivers of London.”

“This one, then.” He picks the title off of the shelf and fishes a pair of glasses from his backpack to read the backside. “Interesting. I’m also not one for fantasy, but I’ll admit this sounds good.”

Oh, come on. This ain’t fair. How? How does he look so fucking good in glasses?

Unashamed, I gawk at him. First a kiss and a somewhat love confession and now this is being thrown at me. I swear, if someone is going to pinch me and I jolt awake to find this was all a dream, I will go ballistic.

“What’re you lookin’ at?” He squints as he reads me, looking for an answer before I can give it.

“Your glasses.” I point at the thin golden frame on his nose. “I didn’t know you had them.”

“I’m far-sighted, so these readin’ glasses take the strain off me eyes. Also got a blue-light filter in ‘em.”

“Staring a lot at the screen, eh?”

“More than you think. When I’m not drawing, I have either a book or my e-reader in me ‘ands. There’s somethin’ about readin’ late into the night. The world’s silent. Even this fuckin’ city finally calms down a bit the same way London tends to go quiet at nightfall.”

“I really need to get back into reading. I mean, I keep buying books yet always end up never reading them. Or, rather, I end up reading a few. My bank account’s not happy.”

We head back to the lift, taking the walkway instead of the wee stairs to spare Alfie’s leg. While waiting, I grab his thumb, but evidently Alfie has other ideas and weaves his fingers through mine.

Inside the tiny cabin, he gives them an encouraging squeeze and another one when we step out onto the second floor.

As Alfie browses the history section, I explore the general fiction section. As per usual, I stop in my tracks to scan the shelves with the books which are on sale. After all, there could be an absolute steal among them. Furthermore, it seems I’m in luck because the three racks are well-stocked. Crouched in front of it, I pluck out a few titles to read their backsides and put a few aside to take with me.

“You know your account ain’t ‘appy with ya. Yet ‘ere you are, five books in your little hands,” a familiar raspy voice remarks, stern yet amused.

My heart somersaults into next week as my soul leaves my body. I scramble to my feet, jaw clenched and ears ablaze with shame. “They’re discounted.”

“I bet you say that every time you’re ‘ere.

I nuzzle into the scarf around my neck to hide my rosy cheeks. “Shut up.”

“C’mon, give me those.” He beckons for me to give him the books in my hands.

I take a step back. “No.”

He rests his hands on the silver wolf head handle of his cane. “At least four out of five will gather dust on your shelves. Said so yourself, didn’t ya? Go on. Pick one and put the rest back.”

“Hang on a minute.”

“I’m keeping your finances ‘ealthy, darlin’. One book. Pick wisely.”

“Alfie.” Sullen like a child denied a piece of candy, I pout.

“Don’t be silly.” He tilts my chin upwards, voice lowered to a conspiratorial whisper. “Wolfy knows best.”

“Why do you have to be right?” I turn away and crouch to do as he says.

After a while of making comparisons, asking myself how likely I’ll actually be to read it, and comparing prices, I pick Nightshade by Annalena McAfee. At this point you can almost call it typical how I find myself drawn to the tormented artist.

“This one.” I hold up the novel.

“Let me know whether it’s good. In fact, never ‘esitate to tell me ‘bout what you’re readin’. Don’t matter if it’s my taste or not.”

“The same goes for you.” I narrow my eyes as a thought pops up. “Hey, just as a question, considering what you told me. Did… You tattooed me without glasses.”

“I wore lenses that day. Tried them out, really. Optician said I technically don’t need ‘em, but I thought I’d give them a spin anyway. Don’t ya worry. I would never tattoo someone if I’m as blind as Sheishet.’’

“And?”

He cocks an eyebrow. “And what?”

“Do you prefer them? The lenses, I mean.”

Gods, he’s absolute hubby material.

“Would you?”

“No,” I shyly admit, sharing his taste.

“Good, ‘cause I don’t.” He smiles brightly. “So Wolfy will stick to glasses.”

We head downstairs to check out. As at Starbucks, it’s him who pays.

I try to get him to hand over his purchases - two books on Vikings in England - but fail. In Alfie’s words, I should think of my wallet rather than him. Also, ‘‘it ain’t proper for a woman to pay when she’s on a date with a gentleman, innit?’’

The attempt to tap my phone on the pin machine before he can with his card is as successful, kept back by the waist by a bear-like hand.

Purchases paid for, we head to the wee café upstairs. Alfie buys us two cappuccinos and a scone to share. Sighing in pure contentment, he plops down in the seat across from me. A dreamy look in his eyes, he gazes out through the window to the world below.

“Happy?”

“I am,” he mumbles. “A déja vu is a strange thing, innit? You’re in a moment that may or may not ‘ave ‘appened, maybe somethin’ you dreamt about in your sleep or in a daydream. Or it could be a moment your soul has lived, remembers, right, from a past life.”

“Did you have one just now?”

“I think I did… yeah.” He nods, slowly descending into one of the deep rabbit holes his thoughts create. “Wrong location, though. Different. Always different. Sometimes the same.”

“Can you recall anything else? Or, rather, do you have an inkling of what else goes on, went on, usually?”

“Always the same yet different,” he mumbles in response, cryptic.

I cut the scone in two and push the plate against his forearm to grab his attention. “Eat. If you don’t, I’ll eat the whole thing.”

“Crack on.” Features soft, he turns away from the window.

“I’m only joking. That focaccia wasn’t proper lunch. C’mon, dig in.”

“I’m not pullin’ your leg, Y/N. Eat.” He fishes his tablet from his backpack, ready to retreat in his own bubble again albeit with one foot across the border of reality.

To stay with me too.

My mouth dries up, throat constricted with his words. Alfie glances at me through his lashes, exhales, and reaches out to bring my fingers to his lips. The steam from our coffees is warm against my palm. “Don’t ya worry, I’ll eat tonight.”

“You’re beautiful,” I blurt out.

“What?”

“You don’t have to watch your figure.”

“Y/N…”

“You’re perfect as you are.” I sit up a bit to lean over the table and caress his cheek. “Scruffy wolf.”

“You forget, little darlin’, the old wolf is a king. That is, anywhere but when ‘e’s with the little dove.”

“What is he then?”

“A humble servant.” He nuzzles my palm. “A guard dog. Faithful.”

I retract my hand to take a sip of coffee. It’s warm, the milk feather soft and foamy.

A comfortable silence naturally descends between us. He draws while I look out the window, gazing into the distance.

If this is what living slow is like, there is no other type of life I’d want.

“Alfie, I’m scared,” I say after a while.

He looks up from his tablet, eyebrows raised. “Of what?”

“Of going home.’’ Biting my lip, I stare into my cappuccino. ‘‘Is it selfish of me to say I don’t want to?”

“No,” he sits back and shakes his head, “it ain’t.”

“I think my parents have figured out by now I’m not at the fabric market.”

“Would it help if I introduce myself to them?”

“You don’t have to. We haven’t known each other that long.”

“Afraid I won’t behave?” His eyes are alight with mischief as a cheeky grin slowly spreads on his lips.

“Hm, maybe a little bit.”

Besides, how am I gonna explain you, a forty-five year old tattoo artist? Although, rather, the question is how or whether I’ll be able to explain how happy you make me.

And convince them and myself both that this is real.

“Don’t worry, I will.” He runs his fingers through his beard, already cooking up a plan. “Gonna have to do somethin’ ‘bout this. Gotta present the perfect picture, ain’t I?”

“Don’t shave. I like your beard.” Though I have nothing against clean-shaven men, I have no shame in admitting I like them better when they have facial hair. Especially when it’s more than a little scruff.

The way Alfie does it.

“I think I’ll have to go short and go with a stubble. It’ll only be for a short while, Y/N. You’ll get your scruffy wolf back, don’t ya worry.”

“It’s fine as it is,’’ I say, making an effort to keep my voice low. ‘‘Looks great, in fact.”

He chuckles at my determination. “I’m not sure your parents would agree.”

“They wouldn’t if it was like this bushy, unkempt wizard beard.”

“So, the previous version. What I had in Birmingham.”

“What? No! That wasn’t a wizard beard.”

“It was kinda unkempt, though. Rushed to get to the studio and be on time for you.”

“It was fine. And you didn’t.”

Don’t start bootlicking. It’ll get you nowhere. ‘Sides, you’ve likely used that line before.

“I did. Well, not at first, since I didn’t know what kind of person I’d be dealin’ with. But,” his expression softens with warm tenderness, “that was before the wolf knew what the little dove was like.”

I tap the sides of my cup, head bowed to hide the way I still can’t fully trust him. That I’m conflicted by his words, kisses, and other gestures. “And now?”

Where is the line? Why can’t I stop awaiting the moment this will all fall apart?

“Now ‘e’s gonna sit back and draw ‘is little dove while she eats a scone and reads. Slow day, remember?”

“I do.” His expression falters, devoid of emotion as his eyes glaze over. “Alfie?”

After a moment of not getting a response and too desperate to think about proper manners, I snap my fingers. “Alfie? You with me?”

“Yeah… yeah, I am,” he drawls, slowly returning to wherever his mind wandered. “Just ‘ad another dèja vu.”

“Or low blood sugar.” I cut the scone in half. “Please eat. If not the whole thing, at least eat bloody half of it. In the meantime, I’ll see if I can find a good place for dinner, eh.”

He leans in to wedge the half between his teeth, a few crumbs crumbling down into his beard.

“Charming,” I snort. “By the way, just in case, you eat kosher, right?”

“Mhm,” Alfie answers, mouth full.

“Good to know.”

While he draws, I scour the Internet for a restaurant that offers food according to our dietary wishes. Although, I’m more critical about whether they have kosher food rather than plenty vegetarian or vegan options. After some thorough research and a quick glance at the menu, having decided to forego my own diet, I settle for Meat Me Kosher.

“Alfie?”

“Hm?” He briefly stops drawing to show he’s heard me. Without looking up from his tablet, he signals with his stylus he’s waiting for me to continue.

“Coffee.”

“Mh,” he hums, taking a moment to nip at the cappuccino that’s likely to have gone cold in the meantime. Or, with luck, it’s still lukewarm.

I pretend to divulge in the novel I bought and my half of the scone. However, in reality, I’m glad Alfie’s caught up in his own bubble because it gives me the opportunity to unashamedly watch him. Lips pursed or moving with inaudible words, he looks down at his tablet like the masters of old did at their canvases. The pencil glides over the screen, his thick fingers occasionally tapping it in annoyance when something isn’t as envisioned.

After a while, he lets out a deep sigh and puts his tablet into his bag again. In its stead, he pulls out the book I recommended him, puts it on the table, and takes another sip of his cappuccino. Immediately, he scowls. “Pizdets.”

“What?” Feigning innocence, I glance at him from over the edge of my book.

“Gone cold. Be right back.” He gets up, briefly places his hand on my head, and walks over to the counter to order a new cappuccino.

Looking like a satisfied bear, he returns a few moments later.

“Happy?”

“Almost.”

“Almost?” I repeat, incredulous.

What’s missing? Did I do anything wrong? Is there something I can do?

“Yeah,” he mumbles as he takes a sip. Humming in delight, chuffed with the warm drink, he sits down and reaches out. “Give me your ‘and.”

Wary of his intention, I slowly do as he says.

My breath hitches when his warm palm encloses my fingers and gives them a light squeeze. “Now I am.”

Albeit a bit clumsy, we continue to sit like that while we read, drink coffee, and, eventually, finish the scone.

Barely do we let go of each other, closely glued at the hip while we navigate Amsterdam. Even as we arrive at the restaurant, I’m still holding onto him.

Alfie appreciates I've chosen a kosher place, but something in the way he orders for us both and shares his food with me betrays his own thoughts. He basically feeds me the entire falafel table we have as a starter, barely touching it himself.

“‘Ere, try this,” he says, holding out his fork when our mains are served.

And again it trembles.

“Your hand’s shaking,” I remark, leaning in to snag the piece of pargiot off of it.

“Is it? ‘Aven’t noticed.”

“What’s eating at you?”

“Well, currently, you. You’re eatin’ off me fork, aren’t ya?” The feigned amusement fades when I give him a displeased look. He clears his throat and wipes his mouth on his napkin. “Right. First, yeah, let me say I appreciate it you goin’ out of your way for me. You truly didn’t ‘ave to pick a kosher place.”

“Course I did. Gotta take your diet into account. We’re out together. Can’t just pick any place without checking whether you’d be able to eat anything.”

“But you need to account for yourself too, Y/N. Do you ‘onestly like the food ‘ere? You weren’t so keen anymore when you saw the menu, were ya?”

“I normally eat vegetarian, true, but not out of any convictions. So, you know, every once in a while, I’ll gladly deviate. Besides, there are some tasty things on the menu I can eat. Sure, it’s only the starters, but, really, I don’t mind. Plus, this is some proper food.”

My words offer little comfort. Knuckles white with restrained violent sombreness, he clenches his cutlery. “Don’t put me before yourself.”

“Neither should you,” I say, calmly cutting the chicken leg on my plate.

But the act soon falls apart when he slams his fist on the table. A few people turn in their seats, curious about what is going on at our table. However, as at the convention, it only takes a deadly glare to make them mind their own business again.

Lips pulled into a straight line, Alfie turns his ice cold gaze to me. A shiver runs down my spine, triggering the fight or flight instinct. Nonetheless, I clench my jaw and make an effort to control my breathing. I have to stay put, to be brave. After all, he won’t hurt me.

I hope.

“Fignya! I will, whether you like it or not.”

Stop acting like you mean it. It feels good to be with you, but this won’t last. It isn’t real, despite what you said.

“What language is that?” Feigning ignorance, I take a sip from my ginger ale.

“‘Ow’d you mean?”

“That word before the statement with which, mind you, I strongly disagree.”

“Russian.’’ A faint smile tugging at the corners of his mouth, he sits back. His rigid posture loosens as the tension leaves his body. ‘‘Thought I’d stir it up a bit and pose my clever little dove another challenge.”

“As if I’m that good at Yiddish.”

“You seem to understand me very well when I speak it, though. Don’t discredit yourself. You’re a smart woman.”

“I guess I’m posing you quite the challenge too.” Absent-mindedly, I tap the sides of my glass.

“Are you? I wasn’t aware of one.”

“Loving me. Or, rather, being with me like this when I keep having these nagging doubts I can’t seem to silence. I know what you said and I desperately want to believe you, but… you know… I don’t know. I’m sorry. I’m, yeah… sorry for being such a downer.”

“Oh, Y/N, no.” Alfie gets up, face pale with anguish and saunters over to crouch at my side. A grimace briefly flashes over his face when a fresh surge of pain rushes through his leg. “I’m ‘avin’ a wonderful time, for the first time in a very, very bloody long while. And I’d not want, right, to spend this time with anyone, any-fuckin’-one but you. I’ll put myself before you because I want to. Because if there’s one thing I can and want to do in this damned world, it’s to take care of you. I’m fond of you, my dear. Never doubt that.” He pokes my head, but the smile on his lips does not quite reach his eyes. “I’ll say it every time we meet. Fuck, I’ll tell you until the words finally register in that funny and pretty little ‘ead of yours. And even after it ‘as, I’ll tell ya.”

I lift one of his hands from my knee and place it against my cheek, hands wrapped around his wrist to keep it in place. The honesty in his voice isn’t a farce, too determined and true to be an act. It renders me silent, only capable of showing I am listening through gestures like this.

“This is real, yeah? You. Me. Us ‘ere. All real.” With gentle force he pulls me towards him, his nose giving mine an accidental nudge when we’re closer than he evidently planned. In his defence, he isn’t wearing glasses. “All real.”

“All real,” I repeat, blinking away the tears brimming on my lashes.

“Attagirl.”

During the rest of our dinner we talk about the small things like books we’ve read and places we’d like to visit one day. Alfie regales me with stories of his travels around the world, be it because of a guest spot or for leisure. One day, he hopes to travel to Japan.

Eventually, the conversation turns to conventions. After all, I have to know when the next time will be when we can meet.

“There’s a tattoo convention in Utrecht in October. Halloween weekend,” I say while a server clears our table and the wait for dessert begins.

“Too short notice. Got appointments, I think. Ollie knows for sure. Keeps my agenda.”

“Brussels in November?” There are no other ones I’ll be able to visit that still take place this year. The anticipation of a negative answer creates a heavy weight in my chest, slowly crushing my heart.

“Would you like me to?” His eyes glisten when I nod, frantic in my desperation. A slow lopsided smirk spreads on his lips. “Then I’ll make it ‘appen.”

Alfie is the one to pay the bill yet again, hijacking the server’s pin machine by playfully dismissing my debit card with a waving gesture. Afterwards, he helps me into my jacket before putting on his coat and slinging his backpack over his shoulder. Holding my hand, we walk into the chill evening air to make the journey back to his hotel and the central station.

Along the way, he pulls out his Vape. Nevertheless, whereas he used it without care yesterday, he now thumbs the device and puts it away.

“It’s okay. I don’t mind,” I say, having noticed his hesitation.

“Nah, I think I should quit. Vices aren’t good, Y/N. They’ll only tear you asunder.”

The homebound journey comes to an end too soon for in about half an hour we’ve reached the imposing and elegant building of the hotel Alfie’s staying at.

“Well, I guess this is it.” We come to a halt in front of the stairs leading up to the entrance. I let go of his hand, turn, and look up at him. “Thank you for today. I had- I really had fun.”

For the first time in a very long while.

The last time was with a wolf boy at my side.

“Glad to ‘ear it.” He spreads his arms. “Can I get a ‘ug as a reward?”

I burrow into his coat as he wraps me up in his warm strong arms. For a few moments we remain like that, standing there yet adrift in our own world. An idyllic moment to cherish later.

Although reluctant, I eventually force myself to put some distance between us. Placing my hands on his chest to use as leverage, I gently slip from his grasp. If I don’t, I fear neither of us would ever leave. “I should go home.”

“Don’t.”

“Alfie, I don’t have any pyjamas or toothpaste or-’’

“No need to worry, darlin’. I think we can remedy that.”

He drags me along into the hotel lobby. My common sense urges me to resist, but the need for more time together and unwillingness to leave makes me pliable. Ready to give into our shared whim.

“Uhm, sir, I’m sorry, but no guests are allowed after ten o’clock,” the front desk worker says, standing up as she trails our movements towards the elevator.

“Guest?” Alfie stops in his tracks and turns towards the poor woman, who goes pale the moment his eyes centre on her. “She ain’t no guest. This ‘ere, yeah,” he points at me, half hidden behind him, “is my companion. Simply isn’t checked in, but I’m sure that won’t be a problem, innit?”

“Sir, I apologise-’’

I squeeze his hand when I feel the first trembles of rage coursing through his fingers. He briefly turns to me, his frown slightly softening when our eyes meet. “Breathe. I’ll go. You have my number.”

“No, you ain’t goin’ anywhere. It’s startin’ to get dark out and who knows what lurks in the shadows, eh? ‘Sides, I’m sure you’ll enjoy my little plan.”

“At least stay polite.”

“Fine.” He takes a deep breath and turns back towards the front desk. “Can I ‘ave a word with the manager?”

“Y- Yes, sir. I’ll- I’ll go get him.” Meek and hurried, she dials up her supervisor.

Without so much as a second thought, I squeeze his hand again and murmur words I hadn’t expected to use in relation to him. “Good boy.”

“Hm,” he returns the gesture, his voice lowered to a purr, “can be nice.”

A little while later, a man clad in a striped suit appears around the corner of the lobby.

“Evelien, is there a problem?” he asks in Dutch, glancing at the terrified woman. Her expression speaks volumes, so his attention automatically shifts to us.

“What ‘e ask?” Alfie leans in.

“Whether there’s a problem,” I translate.

“Mister Solomons,” the manager starts in what I can only describe as Dunglish. It’s occasionally duped Louis Van Gaal Engels, named after the terrible English spoken by one of our more famous soccer coaches. I’d argue Mark Rutte comes close to it too. Of course there are plenty others who sound and are as terrible at the language as them, but those two men take the crown when it comes to making my toes curl with cringe. “Is there a problem?”

Oh gods, please shut up.

“Yeah, there is,” Alfie grumbles. “Apparently, it’s not allowed to ‘ave my girl with me. Sure, she ain’t checked in, but there’s plenty space in my room. Now, she’s ‘ad a long day and it ain’t safe to send her back on ‘er own at this time of day. Considerin’ that, I offered she stay with me, yeah, because it ain’t safe to let a woman wander on ‘er own in the dark. Surely you understand.” He takes a few steps towards the manager, looming over him. “Right, little man?”

The manager opens and closes his mouth, chasing words that remain elusive. Eyes wide with panic, he awkwardly clears his throat. “Of- Of course, mister Solomons. She can stay. Would you, ah, do you need extra… towels?”

“Good man.” Alfie puts a hand on the manager’s shoulder. “I’m glad we see eye to eye.”

Leaving the question about the towels unanswered, he grabs my hand again and leads us to the elevator. I’ll be honest, despite my statement earlier today, I am unashamedly happy he has used his status to prolong our time together.

“Why were you bristlin’?” he asks when we are out of earshot of the now both very pale hotel employees.

“His English.” Alfie’s expression goes slack, eyebrows knitted together. “Not every Dutch person is great at English to the level they have an, I suppose, native-like accent like me. Most transfer the regular monotone Dutch speech pattern to their English, which makes it very flat. And I just can’t stand it.”

“Funny. You’re not even English and yet you react like you are.” He chuckles while we head to the elevator. “You’re a very strange woman.”

“You’re not the first to say that.”

“Oliver Cromwell.”

“Don’t mention that name,” I snap.

Alfie laughs at my outburst. “Are you sure you’re not Irish?”

The doors open and we get in. He pushes the button for his floor.

I lean against the wall, arms crossed. “Maybe in a past life. As you said yesterday, history has a funny way of repeating itself.”

“You think we met? Our past selves?”

“Who’s to say?” I avoid his gaze, trying to fathom who and what we could’ve been.

“Ir zent bakant far mir.”

Ik ben bekend voor je? What’s that in English again? Familiar! I’m familiar to you?

“In what sense?”

“I don’t know, darlin’.” The doors open and we step into the hallway. I match my pace to his as we make our way to his room. “Perhaps it doesn’t feel like it to you, but to me, right, it’s like I’ve known you for a long time.”

It’s starting to feel like that for me too. And I’m not sure yet I like it.

“I can’t say the same,” I say, entering the room as Alfie holds the door open. His gaze is cold, boring into my back. When I turn to him, leaning against the wall, his blue eyes have gone vacant and dull. Although, upon closer inspection, they rather seem haunted and hiding a grim pain he has carefully locked away. “Not yet, at least.”

“Right,” he murmurs. “I’ll run you a bath, yeah. It’s been a long day.”

“Alfie, don’t be like this.” I grab his wrist as he moves past me. “I just need more time. This is all new to me and I’m scared.”

He frees himself from my grip, mumbling to himself. “Eyn tog ir ken gedenken mir. Oder ir vet nit. Es tut nit enin enimor. Ir keynmol hobn fryer, azoy vos volt ir itst?”

He storms off to the bathroom. A few seconds later, I can hear the tap running.

A frog in my throat, I settle down on the edge of the bed. I hang my head and weave my fingers through my hair, quivering bottom lip caught between my teeth and my breath shallow.

One day I’ll… gedenken? In English, is that the same as remembering, remembrance? One day I can remember you? Or… Or not? It doesn’t something.

As for the last part, neither Dutch or my high school level German can help translate.

My vision becomes watery as his annoyed yet sombre words echo in my ears. We came this far. He’s got me in his room, the farce he put up broken the moment I don’t agree with him.

What the fuck am I doing? I already pissed him off. I should go. I’ll think of an excuse and shoot him a message. Yeah. Okay, gotta be fast.

I stand up and grab my bags. However, the second I turn towards the door, Alfie pops back into the room. Standing in the doorway, he takes me in. “What’re you doin’?”

An involuntary sob escapes me. Immediately he saunters over, a look of shock on his face when I take a step back. “Y/N, what’s wrong?”

Another step forward.

Another one back.

“Talk to-’’

“Step back.”

“What?”

“Step the fuck back,” I roar, on the verge of breaking down completely. He does as I say, hands held in the air in surrender. “And don’t follow me. Don’t try to stop me.”

But of course he does.

The idea was to walk around him with a bow and bolt out the door, take the stairs, run outside and straight to the station. Alfie, however, grabs me by the arm and pulls me flush against him, arms locking me in place. His heart is thundering in my ear, chest rising and falling quickly with the effort it takes to make me stop struggling.

“Calm- No- Calm- Y/N, calm down!” He caresses my hair, lips pressed to the top of my head and his voice stern yet worried and kind. “What was the plan, eh? You’ve gone fuckin’ mad if you think I’ll let you walk out that door without tellin’ me what the fuck you’re playin’ at. Tell me, yeah? Tell Papa Solomons what funny thin’ you were tryin’ to do.”

My breath tapers, knowing there’s no way out now. I swallow hard, hardly able to form coherent and audible sentences. “I- I’m- I thought you were mad at me.”

He presses another kiss on the crown of my head, softly swaying to help me calm down faster. “Why would you think that?”

“Because of what you just said. In Yiddish.” I inhale a shaky breath. “I-’’

“Oh, darlin’, if I were angry with you, I’d say it in a language you understand.”

“Better start learning Dutch, then.”

“I’ll tell you in English until I can. Even so,” he presses a kiss on my forehead and then tips my chin up so he can kiss away the stray tears rolling down my cheeks, “I promise I’ll never, yeah, never get angry with you.”

“So, what- what happened yesterday wasn’t- when I went to get coffee and after-’’

“No, I wasn’t angry with you. I was simply being a stupid old man ragin’ at life.” He tightens the embrace and cradles my head. “It wasn’t because of you.”

“Alfie, is it- No, never mind.”

It’s too early to say I love you.

“Nah, none of that.’’ He stops moving. ‘‘Tell me. What did ya wanna ask?”

“Nothing. Let’s leave it be. Thank you for running me a bath.” I wriggle out of his grip and rub his forearms lovingly. “I’ll go enjoy it.”

He rests his forehead against mine, eyes closed and his hands on my waist. “If you need anythin’, just shout.”

“I will.”

He tentatively presses his lips against mine, shaking with the strain of not bursting out in a fit. However, it doesn’t feel like anger.

More like deep-seated sorrow.

“Don’t forget this.” He lets go of me to rummage in the closet, pulling out a white hoodie with his studio’s logo embroidered on the left side on the front. He turns it around so I can see the back, which depicts a fierce Fenrir devouring the sun. “I ‘aven’t worn it yet, so it’s still fresh. It might be a bit big, but it’ll keep you warm. There’s also an extra toothbrush on the sink, the blue one. You can use my toothpaste. Oh, there’s also micellar water. I use it for me skin, but it’s also good to remove makeup with I ‘eard.”

“It is. Thank you, Alfie.”

He looks at me and nods, a grateful grunt erupting from his throat. ‘‘Told ya I had a plan.’’

Hoodie draped over my arm, I head to the bathroom.

The bath water is the exact right temperature, hot yet not enough so to scorch your skin. Like our silences, it’s comfortable. I undress and hop into the lavendel-scented tub.

Submerged into the water up to my chin, I repeat the conversations we had today in my head. Because I’m still waiting for the catch. A sign this is either a cruel joke or a feverish dream.

Apparently, it’s not allowed to ‘ave my girl with me.

This is real, yeah? You. Me. Us ‘ere. All real.

If I wanted sex, right, only sex, then tell me why I feel like this. Why, right now, it feels like me chest is being ripped open and me ticker pulled out of it, put right through the fuckin’ shredder. Why I feel like there’s a brick in me stomach and a ball of cotton in me throat each time you drift off or seem upset. Fuckin’ tell me!

There truly was a crack in his voice.

Tell me because I don’t understand it.

“Me neither, Alfie,” I mumble to myself. “Me neither.”

I raise my leg to admire Anubis, the first god to grace my skin.

We created a bloody masterpiece, ‘aven’t we?

He sounded incredibly proud, not of himself but of us both. The same genuine delight I spotted in the various little smiles he tried to suppress.

When I climbed down the ladder. Put back the books. Drank coffee while he was drawing, half concealed by his tablet.

When we broke away after that first kiss.

The feeling of his beard is still vividly imprinted on my lips, which grow ticklish as soon as I trace them. My cheeks remember the warmth of his hands, a bit rough yet affectionate and secure.

I close my eyes, inhale deeply and let out the breath after holding it for a moment.

Maybe I should have a little faith. Take the gamble with you.

I wash my hair with his shampoo, rinse it out, dry off, and put on my improvised pyjamas. All the while, I can’t shake off the idea of taking a bath together.

I’d lean against his chest, sturdy yet grown soft and supple with neglected muscle. Our fingers would lazily fumble with each other, tracing shapes or the tattoos on our skin. He could dry me off and dress me after wrapping me up in a cocoon of towels. Maybe carry me to bed, curled up in his arms like a small child.

Back in the room, Alfie is leaning against the headboard and drawing on his tablet. His glasses balance on the bridge of his nose. He sits up when he hears me enter, trailing my movements as I do.

“I know, I know,” I flail my arms, clutching the hems of the sleeves to maintain my sweater paws, “it looks about as flattering as a sack.”

He puts his tablet on the bedside table and places his glasses on top of it. “Not at all. C’mere, let me look at ya.”

I approach his side of the bed, taking slow steps towards where he’s sitting. As soon as I’m in arm’s reach, he pulls me down on his lap. To not smack head-first into his face, I steady myself by grabbing his shoulders. Hands on my waist, he holds me in place. “Mhm. Yeah.”

“Alfie?” He tilts his head, his hands trailing lower to my thighs. A shiver runs down my spine when his rough calloused palms glide over my skin, culminating in the growing warmth between my legs. I run my fingers along his jaw and beard, scratching it in the way he likes and makes his expression go hazy with distant dreams. “Wolfy? Ah- hm~”

His lips crash into mine, feverish and hungry, as he grinds my hips on his. A pleasant dizziness sets in, created by the few seconds he allows me to draw breath and his unashamed desire. A faint throbbing and hardening sensation is tangible through the thick denim of his jeans, wanton and yet longing to be closer.

Alfie swipes his tongue over my lower lip and gives my nose a little nudge with his to ask permission for more.

And more I readily grant him because, like him, I’m also guilty of subjecting to greed. I suppose that even in our sins we are united.

The faint taste of the chocolates we had with our after dinner coffees mixed with his cologne and the underlying plea in his expression strangles each logical thought.

There’s only here, a safe haven without consequences or concerns.

Only us, two people who seem to have found one another after a long time apart.

I surrender to the guidance of his hands, steadily rocking my hips against his to further put my underwear to shame. The dominance of his tongue, finding no resistance as it explores my mouth. The rapacity in his curiosity, embodied in my secret pride in coaxing out the wolf within.

Alfie slips his hands beneath the hoodie, enveloping my bum and spreading the cheeks so I can feel him better. A sound in between a gasp and a moan spills from my lips when he presses himself against me, ready to take this further.

Beyond the boundaries of comfort.

And it frightens me.

Too fast. We’re going too fast.

Abruptly, I pull back. Alfie chases my lips, evidently far from done.

To show this is where I draw the line in the sand, I place my hands on his shoulders and push him back to create enough distance between us to speak. To hide the tremble in my fingers, I clutch the fabric of his shirt. A corset of guilt settles around my chest, growing tighter with each second and every word I try to utter without showing the cracks of fear. The disgust I feel towards myself, throwing myself at him like that because it makes part of me happy while my rationality keeps pointing out the likely longevity of our relationship.“Alfie, I- I’m sorry, but can- can we stop?”

I don’t want to seem easy.

I don’t want to be easy.

He grows still, his gaze still glazed over but slowly sharpening as the spell breaks for him too. Languidly he raises one of his hands, which hovers a few millimetres from my cheek. I wrap my fingers around his wrist and bring his palm to my face, placing a kiss on it before leaning into its warmth. “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be. It’s alright, Y/N. It’s okay. You ‘ave boundaries and that’s good. I’m proud of you for speakin’ up,” he purrs, voice gravelly and low. After a moment’s hesitation, Alfie rests his forehead against mine. “Can I at least see ‘ow our good pal Anubis is doin’?”

I nod and guide his hand to lift the hoodie just enough for the god to show in all its healed glory.

My breath catches in my throat as his fingers glide over my skin. “Good girl. Taken proper care of that, ain’t ya?” His gaze darts to my face when he feels me go rigid. ‘‘I apologise, I should’ve asked before touchin’ you. I know it ain’t a proper apology and I should’ve thought twice, perhaps three, fuck, five times before-’’

‘‘Alfie, it’s okay. I know you didn’t mean anything by it,’’ I cut him off, saving him this time from breaking out into a ramble. “By the way, everything smells like dragon blood now.”

The careful smile I give him makes him relax, at least enough to join in on the joke and erase the grimace from his face. “The smell ain’t that bad, right?”

I shake my head, feeling rather silly like a little girl. Free of the burden on my shoulders now that the atmosphere has brightened.

“I’m gonna shower. Can I kiss you before I do?”

“Yeah.”

He hums and presses his lips to my forehead. “I won’t take long. Lie down and get cosy. Read a bit. If you want, you can also browse through my designs or use my tablet for YouTube or Netflix. The code is 1888.”

An involuntary yelp erupts from my throat as he flips us over. He pulls back the sheets so I can scramble beneath them after propping up his pillow. Honestly, I had expected him to simply drape the sheets over me, but Alfie properly tucks me in.

“Comfy?” Alfie runs a hand through my hair, tracing the length of a lock to my cheek. He cups it, tenderly brushing his thumb over the skin.

I nod, smiling contently.

“Good.”

He saunters to the bathroom, picking up a pair of sweats and a loose fitting shirt along the way. A few seconds later the sounds of Alfie undressing and the shower fill the otherwise quiet room. I put on my glasses and settle in with the novel I bought, enjoying the silence.

Which is soon broken by a symphony of hardly stifled groans and bitten-back curses.

Is he… no, surely it’s his leg. Then again, don’t be naive, you bloody idiot!

I hide behind my novel, my ears as hot as my cheeks.

Oh, Lord.

Though I stand by my decision to not have sex with him, I can’t suppress a smirk nor deny the prickle running down the back of my neck. After all, how many times will I get to enjoy the pleasure of hearing him like this?

Proud as a peacock, basking in the knowledge I’ve reduced him to this state, I put the novel to the side and lie down on the pillow to listen to the going-ons in the bathroom.

His breath grows shallow, the growls deeper and feral. My fantasy makes a run for it and imagines him here in bed, sweating while mindlessly rutting into me. How many rounds would it take before he’s run out of stamina or for his balls to be empty?

Sooner than I would’ve liked, a snarl followed by low murmurs betrays he’s finished. Then again, he did say he’d make it quick.

Did you think about me? What you would’ve done if we hadn’t stopped?

To keep up appearances, I pick my book up again, put my glasses on and read until he’s done. Fortunately, he falls for the false show of innocence. Either that or he’s too wrapped up in towelling his hair dry and moving to notice I’m not thinking clearly either.

A tad awkwardly he swaggers over to the bed, moving as if his clothes are in the way. I cross my legs, grateful the covers are there to conceal how his lumbering frame affects me.

“Why the grimace?” I tilt my head and try to keep my voice level, devoid of the amusement he unintentionally provided. Feigning ignorance is easy. It’s the maintaining of the act that’s the hardest part. But try I will.

“I-’’ He opens and closes his mouth as he scours his mind for an appropriate explanation. With a groan, Alfie lifts up the duvet and slides beneath it. “I’m not used to wearin’ pyjamas.”

Now it’s me who’s gobsmacked. I trail his movements, if only to hide the fact I have to let his confession sink in. Precarious information like that I need to register properly.

Because my mind can get terribly creative.

I scoot over to make room for him, still incapable of tearing my eyes away from him. “Uhm, I don’t know if this is appropriate of me to ask, but… do you sleep naked?”

“Yes, it’s how Yahweh means it to be.’’ Alfie lets out a content sigh, finally settled in a position in which neither his leg nor his body in general takes a toll on him. ‘‘The first ‘umans were naked. It’s our natural state, but I didn’t think you’d appreciate me goin’ commando. ‘Ence the bloody clothes.”

“If it’s really, you know… uncomfortable for you, you could, uhm, t- take them… off?”

“You’d run straight out that damned door if I did and I wouldn’t blame ya. And we can’t ‘ave that, can we? No, the clothes stay on. I can ‘andle it. Ain’t as bad as me health.” He wraps his arms around my waist. “Put the book away. Cute as you are with your glasses, it’s time to hit the ‘ay. I’m knackered.”

“I can leave only the reading lamp. I’m not tired yet.”

“No, darlin’, even big girls need sleep.” He props himself up on his elbow, plucks my book out of my hands, and reaches over to put it on the bedside table. Then he gently removes my glasses, folds them, and puts them atop the novel. “If I ever want you to do as I tell you, right, which, I know, isn’t very feminist of me, it’s now. Just this once, Y/N. Can you do that for me?”

Well, you also told me not to get a tattoo by Chester. Then again, I haven’t promised you I won’t.

I sigh, turn on my side, and shuffle closer to him. “Alright.”

Alfie pulls me flush against him, his chest seeming to radiate heat naturally. It’s exactly as I imagined it would feel beneath all the layers of clothing, beneath that white shirt back in Birmingham. Sturdy yet grown soft and supple with neglected muscle. Our legs entwine, the muscles in his thighs keeping mine firmly in place. I clutch his shirt like a koala, determined to hold on till sunrise.

One bear-like, no, wolf-like paw tucked beneath the pillow, he rubs my back with the other. All the while, he holds my gaze, looking at me with eyes as blue as Starry Night by van Gogh. It’s a shame he can’t see he’s the piece of art between us. I am merely the artist who can’t lay claim to him. “Nice, innit?”

Maybe not yet. One day. Until then, I have dreams in which I can confidently call you mine.

Involuntarily, I yawn. My eyelids grow heavy, the clutches of sleep slowly entangling my body. “Mhm.”

“I’d love to do this when you visit me.”

“I’d like that.”

“Good.” He kisses my forehead.

I raise my hand to run my fingers through his beard, still fascinated by the feeling of it as well as the intimacy. Although, it’s perhaps Alfie allowing it in general that’s most fascinating.

After a few moments, starting to lose the fight to stay awake, I let my hand rest on his neck. However, he puts it back on his beard, evidently having other ideas. “Didn’t say you could stop, did I?”

I let out a breathless laugh, too drowsy to make a louder sound. “Does it feel good?”

He closes his eyes, unconsciously guiding my fingertips to the spots that feel especially good. It could be because of the drowsiness, but his usual rumbles of delight have turned into the purrs like those of a very big pleased cat.

We continue to lie like that for a few more moments. Nevertheless, as soon as Alfie notices I’m losing what little momentum I already had, he takes my hand and places it on the side of his neck. “Go to sleep. Got a big day tomorrow.” He buries his nose in my hair, inhaling the scent. I don’t need to check to know he’s smiling. “Meetin’ the parents… fucking ‘ell.”

“Don’t have to,” I mumble.

“Ollie and Tom need to shut up. Maybe I should shoot them both.”

“No Timbuktu, Wolfy.”

“Right, no Timbuktu.” He leans in far enough for our noses to touch, places a peck on mine. “Geyn tsu shlofn, meyn mlkh. Deyn volf vet haltn ir zikher.”

A heaviness overtakes my body as I sink deeper into slumber, descending in the peaceful safety created by his arms and the knowledge there’s nothing to worry about for a few hours. Any problems created today will have to wait until tomorrow.

I remember dreaming of a Queen and a wolf sitting beneath a tree with nine branches spreading into the sky. They were looking out over a vast body of water, maybe a sea. And I’m fairly certain the wolf was keeping her safe.

I don’t know how long I slept when I wake up. Judging by the faint light falling in through the window, it’s still night or perhaps very early in the morning. We changed positions since we went to bed, me facing the window and Alfie firmly pressed against me, his chest rising and falling against my back and one arm draped over my waist to keep me close to him. I look over my shoulder, unable to suppress a smile at his calm expression which slowly etches itself out against the dusk.

He stirs, a grunt spilling from his lips as he rocks into me. Again I feel the same prodding sensation that woke me up.

Hang on.

Experimentally, I grind down on him, lip caught between my teeth to muffle the moan threatening to spill from the friction. The action gets rewarded with a warning snarl. Beneath the sheets, his hands grab my hips and squeeze them hard enough to cause bruises.

His cock twitches when I press myself against it again. For a moment the idea to wake Alfie up to lend him a helping hand passes through my head. However, my common sense gets the better of me. We both have boundaries. Now it’s my turn to respect them.

It’s better to leave things, us, as we are. I don’t want to give off mixed signals.

So, having had my extra bit of fun and enjoying the clear display of possession, I drift back to sleep.

Perhaps I don’t need dreams. I’m yours and you’re mine.

Strange how the expected can turn into the unexpected only to leave you filled with suffocating disappointment.

I roll over in the bed, but whereas I could snuggle into Alfie’s chest just a few hours ago, all I can seek warmth from is the cold and empty spot next to mine.

Maybe he’s just making a call or he’s downstairs in the gym.

It’s nonsense, absolute rubbish. Yet, I need something to contradict myself, the incessant voice in my head called ‘conscience’. To suppress the rapidly spreading bleak feeling, my instincts tuned into the situation and not tolerating any flight of fancy.

I slowly sit up and rub the sleep from my eyes, making a quick mental prayer to have him there when I open them. It’s pathetic, of course, to hope for such a thing despite the clear signs.

It’s only me, in an empty hotel room in Mokum.

Clenching the sheets, lips pressed firmly together, I blink away the watery world.

The lonely reality.

Don’t cry. You could’ve expected this. What were you doing anyway? Stupid, stupid, stupid! Why do I have to be such a fucking idiot?

With tears still brimming on the edge of my lashes, I scan the room for any hints about Alfie’s whereabouts. Then again, how much can one find when there is no trace to be found?

His jacket, cane, phone, suitcase, backpack. Gone.

I check my phone, but the screen lights up with nothing but new notifications from online shopping apps. He also hasn’t left me a text or an Instagram message.

Well, at least he has Velvel with him. Or would he have dumped him somewhere? No, that doesn’t sound like Wolfy. He isn’t like that. He isn’t!

The thought of the poor little stuffie drowned in rubbish wrenches a violent sob from me.

At least you could’ve left him here, you bastard!

On the coffee table stands a tall white cup with a familiar holder around it. There seems to be something tucked underneath. Temporarily forgetting the plushie’s fate, I get up to get a closer look.

An envelope.

Inside is a letter, written in an elegant cursive reminiscent of the kind you find in really old vintage ones. I sniff at the cup and take a small sip of the, apparently, cold liquid inside.

Pumpkin spice.

How the hell did this get here?

Latte in hand, I sit down to read.

My dearest Y/N,

The coffee must’ve gone cold by the time you read this, but I didn’t want to wake you up. You looked too peaceful, like a little seraphim at rest. So I packed my stuff as quietly as I could so as not to disturb you. However, please do forgive me for this, I couldn’t help but murmur my goodbyes and kiss your forehead. You stirred, but I do hope I didn’t wake you up.

Yesterday, at the bookshop, you said that there are a lot of things people don’t do as they used to, especially writing letters. Yes, I heard you. This old man remains very good at paying attention, comes in handy when [crossed out text]. I could’ve sent you a message over Instagram, but I didn’t want to be that bloke. To be honest, you deserve better than that, love. It’s been a very, very long time since I’ve written a letter so hopefully my handwriting is still legible in spite of the years.

And even though I’m not there when you read this, I can imagine you wonder how in the bloody hell I managed to get a piece of paper and an envelope. I kindly requested them from the staff at the front desk. No force was used, I promise. Only a bit of coercion and intimidation. Nonetheless, I hope you can envision my desperation to leave you a personal note.

By the way, don’t worry about check-out. You can do so whenever you’re ready to go home. Speaking of which, I regret I made you the promise of meeting your parents and not being able to follow up on it. Something happened in Camden which requires me to return to England at once. I would rather have stayed here with you and let Ollie handle it, but he’s not the person who should deal with it.

Velvel is sitting at my side and he isn’t happy to leave you, either. But I’ll make sure he becomes a hardy boy, a London wolf like your man.

We’ll miss you. Yet, we also know you’re a big girl who can save herself (even when I don’t like it, next time I’m going up the ladder).

Don’t cry for me, sweetheart. I hate myself for knowing you likely are, so let me make the promise I’ll never make you cry again. Now you have my word on paper, a powerful weapon to use against me any time. For you are the only woman, the only person, who this king bends his knee to.

(The good one, right knee)

And let me make another promise.

I, Alfred Josef Menahem Solomons Jr., swear to you, Y/N L/N, that I will return once winterfall has come. If I don’t, it’s better if you forget about me. What good is a man who can’t live up to his word?

Until then, I cherish the time we spent together. You made me feel like a free man, a man of flesh and blood. Alive, risen again like Lazarus.

I’ll keep you in my heart and hold the ghost of your hand until we meet again, my love. For you have been the last dream of my soul and I refuse to let it, YOU, go.

Your sincere and faithful servant,

Wolfy

I squint at the letter.

Winterfall? What and when is that? You’re not coming back, are you? This is just a pretty way for you to say goodbye.

There’s a postscript.

P.S: I’ve left you the drawing I worked on yesterday. Again, there was no force used to have it printed and delivered to you, my dear. I asked the staff very nicely to help me out. Let me know what you think of it. Or, even better, write to me. There’s an address on the back.

On the table is the referenced artwork, revealed from its hiding spot beneath Alfie’s letter.

It’s not precisely what I expected. In fact, it’s drawn in a style entirely different from his tattoos, a watercolour portrait rather than black ink sketch. The background is blurry, the colours in the scenery flowing over into each other. Only a window is clearly drawn, a black cat holding a cup of coffee staring out of it.

My eye falls on the title of the piece, written in a neat elegant surface in the corner.

Bast.

I turn the piece of paper around.

There’s an address in Margate.

The world can get incredibly loud once a lost soul returns. Its happy wanderings are drowned out by yelled concern, anxiety mixed with guilt having created a heavy shroud to wear.

But I keep his letter and drawing tight to my chest.

And lapse into silence.

#Alfie Solomons #Alfie Solomons Imagine #Peaky Blinders #Peaky Blinders imagine #Winterfall

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