NIAM STORIES (BXB ONE SHOTS)

Winter's Heat

This story took place nineteen years before the events in "Wolves"

New York / 1982

Niall Horan was staring out the window of the bookstore in Lower Manhattan. The crowd outside was getting thicker and thicker, like the snow that quickly piled up as the morning turned into midday.

"Mr. Clarke?" the store manager appeared beside him, calling for the name of someone who did not exist except in the novelist world. "Shall we make a start, sir? Before the snow piles on further?"

"Of course," said Niall.

The doors of the store opened and the people came rushing in: scattering all over the cleared floor like a flock of sheep entering the barn to escape the winter chill. They received complimentary coffee, as Niall requested and payed for, and slowly the store personnel gathered them into forming a line like sheepdogs herding them into enthalpy.

Niall felt their energy thrumming throughout the room. Ecstatic souls — both young and old — eagerly stood in front of him while he sat behind a cheap formica table that was badly weathered and had unsavory doodles on the sides of its dirty white surface. A middle-aged woman, cloaked in colorful layers of coat and scarves, was the first one in line and was gripping tightly on the newly published novel bearing one of Niall's many pen names.

"I'm a huge fan," said the middle-aged woman breathlessly.

Niall noticed the ring on her finger and figured she was married. But oddly enough, she blushed furiously when Niall smiled at her, and he would've guessed that she still dreamed of fantasies to satisfy a craving that had presumably been hampered by the ring on her finger.

"My son also loves your novels," continued the woman.

"Does he?" Niall took a copy of the novel from under the table and signed over it. "Is he here with you right now?"

"He's at school."

"In this weather? Let's hope he doesn't get snowed in. What's his name?"

"Ethan."

Niall scribbled over the first page of the book:

To Ethan: Keep at it. Live it. Carry on.

"Here," said Niall, handing over the book to the woman. "A little gift for your son. Merry Christmas."

The rest of the day went on with the same cyclic routine. Niall enjoyed the brief conversations with the avid readers of his work, and the inner wolf inside him relished perpetually on the chance to tell a story to these people. It reminded him of the times when Frigga read to him as a pup, long before war became the primary track of his mind.

His hand never tired, and the smile on his lips never wavered for a second. He was the storyteller now and Niall intended to make the most out of it. Every story he had ever written under various pseudonyms was a silent voice whispering thoughts and sowing ideas into the minds of humans.

It was a sort of magic that required no knowledge in runes and spells, no aptitude or sheer power. It was him speaking to them through paper and ink; and though the books may degrade, the imprint they had left on the mind never falters.

As the stark light of winter chilled into the night, the amount of people in the store dwindled down until all the souls that had come to devour Niall's latest creation had been sent to their burrows satisfied until the next novel surfaces on the bookstore shelves.

"Shall we hail you a taxi?" the manager inquired of Niall while he was putting on his coat.

"No need," said Niall with a smile. "I'll be hiking to Brixton's to meet up with my husband."