In Need of a Cold Shower by heget

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Chapter 1

Dear Elros, 

I hear that Bortë is pregnant once more. Congratulations on fatherhood for the third time. I share in your joy. Ask your wife if she wishes my presence with the other healers and I shall be on the first boat to Andúndië when I return. 

I may have made a mistake in volunteering myself for this mission. The hardships of the journey are as I expected them to be. Your warnings were unnecessary. Glad am I that we did not make this trek during the winter months, for the cold is terrible but not as bad as you feared. You are pampered in that palace, Brother, for all you complain about constant construction. But my confession of contrition pertains to my two companions. They drive me mad, Elros. Seregeithon and Helcerían have gotten worse, and I thought that feat impossible. Send an Eagle to rescue me from them.

 

 

Seregeithon did not relinquish his spear when the First Age ended and a new one began, nor did he sail away and leave behind Middle-earth as so many of his acquaintances chose to. Weary of war, of slaughter, of the anger that made him short-tempered and unfit for anything else but the spear, still he could not abandon it as he had his bloodstained armor. He had been a shepherd as a child, before the orcs came, before the moon rose in the sky, but the vast northern fields of Beleriand were beneath the waves and his family long dead. His hand knew how to curve around the shaft of a spear and not a tool of peacetime. Reaching out to the shepherd’s crook or farmer’s scythe, his limbs jittered. War had not left his dreams nor his bones, and until it did he could not sail to the Far Shore. But he shook at the thought of placing himself once more under a general’s command. Seregeithon, northern child, had tolerated the cold better than most, so he worked for decades with the men of Hador as a scout upon the permafrost and spoke their tongue as fluently as his native Sindarin. This skill was desired by Seregeithon’s newest liege-lord above his deftness with pole-arms; a pity however that Seregeithon’s temperament was ill-suited for diplomacy. Even mortals balked at his brand of curtness. But the bluntness was an advantage at the docks. Lindon traded most with the newly established island kingdom of men, after all, so knowledge of their tongue was a government necessity. The posting to assist the harbormaster was a temporary one, until Lord Círdan found a better fit, which suited everyone. Seregeithon was restless but knew not where to wander to. He liked his new king, young Gil-galad. A good mix of optimism and pragmatism, and for all his blue banners and physical appearance recalled that of High King Fingolfin, who Seregeithon admired, Gil-galad was Lord Círdan’s son, if not by blood but in all other ways, and thus the young king had Seregeithon’s trust and fealty. Pity that the spear-man was ambivalent about the sea. The fishy scent was almost as bad as dragon’s blood.

Seregeithon huffed and approached the newest petitioner that the customs official had demanded that he must personally deal with - and froze in his steps because the woman standing beside the shipyard’s warehouse was no mortal. Elven she was, tall and thin with long white hair falling loose beyond her waist like a waterfall of snow, arms crooked at her sides waiting to scold her next unfortunate victim. A complete stranger, and yet Seregeithon recognized that hooded eyes and flat mouth for a stubborn temper equal to his own. A woman impossible to win arguments against, that stance proclaimed. The giant swan hissing at her feet, neck reaching well above her elbows, jet black eyes glaring with almost wrym-like malice at everyone who was not its companion, had also scared away everyone else. No honks, just the continuous hiss like a boiling kettle. Swans were territorial terrors even at a normal size, and Seregeithon had no desire to approach this monster without his spear and arrayed in all his armor. The woman made eye-contact with him. Seregeithon sighed, committed. Pale and moon-like those eyes, they would be pretty on another woman - he held that thought for a fleeting moment before releasing it, fearing the danger of facing that personality and that swan distracted.Those were the eyes of a woman who could win a knife fight with a cutting word. Her dress was odd- the outline and fabric were old-fashioned Sindarin, like something that Queen Melian’s handmaidens would wear, the fabric shimmery grays and deep blues of unadorned silk, but the cut and how the woman wore the garments made it obvious that she was not a native of Beleriand. Her few pieces of jewelry were white coral where a woman of Lindon and the Havens would wear pearls. A daring Sindarin lady would uncover her arms or wear her short jacket cut low without a lace kerchief or cuff to expose the top of her bosoms - not so abbreviated as to expose the hint of the underside curve of her breasts. Peculiar fashion choice, that. Intriguing. Also that giant swan. Seregeithon hastily moved his eyes back to her face. A Falmari Teler, he deduced, and wondered what could possibly bring one of Olwë’s people, alone but for that giant swan, to Lindon’s dock.

The woman bowed. It was perfunctory; Seregeithon countered with his smoothest courtly bow. The swan quieted and tucked its head behind a wing, satisfied. “Thank the Belain,” Seregeithon muttered under his breath. Give him death by orc instead of attack by irate waterfowl; it would be less painful.

“I greet you and ask that the stars shine brightly upon your path,” the woman said, and her accent was almost perfect and voice low and pleasant. A voice meant to be listened to without ever tiring of the sound, he thought in that quick, warm, and reassuring way as one does when petting a stray cat that has approached. “My name is Helcerían. I was informed that you, Ser Seregeithon, have experience with the far north and how to hunt upon the ice, and more importantly that you do not fear it. Ever since the Noldor departed across the Helecaraxë from Amaran, the northernmost sea has been disturbed. It recovered, but now something has once more disturbed the whales and seals and the rich fisheries- cod and capelin, crab and squid. The whales sang to me, warning of some foul presence recently arrived, and entreated me to find aid. Whatever it is, it lurks to the north on this shore, and will be a danger to your people as well. Help me scout for it, so that we may save everyone.”

Well, not how he thought that his morning would develop. “I accept, Milady,” Seregeithon said, wondering what official notice one would write to one’s superiors to explain such a leave of duty. The words exited his mouth without thinking that his refusal was a possibility to be entertained, and that unquestioning certainty needed to be included in his letter. “First, though, if we are to travel to the Icebay of Forochel and beyond, we’ll need to outfit you with some warmer furs.”

The swan honked and buffeted its wings.

The woman glared as if his statement was ludicrous, but he was not the one with the lower half of their top garment missing. “Yes, I was told I would need your expertise and experience with travel to the northernmost reaches of this land. I am no naif to such journeys, but I do not know the merchants here. Thus I was told to commandeer you.”

Seregeithon had stern words lined up for whomever this strange woman had spoken to. Commandeer, as if he was a horse that a stray soldier needed to return to the battlefield? However, he did just volunteer himself for her quest upon being given the barest of details. He supposed that he was that desperate for a change of routine.

The swan was eyeing him in a most unsettling manner. Maybe he should remove the armor from storage, the sabatons and other leg coverings. The cuirass and helmet needed not come out. Maybe.

“Come, show me who I must next speak to so I may continue my quest,” the woman snapped. 

Seregeithon dropped his jaw.

“Take me quickly to your superior officer or whichever court official is in charge. With the gravity of my task and the peril that the disruption of the far north shall trickle down to these waters- you do know that the bounty of the sea depends on the northernmost waters, yes?- we shall need to speak with Lord Cirdan eventually, though I would rather avoid the royal court if I can. Now which direction? We will be fortunate to have permission settled before the end of the day if we stop wasting time. Standing there letting the net slip out. They assured me that you were a hearty warrior and man of action.” The strange woman marched in the direction that he, bemused and helplessly, had pointed. The swan followed her, and Seregeithon, cautiously, followed it. His bafflement shielded what would have been the deep wound to his pride. Only a sheltered young woman could be so self-righteous. A princess, if not for the lack of title when she introduced herself and that she wore no jewels, only the string of white coral beads and a few silver brooches. At the first turn he quickened his stride to be abreast with her and lead them towards the street that they needed. The swan did not shove itself between them, which surprised him.

The Falmari woman swayed her hips when she walked, though not as deeply as the sailors that Seregeithon worked with, just enough to swish her skirts around her long boot-clad legs. The horse archers had a walk distinct to them, much as sailors did. Seregeithon’s Nandorin friends walked peculiarly to themselves, too, high on the balls of their feet. Best to memorize her walk now, so that he could recognize the woman at a distance or in a crowd. Just a precaution in case they separated, Seregeithon lied to himself. Her gait was particularly jaunty, and it made certain parts of her bounce. Silently fascinated, Seregeithon watched areas around her exposed midriff bob but never to the point of exposing their points, though the front ties were gathered so and the article of clothing so abbreviated that the bottom hem crossed right below the areolae. Hypnotic, that bouncing. Seregeithon fantasized about placing a hand, cupped ever so gently, to feel her breast flutter against his fingers. Alas that the wind was not strong today, that it might wreak havoc against those precariously positioned and pinned garments.

“What was your name again, Milady?”

“Helcerían.” Her voice sharpened further, a tone shift that Seregeithon thought impossible. “Your care for my words was that slight?”

“Inquiring if you had a Sindarin version, as so many Noldor do,” he soothed.

“I am not Noldor,” Helcerían snapped, her cheeks colored with anger.

“But this is not your native tongue. I meant not to imply such a mistake. Only that it is common to adjust a name to fit the mode of tongue. Lord Celeborn’s wife uses the Sindarin name that he gifted her, Lady Galadriel, but is known to switch it to Alatáriel when the situation warrants.”

“Unless Helcerían is too cumbersome and inelegant to rest upon your lips, I prefer you keep it,” the woman said, removing the razors from her voice and making it once more a soothing delight to listen to. Just like the cats that prowled the wharfs, eager to crawl into a lap and rub their soft heads against a friendly hand where once before, unintentionally startled, they had hissed and swatted at. Seregeithon had patience for few men, but he liked cats.

“How do you find it so far, your exposure to the land that is not fair Valinor? You were born there, yes?” Mortal men were familiar to him, but this woman was the first of his own tribe that had completed the Great March that he had interacted with. The family swallowed by the sea, his kin called them, until the final days of Beleriand showed them what it truly was to be swallowed up by the seas. He thought that she would look more alien, instead of a scatterbrained Falas lass with a strange wardrobe and the most exquisite voluminous hair. Helcerían nodded but offered no further details or opinions. Her pale eyes darted up and down his body instead of watching where she was marching, almost colliding with the dockhands and merchants thronging Lindon’s streets. Seregiethon snorted. “Daring for a Falmari to step foot on Middle-earth; I am surprised that you were allowed off your ship.”

“There was no commandment from our king forbidding it,” Helcerían countered, “And my quest here is with approval; I did not sneak away in the night. Hiswalagawen would not be beside me if this was an act of rebellion,” she said, sweeping a hand to the giant swan waddling in her shadow. “I booked passage on one of the Grey Ships. Skilled sailor that I am, I still am not so talented as to sail on my lonesome across the breadth of the Great Sea.”

“Was that when you learned to speak Sindarin, or soon before?” Seregeithon asked, genuinely curious because her accent was so subtle.

“Lady Elwing taught me,” Helcerían said.

“Elwing herself?!”

The Falmari woman nodded. “Before she moved to her tower. During her stay in Alqualondë before Eärendil’s petition, and during the War of Wrath. I was one of the many companions assigned to keep her company and help her adjust. Queen Hwindië’s ladies mostly, but I was also one, as I was not allowed to go back to Amaran to continue my work of monitoring the northern ice and liaising with the Maiar of Ulmo that watch over the pods and schools.”

“Monitoring fish?”

Helcerían almost smiled. “Watching for icebergs. And tracking the whales. Any good fishing fleet sends scouts to know when the seasons change and the schools migrate. My family fished herring and cod, so it was important for us to track the capelin, and I learned the whale songs as a little girl. You do not have them on this side of the ocean, but north of Amaran are horned whales with long beautiful lances; they were my favorite.”

Despite his recent years working for the harbormaster of Lindon, Seregeithon was no sailor, nor even much of a longshoreman with more than a passing familiarity with either ships or the creatures of the sea. He could not name the different species of fish or whale, but he doubted that a Falmari native could tell a deer and sheep apart. Still, this was the opportunity to delicately ask, since she had mentioned both her family and Alqualondë. If he hesitated any longer, they would reach the customs office.

“Did you lose anyone that night?” Seregeithon asked.

“All Falmari lost someone that night,” Helcerían said. “Everyone had at least one family member slain, when our hearts were stolen from us. I watched Prince Fingon stab my mother clean through her chest, held her as she bled out in my arms, as he murdered next my father. My aunts, all my cousins.”

“Orcs razed my village,” Seregeithon offered in return. “Wasn’t much of a village, just a camp for that pasture season. Found my younger brother, half of him, and my parents stretched out almost as if they could be sleeping, if not... Well, after that, there was nothing for me, but to mature to a man, learn war, get my revenge. Now,” Seregeithon sighed, thinking of Orothaiben, “to find something to replace it.”

Helcerían paused, the half-lidded pale eyes now wide with a new thought. “Ah, that is why they sent me to you,” she murmured. “I ...understand. Afterwards, after the funerals, the many funerals, when I returned to the north, to the ice-walled bays above Amaran, I would find the frozen bodies. So many that they became unremarkable. Pity cools the hatred, eventually. I understand you, Seregeithon.” She smiled, but it was cold and gentle, the smile that the old mortal refugees made.

“You have a soft heart, Milady,” Seregeithon said. “I am glad that you knew not Beleriand and its centuries of war.”

The woman leaned up to his face, and Seregeithon was struck by both her boldness and the white of her hair. Would every conversation with her be a walk along avalanche-prone slope, he wondered as he fought the impulse to back away and regain personal space. At this distance he could see the faint dusting of freckles on her skin. Helcerían studied his eyes; Seregeithon needed several moments of uncomfortable confrontational eye contact to parse that her direct stare was not to challenge him but to observe. “Aye,” he scoffed, “they have no Tree Light. Centuries it has been since the difference has been worthy of notice or confusion.” His impression of this Falmari woman as a rube solidified.

Her lips parted slightly, eyes unfocusing as she too took the necessary pause to process and decipher his words and realize that a mistake in motivation had occurred. “You are not the first without the Light in their eyes, the first Úmanyar, that I have met, nor do I find it strange anymore. You are as surly and rude as one who goes back would be, so that I am not surprised.”

Offended, Seregeithon broke her stare. “Rudeness, Milady? Naming me unresolved? The dockmaster sent me to deal with you because your rude attitude would frighten away any but I.”

“I do not mistake you for Moripedi. I asked for the man with the most fitting of skills for the journey I must undertake, and the master of the docks gave me your name and a short account of your history. Did you not fight during the War of Wrath with fellow Nandor, one of the few natives of this shore to never drop the spear?”

“Orothaiben,” Seregeithon answered, thinking of his last commander, a man warped close to madness and bloodlust by the unending losses of the First Age. “Aye, I fought with his band of hunters before the new age started. He and his fellows count me still as a dear companion, and we will reunite at the tavern when their travels take them to the Havens. But my parents were never followers of Dan; Thingol was ever our king. Our direct allegiance was to Lord Eredhon and then to his granddaughter, Lady Meril of Mithrim, who married the Noldor prince when they built their kingdom in my homeland. High King Gil-galad is her son.”

Seregeithon’s explanation of the course of his fealties bothered the Falmari woman; her expression made this clear. He assumed the oblique reference to the prince that murdered her entire family was the cause, but something in how the muscles around her ice-pale eyes twitched spoke of another reason. The Tree-light in those eyes was hypnotically beautiful, but between it and her white lashes, there was very little color to her face except for the spot of pink anger on her cheeks.

Helcerían grunted in frustration and fumbled for a start for her sentence, starting with a denial and working her way through vowels until she blurted out, “My fingers are free!” She glared at Seregeithon, eyes locking into his, and when he did not immediately reply, she tossed up her hands in disgust and stomped off towards the door of the government building. From how she spoke, Seregeithon could tell that the sentence was a well-worn saying, but something lost in the translation or the cultural gap of the ocean obscured her meaning to him. The frustration translated clearly, however.

Chapter End Notes

Welcome to a Romantic Comedy and a Second Age fic staring OCs with a major canon character as supporting cast that isn't (directly) tied to "Beren's Band of the Red Hand". However it does contain all my various headcanons like who the first queen of Númenor was, what happened to Elrond and Elros, and Gil-galad's paternal and maternal family. Right now the rating is Teen, though I can make no guarantees that it stays there - but for once it's not violence and gore pushing the envelope.

Moripendi is the Telerin Quenya spelling of the term. The same with Alatáriel, for though I reject that later "History of Galadriel of Celeborn", it still makes sense for her to have a Quenya version while dealing with the envoys from either the Army of the Valar or the Falmari fleet.

Once more I'm adherring to LaCE, more or less.

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