If it hadn't been for the sweetness of his companion's embrace, he might well have mistaken the whole thing for another dream. Alcuin recalled the loneliness of his dream, the way the winged creature had turned and walked away from him, and tightened his arms round the boy til not a single ray of light could penetrate the press of their bodies. His companion was real as day, he was sure of it, yet he couldn't quite shake the feeling that he was different somehow. “I doubt that,” Alcuin replied truthfully, his voice catching on a wry chuckle gone unloosed. “There were rumors, you know, that my hair was not always white. It turned white with shock and worry, they said, when my mother died...”
The recollection was more painful than he'd reckoned; two decades later and his heart still ached with loss. Alcuin quickly pressed on. “It was nonsense, of course. Though, I do occasionally have cause to wonder...” He ruffled at the boy's hair for a moment, his nails scratching lightly across his scalp, and then smoothed it back down.
His mind turned to more pleasant memories, though his heart still beat heavily in his chest. “Master Delaunay used to tease me by telling me that his hair hadn't greyed at the temples til we came along,” he chuckled softly. “That was also a bit of nonsense, but it made me laugh all the same. I wonder if werewolves grey? Surely they must, but I've not seen it.”