In Need of a Cold Shower by heget

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Chapter 2

The Falmari woman sat in Lord Círdan’s secretary’s office -the room for visitors and show, not the real working chamber piled with books and scrolls and calcified bread rolls that Seregeithon knew was the office where the majority of written tasks occurred, a den into which he vowed that he will not dare venture again. The secretary shared the hoarding and organizational sensibilities of a troll. No surprise then that informing the lords of this mission was taking more than one meeting to process. Somewhere in-between these meetings Helcerían acquired a new piece of clothing to add to her ensemble- one of the Númenorean female vests, a sleeveless jacket that covered her midriff finally, if nothing else. Helcerían lacked the endowments of a mortal woman to fill out the loose shirt that would pair with the vest, if she wore one, but her skimpy silk jacket covered almost all the remaining skin. Still, Seregeithon calculated angles- if she were but to raise her arms then-

The secretary coughed. Helcerían shifted uncomfortably in her chair. Seregeithon would have warned her that the carpenter purposefully made the legs uneven, sloping the sitter down and keeping them off balance. He knew better and chose to lean against the wall.

Stationary, he could finally get a detailed look at the large silver brooch that gathered her skirt up and to the side. What he first thought was just a simple penannular brooch and large pin was a stylized horned whale. The long pin was the size- and sharpness, Seregeithon suspected- of a good dagger. A smaller whale brooch decorated the gray ribbon at her neck.

He wondered if she had ever stabbed someone with the sharp end of that whale brooch. She seemed the personality to possess the resolve to, but Seregeithon could not decide which option appealed more to him, that this woman have bloodless hands or carry the same stains that drenched his own. 

A foolish question.

Seregeithon thought of her during the night of the First Kinslaying, her mother bleeding out in her lap, young arms and hands drenched in red blood, crying as she knelt on the docks of her home, frightened and lost in the chaotic darkness. A helpless maiden, and in the sympathetic rage and desire to protect this phantasm, he clenched his jaw and fist, feeling the tension braid like steel cables around his spine. His slouch against the office wall transformed, against his conscious will, to the taunt attention of a soldier awaiting a counter-ambush. His empty fingers felt the absence of his spear. His memories were back in Ossiriand, hunting with Orothaiben, hearing for the first time what had happened to Lady Elwing’s people at the Mouth of the Sirion.

“I think that there might be something wrong with this chair,” Helcerían said, wrenching Seregeithon out of his tension.

“It’s supposed to be,” the secretary snapped, opening a small jar of colored ink and dipping the pen. With a flourish the last document was signed. “Lord Círdan will be informed of this task and all shipping from the direction of Forochel will be alerted to watch for anomalies.” 

“Thank you,” Helcerian replied. The prim little smirk on her lips was mesmerizing. Delicious in victory. Her eyes narrowed to allow only a sliver of her eyes to gaze through her lashes, like a crescent moon on a cloudy night gracing the world with just enough light to neither block out the stars nor forfeit the land to darkness. 

Queenly, that smug little smirk, and kingly a man that could bestow it.

Desire for her and for acts that would induce from her such a self-satisfied, sated smile seeped into his thoughts, coloring them with lust. Seregeithon had not realized that this was the emotion, not just idle curiosity, that drove him to study Helcerian, contemplating what she might look like fully-unclothed and if her laugh was high-pitched and quick or deep and broad. 

To go straight from childhood to a soldier in training, giving no thought to friendship or even the learning of companions’ names, to have no joys beyond that of slaying monsters - that Seregeithon was restlessly adrift in peace could surprise none, and that he had never contemplated courtship, be it serious or frivolous, was equally self-evident. When the loremasters wrote that the elves who married or suddenly found another in which desire blossomed long after their first century were rare and under some unique fate, cases like that of Seregeithon’s arrested development were among what they described. Nor had Seregeithon listened with interest to his mortal acquaintances and companions extolling deeds of lust. Never had he considered the potential applicability.

That night Seregeithon had to practice the art of masturbation, a skill he was not previously handy with.

The door opened. A new person entered, and surprise scrabbled Seregeithon’s reactional awareness so that he only recognized the person after they finished their first sentence.

“I’m joining this quest. The King knows and approves, and he does not need his herald for a few weeks. Thank you for holding them here while the skiff ferried me across the bay. This adventure sounds exciting, and the matter grave.” The speaker bowed to Helcerían still seated in the secretary’s pernicious chair and then to Seregeithon. 

Seregeithon groaned.

The new arrival was a young man with black hair tied back in a ponytail, face bright with excitement. Seregeithon mistrusted that excitement and especially doubted its endurance. The former spearman knew this arrival, though their paths had rarely crossed in recent decades. Seregeithon had first met him as a young child, and the grown man was no stranger, but still not someone that Seregeithon would have picked to join a long excursion. The third member of their party -and with the King’s approval nothing could be done to curtail this addition- wore clothing that was suited for a romp outside the city, but not for a long trip deep into the frozen north. Deceptively expensive clothing: the long loose white shirt with large panels of bright embroidery on the neck, shoulders, and neck paired with a small vest and loose pants was no different than the clothing of the Edain settlers in Númenor but of a quality few possessed. Seregeithon’s familiarity with the various Edain groups booking passage to the new island and the sailors ferrying goods to and from the new port city of Rómenna allowed him to pinpoint exactly what style and economic cost the garments were and which elements - the boots, belt, and lack of hat, plus the shortness of the vest - were not Númenorean. In fairness, although the young man was the twin brother of Númenor’s king, he was not mortal nor a subject of that land.

“Greetings, Elrond,” Seregeithon said, making no attempt to mask the displeasure in his tone of voice.

Elrond Eärendilion, the half-elven herald of High King Gil-galad, barred his white teeth in an expression that was supposed to be jovial and inviting - but one which Seregeithon read as a threat. 

“Master Seregeithon, it is good to see you! And off to a mighty task worthy of your skills. I feared you would be too restless at the docks with nothing to do but argue with the sailors,” Elrond said, laughing.

“I do not argue with sailors, Boy,” Seregeithon defended. Now Helcerían was laughing.

Círdan’s secretary tutted and instructed Elrond to handle payments for expedition supply purchases to be billed to the king and to send frequent reports back. “And how will we do that? It’s the northern wilderness,” Seregeithon interjected.

“Hiswalagawen will handle that,” Helcerían said. “She is strong enough for letters.”

The swan was larger than an adult ram and could probably carry off a full-grown sheep if it had the proper feet for it, Seregiethon thought. It did strike him as a trivial use of a swan of Ossë as a messenger pigeon.

“I believe I heard a dismissal in those words,” Elrond said brightly, then bowed with sincerity to the secretary and flashed another cheeky smile to Seregeithon. As he practically skipped out the door, the older elf muttered under his breath that the boy had mistaken which of them had grown restless in Lindon.

“Lady Elwing’s son?” Helcerían asked.

Seregeithon nodded. “He’s the younger twin. Less headstrong than his brother, but less cautious. Kind hearts, the both of them, and sensible companions most of the time. Wise for his years. I would not trust him with money, but evidently I am not in command of this adventure.”

“No, I am,” Helcerían countered with that smug little twist of her lips that flooded Seregeithon with uncomfortable heat. “How are you familiar with Lady Elwing’s sons?”

This history he was glad to share with her. “You were not told when you gathered your gossip on my deeds, Milady? The Nandorin whom I joined after the Nirnaeth Arnoediad, Orothaiben, hunted orcs in Ossiriand when most of our kin retreated to the Isle of Balar, the mouth of the Sirion, or out of Beleriand - and having lost his surviving kin and lord when Menegroth fell and King Dior and Queen Nimloth were slain, he had no kindness for the Kinslayers. We were trailing their camp after the Third Kin-slaying. Did not have the numbers to counter-attack even after their forces were greatly reduced and the youngest lord killed. Desertions and the like, they could no longer hold Amon Ereb. But outlaws and the most ardent of their soldiers stayed with them. The worst and most hardened of Beleriand, aside from Orothaiben himself. The Green Elves disliked having the remaining sons of Fëanor and their followers in their forests just as much as they had not appreciated the incursion of mortal men when they first entered Beleriand. Was, hmm, more than half a year after the destruction of the refugee settlement at the rivermouth, almost a year, I think, we found the boys in the forest. Elros and Elrond had run away from the Kinslayers.” Seregeithon closed his eyes. “Orothaiben and his men mistook them for the two princes- the other two. Lady Elwing’s older brothers, the lost princes. The two were like an illusion brought to life by song. Well, we rescued them and brought the boys to their closest surviving kin on this side of the shore, the mortals and elves living on the Isle of Balar, the few that had escaped the Third Kinslaying. Everyone was overjoyed to learn of their survival and to be reunited. And,” Seregeithon shrugged, “I have been in Lord Círdan’s employ since.”

“A noble deed,” Helcerían said, tilting her head.

Seregeithon grunted, uncomfortable with praise from her.

Elrond stood waiting outside the door, a large russack at his feet and a dark blue coat lined with brown fur in his arms. “I will need to buy provisions and some additional cold-weather clothing. Do you think we shall need snowshoes?”

“Unlikely, unless this maleficence that Lady Helcerían believes to exist is deep into the Grinding Ice.” 

“It is.”

Seregeithon sighed. “Snowshoes then. And ice goggles. I will have to return to my house to pull out the long-stored gear, but first let us purchase clothing and travel supplies. Tents, rope, spare flint. Soft boots for when we reach the snow plains; the hard leather ones will freeze overnight.” Seregeithon had learned the lesson about proper footwear a long time ago, when the man that took in an orphan boy began to train him how to survive. Thinking about boots made him look down at everyone's feet. Helcerían’s gathered skirt, pinned up to allow for a greater stride, showed off the curve of her calves inside her boots and that the tight black leather reached above her knees. A fantasy of her only wearing those tall tight leather boots and the brief cloth bands that the Falathrim wore for swimming in the summer flashed and disappeared in his thoughts, and Seregeithon wanted to chase after that fantasy like a hound after a hare.

“Which merchant?” Elrond asked, pulling open a hefty green purse.

“Thoronchen. The other mercers do not deal in the garments we shall need, and he is honest. Wait ‘til I return to purchase foodstuffs.”

“Fain I shall reckon that I have more experience with merchants than you,” Helcerían said.

The giant swan, having returned to the side of her master, hissed at Seregeithon. Yep. Those teeth inside the beak and along the edge of the tongue still creeped him out. And the nearly black bill struck him as strange, for the swans of his native Mithrim had reddish yellow beaks, giving this Amanyar swan a slightly sinister mood. 

“Lady Helcerían is, by her own admission of her regular occupation, well-accustomed to travelling to the Grinding Ice, and I am not completely ignorant,” Elrond said, waving Seregeithon away. “My brother and I did travel for a time with the Army of the Valar when they marched north, or did you forget my good-sister, Queen Bortë? Hurry back to inspect our choices; we shall wait for you. Now which street to Thorochen?”

The older man accepted defeat and outlined the location of two bakeries, a dwarven imports shop run most of the year by a mortal man with dark skin, and the clothing merchant whose shopfront was across the street from them. As he walked to his house, Seregeithon turned back to see the Falmari woman and Elrond enter the busy crowd of Lindon’s streets. Helcerían’s long white hair and blue skirt swayed as she walked, calling like sweet birdsong.

Seregeithon returned with his full campaigning pack, the deerhide repaired and replaced over the years so that nothing of the original object but one bone button clasp remained. The flintstones were from a nameless corpse from the War of Wrath, the drinking cup a gift from some long dead Hadorin man, a bedroll copied off one he initially bought in Hithlum, spare shirts tightly folded that he forgot that he still owned tucked next to a leather roll of climbing hooks and other tools, a dwarven-made comb, old pollen from Ossiriand clinging to the bottom of the bag lending to the musty odor, and knives of various sizes and shapes, including a bronze one with a cherrywood handle that he would be most loath to lose. He also brought his spear. Only in his imagination was the nearly black steel the bright red of fresh blood. The spear comforted him, thinking of the mystery that so frightened and convinced a Falmari maiden to cross the sea to undercover the possible horrors, but a comfort like strong wine for a blind-drunk man.

Thoronchen was busy helping Elrond find a hat to match the dark blue coat, so Seregeithon dropped his ancient pack on the store counter next to three pairs of soft leather boots with bands of bright embroidery and waited. After ransacking his rooms, he could not find suitable gloves and needed to purchase new pairs, both mittens and fingered leather. He debated going next door to buy a new set of dwarven-made chainmail hauberk, if he could stretch the possible mandate to enrich himself off the king's coffers.

“Lady Helcerían is over there,” Elrond said, “with a proper Forodwaith coat.”

Helcerían cooed over the softness of the fur around the hood of her new coat, pulling it up to frame her face like the petals of a flower. Girlish and sweet, her face became, and Seregeithon would have savored this but for one problem. To wear her hood she must tuck away all that glorious long white hair, and to watch that beautiful hair disappear from view made Seregeithon want to weep. It was like the loss of Ossiriand’s beautiful forest - green leaves and singing birds submerged into the ocean. Helcerían’s hair did not shine like precious metals, but it did sway as she walked like the white cresting wave surf, and it looked so soft and alive. Dancing like branches and waves. So thick, that it would fill his arms as he embraced her, like hugging the bundles of harvested wool. That thought placed a new fantasy in Seregeithon’s mind. Helcerían, naked but for her long glorious hair covering her like a blanket, stretched atop a wool rug- no, better, the soft cloud of unspun fibers stacked high after the shearing season, propping her chin on her hands, smiling, sandwiched between the two white softness that was the fleece and her long unbound hair, the smooth skin and noth-

“Do you need to buy a coat?” Helcerían asked, interrupting his thoughts.

Seregeithon inclined his head. “No, Milady.”

“I do remember asking you during our first conversation to address me by my name,” Helcerían said.

“I will address you as I see fit.”

“You are rude.”

“Nonsense, Milady.”

Elrond turned to look at the pair of elves, his grey eyes wide with surprise. The realization of what he would have to deal with on this adventure had not dawned upon him, but the night of ignorance was nearing its end and the rays of illumination were rising in the east like the Morning Star.

Chapter End Notes

A "deleted scene" for the end of Chapter One. Let us pretend that Seregeithon asked his old companions about the saying before he left, making the sensible choice that would shorten our story - though most unfortunately for the weavers in the Halls of Vairë, he will not.

This probably makes more sense if one is familiar with LaCE, but I won't spoil the punchline.

 

Seregeithion, recounting the morning’s conversation to Orothaiben and his fellow Nandor friends as they sat around the table of their favorite tavern, copied Helcerían’s hand gestures as he quoted her words. “And then she said, ‘My fingers are free’.”

Orothaiben blinked, mouth opened in shock. “Are you serious?”

Behind them, one of their companions whispered to another, “He…doesn’t know.”

Orothaiben, known in certain circles among fellow veterans of the wars of Beleriand for his bloodthirsty propensity towards violence as much as the pink flowers which he wore in his hair, asked a question that those fellow retired soldiers might think hypocritical or odd. “Seregeithon, truly did you focus on anything but the arts of war? Did you miss out on all other socialization?”

Another retired member of their crew behind Orothaiben muttered, “Nienna is weeping for you.”

Orothaiben with uncharacteristic gentleness, grasping Seregiethon’s hands, enunciated his words slowly and with great emphasis. “The woman was blatantly, I cannot stress this enough, blatantly, declaring her availability and willingness to entertain a courtship, Seregeithon. That’s why she was checking your eyes first.”

Their audience around the tavern table offered commentary: “This moron.”

Other companions made a more detailed assessment. “These poor idiots. She would ask him to show him his prick to see if it pleased her, and he would misconstrue her meaning and brandish his actual spear.”

Seregeithon, surly, pulled his hands out of Orothaiben’s grip. “Lady Helcerían has no interest in my prick.”

A far distance away, Helcerían was addressing her giant avian companion. Wheedling, she begged the swan. “Look, just fly or waddle over when he’s bathing and give me a general size estimate. I know you won’t be able to tell me the erect shape, but give me a place to start with.”

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