In Need of a Cold Shower by heget

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Chapter 5

Seregeithon was rappelling down the sheer sides of a ravine, his rope stapled into the ground via clever pieces of iron, ice pick in hand. Elrond and Helcerían waited at the top of the cliff. At the bottom of the ravine they could see the ribbon of unmelted snow. A frozen river, possibly, Seregeithon declared, or the dry gully that could host one when the snow to the north finally melted when summer came to its full strength. Maybe a river had once flowed, creating the ravine, but lost its course when the land shifted. They were on the eastern side of the Ered Luin, and this land had never been a part of Beleriand. Seregeithon lacked the knowledge of what it had been before to know if this terrain was affected as the western side was and if the smaller rivers had rerouted or disappeared entirely. But the gully was a good path to follow to find the Icebay, though Seregeithon cautioned against staying within it. From Hiswalagawen’s scouting and the star  charts, they were nearly to the Icebay of Forochel and another step closer to their quarry.

As Seregeithon skittered down the rocks, head bent down and back to search for places for his feet, threading the rope via a pulley system to give himself the leeway for the descent, Helcerían described her opinions of him to a captive -if unwilling-  audience in Elrond.

“His voice is deeper than one would imagine, for he is not particularly tall, and while finely muscled,” Helcerían paused to once again appreciate a pair of arms, “not broad across the chest and torso. But his voice is like an Ainur, how deeply it resonates. How,” a curl of lower lip under her teeth, “powerful.”

Elrond made a quick mental calculation, now that he could safely confirm that both of his traveling companions shared this mad affliction. Yep. Worse than Elros’s initial fumbling courtship of his sister-by-marriage, Bortë. His twin had been instantly smitten and then quite the fool, making Elrond absolutely miserable. But Elrond had not been trapped as a mediator between the two would-be lovers. Bortë, the half-Easterling young woman, had seen and shared upon first sight a mutual infatuation with Elros just as Grandmother Idril with Grandfather Tuor or great-grandparents Lúthien and Beren, and she had taken her observations and flirtatious comments to her Vanyar friends and adopted uncles instead of sharing her feelings and seeking reassurance from the twin brother of her swain. The Vanyar soldiers, Elrond later learned, greatly teased Bortë for her shy blushing over how comely she thought Elros’s face. Not that Elrond had been spared Elros’s romantic sighing and pining, forced to bolster his twin’s courage to declare his intentions to his potential love. Thankfully, Elros had acted quickly on his strong feelings for Bortë instead of standing back and composing lyrical poetry for months. The second that either Helcerían or Seregeithon started to sing about how beautiful the other was, Elrond resolved to run to the coast and dive into the bay. He would swim to Númenor or drown in the crossing, for he drew a line at lust-fueled poetry. His objection came not from a dislike of song but that he already knew the poor quality of Seregeithon’s singing voice, and whether or not Helcerían was similarly ill-blessed, Elrond’s desire ran deeply negative -somewhere around the deepest fissures of the earth- to hear a composition on Seregeithon’s physical features, be it arms or any other body part. It would be as embarrassing as to hear a love song written in Lord Círdan’s honor. Or Celebrimbor drunk and extolling Lady Galadriel’s beauty.

“It’s safe!” Seregeithon shouted from the bottom of the cliff.

Helcerían looked to Elrond, but he flinched his eyes, inviting her to go first.

The mean little voice in Elrond’s head whispered a suggestion to refuse to climb down after her. Just leave those two together at the bottom of the cliff. Wait however long it took, minutes or hours or days, for the two elves to stop making eyes at each other or get into another argument that had that fraught possibility to turn into loud screaming and physical attacks.

Elrond shook himself. Stray comments made it apparent that hair pulling, slaps, and choking might only excite and arouse them.

When the update about a Falmari woman arriving on the docks to request an investigative journey north crossed his desk more than three weeks ago, beckoning him with the chance to join an adventure, this was not what Elrond imagined that he would contend with.

Another little voice in his head that sounded like his brother, Elros, whispered, “But you did ask for this.”

“Tracks!” Seregeithon shouted from the bottom of the ravine. “A few days old- a reindeer herd. There looks to be a herdsman’s print in the mix. We have not seen any of the Forodrim, but they could still be within these leagues.”

“Let us follow,” Helcerían called in response. “I wish to speak with one, if we can, to ask if they have noticed any foulness to the north.”

Elrond sighed. “Their language is unknown. Men to the south speak a language similar to that of the Haladim of old, and I have been ambassador on behalf of my brother to many groups of Men hoping to entreat them to emigrate to Númenor, but the men of the Forodwaith I cannot speak to.”

Seregeithon rolled his eyes, though at their respective angles it was impossible for Elrond to see this facial expression. “Pantomime and your cleverness will help us, or drawing pictures in the dirt. If we find any of them, which I cannot guarantee. The tracks are old, and herdsmen travel great distances. And even if we find the Forodrim, that does not guarantee that they shall be friendly to us.”

“They would attack others?” Helcerían asked.

Elrond wondered if she was appalled at violence in general or if the misunderstanding was more localized. “They would see us as strangers. There are no ties of old friendships or kinship, and trust is a dangerous gift. The Dark King ruled these lands not long ago.”

“The Forodrim were not loyal to him,” Seregeithon explained, “but they did not fight against him or his armies. Not a populous or strong people, no weapons or great leaders, so they could not. Not all mortals are warriors. They hid with their herds of reindeer up on the ice. In this they were like the true Morben, the Evair, who would avoid the war and the fight against Morgoth by clinging to the security of their caves and ignorance of their presence. They prefer that state of affairs. These lands hold not herdsmen willing to trade with outsiders, as is so to the South. They might not be foes, but they are no ally.”

Helcerían paused in her descent down the cliff face. “I dislike your implication of rebuke against the Teleri, Sir. No, we did not raise arms and become like the Noldor, so willing to join in a hasty war, to throw away all the good of our ways of life. But we did not shun out neighbors even after our neighbors betrayed us most heinously. And we hid not from the great task of rebuilding. Others were paralyzed by grief, but not me- not us. We chose our course and with conviction strayed not from it.”

Elrond winced, knowing exactly what argument this was about to lead to: yet one more rehashing of the Separation of the Lindar, the shifting of blame of who betrayed who by staying or leaving, coupled with the debate on the merits of actions taken or not taken during the War of Wrath. Helcerían and Seregeithon adore that fight. This time added subtext by including debates that occurred in Valinor after the Darkening that Elrond had the experienced ear to pick up on but to which Seregeithon remained ignorant- debates to which the content Elrond was unable to quote but that he could parse their existence and roughly their themes of action versus inaction, what qualified as valid excuse brought on by grief, and obligation to one’s community dependent on the narrowness of what one defined as one’s community. Topics that Helcerían, with her defensive tone, had argued with her kinsmen over. Elrond was reading between the lines of Helcerían’s history of actions, but he felt his guesses were solid and accurate. She alone returned to the lands north of Araman, jumping immediately back into rebuilding her life under a new -and harsh- name, then alone chose to travel over the ocean to Lindon. Actions that had not universal approval of her people, that she had to defend both to herself and others. This rerouted defensiveness fueled her spats with Seregeithon.

The mean little voice was back, pointing out that as long as Elrond’s two companions continued to misjudge and debate each other, they would remain ignorant of their mutual carnal desire. Thus Elrond had to decide which was more insufferable. 

Surely the arguments were louder than their possible lovemaking. 

Oh, stars. He needed to stop speculating.

“Elrond, your turn!”

 

 

While most regular post to the new island of Númenor and Lindon was sent in the mail courier ship back and forth between the two nations, and the letters that were addressed to the king were kept in a small chest in the captain’s quarters which was unloaded first, the last few letters to arrive in perpetually-under-construction Armenelos came not by fast courier ship but by a more novel means. The king of Númenor was used to various eagles of Manwë and other birds landing on his windowsill or in the large atrium of his new palace. Some birds visited for their own amusement but some were to transfer messages from Eönwë and the other Maiar and Amanyar elves helping his people to transform the island newly risen from the seabed into a prosperous home for his people. As king, Elros was kept abreast of all efforts to make untouched earth into fertile and sustainable ecosystems. Eönwë’s letters had a blue wax seal whereas the Maiar and devotees of Yavanna used green, and their birds were usually eagles and pigeons respectively. King Elros read these reports of newly tilled fields and allotments of pasturage for new herds of cattle, sheep, and horses along with his morning meals, offering grain payment to the pigeons of Yavanna. The eagles usually refused treats. Ossë’s swan was a new addition to the flock, and it carried another letter from his twin brother. 

Eyebrows preemptively raised in anticipation, the king of Númenor unfolded the paper to read what addition to his brother’s harebrained adventure had occurred. It was a nice change of pace from the reports about fertilizer efficiency. Opening the letter and reciting aloud the contents as he walked back from the atrium to the private quarters that he ate breakfast with his wife, son, and daughter while dodging the crew of servants carrying a load of fresh tiles for the new floor mosaic in the east wing, Elros had to stop and choke on hysterical laughter on the second paragraph. “I may have made a mistake in volunteering myself for this mission.” Here is where Elros first started smiling, but as he read on and reached his complaints about his travelling 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,” the King of Númenor lost it. Bortë found her husband howling with laughter outside the door, a letter held limply in his fingers. He was trying to wipe tears from his eyes on the sleeve of his other arm but could not pause his laughter to complete this act of simple coordination. Still wheezing, he waved the parchment up to his pregnant wife, prompting her to take it and read for herself.

“He overreacts,” Bortë stated. 

 

 

The wind along the shoreline blew strongly today, tugging the ties of Seregeithon’s hat. The incessant pulling reminded him of a toddler entertaining itself by playing with whatever loose items that it could grasp and then stick in their mouths. Strange that his thoughts landed on children, for he did not desire them - or until now he had not. Seregeithon admitted to himself that imagining himself holding a child was not the most unlikely impossibility for his mind to conjure when said mind was so willingly focused on the acts that would produce a child. A traitorous mind that continued its siege on all his spare thoughts, having betrayed his better judgment to the seditious rival of his loins. And faced with this coup d'etat he was helplessly outmatched. 

Did Helcerían want children? Did he?

With a futile shake to clear his head, Seregeithon turned to the ocean, watching the waves retreat and advance against the rocks at the bottom of the slope. Helcerían loved that ocean at the bottom of the gentle slope. He did not. Fantasies were all he and she would be.

He was cold and his feet and lower legs ached from the days of walking. That his mood turned maudlin was no surprise.

“Rough skies on the horizon,” Helcerían called, pointing to the wall of gray clouds. “We should move inland for a few days, to make our camps safer from tide surge.”

“I agree with your wisdom,” Seregeithon shouted back to her, then promptly ignored the sarcastic reply that she was surprised that he was willing to forgo his pigheadedness to acknowledge wisdom from her. Her luminous smile was more important.

Three days of rain, with mud caked to his shins, cratered his mood. Seregeithon felt cold. He felt damp and unclean. His feet still hurt. The wound on his hand itched with the strain of new skin. His old scars ached in the cold. He felt like this mission was a colossal waste of time and that he should be back in his warm, dry, clean bed. And Helcerían should be in it too.

Elrond whined about the foul weather and the damper that it put on their progress. The first day the rain turned to small hailstones, trapping them in their tents. The howling wind hinted at the roughness closer to the shore, but the battering against the walks of their tents, even sheltered by rocks, frayed their nerves. The hail only lasted for a few hours before turning into drizzle, but that overcast weather lingered. Helcerían sang odes to Uinen and Ossë against the persistent drizzle that the hail slouched into. When Elrond translated the lyrics from Telerin to Sindarin her odes were revealed to be harsh complaints and petitions to cease the storms and return clear skies laced with insults towards the Maiar that struck Seregeithon as sacrilegious. The name calling of the Storm Terror’s intelligence and appearance when compared to the vitriol composed against Morgoth and his lieutenants was mild, but nothing that Seregeithon would be willing to speak into the air. Helcerían retorted that these were songs composed by friends -and to be sung miles inland. Seregeithon hoped that neither Uinen nor Ossë were listening in. Elrond chimed in with a new complaint, that their stock of tea was depleted. And that everyone stank, but that was to be expected after weeks of travelling.

Four days after turning from the shore, with the sky returned to being clear and pale, the three were keen for something to lighten their journey.

Seregeithon was distracted by a reoccurring fantasy constantly interrupting his thoughts that involved his hands tied above his head or behind his back, restraining him while the rest of his body knelt unclothed and aroused. He could not discern the meaning or frequency of this imagery, except that his bonds were the pale lavender-blue sash that graced Helcerían’s hips and thus she had been the one to tie his wrists. That part he readily approved of. He would have continued to ponder this if not for a new interruption: the return of the giant swan, Hiswalagawen. Lowering their packs to wait for Hiswalagen to land, Elrond rubbed at his shoulders and questioned Seregeithon about the hand, but Seregeithon ignored the younger man. Instead he watched the swan descend. The swan circled to the ground and landed with hissing anger at a lack of convenient pond, though the hissing contained a message that pleased Helcerían. “Hiswalagawen has found one of the warm pools,” she translated as the giant swan hopped over to its companion, white wings outstretched.

This proclamation halted and rerouted all movement. “Warm pool?” Elrond asked.

Helcerían opened the satchel around Hiswalagawen’s neck, retrieving the items that the swan had graciously deemed to carry: letters for Elrond, a restock of vása berry tea, and a lumpy package that Helcerían unwrapped to reveal skeins of wool yarn brightly dyed. As she delightfully inspected the thread and counted out the shades of blue, green, yellow, and brown that the queen of Númenor had sent, Seregeithon explained. “Underground vents, the fiery veins of the earth, perpetually melting the groundwater and creating ponds that never freeze.”

“I know what they are,” Elrond said testily.

“The spas in Valmar have them,” Helcerían said, but her attention remained on the loops of yarn, recoiling the lengths to keep them from tangling and then slipping them carefully into her pack to join the tablet cards that Seregeithon had carved for her. “But I did not see any on the maps for this region.”

“On the Cape of Forochel,” Seregeithon grunted. “The traders carried stories of  several valleys of them, and geysers. The Forodrim camp there during the winter months, most of them, with the herds of reindeer. I’m not surprised that we could find one on this side.”

Hiswalagawen honked. 

Helcerían nodded. “She says you are correct. And the pond nearby is small and the water merely warm instead of boiling.”

“We go?” Elrond asked, his grey eyes incandescent with excitement, and Seregeithon sighed in face of that child-like pleading.

“Yes.”

“Good,” Helcerían said in that firm tone that denied even the fool’s possibility of disagreement. “I need a bath. And so do both of you.”

Blood drained out of Seregeithon’s face, and it only took the faint tendril of thought leaking out via unintentional oswarë for Elrond’s beaming smile to fade into equal pallor. Bathing was dangerous. Bathing could give the two ideas.

Hiswalagawen honked happily to return to the hot spring. The swan’s impatience with the slowness of landbound companions had been conveyed in never ending hisses and calls. Bushes and broken rock lined the pool, and despite tracks of herds and other animals leading towards it, the pool was currently deserted. Steam rose invitingly. After some arguing, Elrond and Seregeithon convinced Helcerían that she could bathe first - and that they would retreat some distance and keep their backs turned to give her privacy, which the Teleri woman could not understand. The two men pleaded that standards for modesty and nudity were different on the Farshore, especially for mortals, and thus that strictness the two would adhere to, for Elrond was half-mortal even though he had chosen the fate of his elven ancestry and Seregeithon had also adopted those foibles after many decades among the Hadorians.

“Just hurry,” Seregeithon said, back turned so that Helcerían could not see the red flush on his cheeks. “We need to keep a lookout. I saw signs of mammoths in the area, the herd of reindeer could be the Forodrim, and this pool would attract predators as well. Better we go one at a time.” Behind his back he could hear Helcerían removing and folding her clothing and the gentle splash as she slid into the warm water. She only stood near the end, scooping the water around her knees, then waded a little further into the pool. Seregeithon warred with himself over listening to every fine detail, every splash that signified that she was scrubbing at the layers of dirt and dead skin and oils, her satisfied hum as she ducked her head beneath the water and rose up with a laugh of relief.

“I have missed this!” Helcerían exclaimed, running fingers through her wet hair. “Alas that it is not deep enough for a good soak!” Seregiethon closed his eyes to focus on that sound and to ignore the glare that Elrond was pinning him with. Carefully he walked out and looked onto the empty plain, ignoring the splashes and humming.

Even if Seregeithon dared not to peek upon her bathing, he dared to imagine her in all her naked glory. Glory was the only appropriate word for the vision. She bathed in the center of the warm pool with the presence of a performance instead of a merely utilitarian act, and scented soaps now graced her skin instead of the piece of soaproot. She stood like the main adornment of a fountain, inviting him to observe her. In this fantasy he watched her willingly. Helcerían held her arm across her breasts, covering them but only as effectively as the jacket that she wore when Seregeithon first met her, meaning that the underside curves of her breasts were exposed. That perfect degree of coyness. In this dream she lifted an elbow, then removed a hand, and there they were, uncovered and inviting him. Her arms reached for him. Touch me, those soft breasts demanded. Her smile was luminous as she beckoned him to forgo his paltry sop to modesty and restraint.

The scene of his dream changed as they were wont to, as swift as a song leaving its chorus for a new stanza, and now he was in the water with her. They stood naked, only inches apart, with the water submerged to their hips. She was no longer looking at him, but facing away. Not in dislike; their proximity and relaxed limbs spoke of eager invitation. The curve of her back like a bow, her hair the string begging for an arrow to be notched. Helcerían had him exactly where she wanted. Steam hung thick around them like curtains of a bower. Her long wet hair plastered to her skin, clinging to her face, down her back. His hair, wet, clinging to his face, water beading down his lips and cheeks as he leaned above her. His hand brushing the water-logged hair out of her face. Her eyes closed. Mouth open in anticipation. He was behind her, entering her, hands on her hips, guiding, out then in again, his chest against her back, sensitive nipples rubbing against that wet hair and warm skin. She was leaning back into him. Water rippled out as they swayed against each other.

“My turn,” Elrond said, interrupting Seregeithon’s carnal fantasy. The peredhel’s glare of disgust was not for the smell.

Seregeithon rushed through his bath when it was his turn, scrubbing quickly, then tried to not shiver as he rung the excess water off his shirt, clad only in his pants and boots as Helcerían, wearing her spare outfit and still-damp hair knotted atop her head, smoothed out the laundry on the rocks between the pool and the fire. Only a few of the garments had been safe to soak in the pool, and the fire worked to speed the drying time. Elrond, wearing Seregeithon’s other spare clean shirt, was inspecting the water to refill their waterskins. “No sulfur stench or other minerals. Should be safe to drink, and running water is hard to find out here.” Seregeithon handed Helcerían the last shirt, and she checked the cuffs and patches on the elbows. “Our good fortune to have a warm, dry day,” Elrond said, watching as Hiswalagawen decided that it was her turn to bathe in the warm pool. Seregeithon smiled as the swan paddled across the surface of the pond, neck arched in what could only be happiness. “We should make our camp here for the rest of the day,” Elrond continued but realized that his companions were no longer listening to him, if they ever were. Eventually Seregeithon turned around to detect that Helcerían was staring openly at his uncovered chest. He blushed.

“I was looking at your skin,” Helcerían admitted without a hint of embarrassment. “It is covered in battle scars. Layered atop one another. Scars are not unknown of in Valinor, despite what you may think, not even those from weapons of war,” Helcerían added and that sober addition was undoubtedly a reference to the survivors of the First Kinslaying, “but to have so many, healed atop each other, you are a man of Beleriand. It’s,” she hesitated for a compliment, “interestingly textured.” 

Oh no, Elrond thought. He could almost hear that desire to run fingers across Seregeithon’s naked body, and he did not want to have that particular thought anywhere near his head.

“I think you might have more scars than several old sharks that I know,” Helcerían said brightly.

New troubling question. What woman willing befriended sharks?

To Elrond’s enlightenment, there were long-lived sharks under the sea ice north of Araman, long and speckled like seals who preferred the darkest depths but sometimes came up to the brackish river mouths and whom she fully expected to find in the Icebay of Forochel. Seregeithon quickly covered himself with one of the blankets and refused to look either Helcerían or Elrond in the eyes, waiting for everything to finish drying and for Hiswalagawen to leave the water. As they waited and Elrond mixed the porridge for their next meal, Helcerían waxed poetically about the sweet nature of old northern sharks and then began to weave a flat ribbon with the yarn sent by Queen Bortë. “I can’t weave cloth or embroider well, but ribbon and cord are simple enough for me,” Helcerían explained, turning the antler squares to build the pattern as she wove. “In a few hours I’ll have a replacement cord for those boots.”

“You don’t need-” Seregeithon began to say, but Helcerían hushed him.

“I’ll write to my good-sister of how her gift pleases you,” Elrond interrupted. “And we thank you,” he stressed, trying to will some sense into his companion. Did Seregeithon purposefully want Helcerían annoyed and angry at him? A strange defensive behavior to ward off the lust? Malformed courtship ritual?

 

 

Reading Elrond’s next letter, Bortë joined her husband in helpless laughter.

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