A/N: Dedicated to one of my readers: just wanted to wish one of my guest readers a very Happy Birthday! You know who you are :) ... I hope I'm not too late, but I will be praying the next year of your life is blessed! God bless you, and thank you so much for your support of my work! Here's that next chapter you asked for. I hope you enjoy it, and thanks for your comment! It brought such a smile to my face :) Happy Birthday!

"You know you aren't obligated to know everything, don't you, Mr. Holmes?"

"No, I am," he responded. There was only one way to describe his present state of mind: pissed off. "I need to know why Wellington was murdered. Schreiber gave us no clue during the confession. I shall have to listen to his questioning session. I'll have Lestrade send me the audio file. I need to understand why he had to die…of all the people, why Arthur Wellington? Why him? Why?"

"Jim told me it was because he likes to watch us work together, but I can tell that you—as well as I—hardly find that to be an acceptable motive."

"You catch on quickly," he said, his breathing growing faster as his thoughts spiraled out of control. Possibilities whirred in front of his mind's eye, and not knowing which was true and which was false drove him to mania.

"As you said before, listen to the audio file of his questioning session. Until then, why aren't you at liberty to enjoy the present? You've been distant…at least most of the time. God knows I won't say all. You seemed quite at your leisure last night, if you'd like me to be specific."

Irene stroked his hand compulsively from her side of the dinner table. Sherlock didn't understand why they were here. His wife had insisted on a night downtown, and he had merely shrugged when she dragged him into one of Reykjavik's finer restaurants.

"Don't pretend you haven't enjoyed yourself," she teased, playing with the ring on his finger. He stared at her toying. "I hope I've not disappointed you," she cooed further.

"Please," he breathed, his eyes tipping upward. "Don't make this about you." He took an exasperated drink of his wine.

"You misunderstand me," she replied. "I was asking about your satisfaction."

"I just don't know."

"Already getting cold feet, are we? It's only been four days."

"No, not about—I mean about the Wellington case! I don't understand the motive. And I don't like…not knowing," he whispered, taking an angry stab at his lifrarpylsa. Irene's face shivered as he sadistically stabbed his fork into the fat, oval-shaped lump of meat sitting on his plate. She could still see the stitches holding the meat's casing seams together.

"You do know what you're eating, don't you? I didn't want to say anything initially, but I did hope you knew what lifrarpylsa was when you ordered it," she said, her blue eyes widening with sarcastic curiosity.

"Of course I know what it is," Sherlock snapped, avoiding eye contact and violently cutting off a piece with his knife. The casing ripped and some…innards bulged out. It was just as he had suspected, and that aggravated his gag reflex.

To tell the truth, Sherlock had no clue what he had ordered. He had eaten fairly decent food so far in Reykjavik, so he decided that whatever "lifrarpylsa" was couldn't be much different. The menu descriptions weren't specific, and he was too bored to ask someone what it was.

Then they brought the plate.

Oh God.

After he made a few clever deductions, he wasn't sure if he really wanted to eat this great big ball of sheep intestine, blood, and fat. It was like haggis…which he could never stomach as a child. Whenever his mother made haggis, he always gave it to the ever-hungry Mycroft.

Irene was watching expectantly for him to put the fork in his mouth.

He was about to put it down, but he saw her examining him. She raised an eyebrow, provoking him to taste it.

He lifted the fork to his lips and shoved it in without hesitation.

After a few quick chews, he swallowed it triumphantly, waving the unadorned fork in front of his face like a trophy. A brief shudder passed over his features, but it was gone as soon as it had come. Irene glared at him suspiciously. Now his throat was heaving, and her eyebrows flew upwards in a panic as her lips formed into a delighted smile. He kept it down, but the expression on his face was one she would not easily forget. She laughed quietly deep inside her throat.

"I told you," she said, "No one orders that unless they don't know what it is."

"I knew what it was."

"Then why did you almost throw it up? You looked almost as ill as you did the day I left you on the floor of my flat in Belgravia."

"I've not forgotten that."

"I should hope not. All the ordinary couples quiz one another routinely on the day they first met. 'What they first said' and 'what did they eat' and 'what they were wearing.' Lucky for you that last one ought to be easy," she said, jogging his memory.

"32-24-34," he replied. His voice was ever so matter-of-fact. It sounded like he was reading the numbers off of a card.

"Still flattered," she remarked. Sherlock's stomach glowed.

"Obviously," he said, his face and tone of voice communicating a supposed "disinterest" in her praises. But by it she knew he was flirting with her.

"What do you think has driven your brother to send us away…to Reykjavik of all places? Hardly a romantic sentiment, I should think. If Mycroft Holmes is going to pay for anything, it isn't going to be a couple's honeymoon."

"My thoughts exactly," he replied, picking at the Icelandic haggis. It was a giant sausage, and it spun around whenever he flicked it with his fork. He pushed his plate aside and made a face.

"Perhaps the Ice Man thinks we've been naughty," Irene suggested. "I honestly wouldn't blame him if he did. God knows you give him enough to think about on your own. Adding me to the equation made things much more complicated, didn't it?"

"That is a gross understatement," he commented, turning to look out the window. Night had fallen like a blanket over the island, and Icelanders in thick sweaters and heavy coats walked down the streets waving their gloved hands at one another.

"But I…suspect we will understand him soon. We only have three more days here. If he lets us return without so much as a phone call, then I'll begin to think he really is getting slow." The detective stared pensively out the window.

Irene hummed a hmm from her side of the table. Sherlock's ill-timed grandma seizure was interrupted as he heard the sound issue from her mouth. She knew it would get his attention; she was thinking. He knew she was thinking, but what was she thinking about? And why was she thinking it?

"Hmm what?" Sherlock asked.

"Just hmm. I'm thinking, Mr. Holmes. Am I allowed?"

He chuckled somewhere inside his chest, but not loud enough so she could hear.

"In case you haven't noticed," she continued, "I'm not taking my clothes off to make an impression. You said that was boring. God knows I don't want to bore that sexy brain of yours," she said, once again referencing the time they had first met.

"Flattery won't help you, Miss Adler. What are you thinking about?"

"And why are you still calling me Miss Adler? I'm your wife. I thought we had this out on the day we were married. Do I flatter myself in thinking that I was quite persuasive in getting you to call me Irene that day?"

Sherlock reddened.

Her rant went on.

"But I'm still 'Miss Adler.' You ought to be calling me by my name. And if not that, then 'dear' or 'darling' or…'goddess divine.' Something like that."

"I have absolutely no intention—" Sherlock began, but he was cut off.

"Escuse me…Meester Sherlock Holmes, ees it, sir?" asked a light, breathy voice veiled in a thick Icelandic accent.

A young woman with bright, almost white blonde hair and phosphorescent blue eyes had approached the table. She was a waitress, but her hands were empty: no notepad, no tray, no bill.

"Yes, can I help you?" Sherlock asked, a bit snappish. His brain was still a bit hot from his conversation with Irene…hot from flirtation or irritation he did not know which. The wife noticed.

"Gently, darling," she tenderly scolded, patting her husband's hand. Indignation set his eyes tumbling around in their sockets, and he inhaled with what seemed to be the sole intention of blowing up his lungs. Irene scowled at him childishly.

The girl nervously staggered in front of their table, wringing her hands. Sherlock Holmes was quite the intimidating man.

"Eef you would follow me please?" she asked. If a mouse could talk, it would have had her voice. "I have been talt thet you both are et the wrong table."

Sherlock was confused.

"The wrong table? We…we never made reservations."

"I'm sorry, sir…thet is what I am being talt. Thees way, please."

Sherlock stood up reluctantly, and Irene snagged his arm so they could walk side by side. He rolled his eyes...again. It was becoming a custom, now: a daily routine. He was surprised his eyes hadn't stuck permanently.

They followed the girl toward the back end of the restaurant, near the bar. Passing the stools, they came to a black curtain covering an archway made of stone. Plenty of the buildings in Iceland were made of stones, and this one was no exception.

As the girl pulled back the curtain, they saw that their path descended down a flight of stairs.

They followed the young woman, but the walls were too narrow for them to both walk side by side. Irene went first and Sherlock followed, his hands tracing the patterns of the stones in the walls. The steps were creaky boards, and as the veil closed behind Sherlock, and the light disappeared from above, almost completely converting the stairwell into inky blackness.

There was a light from below, and as they reached the bottom of the stairs, they found themselves in a long room with a single long table. It looked like a hundred people could sit at this table; like a banquet hall for a king and queen. The entire room itself looked to be fifty feet long. The table was equally proportioned. There were torches in the walls; the only source of light. The floors and walls were made of stone, and the room looked like a scene from a Nordic history book.

Returning his gaze to the long table, Sherlock noticed that at the head sat one man: one tall, thin, balding man with a suit…and there was an umbrella lying near his seat.

The young girl hurried out of the room, disappearing up the staircase.

"Evening, brother dear; we've been expecting you," Sherlock called to the man in the chair, who had since risen from his seat to meet them. Mycroft smiled that wiry smile and misemployed his umbrella as a walking stick as he sauntered toward them.

"Ah; how are things, dear brother?" Irene asked, silkily stringing her words to the annoyance of the Ice Man.

"Oh, let's not do the 'in-law thing.' Matters are already complicated enough, Miss Adler. Let's not add familial drama into it," Mycroft said, his voice suggesting previous pain. Sherlock snickered. Dysfunctional family matters were not uncommon in the Holmes household, and adding in-laws into the mix certainly would not help.

"As you like," Irene replied, walking past the two gentlemen to seat herself near the head of the table where Mycroft was situated. Mycroft and Sherlock exchanged vexed glances as she left them.

"Enjoying Reykjavik? I hope marital bliss suits you both," Mycroft sneered, walking after Irene and leaving his brother to stand alone.

"I should think it does," Irene piped up, catching Sherlock's eye as he whirled around. He looked at her forebodingly, reminding her not to embarrass him in front of his brother: the one who either sailed or sunk his ship of ego.

"He's quite the lover, Mr. Holmes. Keeps me on my toes. I'll say no more for fear of being indelicate," she told Mycroft, as he glowered uncomfortably. It looked like his mouth was jammed shut and every effort to speak was unfairly denied him. He let out a kind of muffled coughing noise that was reminiscent to the sound of a cat trying unsuccessfully to throw up an abnormally large hairball.

Sherlock, likewise, was battling a serious case of internal chagrin.

"But that's beside the point," she abruptly pointed out. "We've much more important things to discuss. Now do explain: you didn't leave England just to check up on us, now did you?" she asked, beckoning to her husband and brother-in-law to take their seats at the table.

They both obeyed…reluctant to take orders from an ex-dominatrix.

"Well, Mycroft?" Sherlock asked, sitting across from Irene with his elbows on the table, hands glued in concentration, and fingertips just beneath his nose. "Why have you really brought us to Iceland?"

Mycroft looked almost offended that he had been found out. But as he studied the faces of his brother and…his brother's wife…he remembered that they were both equally matched in wit and cleverness. He should have known he had been fighting a losing game the entire time.

"We've caught wind of something," Mycroft said, slowly letting his secret out of the bag. "We've had news. The most infinitesimal of news, I should say. And I couldn't tell you while we were in London. This is one of the safest places I know outside the country, and I knew I could disclose the information here."

"Wait a moment," Sherlock said, his eyes glimmering with a conclusion. Turning to Irene, he said, "This is why you brought us to dinner here tonight. Working for the British Government."

"I contacted her," Mycroft said, "but yes; that is why she brought you here tonight."

"Well done, Mr. Holmes," Irene praised, a light smile gracing her face. "Though I will say I am in the dark about the information you have for us, Mycroft. Do you mind explaining yourself? We haven't got all night, you know."

Mycroft sighed. "Yes, of course." He scratched his eyebrow pensively then continued: "As I said before, we've had news. Information of the highest importance. News that we could be expecting an attack on London"

"An attack? What kind of attack?" Sherlock demanded, his pinky finger picking at his upper lip.

"We don't know. About two weeks ago, I received a note placed quite conspicuously on my desk that said, 'London must be warned.'" Mycroft paused dramatically whilst Sherlock and Irene calmly surveyed his features. When they continued to stare, he went on, "That's all it said. There was no signature, no address, no contact information. Nothing. And then a day later, Arthur Wellington was dead. You told me before, Sherlock, that you didn't know why he had been murdered. Well, I think I have an explanation for you. I didn't say it before, because I couldn't at the time, but Arthur Wellington worked for me. He and his brother were undercover agents in Moriarty's network. He would have known both Friedrich and Klaus Schreiber, not to mention he would have known Moriarty's plan…if he had one. I couldn't discuss it in the country, as I no longer know whom I can trust. So," Mycroft said, pointing to their surroundings, "here we are. One of the safest places I know outside of my office."

"You said Wellington and his brother were undercover agents in Moriarty's network. Only Arthur has died. What of Wellington's brother?" Sherlock asked, never once raising his voice or appearing frightened. "Where is Wellington's brother, Mycroft?"

Mycroft bit his lip and breathed one long, deep breath calmly through his nose. Looking into an abyss of worry. "We don't know. He's simply disappeared. We've raided his flat, issued a missing person's report, examined his Oyster and debit card records; cell phone records. There is nothing. He's vanished."

"If Wellington worked for you, then why didn't Miss Adler recognize him when she found him dead on his front steps?" Sherlock asked, turning to his wife who was muttering "Irene" under her breath after hearing her husband call her by her maiden name yet again.

"Sherlock, don't be stupid," Mycroft scolded. "Do you honestly think she would be in league with my other agents? I had a dead woman working for me; a dead woman whom the remainder of my agents presumed to be rightfully so. Why would I have her work with them?"

"Fair enough," Sherlock mumbled, scratching the back of his neck.

"Why wouldn't Wellington tell you of the supposed attack if he had knowledge of it? Why not just tell you instead of leaving a cryptic note on your desk?" Irene asked, leaning on the table with her right elbow.

"I…don't know for certain," Mycroft grudgingly admitted. "But I believe Moriarty was beginning to put a closer watch on him, and his integrity was compromised. Things…get complicated in my office when an agent is compromised. As early as two weeks before he was dead, I could see a change in his behavior. Something was…different about the man, and I began to suspect the worst. When the note arrived on my desk the day before he was dead, I knew it was from him and him alone. And I believe the same has happened to his brother. That's why he's simply vanished. I began to fear for…other plans of mine as well."

Mycroft glanced from Sherlock to Irene, and they both understood his meaning all too well. "So, I had to be sure; I had to discuss this with you, and I trust no one, least of all the people I work with. And most importantly," he said, his voice spontaneously increasing in volume, "I had to send you off on a honeymoon to accentuate the authenticity of your…relationship. To Moriarty and the rest of society, it looks like nothing more than a foolish pair of young people eager to…do some passionate love-making." Mycroft raised his eyebrows as the words left his tongue.

Sherlock made a coughing, regurgitating noise.

"And I was afraid of being indelicate," Irene said, raising her eyebrows at Mycroft's comment. He smiled an inhumanly dead smile.

Sherlock started massaging his temples. His brother's insinuations were beginning to make his brain swell. Oh God, the pain.

"Change the subject…now," Sherlock ordered, glaring at his brother through his newly developed (and completely placebic) splitting headache.

"Wouldn't you like me to?" Mycroft sarcastically asked, his voice descending into condescension and mystery. "But for the sake of time, I will keep this brief. Let you two get back to whatever it was you were doing," he added, waving his hand at the air frivolously.

"We have a problem, Sherlock. A national problem. You've already taken care of the final problem. Now it's time to tackle the national problem. You may want the help of a certain little sister while you're at it. I would advise returning to Sherrinford for a little chat after you fly back to London."

"Why don't you talk to her? She's your sister just as much as she is mine," Sherlock huffed. But he already knew the answer to that.

"You don't think I've tried?" Mycroft blurted. "She won't talk to anyone. Least of all me. Mummy and daddy have even tried coaxing her out of her corner. You're the only one she'll play for, Sherlock; you might as well try to get a few words out of her. Perhaps she'll open up. I suspect she knows more than she lets on."

"I've not been to Sherrinford in the last week. The last two weeks, to be precise. It's high time I paid our dear sister a visit," the detective mused, scratching his forehead.

"I agree," Mycroft replied. "You'll have plenty of opportunity. I suggest you had better go and pack your things for the flight home tomorrow. England mourns your absence, Sherlock." The Ice Man rose from his chair and straightened his coat.

"Tomorrow?" Sherlock asked, his bushy brows furrowing like two caterpillars trying to kiss. Irene was also quite confused. They were supposed to have a whole week in Iceland, and this was only day four.

"Oh, yes," Mycroft asserted. "I needed you both to go away on a honeymoon, and I also needed to discreetly discuss private government affairs with you outside of the country, and seeing as both the former and the latter have been done, there's really no need for you to stay any longer. I've already put you both on a flight home for tomorrow. It seems England requires it of you, brother mine…and" (and he nodded towards Irene who was acting as though she were being discriminated against), "Miss Adler."

Sherlock hummed a hmm from his side of the table as he stood to his feet. Irene looked up at him.

"Hmm what?" she asked, teasing him with the allusion to their previous conversation.

"Don't start with me," Sherlock chastised. She stuck her tongue in her cheek.

Mycroft sighed as if the fate of the world rested in his hands. But then again, regular stress was his job description, and Sherlock never lied when he called his brother "The British Government."

"I am weary, Sherlock," he said, massaging his head with his hand. "I feel quite like the prophesied king in the Hebrew scriptures: the government shall be upon his shoulders? Isn't that the way it went?" he paused a moment, examining the tip of his umbrella. "But I am no Messiah, Sherlock. And neither are you. It's about time you started remembering that."

"For the last time, Mycroft, I'm not a dragon slayer," Sherlock retorted.

"Oh, I've known that for ages," the elder mused. He smiled uncomfortably and added, "I'm just wondering when you'll start to realize it."

Sherlock's face was derisively begging for an encore. Mycroft grinned in his face like an idiot.

"Well then," Irene said, pulling on her coat. "If you boys are done bickering, I suggest we ought to be on our way. Come along, darling. We've much more important matters to take care of."

"Indeed, you do," Mycroft told her. "Enjoy your…last night on holiday. 'Make it count,' isn't that what they say?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes.

"Ohh," he moaned. "…and that is my brother's best attempt at well-wishing."

Irene came around to Sherlock's side of the table and took the arm he offered. Looking up at him, she asked, "Shall we go, then?"

"Evening, Mycroft. We'll see you tomorrow," he told his brother, turning his back on his brother and exiting the eerie dinner hall with his wife. The sight of the two of them sent Mycroft's heart flying in a blaze of pride and glory.

"Indeed, we will…" Mycroft called after them as they walked off together. "Have fun…" he added silently, but making sure he was loud enough for the couple to hear. And with his back to his brother, Sherlock smiled as he felt his wife's hand inside his arm.

…

"Yes, don't trouble with the details, Mycroft," Sherlock told his brother with his ear to his mobile. "I've already said we'll be there tomorrow, and we will. Why did you have to call me? I already said—"

Irene listened to him bicker with his brother. She was leaning against the freezing rails of the balcony, the sharp wind cutting her cheeks. The gale flew through her hair, chilling her scalp. She pulled her robe around her and looked out on the foamy waves of ice water exploding like fireworks as they hit the rocky shore.

Her bare feet were freezing on the concrete floor, but she didn't care how long she had to wait. He'd been on the phone for fifteen minutes, it had to be soon.

"No, I'm not—I'm fine. It's fine. Like I said before, spare me the details. Yes, I understand. Fine. Can I hang up now? I'm hanging up—I'm—goodbye, Mycroft. Bye bye."

His brother was still screaming precautions at him, but he promptly hung up, annoyed to death at being bossed around. He wasn't a child, and he didn't need to be ordered. He was Sherlock Holmes; he'd saved England before, and he could do it again.

He fell down into a chair, holding his head in his hands and scratching his forehead. He was tapping his foot on the floor, making his leg look like a machine-powered sewing needle.

"I'm going to make a pot of tea; do you want some?"

There was no answer. His foot stopped moving.

"Where are you?" he whispered, flying out of the chair and looking around for…

For what?

For his wife. That's what he was looking for.

Who he was looking for.

A cold wind blew through the little room, and Sherlock's curls buzzled around on his head. He turned toward the place from whence the icy breath came and found the open doors. And there she was: his wife.

It was a bit like before; when he had wanted to…discuss things with her on the balcony at The Langham. He had never formally apologized like he had wanted to. Why was she doing this? Why did she have to go and put herself there in between those two open doors, her lithe figure outlined by the moon's eerie light? What was she doing?

Without letting a single sound pass from between his chiseled lips, he walked onto the balcony and stood beside her. He knew what he wanted to say, but he didn't want to say it yet. She continued to gaze into the darkness as though he were invisible. He decided to do the same. Eventually someone would have to say something.

"Have we got everything?" he asked. They had packed for nearly an hour prior, and he had come to the conclusion that every item had been properly stowed. He might as well ask.

"Yes," she said, almost mournfully. She looked…tired. He said nothing.

"We ought to make it to the airport a few hours before our flight. It's bound to be busy as it usually is," he concluded, trying to begin a successful string of dialogue. She said nothing. Her thin lips were closed, and her blue eyes wandered around aimlessly studying the bitter night.

"Disappointing…" she mused.

"What is?"

"Having to go so early. I was just beginning to get comfortable."

Sherlock studied her face. Her eyes were not looking anywhere near his direction, and he was beginning to feel irksome. He wanted her to look at him. He was looking at her so hard that he decided his looking would make her look.

Eventually she turned toward him. His heart almost stopped when she finally did.

"What?" she asked.

"Nothing."

"Oh dear. That's never a good thing."

"What isn't?"

"When Sherlock Holmes doesn't tell you what he's thinking. He's always bound to show off, especially when he's trying to impress. But when he doesn't tell you what's happening in that brain of his…well…" she paused, trying to decide what it meant.

"Well what?" he asked, patiently.

"He's hiding something. Aren't you, Mr. Holmes?"

Well this was a fine mess. He didn't want to tell her now, but seeing as she had already read his mind, did he really have a choice? Besides, how was Sherlock Holmes going to go about apologizing to a woman he…was married to?

There was silence from both of them as Sherlock merely stared into his wife's cobalt gaze. The only sound was the howling and whirling of the agitated air.

"That day…in Baker Street."

"Which one? There were several," she said. He couldn't tell if she was being sarcastic; her brow suggested otherwise. She was now leaning leisurely against the rail, determined to see this out. Her lips parted in legitimate concern.

"Don't pretend you don't remember it," he scoffed.

"Oh, we're discussing the loud one, then?"

"Yes…the loud one."

"What about it?"

He wasn't about to say "I'm sorry." He didn't do things like that. He…just didn't. Whyever not? Because! Because why? He was so close to literally slapping his face. The internal conflict was overwhelming. The Atlantic Ocean looked calmer than he felt.

"I just…erm—I remembered something—" he broke off, turning away from her, swallowing a cork in his throat and looking toward the sea. For the first time since he had entered the balcony, the left corner of her lip tipped upward.

"Well, I wanted to—erm…" he broke off again, this time putting his hand to his mouth as if he were about to vomit. He wiped his lips and wetted them instantly after. His other hand went to his bushy head. He looked up once as well…possibly to offer a prayer for Providential strength.

"I…" he began, his voice incredibly low and nearly inaudible. He almost had it out now. Only a few more words and it would be over. She moved closer so she could hear him better.

"I…I am sorry. I'm sorry."

A thousand bricks fell off of his chest, and he took a breath of air as though he were just coming up after spending an hour in the depths of the ocean. He looked at his wife, who looked like she was about to start laughing.

And laugh she did.

"Oh, Mr. Sherlock Holmes," she said, almost condescendingly, "for a man with such an intellect, your foolishness never ceases to amaze me. In case you've failed to notice, I am your wife. Is that not forgiveness enough for you?"

These words told him that he decided John had been right: he wouldn't understand her all the time. His eyes must have reflected his soul, for she seemed to read his confusion off his face.

"But if you want to hear me say it, then yes: I forgive you your stupidity."

He didn't smile, but gratitude was lifting his eyebrows. Irene recognized the expression all too well. Smirking playfully, she added: "But I hope you understand that I can't say there won't be certain…consequences. One must always learn one's lesson when one has been wicked."

"Is that so?"

"Yes it is…" she flirted, studying him with scrutiny.

Sherlock's eyes smiled for his lips. This was his wife, and whether he ever chose to admit it or not: he was…pleased that she was his own.

"Now tell me," she continued, coming closer to him, "how shall I punish you?"

Sherlock's eyebrows tipped upwards as though he were simply giving her her way out of pure exasperation and said, "I leave that entirely up to you."

"Much obliged, Mr. Holmes," she said, slowly letting her lips mold caressingly around his own. He returned the warm kiss, tangling his fingers in her long, brown tresses. She came away just barely. And Sherlock Holmes had a wedding ring on his finger this time. She smiled against his lips, an elven laugh delicately hovering in the back of her throat.

"Go on…" she muttered after a moment's silence. "Impress a girl."

And he kissed his wife full on her lips, pulling her gently into an embrace under the frigid Icelandic sky that was peppered with a million lonesome, distant stars.