In which an elf has his first Human Christmas (TM), he gets mail, and we dive into a bit of backstory.
Christmas itself crept towards him in snow-muffled steps. Íþróttaálfurinn had been looking forward to it, yet he didn't catch it stalk closer day by day, night by night.
He had promised the Heroes League an unrivalled degree of availability for most of December—mostly, he'll admit, to keep himself busy. He covered for his sick colleagues, pedalling across the sky like a madman. He spoke at a conference, dressed in trailing robes. He did paperwork.
All this, he traded for a few days of having to be nowhere else but around his favourite people. The kids had been asking him for ages, to have a real Christmas with them… with the carols, the tree, the presents, with all the nice human things he only knows because they told him about them.
He requested to spend the human holidays―from noon of Christmas Eve to noon of Boxing Day―in Latibær well back in autumn, to give the League time to organize. Unless an emergency that couldn't be handled without him arose, he was not to be summoned.
When the clearance had finally come―in its neat little mailer, sealed with the League's crest, beaconed to him by his crystal―it was the highlight of everyone's day.
He had dropped into town from twice the usual height, vibrating in impatience and excitement, waving the letter-tube like it was the winning baton at a relay race. The children had crowded him and cheered, chanting, Íþróttaálfur can stay for Christmas, Íþróttaálfur can stay for Christmas! They took turns getting picked up and launched in the air. Nobody could stay still, nobody could stop smiling, the energy burned like a miniature sun in his chest and fuelled him for his next hundred missions.
As the Eve crept closer and closer, the anticipation let him put what happened overseas, on that cold, cold November night, all the way at the back of his mind. He had to. He had to keep himself busy, keep Glæpur—disappeared, yet again, without a trace―from his thoughts. As much as he could, anyway.
The time between Winter Solstice and the turn of the year is always difficult, anyway. It's routine. First, people are in constant danger: the cold, the frozen roads, the unruly weather―it all means more work for the heroes. That, he doesn't mind.
Then, there is the unspoken conflict between spending time with family and obliging duty. And that… he does mind. He has no family of his own, and he has never felt allowed to forget it.
It is the times of rest that hurt him, where he is left surrounded by his fellow elves ―who don't need saving, teaching, or even help―yet alone with that empty space in him that caves in, like a sloping roof. The warmth of his people has always been different, too close, too knowing, part of him and yet not. Just like he is part of them―an elf of the same strain―and yet isn't. He's from a different blood, nobody knows whose.
Elves yearn to move, everyone knows. But never too much, never far enough to sever their connections, to separate families, to forget the smell of one's land. The elves and the land are one, and he is from somewhere else, from the coal mines of the great unknown. Grandmother passed―it's been a few years already―and with her has gone his only link to his adoptive clan.
Not related to any, and without the person who chose to adopt him… it sure is convenient for the League, at least, that he spends all his extra time in his balloon looking for troubles to fix, and never asks for vacation.
It's only the holidays, really, he keeps telling himself. It only hurts on the holidays.
"Íþróttaálfur!" calls a cheery voice behind him, shaking him from his reverie. "Aren't you like, totally gonna knock?"
Maggi and Nenni, arms loaded with firewood and boxes of assorted decorations, grin at him red-cheeked when he swivels around to look at them.
It is Christmas Eve, still day outside, though not for long. The three of them stand on the stairs at the Mayor's front door, where the little group of his favourites will spend Christmas.
"Right away!" Íþróttaálfurinn says, moving the wicker baskets he's carrying to his left arm in order to knock.
The Mayor's house is all in a bustle. The man himself welcomes them at the door, his towering figure shrouded in a cloud of white flour and oven steam. He ushers them all inside, thanking them warmly for coming, advising them to watch their step: the foyer is a colourful mess of children's shoes.
Íþróttaálfurinn smiles, nudging his cap and fogged goggles up, and takes in the living-room strewn with lights, the Christmas tree almost finished, the piles of pillows and blankets ready for the children's sleepover. The scent of baked treats wafting in the air makes the boys sigh in delight. They flock to the kitchen―where Goggi is already programming a small army of kitchen timers―to help out with the dinner preparations.
He puts down his baskets next to the other supplies, left of the kitchen door. The frost starts to melt away immediately from the heaps of fresh berries and oranges, dewing the bottles of elven apple cider, which thaw in the warmth of the house.
"My, Íþróttaálfur, aren't you cold?" the Mayor asks, patting his bare arm. Before he can answer, the man is already rustling under the wrapping paper scattered on his couch for something. "Would you like a sweater? Solla asked me to pull out all my old stuff anyway… aha!"
Straightening, ruddy and triumphant, he shakes out a very worn, very stretched maroon pullover sporting a pattern of white snowflakes and rearing reindeer.
"Festive!" Íþróttaálfurinn laughs. "But it's all right, Mayor, I'm never cold!"
The Mayor is too busy to fret over him right now. He just drapes the sweater over the back of a chair, patting it to signal he can still grab it if he changes his mind. The smell of fresh laundry and mallow-scented soap unfolds from the fabric, wafting its way to him, and it takes all the troubles off his mind for a moment. It's tempting: he's had an appetite for cosiness, lately.
Sometimes, when things have been quiet in town for a while, there is a distinct shift in the way the Mayor treats him, tipping his way the scales of care and protection, as if he were much younger―another of the children that prefer to liven his empty house on Christmas, instead of spending it with their own families. He is grateful that nobody ever asked him how that feels.
The Mayor tugs a rug under the baskets to protect the freshly cleaned floor, and takes something from the catchall tray near the door.
"Oh, but let me give you this," he says, putting a small bubble mailer in his hands, the padded kind used to mail fragile items. "It came in for you, just a couple days ago."
Íþróttaálfurinn thought the melancholy wouldn't find him, if he put enough hills between the elven village and himself, that it wouldn't follow him all the way to Latibær. He kept himself busy, kept his mind away from the alley, away from the stray cat―and yet it found him. It's an old, familiar feeling, but at the same time strange, tinged with a new, murky restlessness.
It found him in the mailer the Mayor handed him, the smell of a cold November night drowning the mallow out.
No date, no return address. Neatly folded inside, still filled with brine and animal fear, his yellow aviator scarf.
He is starting to wonder if asking for the time off was a mistake.
He could never bring himself to wish for a real emergency, but he sure can hope his crystal could go off by mistake, call him away for a moment. The low, sorrowful keen in his heart is no easy thing to acknowledge and put aside―not with the clouds above him instead of under him, not with so much company around.
There is no doubt over who sent the anonymous mailer. This is exactly how the chase-game got started, back in spring, just after the Latibær Sports Festival.
How nice of Glæpur, he thinks, turning the yellow cloth in his hands, to mail back the scarf he nicked without even washing it. Never changes, that one.
"Did you forget your scarf somewhere, Íþró?" Halla laughs. "Someone had to mail it back to you?"
The nickname is new: the children have picked it for him because calling him just Álfur, they said, felt rude. You don't call us Human, or something, they said. You use our nicknames. From his ancestral elven blood, and from the ex-nameless child in him alike, he appreciates the effort.
"Apparently I did! But it made its way back to me." He grins back, shrugging and tucking the square of fabric in his breastplate with a flourish, and taps his palm over it. "It was waiting for me right here."
Which would have had to be quite the specific prediction on Glæpur's part, he thinks, suspicion stirring. But no… he can't be here too, can he? Íþróttaálfurinn would have known, he would have felt something, and besides, Glæpur wouldn't just come back by himself. Not after what happened, not after leaving him behind without a note. Would he?
"You work too much, man," Maggi tells him from across the kitchen table, crossing the wooden rolling pin and cookie cutter he's handling in his signature move. "When you start forgetting your clothes around… it's totally time for a break, even for you!"
He manages to smile, touched, as the others voice their agreement. "Well, I'm on a break right now with you guys!"
Everyone goes back to carving patterns into the leaf-bread. Yet, over the smell of sugar and bubbling oil, even tucked away, he thinks he can still smell it.
The scent of fear is trapped in the fibres, under the sweat and dust and rusty hint of blood, too weak for human noses to pick up. But for him, it's too distinct to ignore, like a call for help, like his crystal ringing.
The alley rushes back to him, like a bad dream, and he can only thank the heat of the kitchen if nobody notices the blood draining from his face. The trace of cherry juice burns on his lips, and he can do little but try and chew the sensation away.
He has the vague feeling he's not acting like his usual self. The knowledge is there, in the children's worried eyes, the quiet tone they use to call him back to attention when his mind wanders.
The problem is, at the moment, his usual self is someone he doesn't really know.
Elves urge to move, everybody knows that. It's their energy, what keeps them going. But Íþróttaálfurinn's energy has always been split, forked like the tongue of a snake.
There's a good energy, and it's strong, freeing, open wide in his chest like a sunflower in bloom. It's the life-force that propels him forward, skyward, that makes him want to leap from roof to roof, sweat and play under the deep blue sky. The other energy to move is not bad, per se. It's just different, a kind of fixed, absent restlessness that nobody could ever explain to him. His mind whirls, and his body itches to be somewhere his feet can't run to. His legs bounce, pace, jitter. The coal mines―usually so far from his mind―come back to him with the scorching clarity of yesterday, and he fights to convince himself he's been free for years, decades.
It's usually fine. If he is stubborn enough, if he pushes his body long enough, if he stays in the air long enough, the other energy will exhaust itself, give way to the first. Usually.
But what does he do all the time when he feels good? Higher jumps, a barrel roll for every step? Racing the children around the house? More words, more topics, more teachings? When it flows, the good energy is his whole self, and he puts no effort into being himself. He's at a loss.
"Maybe he's just tired," he can hear Solla whisper, like he is laid out on a sickbed instead of staring off into the middle distance, knife forgotten in his hand, an anxious spiralling pattern of triangles taking form on the leaf-bread in his hands.
Tired. Him. Íþróttaálfurinn, their unstoppable elven hero.
Dinner was nice, Íþróttaálfurinn thinks fondly, lying down with his feet up in his moored balloon's basket, watching the sky shiver with the promise of more snow, drifting to sleep with the comfort of a full stomach.
By the time they got the sizzling trays of roast out the oven, the whole house was squeaky clean and in impeccable order. Halla and Solla came back from their last minute shopping trip, and put the new colourful packets under the tree, in a cacophony of giggles. Siggi came back full of stories as usual, and had everyone waiting for Santa any minute.
Íþróttaálfurinn went to grab more firewood and to check on his balloon, as the children finished wrapping the presents and fixed up the last details.
When he returned, the Christmas lights strewn outside illuminated the air, as the day faded to early dusk behind the impeccably clean windows of the Mayor's house.
Also, the children were squabbling: they had all decided to open the presents on Christmas morning―like they do in the movies!―but now the younger ones had changed their minds, and wanted to open them after clearing the table, as custom.
The elf observed the battle of will with great amusement, and when half a dozen pairs of tearful eyes turned to him for guidance, he suggested they split the presents in two groups, and do both: the ones they had for each other after dinner, and the ones brought by Santa in the night, on Christmas morning.
Ah, the magic of compromise, the Mayor said fondly, patting him on the shoulder. At least, for the elf's spirit was still troubled, he could still find solace in fixing children's troubles.
The ease continued through dinner. Holidays are the humans' designed times of indulgence, and he had feared his presence might make them uncomfortable. Instead, they happily piled fruits, sprouted bread, broth and fish and vegetable roast (and five different sauces) in front of him, clinked their glasses of elven cider, and they all ate their fill in joyful peace.
After dinner, the Mayor played the guitar. They sang and set the table and played and sang more, the air vibrating with cheer and he felt like he was floating, the Latibær glimmer in his heart shining bright. He felt… he almost felt like himself again, his looming thoughts receding. He felt welcome.
Then came the time for presents: Íþróttaálfurinn gifted a lot of books and useful, practical things―but they knew he had been so busy before the festivities, since they had barely seen him, so they forgave him. He was sure that they, too, in the most traditional part of themselves, appreciated the effort.
In return, he got a little whittled wooden thing―an apple? A tennis ball? It didn't really matter, it made his eyes prickle, all the same―that Siggi had made in school. Some socks and books too―Christmas classics tinged with irony from the other boys ―and a very lovely set of ochre-and-black matching scarf and hat―from Solla and Halla―that he immediately put on, pocketing his cap and tugging the goggles on the new one.
They laughed, because, That's for outside, Íþró! But he didn't care. He was awfully warm in the Mayor's house, outside and inside, and wanted to take the feeling with him wherever he was going to go afterwards. Which was… he didn't quite know.
They wanted him to stay for the sleepover, but the space under the window was taken, and he didn't want to explain that that was the only way he would have been able to sleep indoors. He had always been an outdoor type, especially for sleeping, especially at night.
The memory is very old, faded, but all buildings still look like mining tunnels at night, and if he wasn't careful he would start hearing a phantom creak of precarious wooden beams overhead, the squeak of a metal cart, and the imaginary smell of coal and lamp oil will overpower the homely aromas that lingered in the house. He always preferred to be able to look at the sky if he woke up, that's all.
Therefore, he finds himself looking up at the promise of snow, trying to drift off, with all the put-aside thoughts coming back to him.
He pulls the scarf from his breastplate to clutch it in his hands, as he thinks and thinks and thinks―until he fears his ears will start steaming and whistling, like teapot beaks.
He should allow himself just one selfish thought, wrapped in colourful paper and sparkly ribbon, to think on Christmas night. Because it is selfish, he knows, to feel Glæpur's absence so strongly. To feel that he should be there, too, enjoying the humans' warmth.
To feel that he should have let Íþróttaálfurinn be the hero, let him bring him back.
How did it happen, he wonders, when did Glæpur become so worthy of worry in his mind?
Did it happen in the alley, during the chase-game, or earlier still? When had the interest become less uncomfortable, when had tolerance swelled into fondness, irritation dissipated like foam into the shored rubble? When did he start to care?
He didn't even think much of the man, the first time he met him. He had heard of him, the famous criminal―just like Glæpur had heard of him, the Sports Elf farting around all day in his balloon… or so the children said he said.
Their reputations preceded them, huge, daunting, and then there he was, the criminal mastermind of the century, running around like a headless chicken as the elf had his little bit of fun, giving chase just to show off his speed. He meant no harm: the children seemed to be all okay.
A simple criminal like many others, in the end, Íþróttaálfurinn had thought, glancing down at the fainted scammer. Maybe a little more presence and charisma―or so they said. He didn't even have to take him on himself, anyway: the Mayor did it all, with the accidental drop of a sandbag. Nothing remarkable about that first encounter.
Then, Glæpur disappeared overnight from his holding cell.
Not a trace, not a sound, not a footprint, like he was never there at all. No rule has ever been good enough for Glæpur to respect, it seems, not even physics. He vanished into thin air, like he had no idea it should not have been possible.
Upon discovery, the children―more bummed out than scared, really―started telling Íþróttaálfurinn the story in detail.
They all got together to tend to the re-replanted vegetable gardens, knuckle deep in the rich soil and new bags of seeds, and talked about their recent adventure until it grew into the stuff of legends.
Details shifted, colours became vivid and muted, and Glæpur's shimmering disguises acquired a mystic glamour that rivalled the great tricksters of elven lore.
Had Glæpur controlled the town for a couple days, or had it been years? Did he give them stomach-aches and sell them sugar water, or first cursed them and their land, then had a change of heart and blessed them with a miracle cure? Was it nothing but a dirty, giggly rumour that Stina had been spotted trailing up the stairs of his hotel room in a silk robe? Did they return the President's car during the Sports Festival, or did the car also vanish in a cloud of black smoke?
They could remember that Glæpur sang to them, and that they loved the songs, but not recall any of the words. Did they dream the guy up? Was he magic? Was he real?
Íþróttaálfurinn was never tired of listening, amused by the new twists the story would take according to which child was telling it. And slowly, gradually, parallel with the children's growing fascination, his interest in the man had also grown.
He started wondering where could he be, what could he be up to. Did he know these children he duped were now climbing over each other to play his role in their little re-enactments? That Halla could imitate his menacing prowl so well she made Siggi cry? That they kept the discarded Rikki Ríki disguise like a sacred relic?
The elf hadn't planned to chase him further, at first: he usually had no need to chase his enemies. Then, the first mailer came.
No name, no date, no return address. Nothing but a newspaper clipping, mentioning that Glanni Glæpur, notorious criminal, had been sighted around Lygaribær.
It went remarkably well with the myth that the Latibær children, creators of legends, had built around him, that Glæpur would be sighted like some mythical creature.
Would Glæpur ever imagine how readily Latibær would welcome him back, at this point? That he, a rootless stray at heart, had made himself a home in the forgiving hearts of these humans?
Maybe it was his own buried wound, the elf reflects, the relief he had felt as a child escaping the clutches of a bad man, having strangers welcome him and adopt him as their own. Maybe it was his own foundling streak that made him give in, give chase, and start their indulgent little game.
During the summer and autumn, as they danced around each other across sea and land, on the twilight crescent between Glæpur's shadows and Íþróttaálfurinn's sunny mornings, he could feel the idea take root in him like a sprouting seed: take him back to the town, to the welcoming strangers ready to adopt him. Take him home.
The growth had been so slow, so gradual, that he didn't recognise it for a while. After the recognition came the fight, as he struggled against himself with the half-dead criminal in his arms.
He remembers, the memories stark in his mind, laying his nemesis down on the little cot in his balloon's basket, pulling out three thick blankets to wrap around him. He still quivered. Íþróttaálfurinn remembers the yellow scarf, still clutched in the man's trembling hand, remembers letting him keep it.
Something unthinkable had happened. He didn't have a clue how to fix it, the very shape of it still blurry in his head, like a monster in the dark. So his mind looped back to the idea, the glimmer of light that Latibær kindles in him. He set course for the town in a fevered rush, as if by moving fast he could outrun the horror, leave it behind.
The pedalling system came together quick―screws tightened, chain on the fastest gear, air flaming in the balloon's envelope. Of the twenty-something hours it took them to cross the Ocean―riding the westerlies into a blessed corridor of open sky, a towering, swirling storm on each side and nothing but angry waves below―he remembers only glimpses.
Of what happened after the landing, too, Íþróttaálfurinn has only glimpses. He must have collapsed in exhaustion, he reckons, woken only by the insistent jingling of his crystal, bringing him back to duty.
Getting them back to the island had been a feat of endurance that, if anything, should be recorded in the League's annals. Pity he couldn't tell anyone he had done it and why, let alone justify the need for rest. Heart heavy with loss, legs screaming, and basket empty, he had gone to help whoever needed him.
After that, with the man's disappearance―vanished into thin air, not a trace, not a sound, not a footprint, as soon as the basket's wicker touched down on familiar black shores―came defeat.
The chase-game was over, and Íþróttaálfurinn had lost, forfeited, given up. Glæpur disappeared, and the scarf disappeared with him. The elf had assumed he was going to keep it, at this point.
And now, in a mailer just like the others―no name, no date, no return address―the scarf suggests a new round is starting. Glæpur wants him to give chase again.
The elf runs the even seams between his thumb and forefinger, to see if he might catch a bit of shadow under his nails, learn some of the secrets kept there. What has this simple square of yellow cloth seen? What mysteries, what horrors?
At least he's alive, he thought then and thinks now, weak against that simple, overwhelming relief. The scarf in his hands proves it. Alive, and well enough to send him a mailer in his usual, roundabout style.
Even if he has returned to Latibær without―before him, the important thing is that he is alive.
It's just the festivities that get him like this, he keeps telling himself.
Turns out crossing the Atlantic in a hot-air balloon takes a lot less than I thought, but I liked the idea of the detachable pedalling system too much.
Someone had to go with the sad af child miner backstory...
Chapter title from Oh Hellos' Cold is the night.