Dagur
I.
Being the second son means that, unless my brother perishes without heirs, I shall never wear the crown. Not that the prospect appeals to me in the slightest; I frequently witness him drowning in administrative duties. Therefore, a narrative where I attempt to murder my own blood is entirely absent from my plans. I shall fulfill my duties, but I do not yearn for greater power.
Perhaps it is because my parents harbor no expectations for me, or simply because they do not care; as long as I do not cause a public scandal, they often leave me to my own devices. Possessing power does yield its benefits, so I tend to flirt with noblewomen at banquets and other gatherings. I will not instigate a coup d’état; I merely find amusement in sowing chaos within a society so frigid and tedious.
My parents, whom I must address solely by their official titles, dispatched me to a “year of apprenticeship” to learn the inner workings of the kingdom’s economy. Initially, I despised it. Yet now, I simply enjoy the aroma of coffee, experimenting with the beans, and watching people discuss monotonous chores and social anxieties. And then, there is her.
Bea. She is the shop owner’s favorite patron. She visits at least once a week, always eager to sample something new from the selection, should there be any. She likes to swing her feet beneath the table, and my fondest pastime is watching her countenance whenever I serve her the bitterest brew we have available, observing how she tastes it regardless.
“Nótt, are you free today?”
Nótt. My name upon the streets, which translates to “Night.”
“Unfortunately, Lady Bea, if what you seek is a romantic escapade, my shift does not conclude until seven. Furthermore, based on my current popularity, you would have to queue for at least a few months before your turn arrives.”
She laughed without concealing her face. I relish beholding her expressions—so unreserved and distinct—which remind me of what it truly means to live outside the gilded cage.
She offered no reply, but instead spoke with the proprietor. To no one’s surprise, he granted me the afternoon off.
“I know how to skip the queue,” she said.
I let out a chuckle, and a smile graced her lips.
She escorted me to the plaza, where a town festival was underway. The lanterns were being lit, and the music began to play. She offered a mocking smile.
“Do you wish to dance, or is a village dance too uncouth for a nobleman?”
I was taken aback. “How did you discern it?” I inquired, winding my arms around her as we swayed to the cadence of the music.
“Come now. A middle-class youth with long, impeccably styled hair, a flawless countenance, and an impeccable stature? Moreover,” she murmured, leaning closer to my neck, “you do not smell of the earth, but of an elegant fragrance.”
I smiled, tightening my embrace around her.
“Then that deduction applies to my little Bea as well, who, despite being a noblewoman, swings her legs carelessly, consumes portions fit for a knight-in-training, and—”
During the first half of the year, I thoroughly enjoyed her presence. We conversed as though we were not nobles at all, discussing trivial matters such as the weather, pastries, and the town itself. I cherished her company, and though I desired something more, I refused to behave like a beast, placing a noble lady in a compromising position simply because I lacked self-control.
Considering I had never crossed paths with her at banquets, I assumed she belonged to the lower-middle nobility, which meant we would never be permitted to be close to one another. But that was acceptable. I relished the present and her proximity. I knew my heart belonged to her, and I fancied the notion that hers belonged to me.
However, upon the day of my mandatory return home, news reached me that my brother was to meet his betrothed that very afternoon. I laughed, wondering what sort of rigid, straight-laced noblewoman would wed him; I even felt a pang of pity. My brother had always confined his thoughts within the palace walls, and I could only envision him fulfilling the basic functions of a King. Thus, when I beheld him speaking with someone, my sole intention was to maintain my customary demeanor.
But upon laying eyes on her, it was she.
“It is a pleasure to be in your presence, Prince Dagur. Allow me to introduce myself: I am Beatrice Campbell, daughter of Duke Campbell. It is an honor to stand before you.”
For a fleeting moment, I could not sustain my facade. Why?
I believed she had deceived me, that she had concealed the truth from me. Yet, she could not have known I was the second Prince either. I noted the trembling grip upon her gown, evident even beneath her seemingly perfect posture. She appeared just as astonished as I. If I truly possessed her heart as she possessed mine, she must have been screaming inside.
II.
I retired to my chambers with the charismatic poise that defined me and shut the door. The moment I did, a sudden urge overcame me to shatter everything in the room. I had always known we could never be together. I had accepted from the very beginning that a future was impossible, but the circumstances altered entirely if she was my brother’s betrothed. It signified that her family possessed the requisite status to wed a member of the royal family.
Why had I not been born first?
Why had she not been betrothed to me?
Is it because, as the second son, I am destined never to have a claim to the best of anything?
In my fury, I accidentally broke a teacup. Naturally, the servants requested permission to enter. I allowed them inside, dismissing the incident as a mere clumsy mistake with my characteristic smile while uttering some hollow jest.
As I watched them, a thought lingered: I possessed exquisite cuisine, refined garments, yet I had no need for them. I required only that coffee grinder, and to dance with her in the plaza.
An infantile sentiment? Indubitably. But for the first time, I felt the crushing weight of what I so desperately desired to forget. I did not ask to be a prince. I did not ask for this. My mind could only echo a single question:
“Why can Bea and Nótt not be together?”
Thus, I retrieved my cloak and ventured out to the plaza. She had to be there. Soon, escape would become an impossibility for her. If she was drowning, I would not squander a single second of the time she had left. I would find her, even if it were for the final time.
III.
As anticipated, she was in the plaza rather than the coffee shop. I wondered if she wished to avoid me, though it was irrelevant. I stood gazing at her for a few minutes; she used to notice me instantly, yet now her gaze was vacant, as though she saw no one. I took a seat beside her.
I remained silent while searching for the proper words.
“Hello, Nótt. From what I gather, you did not frequent the shop today.”
“I went in search of my favorite patron, and since she was absent, I resolved to find someone else to pass the evening with.”
She laughed. “You lie.”
“And why is that?” I smiled.
“Tell me what the proprietor told you.”
“Was he supposed to impart something to me?”
“I instructed him that if he saw you, he was to inform you that I had gone to the black market in search of a new grinder.”
She smiled.
“He did not mention it to me, for he still believes he can repair the current one.”
She let out a chuckle.
“Listen, Beatr—”
She cut me off, placing a piece of bread into my mouth.
“Here, I am Bea, and you are Nótt.”
I sighed. “Why did I fail to recognize you?”
“Let us relocate to a less crowded area,” she suggested.
We moved to a secluded corner of the plaza.
“When I was a child, my constitution was frail; I fell ill quite frequently,” she explained. “My parents—perhaps because it is expected of someone in my position, or out of genuine concern—sent me to reside outside the capital under the care of the finest physicians. I never attended courtly galas, and everything I know of the nobility was instilled by tutors.”
I scoffed. They had educated her simply to be a Queen, devoid of any social shields. That explained why, despite her lineage, she had approached a youth of her age with such uncharacteristic nonchalance.
“Are you vexed?”
“I am vexed.”
She smiled.
I am accustomed to dressing discreetly and styling my hair differently, yet I possess a guard concealed in the shadows. If she is to be the next Queen, she must have at least one guard hidden in the darkness. Yet that day in the plaza, when we danced, there was no interference. Either she possesses absolute freedom to act provided she does not cross certain boundaries, or they simply harbor no concern if it pertains to someone tied to the crown. Even if I am not my brother, I know there are methods to ascend within courtly favor.
I gazed at her and stepped remarkably close. As anticipated, there was no interference.
“It appears I have encountered a noblewoman who relishes playing perilous games.”
“And now there are two of us,” she laughed.
“What manner of perilous games?” I inquired.
“None that would jeopardize my standing.”
My brother frustrates me, yet it is not as though I contemplate his demise. Thus, I merely sighed.
“If it displeases you, I shall cease visiting the coffee shop and refrain from speaking to you further,” she stated, her calm expression masking a deep-seated anguish.
“And allow you to miss the fabulous anecdote of Nótt mastering the grinder? Absolutely not.”
“You will not manage it.”
“How much time do we have?”
“Six months.”
“Sufficient time, then.”
She laughed, and I locked that smile away solely for myself—a smile I would forfeit in six months’ time.
IV.
I dreamed of that day; I desired to appear and spirit her away from that place. Yet, I knew such notions belong exclusively to fiction. Our affection was not a passionate one—perhaps such a flame would be easily forgotten—but rather an emotional bond that burns like a wildfire.
During those six months, I adored witnessing her laughter; I loved seeing her smile reserved solely for me. She shared stories with me both as Bea and as Beatrice, granting me complete entry into her emotional realm. I confessed my passions to her, even my exploits as a seducer and my deepest anxieties. Though it was selfish, I wished for her to be unable to forget me quickly; I wanted her eyes to seek me out, for I knew I would do precisely the same. She upheld her vow, maintaining a physical barrier between us, but aside from that, I possessed her entirety, and she possessed mine.
On our final day, I succeeded in brewing a coffee when we were entirely alone in the shop. It was not an espresso, but a sweet blend I knew she would favor. When she tasted it, astonishment overcame her; she lowered her guard, and I kissed her—the sole physical contact we would share for the remainder of our lives. She smiled and kissed my cheek before departing, her tearful eyes unable to sustain her facade any longer.
Bea—not Beatrice—wed my brother, and shortly thereafter, he was crowned King, and by extension, she was crowned Queen.
I knelt and paid homage to the Queen. There was no turning back; it was a closed circle, a poignant reminder of that day six months prior when I discovered we could no longer play at preparing coffee.
I overcame it, eventually. And she did as well. She raised a family alongside him, and I established my own. This is not a tale where we yearn for years over a love that never could be, but rather a narrative where that fervent first love concluded with the bitter taste of roasted coffee that can never be reclaimed—yet one you do not regret nonetheless.
