Careful what you wish for, elf.

(In which they argue and it gets nasty.)

When he knocks again at the Mayor's door, after his nap, it's a couple of hours before midnight, and Santa is there. Hard to miss the huge sled parked in the driveway, really. Or the singing.

The children were supposed to be still asleep, but Maggi rushes to open the door to let him in, cheeks all pink from excitement, and half a dozen little voices cheer, Íþró, Íþró, look who arrived!

The jolly, red-clad figure of Santa takes up so much of their attention that, for a moment, Íþróttaálfurinn fails to register who else they mean, who else is there, sitting placid in the circle of carolling children.

Glæpur looks up, meeting his eye, and gives him a small finger-wave and a wink.

The world tilts and spins and slips into an uncanny double of itself. Íþróttaálfurinn blinks and blinks, yet he doesn't come awake, nor the strange vision change in any way. He feels like the air in his lungs has disappeared.

"Been a while, Íþró," Glæpur drawls, smirking like he knows. In his mouth, the nickname takes nothing to coat in mockery, in the tang of cherry juice.

The ground is giving away under the elf's feet, and his forearms tingle with the memory of Glæpur's desperate, white-knuckled grip. Only distantly, he knows he is still frozen in the doorway, and the thud of Maggi shutting the door feels a mile away. The room rushes into focus around him, the air vibrating, building and rebuilding itself in his memory, like a fever dream.

"Been a while, Glæpur," he finally manages.

He prays the children's attention is all for Santa right now: his voice wouldn't have fooled a dumb lark. It came out so charged, so low and thick, he has said the man's name like an army wife from those overblown black and white war movies, falling into her husband's arms after a decade-long parting.

Glæpur seems… better, he can't help but notice, the contrast so stark it gives his heart whiplash. He looks well, even, fresh-faced and whole and smiling and—so alive. So close and real. Right there. Finally, the army wife croons, deep in the secret, shadowy corners of his voice.

We know you're surprised! The children say, falling all over each other to explain, sentences starting in one mouth and finishing in another, in a confusing verbal ping pong.

Glanni came in―with Santa!—to help bring the presents! And that's a relief, man―otherwise good luck finding him to give him his present!

"His… present…?" Íþróttaálfurinn asks, lost and so baffled he can feel his eyebrows disappear under his new hat.

Not only is Glæpur alive, he is in town. He is in the Mayor's house, celebrating Christmas. In the Mayor's reindeer sweater. And the man is grinning, like he has never been happier, like he's been spending Christmas like this since forever. Between his knees, he cradles a big box wrapped in purple.

"I'm confused," Íþróttaálfurinn says weakly, and the children giggle.

Then, Santa claps his heavily gloved hands and calls them over, summoning the whole of their attention, guiding them into song and dance around the decorated tree. The spinning children, like a zoetrope of information, tell him the story in hushed snippets.

Glæpur had been in town for a while, during Íþróttaálfurinn's busy month, they tell him. A couple weeks at least… though nobody is exactly sure. One day, out of nowhere, they started seeing him sneak around, around the post office and behind the diners at closing time. They started calling him nicknames, and leaving food out for him. No one has had the tactlessness to ask him where he's staying. He hasn't been causing any trouble.

The idea for a Christmas present came from Solla, Íþróttaálfurinn learns, one grain more every time she passes next to him. Everyone pitched in and then she put it together and made it pretty—but shh!, she says, tapping her tiny hand on his forearm, it's a surprise! He can open it after the carols!

Solla was the first to forgive, he remembers, back when the legends started taking shape. Glæpur trapped both girls in the sewers, and they spent the time trading secrets, growing closer. Solla would tell the story smiling, unperturbed, with Halla snickering behind her, face as red as her hair. After, the others followed, even the adults, and all of Glæpur's evil deeds started to mollify, his presence a whirlwind of fun and chaos more than a reign of terror, a fresh batch of gossip material rather than actual danger.

Íþróttaálfurinn was dead right: the town was more than ready to welcome Glæpur back. It isn't a new feeling―he's often right―but oh, there are limits.

The Mayor had graciously lent his shower, and even, in true Christmas spirit, the sweater Íþróttaálfurinn refused earlier. It's short of sleeve and stretched too wide in the torso, but Glæpur has rolled the cuffs up and made it work; the fabric drapes, falling in knowing, flattering ripples, and Íþróttaálfurinn has to look away. Even from half a room away, he can pick up the mallow-scented fragrance he gives off, like the man himself just tumbled out of the dryer, fluffed out and smelling sweet.

It's almost suspicious, says a little, ugly voice inside him, and his thoughts are spiralling.

The man seems transformed, so cheerful, smiling like everyone's long-lost favourite uncle. They said he came in to bring presents. The Glæpur he knows doesn't bring presents.

But Íþróttaálfurinn was the one to assure him he could come back. And he fantasized of bringing him back to the town―longed to, even. But he would have done it gradually, carefully, not like this. This is so strange, too much, too close. The children are fascinated by Glæpur, he knows it, and he's sure Glæpur can tell. No one is being careful about this.

He wants to clamp all his fondness shut, and question him. Are you acting again? What are you planning?

He should have known, really, that his duty to the town and his duty to his nemesis would come to clash, sooner or later. That he wouldn't be allowed to be protective of two forces so contrasting. Maybe the humans will have a way around this, he thinks, anxiety raking his back with chilly fingers.

He knows the Mayor is the gentlest of giants, but that he cares about his town above anything. When the children start singing something that doesn't require the guitar, he forfeits his inner battle, and scoots close.

"Mayor," he calls, in an undertone that betrays his shame, "are you… sure about this?"

"Hm? Oh!" The man raises his bushy eyebrows, like an unforeseen thought just hit him. "Oh my, does it put you in trouble with your people, if we keep him?"

"No, I… this is your decision as a clan―I mean, as a town," Íþróttaálfurinn says, raising an index for emphasis, in the tone he often uses to say, this is a human matter, and I want no say in it, even when he doesn't really mean it. Like right now. "I just… I'm having trouble understanding why?"

The Mayor hums pensively, audible over the backdrop of white voices.

"That black suit he had was still here, at the police station, you know?" he starts.

Íþróttaálfurinn sneaks a glance to the black leather sleeves peeking from under the slack sweater, and nods.

"Lolli left it out for him where he'd find it and… you could fit two of him in it now. It's not right, Íþróttaálfur. I don't like seeing these things and do nothing."

Íþróttaálfurinn finds himself unable to look the Mayor in the eye, his ears growing too warm under his new hat. He can feel his leg start to jitter. It feels strange, that the change in him is so evident to others too. That, knowing less than Íþróttaálfurinn knows, they could somehow still know more.

He watches Solla tap Glæpur on the shoulder, and hand him a spoon and a sizable bowl of something―leftovers from the Eve dinner, probably. Glæpur startles at the touch, but then looks up at her like she brought him the light of dawn on the longest night of the year. This all for me? He mouths, not to interrupt the song, pointing emphatically at the bowl and then at himself. The child grins and gives a vigorous nod, pink hair bouncing, and sits the bowl down on the still-wrapped box.

"I know he isn't the grateful sort, this one. He reminds me of those stray cats that don't know anything but the street, you know?" the Mayor says at his side, with a small huff of a laugh. The elf chokes on his saliva and has to clear his throat a couple of times, nodding painfully.

Something growing a little nostalgic in his voice, the Mayor continues, "But he's younger than what I thought at first. Less than thirty, for sure. I just hope that, with a bit of help, he can make better choices in the future, that's all."

Íþróttaálfurinn has no answer aside from a long, awed stare. "I… see," he said thickly.

The thing is, the humans don't know. They have no idea what happened, so how can they know how to begin fixing it? And yet, here they are. Clothing, shelter, hospitality. Simple acceptance, and an unbiased helping hand. Maybe that's how you begin to fix the unthinkable.

For all his knowledge and elven instinct, Íþróttaálfurinn thinks, ashamed, he doesn't seem to hold a candle to human intuition.

"Maybe we should have warned you," the Mayor sighs, worried by his silence. "We didn't think we'd be having two sworn enemies under the same roof this Christmas. My deepest apologies, Íþróttaálfur. Can we find a solution?"

The Mayor doesn't want to have to send away either of them, the elf realizes. He cares for both, local hero and local criminal, as though one more lost child at Christmas didn't make much of a difference for him.

"Oh, no, Mayor, I―" Íþróttaálfurinn stammers, patting the man on the back and arm in nervous urgency. He clears his throat a few times, hesitating. "I don't think… I don't think we are enemies anymore. No need to worry."

The man gives him a bright, relieved smile, his eyes disappearing in joyous folds of eyelid. "Ah, this is splendid news!"

Another carol begins, and Glæpur isn't familiar with it, as he doesn't seem to be familiar with any of the Christmas traditions. Nevertheless, he listens with perked ears and a small curl of a grin, sitting cross-legged, bare feet peeking under his leather-clad thighs, rocking to the tempo with everyone else.

There is still half of the food in his bowl, scooped up in a precise line, and Íþróttaálfurinn remembers another of the things that bent him, when tolerance gave to fondness.

There had been times they sat at the same table, during the months of the chase-game, for the sake of pretence or negotiation. And Íþróttaálfurinn would notice it: if the man was distracted enough, he would part his food into quarters, as though someone else was supposed to partake, as though a whole plate was an unbelievable luxury. There, behind the affable smiles and mascara, behind the wit and eloquent speech and lined lips and manicured hands, he could see a glimpse of kinship, could see the ghost of a childhood in poverty look back at him, pale and hungry and haggard.

Then, as he's doing now, the man would wolf down the rest of his plate, like an afterthought, and the feeling would fade. And then as it does now, the fondness lingers, only mildly uncomfortable, always somewhat painful.

The restlessness in him thrums and jitters―the other energy but different, stronger, unquenched by all the sit-ups he pulls in time with the music, to everyone's laughter.

He cannot bend his instincts to ignore the suspicion. Something's wrong about this strange, sudden truce. This is all going too easy, too carelessly.

After the disappearance, unable to leave the matter alone, Íþróttaálfurinn started to trace back the steps of what happened before he reached Glæpur overseas, to trace the shape of the unthinkable, give it form, give it a body to fight.

Only jailed, he would impose on himself. Jail time was all he allowed himself to wish on the attackers, no matter how hot his blood boiled, how tight his fist clenched.

This could never be about revenge, he tried to reason, it couldn't be death-hunts and torn limbs and heads smashed into walls. It was never about his own needs and instincts, and Glæpur never asked to be avenged. It was about justice, and preventing the culprits from doing further harm. Jailed would be a just punishment. It is a just punishment.

No matter how gentle it seemed, to merely lose one's freedom, compared to the evil committed. Compared to finding Glæpur in that alley, hiding among the other strays and waiting to die. Compared to that splintered, aching laughter that resonated in his bad dreams. Compared to the low keening sound he made in his sleep, curled up so tight he made Íþróttaálfurinn's joints ache in sympathy, clutching the scarf like a lifeline but flinching away from him, like his touch was fire.

Doing his research, between one mission and the next, he heard voices, just like before―even more hushed, halting, secretive―as if they thought the disappeared man could be listening from somewhere. This time around, in the usual places he prowled for the trace of Glæpur's passage, the men weren't leering anymore. Their eyes were distant, nostalgic, like nightshade missing the moonlight.

No one had heard of Glæpur since he left the island, Íþróttaálfurinn gathered. Some assumed he was taking a break, some that he turned a new leaf, some would swear he had died overseas.

Pressed further, they sneered at him like he was green. Don't you know what happens there, elfling? they asked him, smiling. If he went so far out, with no contacts and all the debt he's in, he's done for, that one.

Even if he went to prison? he asked. Some of the people he brought to justice in the past had been almost eager, as the same way a cage keeps you in, it also keeps everything out. Almost everything.

The men laughed. If he's in, he's already dead for sure. They said there will be a bounty on his head, or the equivalent, like blood in the water. And sure, they said, the streets are full of sharks, but so are the prisons, and so are the blue uniforms.

They make criminals here, he remembered Glæpur say, and the pieces fell together.

It had been calculated, Íþróttaálfurinn had realized as the horror―never outrun―washed back to him and left him gasping. Not just cruel, spontaneous, misguided. The act came from the very people sworn to keep order in those human cages. Premeditated, carried out with the weight of authority. It had meant intimidation, or blackmail, or punishment―or merely the squalid circumstance of a murder attempt. And likely, Glæpur ran immediately because he knew it was only the beginning, that human law meant nothing to these oath-breakers.

Íþróttaálfurinn hated to imagine how common a thing it was, how many others were harmed the same way, every day.

So, he donned his ceremonial robes and spoke up. At least, the stink of broken oaths tipped over the already overflowing pile of crimes, completing a picture ugly enough to make a case for the League to look into: the representatives of the overseas division listened, nodded gravely―pale and queasy but not surprised―and took measures.

The informers, now he saw a little differently. All those that smiled a bit too much, he wanted to question again until they cracked. Was Glæpur in hiding with someone? Had the man fled his protection to trust these leering men that spoke of his death and laughed? He didn't dare ask if they, too, had been paid for any favour, had loaned Glæpur any time.

A golden throat, that one has, was the only, enigmatic answer they would give when asked about their association with the man. It was so unified, like a prepared answer.

Was it an euphemism? Was it a code Íþróttaálfurinn didn't know? He had let it go, tired of those patronizing glances. He had to leave it shapeless.

As Santa prepares to leave―to continue his deliveries with midnight approaching―the children say their thanks and goodbyes, and Glæpur sneaks away to the kitchen with his emptied bowl. Íþróttaálfurinn has followed him before realizing his feet have moved.

He doesn't know what he'll say to him. Maybe he just needs to be near him a moment, just enough to know that he is real, really there, really alive. Enough to ask him, ask him―

When he gets to the kitchen, though, the bowl is there―dirty on the pile of clean flatware laid out to dry―and the man isn't. Searching the house is as quick as it is fruitless. His frustration rises and his intuition says, clear: leave right now. He doesn't listen.

When Íþróttaálfurinn gets back to the kitchen, Glæpur is there like he has never moved. Stretching up to rustle in the top shelf of the pantry like a very large, willowy meerkat in a second-hand Christmas sweater, knee shoved indifferently up on the counter.

"Glæpur."

His name comes out dry this time, matter-of-fact, like a thing and not a feeling. The man startles, slipping off in the hurry to wheel around and face him.

"Why, hello," Glæpur chirps, as three pairs of spare oven mittens rain on him. Like it's his own kitchen, arms open wide, he offers, "Can I get you anything?"

Íþróttaálfurinn sucks in a breath and steps up to the sink, like he's tiptoeing around a secret, a thing lodged untold in the space between them.

"I could probably use a chamomile," he sighs.

"Couldn't we all," Glæpur says thoughtfully, opening another cabinet, finding mugs on the first try. "But personally, I'm partial to hot cocoa. Been craving it all week."

Íþróttaálfurinn bounces on his heels, thrumming, every scrap of information on their time apart fuelling the restlessness in him. Glæpur makes no comment, telegraphing the wont of it.

The elf looks at him move around, find a saucepan to melt a dollop of leftover chocolate sauce into some milk, fill up the kettle―for him―in the meantime. His guts squirm, warm and uncomfortable.

"How do you know your way around the Mayor's cabinets so well?"

Glæpur halts just a moment, metal spoon missing a stir and scraping jarringly in the side of the pot.

"Lots of kitchens are alike," he evades, with a vague shrug. He's confused as to why the elf would even need to ask; it has always been plain that Glæpur knows indoor spaces the way a butcher knows animal anatomy.

But, under Íþróttaálfurinn's stubborn stare, he huffs. "What? He said I could make myself at home. Love thy neighbour. It's a Christmas thing, right?"

"That's… it's just politeness, Glæpur. It's not meant to be taken literally."

"Well, he should stop saying that, then." Glæpur gestures to the spoon with his free hand. "I'm just a weary traveller making himself hot cocoa."

The brown liquid in the pot simmers unevenly now, creating an unpleasant oily film on the surface. The smell alone overpowers the senses with its sweetness. Íþróttaálfurinn thinks how strange it is, to offer hospitality and not mean it; knowing the Mayor, there is even a good chance that he actually meant it.

Caving in to the need to do something, he starts washing the dirty bowl. Glæpur just glances companionably at him out of the corner of his eye, unbothered, taking a moment to throw the mittens in a pile back on the top shelf. The fuzzy sleeve of his sweater brushes warm against the elf's elbow.

When he speaks, Glæpur's voice reaches him as if through a dense fog. "Do elves do Christmas, Íþró?"

"We're more of a Winter Solstice kind of people," he answers, even if he knows the question is only meant to distract him, deflect his disapproval. Glæpur concedes him a low hum.

Then, he turns suddenly, pointing at him with the dripping spoon, eyes glinting with complicity―and Íþróttaálfurinn gets a sudden, painful glimpse of the chase-game, and the man's old self.

"So, listen," he says. "You're just as baffled as me, right? All the socks, and dancing and trees that sting right in the middle of the living-room… this shit is weird, right? Am I alone out here?"

"No, this is my first Christmas as an insider, too," he hurries to say, embarrassed for no reason. "And I… do prefer trees when they're outside."

"Right?" Glæpur says, and grins. "So weird."

He looks at the man pour the lumpy concoction into one of the mugs, flutter about for sugar, find it, scoop it in by the spoonful. There is something mesmerizing, in the way Glæpur can instantly take over all the spaces that don't belong to him.

The elf's ears feel increasingly, unnervingly warm under his hat. They are in the Mayor's kitchen, on Christmas Eve, talking about the equivalent of the weather. More than friends, less than acquaintances, the air between them hangs unbalanced, between the awkward and the overly familiar. As if the distance Glæpur put between them by running was still all there, compressed, smothering.

He could ask him a hundred different questions right now and, all wrapped up in his amiable façade, he's pretty sure Glæpur would answer. But only one presses in his throat like a lump of tears, only one stings his mouth on its way out.

"Glæpur," he breaks, resolve giving in to urge. "Where have you been?"

"Me? In trouble, as usual," the man answers, with no hesitation.

And instantly, he knows he has overstepped. The game has changed, the space doesn't belong to him anymore. He feels he had never had clearance to ask such things, not even to tease. Already in too deep, to close, too knowing.

"You… disappeared," Íþróttaálfurinn presses on anyway, attempting not to sound hurt, failing miserably.

Once he meets Íþróttaálfurinn's eye, Glæpur's apparent ease falters. The storm is asleep for now, dormant in his restless eyes, but still there, waiting.

"It's what I do," Glæpur smirks. "Had to feed those convenient rumours about my death, somehow, didn't I?"

It shouldn't come as a surprise, how much he knows. He has his ways, he's always been well-informed, Íþróttaálfurinn thinks. How could he have survived otherwise? And yet.

Then, of course, there is the voice. Glæpur is talking, words growing distant in the elf's mind as he focuses more on the quality of his voice, what is different in it. It's higher and clear and pleasant, almost lilting, completely removed from Glæpur's private raspy drawl.

Something from the past comes back with it, something from those times they found themselves allied in their chase-game, and for the greater good Íþróttaálfurinn made himself a conman's accomplice. And, worst of all, enjoyed it.

"You're doing that thing with your voice," he interrupts, cutting off the end of his empty ramble about the weirdness of Christmas, the logistical impossibilities of Santa's travels that only adults muse about.

With a fluting chuckle, Glæpur feigns candour. "Oh? What thing?"

"The thing." Íþróttaálfurinn gestures, his own tone rising in imitation. It doesn't work, because his voice is naturally pitched higher. And because he was never good at imitations. "The sweet-talking thing. The distract this mob boss with anecdotes until he postpones the execution―thing."

"That made an impression, huh," Glæpur sneers, dropping the voice to its natural, harsh timbre. "Glanni Glæpur, criminal mastermind, modern Scheherazade."

It's a relief to hear, for such a drastic change. It doesn't become him, this affected courtesy and delicacy, it never did.

"What are you doing here, really?" Íþróttaálfurinn asks, and he can feel his own face tense, has to concentrate to uncurl his hands.

Glæpur gives him a defiant look. "Figuring out this kettle."

He sets his mug down to turn his back and poke around the appliance. He finds the switch on second try, and the iron coils glow red through the water and transparent plastic.

Íþróttaálfurinn takes a step closer. "These people are trying to see something different in you, Glæpur," he says low. "The Mayor himself is taking a leap of faith. The children actually like you."

"Psh," the man scoffs, dropping the last of his friendly act. "We both know I'm nothing but the latest distraction."

"You'd better not disappoint them," he has gritted out before he could think it through.

He should have known that type of arrogance wouldn't work. Doesn't work with kids, why would it work on the second most stubborn creature on earth? The man's eyebrows rise, and his mouth instantly curls at the corners, pinching in the middle over his long teeth, in the telling way of when he's holding back from outright laughing in someone's face.

"Indeed? And, pray tell, what are you going to do to me if I do?" he asks, taking a step forward of his own, getting unsettlingly close, a new fearlessness in his eyes. "If these suckers want to give me free stuff, I'll take what I can get. By the time they tire out and come around to collect, I'll be long gone."

The sweet scent of mallows and dryer sheets laces then with something deep and sour, something that brings Íþróttaálfurinn back to that night, and the cold desperation he warded off with his own body heat, to the tears he dried with careful fingers.

It was then, he realizes, when Íþróttaálfurinn lowered all of his defences to come to his rescue, that Glæpur knew he had won the chase-game, that his nemesis would never be able to fight him again without holding back. Íþróttaálfurinn is compromised, has been for a while, and Glæpur knows it. In his layers of cloth and armour, the elf feels horribly, hopelessly naked.

"And that's been working well for you, hasn't it?" he spits, a defensive hiss through his teeth.

At this point, when Glæpur shifts and he notices, just out of sight, the black burlap bag leaning half-full by the counter, he is less fazed than he thought. No gratitude or regard, nothing unexpected. A stray that knows nothing but the street, and will never know anything more.

"You're wasting your second chance," he says, tone an embanked evenness, "taking advantage of genuine kindness like this. And second chances don't come around every day."

"Second motives instead, we got to spare, don't we, my time-loaning hero?" Glæpur rebuts. "You of all people should know I don't believe in anything genuine." He pauses to smile, a nasty little grin, sharp yet miserable in its baseness. "I did come in for the presents, but you have to admit the Mayor's got silverware too nice to leave alone."

Íþróttaálfurinn has never met before someone made of so many different people, all pulling him into that strange, painful intimacy. The favourite uncle of his children, the free-spirited schemer he chased around a summer, the keening broken thing he wanted to hold until the pieces came together. He is a man fractured, multiple, and for a moment he catches a glimpse of the abyss behind those transparent eyes, the shadow deep down in some unnatural, bottomless hollow.

"I don't understand," he sighs, shaking his head. "You were going to ruin Christmas for them. They let you in, fed you, you're wearing clothes off the man's back―how can you betray their trust like this?" Teacher-voice hiding the tremble, he clips, "We expected better from you."

Glæpur all but snorts at him.

"First off, that sounds like your problem and not mine. Second, you should have seen your face earlier: you weren't expecting to see me at all, let alone better behaviour. And look," he says, voice lowering and coating in unpleasant smugness, "they knew who I was when they invited me in, alright? If their kindness is conditional to my behaviour, can you really call kindness?"

"Yes," Íþróttaálfurinn grits out, affronted. Somehow, he is starting to feel like the one in the wrong. Rebelling, mule-like, against the feeling, he retorts, "That's why you came back here, isn't it? No one of your little criminal friends to take you in, after you escaped me?"

Glæpur leans back from him, drawing up to his full height. He peers at him down the length of his nose, evaluating, allowing himself a slow, deliberate sip from his mug. The air chills.

"Hm, hadn't realized you were keeping me prisoner," he says after a beat. His cold demeanour cracks in a slow, leery grin. "If you must know, I went down to Storíbær, and my acquaintance, I assure you, was just thrilled to see me."

"I see," Íþróttaálfurinn hisses.

He hasn't spoken yet, and he already wants to take back the words that just formed in his mind. He can see the trap laid out, every cog of it, every dangled bait. He wants to set it off anyway.

He says, "And you bought some time off him too, I imagine."

Glæpur's breath actually hitches. Not a gasp, not full-blown shock, but rather a pause, a bad surprise.

"So, this is how it is," Glæpur says low, room temperature dropping from lukewarm to freezing. "And here I was, thinking you had scraped me off the sidewalk out of good old pity. For shame, Íþró."

He leans further back, eyes narrowing, away from the words are out there now, in the charged air between them. Íþróttaálfurinn's eyes follow his hands when they come to chest-level, still clutching the mug.

"It's good to know that's the idea you have of me now, anyway. And you know what? I did," Glæpur continues, voice softer and deadlier, when the elf makes no retort. "I bought all the time I needed. That should teach you not to stick your expectations where they don't belong."

Íþróttaálfurinn is still looking at his hands. They are always looking for something to do: creasing edges of fabric between his fingers, feeling textures, stroking, kneading. It's not fidgeting, Íþróttaálfurinn knows—it never seemed linked to nervousness. Rather, his hands are always worried, yearning to be in the making of things, nail-tip to heel, making, doing, bending rules. Glæpur's long fingers move even in his sleep, twitching, like a drunk pianist.

Now, the ever-moving hands hold shock-still, clasped around the mug, and he has seen that white-knuckled grip only once before.

"I…" he starts, but he has nothing to continue with.

Drily, Glæpur cuts him off, "And if you don't want to hear loaded answers, you've got to stop asking me loaded questions."

He glances up, meeting the man's unflinching eye, and he finds something there, a confirmation. Something fragile like glass, barely holding together.

Seized by urgency, before the other can speak again, the elf blurts out, "I just thought… that what happened was going to change something —open your eyes a little!"

The man jolts, like something has hit him. The mug slips from his grip and Íþróttaálfurinn has to spring to catch it. He makes it, just barely. He breathes out over the spilled cocoa, splattered on the crisp tiled floor.

Then Glæpur speaks, his voice a low, lifeless monotone. "Are you suggesting," he says, "that it makes for an effective way of reforming criminals? That it should have made me see the wrong in my ways? Teach me a lesson?"

In complete discordance, his body coils back, tendons in his forearms jumping in tension, an unpleasant, off-kilter twitch in his jaw and the corner of his mouth. The parts of him seem about to come undone and scatter, like they cannot reconcile with each other, with what the elf said to him.

Íþróttaálfurinn grabs a rug, crouching down to fix the mess, and avoid whatever unnameable truth is baiting him in Glæpur's eyes, avoid confronting how much damage he has done.

"No, that's… that's not what I meant," he tells the floor, weak to his own ears, vision going blurry. He has done it―he has brought up the unthinkable in the worst possible way, he has stomped all over that fragile thing barely holding itself together.

"It's what you said," the man hisses, voice knife-like. "And mind you, many would agree. Most, in fact."

Something snaps. The words pour out as Íþróttaálfurinn swats the dirty rag in the sink, airing the dark stains like all his mounted frustrations.

"Oh, as if I actually knew what happened," he hisses, and as he voices it, the doubt breaches through the gap suspicion has wedged in his defences, overcoming him. "You make me do your bidding, then disappear, then reappear here, conning these people again like it's nothing. Too many inconsistencies, Glæpur."

"Wha―my bidding?" Glæpur asks, sounding lost, giving up all pretence of calm and control. "You stole me away on your death trap like there was not a moment to lose, and now you—don't believe me…?"

A noise reaches them from the living-room, making them both jump. The children are coming back in.

"Hard to know what to believe, if I have to rely on you for answers," he says stubbornly, even though he can see the hand in his line of view grip the counter like it wants to leave indents in it. "Might have been all one of your cons, for all I know."

There are a thousand explanations for the bite-marks―Íþróttaálfurinn must have jumped to conclusion. A game gone wrong, a mere fight, even an agreement. Maybe, he thinks wildly, what came out of the League's investigation was true for all those others, but was it for this miserable, ungrateful stray, so ready to buy time off anyone? Maybe he had an interest in having those men imprisoned―some grand scheme, and the elf has been his pawn all along. He made the entire League his pawn, from their corner of the world all the way across the Ocean. Played them all like a whole orchestra of fiddles.

"You were there," Glæpur says, in a whisper between dangerous and bewildered. The chained storm puts an irate tremble in his voice, ringing bare and tinny. "You were there. You saw me try not to claw my own guts out―what more proof did you want? Should I have shown you my―"

"Don't you dare―" Íþróttaálfurinn interrupts, throwing an alarmed glance to the door behind him.

"Did you need to see the damn blood down my leg―?"

Here it is, the faceless thing, bared like a bandage ripped. His pulse hammers in Íþróttaálfurinn's head, louder than a drum.

"Glæpur," the elf gasps, stunned, reeling, "the children—!"

"Of course," the man echoes hollowly, icy calm coming back like a wall around him. His eyes have gone fixed, distant. "The children."

As if summoned, it's right then that the children call, loud and cheery from the living-room, for their new favourite distraction to come back to them.

Face still as stone, careful indifference draped over his features, the man shoulders past him and makes his way back to his unaware audience.

Something was off in his tone, something feverish and frenzied, something half on the run. Confronted with the elf's unexpected retaliation, he didn't seem prepared to back up his own bluff, and Íþróttaálfurinn can still barely process what he has forced him to spit out.

Mechanically, as if the objects he sets back into order and proper place were all the things he cannot control, he starts to tidy up the kitchen. He washes, dries, and puts away, breathing slowly evening out, pushing out the restlessness with every exhale, until the burlap bag left on the floor is the last thing left out of place.

He approaches it tentatively, as if it were some wild creature ready to bite, ready to show him how terribly wrong he's been.

It's almost a relief, really, to find it filled with the Mayor's silverware.

The carolling will go on a bit longer, they all have decided.

The elf observes, between disturbed and fascinated, the humans shift in the room. Slowly they are converging to Glæpur, like magnets to iron, until the singing offers a pause and the children can plead in unison, Glanni, Glanni, sing us something!

Called to stage, an invisible switch flicks inside Glæpur, swapping the hollow stone mask for lively, wide-eyed surprise.

"Oh my, I don't know any of these Christmas things!" he says, hand to his cheek. To the children's wheedling, he raises a placating, outstretched palm. "Okay, okay, pipe down and let me think…"

Head tilted as if trying to listen to a distant sound, scrunching up his face in concentration, he visibly rakes his brain for something. Siggi and Nenni are leaning forward so much they will fall over when the idea comes, Íþróttaálfurinn predicts.

"Aha!" And there it is, brightening the man's face like a ray of sunshine, a smile wide like a blade in the elf's chest. "I got something, but it might be… inappropriate," he demurs, glancing up at the Mayor as he graciously helps the boys up on the couch.

"Sing it anyway!"

"As long as there are no bad words," the Mayor grants, with a cheerful shrug. The children giggle.

Glæpur grins, straightens his back, and takes a deep breath in.

It starts with a hum, and from the hum alone Íþróttaálfurinn can tell it isn't a happy song. And then, the words start quiet, almost shy, whispering of the vague things all human songs are about. Battle, the divine, and love. Mostly, it reminds Íþróttaálfurinn of the snow falling soft on the ground, keeping the sleeping seeds safe.

Glæpur's powerful baritone gains momentum with the violence of the second verse, and the elf loses the thread of the words almost immediately, taken away by the deep notes, earthquake waves into Íþróttaálfurinn's chest. He cannot help but think… that it is wrong of him to be listening to this, to this intimate thing sung with more emotion than the man wants to put in it.

He closes his eyes, letting the song transport him away, and the world blooms green behind his eyelids. Slowly, the air transforms, Glæpur pulling the children's voices from their throats with a director's stroke, and from the half dozen people huddled in the living-room comes the harmony of sound of a whole choir, pale cream walls reverberating like trees of a sacred forest. If the elf strains, he can hear the leaves rustling to the rhythm, whispering hallelujah.

The echoing, repetitive chorus surrounds him, slip around and inside him, like a rising tide soaking all the places he hasn't visited in years. It is a cruel song, he realizes, feeling his eyes burn. It speaks of torn love, and betrayal, and faith, and treats all of them with the same solemn grace, Glæpur's voice vibrating around the low, mournful notes.

When he opens his eyes, Íþróttaálfurinn takes in the human group sitting in a circle, a single entity united by music, and the room feels like it contains the entire universe. The harmony of their voices fills his lungs and transports him away, so far, far from everything. His mind goes back to the village, to that care that is too close, too knowing. To the winter lights kept alive day and night in the longhouses, clans and families like a net of luminous guidance in the long long night, spinning thread and tales together all winter.

And, here and now the realization comes to him, as cruel as the words of this mournful song: for however much he can try to take care of these humans—shield them from danger and teach them and help them—in the end, only humans will know what's best for another.

His two contrasting, irreconcilable longings melt and burn in his spirit, and he dares wonder―how much damage has he done, with his careless words, to make him sing something so heart-wrenching? In a room full of his dearest people, he wishes he were alone with the iron grip in his chest.

In the children's cheering and applause―as the man grins and bows, faking modesty―the strange bubble of deja-vu bursts. It leaves the elf guilty, heartsick, kicked back to the present like a harsh awakening.

The children want to know how Glæpur has learned this song. When he answers he picked it up from the radio while overseas, of course they flock and ask him to tell stories of his bad deeds while there. And the man grins, not looking at him so pointedly he might as well have looked.

Glæpur claps his hands together, rubbing complicity between his palms, and then releases it, drawing everyone in. He doesn't have to do much to make the stories interesting, as anything is bound to tumble into chaos wherever he's in the proximity. But he has a way of telling stories, a grandiosity that makes everyone feel privileged to be part of it, even if only as an audience.

He remembers all of the children's names. He says things like, You'll like this, Halla, dear, and then, Nenni, cover your ears, this is about grand theft. He remembers these six children, among all he has tricked and scammed, like they are his, somehow. Íþróttaálfurinn lets his mind float away at times. He remembers many of the anecdotes: he was present, although nobody in this room knows. His stomach has filled with ice.

"And this is why, dear children," Glæpur is saying, solemn, "bad things happen to bad people."

"D-do they?" Halla asks, sounding a little more than worried. Her changes towards good behaviour and tentative steps toward friendship―other than Solla, of course―are all very recent. Íþróttaálfurinn allows himself to throw the man a wary glance.

"Why, indeed, Halla, dear! Take me, for example," Glæpur says, pointing at himself with a flourish of both hands. "I am a very evil man, who does very evil things."

"You did put me in jail," the child observes, staring off into the distance for a moment. Darkly, she adds, "Where I rotted my youth away."

The others snort. Íþróttaálfurinn recalls that the first version of the story the children told him―probably closer to what actually happened―had Halla stay in the police station holding cell for a night to say the longest. Yet, Glæpur is nodding in self-satisfaction, even graciously.

"Of course I did." He leans back in a full-face frown of confusion. "Wait… did I?"

"And… bad things happen to you?" Halla presses on, undeterred, chewing on her lower lip.

"Oh, all the time," Glæpur says, swapping the confusion for a thin, affable smile. Íþróttaálfurinn feels a shock of fear course through his veins.

"For example, here I am," he continues, giving a theatrical sigh. "Stuck inside, with all of you annoying brats. On Christmas! Can you imagine a crueller fate?"

The children supply crueller fates, from reasonable―death, prison―to perplexing―my Granma's house, school, Antarctica―to… Siggi.

"In the pot. With the brussels sprouts," the boy says, quietly, intensely. Silence befalls.

"You got a point," Glæpur concedes, between magnanimous and concerned. "So, remember, kids: if something bad happens to you―like brussels sprouts―it's probably because you are a bad person who does bad things."

The children giggle nervously, except Siggi who is still staring off into space. And Halla, who is still actually concerned about her fate as a reformed bully.

"You aren't a bad man, Glanni," Solla says warmly, reaching to pat the man on the head, as one would a loyal family dog. Glæpur leans towards her indulgently, yet visibly perplexed. "You did put my best friend in prison, where she rotted her youth away… but nobody is bad, on Christmas."

"Oh, well… thank you?" he tries, sounding less smooth than he probably intended, his wolfish grin just a little bit forced. Solla grins back.

"But is that true, Íþró?" Halla asks then, bouncing in front of him as he absentmindedly balances on his hands, crossed legs a couple of inches off the floor, startling him and making him fall seated. "If something bad happens, is it because you're bad?"

"Absolutely not… he is teasing you, Halla," he says, with as much of his normal tone he can muster. "Sometimes, bad things can just… happen. To anyone."

"But, isn't that unfair?" Nenni points out. He has always been very concerned with the fairness of things. Siggi just nods vigorously.

"Life's unfair, kiddo," Glæpur drawls, twirling a candycane around his index finger and poking Siggi's nose with it, making him giggle.

Íþróttaálfurinn takes in a breath that shudders all the way to his lungs.

"And sometimes… people won't be of any help. Even the ones that were supposed to understand. Even the ones that you trusted, because you thought they would be careful," he says, voice thick. Everyone can see him blinking away tears, he knows it. "They'll mess up, breaking your trust… and you have to remember… it's not because you're bad. It's not your fault."

He dares meet Glæpur's eye and finds the abyss again, an empty nothing but for a calculating edge. His vision clouds with tears, and he shoots to his feet faster than ever.

"Íþró…" Solla asks, and it was only a matter of time, really. The children have fallen silent. "Are you… alright?"

"Yes, of course!" he chirps. "I just have to… go check on my balloon a moment, just to make sure it's tied down securely, you know? The Mayor won't be so kind as to fly it back this time."

He laughs nervously. The children manage to smile a little. It is a poor excuse, and he feels that everyone can tell. He always ties the balloon down securely when he is mooring for a while, they know that.

"Looks like it's picking up," the Mayor says, glancing out the window as the elf all but runs to the door. The snow flutters, still calm, but the shiver in the wind promised the raging snowstorm to come. "Maybe you should take the time to deflate it?"

Íþróttaálfurinn feels a lump come up to his throat, caught between gratitude and humiliation, and just nods. The mournful, gut-wrenching energy of the song is still buzzing around him, a vibration he can feel tingle in his scalp, his eyes, the palms of his hands. He tries very pointedly to not look at anyone, especially at Glæpur.

Hurry back, Íþró! It's almost Christmas! the little voices call after him. He can't look at anyone, just manage a weak smile and hope it is enough. Is it better to be the one to disappoint the children, or to scare them half to death by crying in front of them?

Don't be sad, children, he heard the Mayor say. It might take him a while. But I'm sure Íþróttaálfurinn will be back with us first thing tomorrow morning!

He doesn't dare look back.

Notes: Íþróttaálfurinn is a mess. Glanni has no housetraining and gives the worst life advice. A match made in hell, which is, incidentally, where this chapter is from.

In Jól í Latabæ Glanni breaks into the house to steal the presents, Santa catches him but decides to show him how nice Christmas is when he learns that Glanni never had a Christmas (or a single present!) in his life ;;

Chapter title from Cohen's Hallelujah. The version Glanni sings is this one (that came out in 2016 but shhh) but imagine it with a Tom Waits rasp, and the choir from the Sense8 Christmas Special version.