In Need of a Cold Shower by heget

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Chapter 3

I credit berthelien for a particular worldbuilding headcanon of which I am delighted to finally include in a story.

The meetings and shopping consumed the greater allotment of sunlit hours, prompting the reasonable conclusion to postpone their departure until the following morning. Guest lodgings on behalf of the royal court were offered for Helcerían. Seregeithon returned to his home and sheepishly tidied his place and polished off the last perishable food in his pantry, straightening the mess of his discarded belongings and finding one of his missing gloves wedged behind fireplace pokers. He rechecked maps of the northern lands, wrote a short letter to be delivered only on the occasion that by some unfortunate fate he did not return from this adventure, then stretched out on his feather-mattress bed to enjoy the soft comfort that he would soon miss when he had only a bedroll on the cold earth. Seregeithon’s distracted mind began to weave fantasies. Helcerian starred in all of them. A few strokes taught him the importance of spit, and the fantasies soon grew improbable and swift, fragments of ideas hampered by ignorance and need. 

His night started as restless, frustrated, and then experimenting until exhaustion and the knowledge of a long journey by foot the next day forced him to sleep.

The last fantasy before sleep, after his limbs were too worn out and heavy to move, was the most pleasant and calming. Oddly prosaic compared to the previous imaginings. In the dream as in actuality Seregeithon was stretched prone on his back on his bed, head propped up by pillows, but Helcerían was on the bed beside him. Unlike multiple variations of this scenario that Seregeithon played for his mind, this time Helcerían was clothed -a modest white nightshift with full sleeves further covered by her loose glorious long white hair- and she was sitting up on her side of his bed eating food. She was biting into one of the Silvan honey cakes, crumbs falling into her lap, and remarking about the hint of rosewater. Seregeithon regularly bought the pastries as they were cheap street food and not overwhelmingly sweet, but in this dream Helcerían delighted over the novelty. She was not turned to face him, he could not see her eyes, only the puff of her cheeks as she chewed, and the crumbs were spilling onto his bedsheets - and yet this fantasy soothed him to sleep. Perhaps it was the happy little coo of Helcerían’s delight, or the elusive domesticity. 

Seregeithon woke the next morning eager for their mission.

He told his neighbor -a short conversation hampered by the fact that Seregeithon did not know their name and it was doubtful that he had ever learned it or shared more than a single conversation or two before now- that he would be away for several weeks. He also apparently scandalized said neighbor by having no potted plants in need of watering and tending in his absence. Seregeithon locked everything and left the key with the dockmaster. 

Their trio planned to meet near the northeastern-most docks, and that was precisely where he found his two companions.

Elrond was showing Helcerían the details on an elaborately embroidered bag that held his scribing tools: the various pens, penknives, wax, and specially enspelled ink that would not freeze. The surface was covered in a flock of different birds done in metallic and brightly dyed threads, and Elrond pointed to each, explaining their significance. “My good-sister Queen Bortë commissioned it, so here is her people’s vulture- a symbol of the Valar to Bór, in particular Vairë, Mandos, and Varda- next to the eagle of Manwë. Then a nightingale for Lúthien and Doriath, swans for Grandfather Tuor and I suppose the Teleri even if we are only kin through Thingol. The black-winged albatross-”

“Lady Elwing,” Helcerían interjected. Elrond smiled, fulfilling his motive for pulling out the item in the first place as Helcerían took the opportunity to further describe for Elrond her time spent in Elwing’s company. 

This recalled to Seregeithon of how Elros and Elrond had pressed him with questions when he helped Orothaiben and the other Nandor escort the twins back to the Isle of Balar. The boys, having learned of his origins, had been heartily disappointed that he had not stayed long with Annael’s men, instead leaving for Ossiriand after the Fifth Battle, and thus had only met Tuor a few times when the mortal hero was a young babe. Helcerían was proving to be a fount of less disappointment. Helcerían relayed the simple day-to-day tasks of listening to musicians while working on weaving or showing Elwing the wings of the palace, be it courtyards for games, libraries and ballrooms, or the workshops for crafting of tinctures or paintings. As another guest of Alqualondë’s palace instead of a regular attendee she had been as lost to the proceedings and activities as Lady Elwing, without the background of ruling a large and diverse population in which to follow the many conversations that Elwing had with the queen and her advisers. Helcerían could discuss swans. She had, the Falmari woman admitted with a contrite sigh, pestered Elwing about her involuntary transformation into a sea bird and her long and arduous flight, until Queen Hwindië pulled Helcerían aside and told her to cease. Not that this was the only act of badgering, for Helcerían faithfully related how Elwing had been restless in Alqualondë despite her joy to be surrounded by long-sundered cousins and to enjoy the most beautiful port city in all of Arda. As delightful as the Swanhaven was, Elwing wished to camp outside the Halls of Mandos for her immediate family to return. Helcerían stressed how Elwing was overcome with both relief and fear when the Valar confirmed that her sons were not within its Halls but still alive back in Beleriand, and how she pressed both King Olwë and King Finarfin to ready their people to rescue the people of Middle-earth, her boys most of all, when she learned this. That she had to be held back from marching up the slopes of Taniquetil to petition High King Ingwë himself, a deed unnecessary for he had already descended to Valmar after Eärendil’s speech. 

Seregeithon had watched High Admiral Ilsë relay nearly identical statements to Elrond and Elros when the Teleri fleet first reached the Isle of Balar, but he knew the repeat confirmation heartened Elrond to hear of his mother’s determination and devotion.

“Continue your talking while we walk,” Seregeithon interrupted, hoisting his pack and the tent bundle onto his shoulders. Elrond squawked and reached for the heavy bag, but Sereigeithon waved him off. “You carry the second one, but leave the tent and provisions to me.”

“I am stronger than you t-”

“No, you’re not,” Seregeithon cut off the boy’s outburst. “The captain is ready for us. Hurry and board so the sooner we may depart and sooner disembark.” He pointed to a man waving at them from the deck of a large skiff. Thoronchen’s brother had agreed to ferry them out of the Gulf of Lune and up the coast of Forlindon to one of the inlets. Both the north and south regions of Lindon were incompletely charted, the layout and depths of new coastlines patchy in knowledge, and still a hundred years into the Second Age the land was not yet stable. Rather than hire a ship to sail out the Gulf of Lune and up the rocky coast of Forlindon all the way to the Icebay of Forochel, the skiff would drop them off west of Forlond where the three would then trek overland along the coast until they reached the great tundra and then beyond. Their journey ended when they discovered whatever evil on the ice shelf was plaguing Helcerían’s whales and fish. The alternative route of following the River Lhûn up to the foothills of Emyn Uial where Lord Celeborn and Lady Galadriel were establishing a new home, then crossing north until they reached the Icebay of Forochel had been rejected. Nominally easier by rowing upriver, the route was longer and inland. It was imperative that they stayed within flying distance of the sea for the swan, Hiswalagawen. Seregeithon held his objections. The last act of folly that he was willing to commit would be to harass a giant swan about its needs or preferences. Helcerían also stressed the need to monitor the ocean waters. The tales that she recounted of dead whales and porpoises beached along the shoreline rotting away and water slick with the stench of dead fish frightened Lord Círdan and his people. All throughout the wars of Beleriand, Morgoth had not corrupted the sea, and to think some strange and unknown evil was seeping into it now deeply concerned all. A panicking populace was part of that worry, so Elrond was short on the details of their purpose as he opened the green purse once more to pay their captain. The two other crew members helped to lift them and their cargo onboard, then with untying of ropes, hoisting of sails, and some dogged paddling of oars to maneuver out of the docks and into the clear lanes of the harbor and out into the bay, they were off.

The Gulf of Lune wore her green skirt today. Seregeithon preferred those days when the waters had color instead of the gray-blue, but he could not care less for detailed conversations about the quality of waves or whatever else concerned sailors. It looked choppy, but not dangerously choppy, and the sailors wore relaxed expressions, so the seas were not rough and the journey should be tolerable.

The sea longing that stricken his compatriots confounded Seregeithon. He did not hate the sea, except for the smell. But it was powerless to enthrall him.

“Throw a rope out to my swan, Hiswalagawen, when she returns from fishing for her breakfast, and she shall tow us for a part of the journey,” Helcerían offered to the sailors, who reacted with delight at the assistance. They had heard the tales of how the swans of Ossë pulled the first ships across the Great Sea and were excited to try out the method.

Seregeithon rolled his shirtsleeves above his elbows and leaned against the side of the boat, focusing on the feeling of the breeze against his face and not the rocking motion playing havoc with his stomach. A sense of vague unease had settled onto him.

Helcerían stared at him. It was for the betterment of all that he remained ignorant of her intense thoughts involving him, the swaying surfaces of a skiff out in the open privacy of a wide gulf, and herself.

Behind her, Elrond was helping the captain and other two crewmembers with the angling of the sails to catch the breeze. His ease with watercraft and familiarity displayed his childhood at the Mouth of Sirion and years with Lord Círdan before and after. “I may not be my father,” the peredhel joked, “but I can pilot us out of the gulf.”

“Are the currents an issue?” Helcerían asked.

“There are some tricky reefs,” Elrond explained, “owing to the sunken land. Some areas are dangerous for even the most experienced swimmers due to rip currents and the uneven seabed.” As his two companions shared their wealth of nautical knowledge, Seregeithon attempted to track what they were saying. He arrived at Balar at the start of the War of Wrath utterly ignorant of shipcraft. His day job required passing knowledge, but only as much as working with mortal men for any length of time required knowledge of mortal ailments and afflictions and how and what speed they aged. His understanding of their discussion remained vague - something about keels and then woodworking techniques, then fishing nets. Boring to be truthful, but the topic animated Helcerían and Elrond. And at no point did they ask him to join in.

Elrond and Helcerían’s conversation meandered back to birds and into the topic of falconry. Thanks to Bortë, Elrond was well-versed in the discipline to which Helcerían was ignorant, as to pair with raptors for hunting was not traditional for the Falmari of Valinor. Falconry was considered a Noldorin method. Elrond began a lecture on the Vanyarin origins, and Seregeithon decided to stop listening.

Helcerían’s shout as Hiswalagawen shot out of the water with a loud splash and tumult of flapping, honking as the giant swan circled over to their boat and landed with another splash into the water beside their wake roused his attention. He helped to tie a rope around the skiff’s prow and watched the swan catch the loop of rope tossed down to it. With more fast flapping of wings, the swan of Ossë launched back into the air, and a second later the ship lurched. The ship’s prow reared into the air like a horse and began to slice through the waves instead of bob up and down, giant white waves arching up on either side of the ship as it plowed across the surface of the gulf at incredible speed. Seregeithon refused to scream as he clutched at the ship railing. Elrond hollered in excitement.

The sheets of white foam of the ship’s wake hindered the view for sightseeing the coast, so Seregeithon decided to move to the center of the ship. His new chosen angle allowed him to look upon Helcerían. She wore her brand new coat with the hood lowered, her white hair bunched up around her ears half-caught in the collar. Some locks had freed themselves completely. As Seregeithon had moved to his new seat, he had furtively reached out to brush against the tips of her hair. Last night’s fantasies returned to warm his thoughts.

In his imagination he was kissing those lips, hands cupping her head to pull her close, fingers threaded in her hair. Hmm, where were her hands? Seregeithon pondered the options. He wanted to place her hands on the back of his head to mirror the gesture, or maybe an embrace, or splayed across the muscles of his chest. Huh, in this fantasy he was suddenly lacking a shirt, Helcerían having yanked it off him. He decided that he liked that.

After some initial quiet awe over the swan propulsion, Elrond and Helcerían gossiped about Alqualondë and Valinor in general. Elrond did try to ask her questions about governance policies to which Helcerían pleaded that she could not begin to detail Olwë’s tax policies. Seregeithon’s recent years working for the harbormaster meant he could answer similar questions about Lindon, but it was a field of study in which he was no eager student. Helcerían could answer that the price of pearls was higher than they had been before the Darkening, as many of the specialist divers that had tended to the unique oyster beds had been slain in the First Kinslaying, and by the time that they had been restored from Mandos, the beds could not be recovered despite the best efforts of those trying to keep them. Seregeithon had not thought that pearls were like sheep and how the loss of shepherds would kill the industry as much as a bad coldsnap or wolves devouring the flock. The sailors chimed in with knowledge about freshwater pearls, in particular the ones being fished out of Lake Evendim.

 After the initial excitement, the rest of the boat trip was boring, requiring only that he stay out of the sailors’ way. At noon they ate, the giant swan resting and padding along beside their skiff, serenely untroubled by curious porpoises swimming up them. Elrond tried to fish, tossing a line with a bit of jerky as bait off the bow of the ship, but caught nothing. Afterwards the rope was looped around the swan’s lower neck once more and the ship tugged across the water with its own giant pair of white wings. “Almost feels like we’re cheating!” Elrond said, laughing.

“Come the day after tomorrow, it won’t be so easy,” Seregeithon grumbled. Helcerían chided his pessimism. He got into an argument with her about the difficulties of travel through tundra. 

At nightfall they chose corners of the cramped ship to sleep, though the captain and sailors would each pick a shift to work through the night. Their three passengers, facing a long trek, grabbed the rest that they could. Seregeithon chose a pile of fishing nets to lie against as a makeshift bed. In the darkness he could not see Helcerían’s bemused smile. The poem about a fish caught in a net that she mouthed a few select lines into the curled hand pressed against her lips to hide that smile he would not have recognized if recited to him either - nor would he have harkened onto the true imagery of the song of something bound by ropes as having little to do with a caught fish.

He woke to the early morning gray hours when the sun had left the gates of Valinor but not yet visible over the horizon. The sailor pointed to where Elrond was snoring stretched out like a sunbathing squirrel atop the boom, using the reefed sail as padding. Helcerían was sensibly curled up near the prow of the ship, the giant swan huddled beside her and covering the woman with its wings like a blanket.

“We’ve rounded the Gulf,” the captain said, pointing to the choppy dark waters around them.

“Good,” Seregeithon grunted.

“Master Elrond, he is…” the captain hesitated, watching how the boom swayed.

“Fools you into thinking that he’s a sensible elf that sticks to libraries and court functions?” Seregeithon answered. “Want to hear the story of how my commander had to make him spit out mushrooms and berries that he mistook as edible? Or the river crossing that nearly drowned us all, except for the boys? Carnambos of Sornion has some great stories about ravines, orc patrols, and ‘dare me to make this jump’ to quote directly.”

The captain clucked his tongue. “A true sailor’s sense of balance.”

“That too,” Seregeithon concurred. “Could just be the forest in him. I never liked sleeping high up like the Nandor.”

This day at sea was like the first, after Hiswalagawen stretched its wings and ate a full meal. This time the swan pulled them northeast instead of west. Elrond successfully caught fish, Seregeithon daydreamed about kissing Helcerían, Helcerían asked for more details about falconers, and the sailors sang praises to Ossë. 

When Seregeithon woke the next morning, the captain’s proclamation was more exciting. “The swan took us past Tol Himling, if our charts are right. Master Elrond is making us a copy of the court sea charts to update our maps. The inlet you want is a few miles away. May the stars guide you for the rest of your journey.”

Seregeithon thanked him and stretched to limber his muscles in the narrow confines of the ship. The inactivity of the last two days had stressed him more than marching. Uncomfortably familiar to the buildup before battle. He unwrapped his spear as he gathered up their packs, the ingrained smell of old blood in his nostrils as his fingers encircled the familiar shaft. 

“Our inlet?” Helcerían asked behind him.

“Coming up to it soon,” Elrond said. He blew against the lines of ink on his paper. “Chart’s finished. Writing a note to Lord Círdan. Speed estimates. He’ll pull out his beard when he reads this.”

That delighted the captain and his sailors and paid for the lost fishing days as much as the contents of Elrond’s green purse.

The dark tall pine forest that stretched to the western slopes of the Blue Mountains greeted them like a fence line along the shore. The skiff could not beach itself high on the pebbly beach and thus the three had to wade a few feet through the surf, then light a fire to dry out their boots. They waved the crew off and then readied for the long journey ahead. Elrond pointed to a trail from the shore into the forest, wondering aloud if there were any Forodwaith settlements. The sparse mortal inhabitants of the region were migratory and illusive. Seregeithon doubted that they would encounter any.

The forests of Forlindon were towering pine trees, other species having died off during the shift in land and weather. Less rain each year, or so the experts said. The Maiar focused on the new island raised for the Edain, but a few of Yavanna and Oromë’s servants had inspected the remnants of Beleriand’s land and given estimates on how the climate shifted. 

Survivors, these giants, with their boughs of dark evergreen. A quiet forest as they began to navigate through it. Red deer wandered through the trees in the distance, but no other large animals made their presence known. Bears prowled these trees, it was known, and the trio wished to avoid an encounter with one if possible.

The trees were distracting. Seregeithon weaved a detailed fantasy of sneaking away from Elrond with an equally eager Helcerían, of pressing her up against the trunk of one of those towering pine trees, the dark branches covering them from view. Coats and other articles of clothing hastily pulled down or pushed up, her legs wrapped around his waist. Fast, deep shoving, her hand twisting the front fringe of his hair as she yanked his head to her shoulder so she could pant into his ear that he must go faster, please her further, and stay quiet so as to not alert Elrond.

A heady fantasy.

Elrond returned to questioning Helcerían to pass the time and had found a new topic.

“Ice-crowned- it is a prophetic name.”

Helcerían sighed. “The name that my parents chose for me at birth was Isilwen, to honor Princess Ilsë, the Grand Admiral of Alqualondë. I did not care for it. For a time, after my family’s death, others called me Helceórë, the Ice-heart. In my grief, that epessë did not bother me, but when I healed, as cilmessë the name Helcerían felt more hopeful and true.”

“Your choice was lovely,” Elrond said. With a twinge of mischievousness, he turned back to ask Seregeithon’s option. “Don’t you agree?”

The older man grunted.

“We need not question how the Bloody Spear got his name,” Helcerían sniped. As Elrond was the only one facing behind to see Seregeithon’s face, he was the only witness to the flash of hurt.

That night as they made camp and set up the tents, Seregeithon interrupted Elrond as he was describing a dish native to Beleriand that Helcerían had heard Elwing mention but had not understood, as the name for the fruit was unrelated in Sindarin as opposed to Quenya, the root name borrowed from the dwarves.

“It was a flower that grew in the northernmost plains. The same color as the flowers that grew atop Amon Rûdh, but a different shape. Only bloomed in the brief summer months. Never returned after the dragonfire scorched the land into the Gasping Dust, Anfauglith. That was how my name was chosen, Milady.”

Helcerían’s pale eyes turned sorrowfully upon Seregeithon. He ducked his head to avoid her gaze, uncomfortable with the keenness of the emotion, and did not see the moisture bead up like the long-lost pearls of the Falmari sea-farmers.

Chapter End Notes

epessë and cilmessë are the terms for acquired names, bestowed by others or self-bestowed.

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