In Need of a Cold Shower by heget

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Chapter 6

D/S no longer just undertones, and can't be FFXIV without a nod to the "Step on Me" memes.

Arriving at the Icebay itself - though the shoreline was indistinguishable to Seregeithon and the only difference compared to the northern Belegaer coast was that instead of intermittent seabirds a colony of oversized seals claimed the beach - solved none of their problems. It certainly changed nothing for Elrond. The peredhel grumbled under his breath about sleepless nights and the overactive imaginations of his companions. The weather was once again harsh but not severe enough to convince them to leave the shoreline to travel inland, though Helcerían bade them give the seal colony a wide berth. Once more she led the way, and once more Seregeithon walked several feet behind them. Elrond knew that the older man was either staring at Helcerían’s ass or enthralled in yet another daydream. He was amazed that Seregeithon took breaks from that hobby to hunt for fresh meat or scout for camping locations. Elrond wondered if this lovestruck behavior was universal. It added character context to the epics.

Helcerían waved at the seals. “They say the waters are clear, but the fish are fewer this season. Not good for pups. And they heard bad tidings further north, from the little ringed seals. Some evil is on ice floes. Something worse than the white bears or the wolf whales, but they are ignorant of what it is.”

“In the water itself?” Seregeithion questioned.

Helcerían gnawed at her lower lip. Her answer flowed out unevenly in hesitation, words like climbers scaling a cliff. “They are unsure.” After a long pause, she continued, “the seals on the other side -my side, Araman- thought that there was some poison in the water, but this group does not concur with that theory. They have smelt corpses, too many for what predators hunt in these waters, that carry not the stench of illness or a poison like a red bloom or miasma. But…. Rumors and distant smells are only what the seals on this beach can give me.” 

“And when did you learn the language of seals?” Seregeithon asked.

“Hiswalagawen is translating,” Helcerían said. “Lo,” she laughed, “no, I cannot speak it. Their minds are opaque to me.”

Elrond’s attention snapped at those words. “You are skilled in ósanwë , Lady Helcerían?”

“No,” Helcerían answered, befuddled at the blood-drained faces of her companions and why it could deeply concern them. She did not miss that Elrond muttered and glared over at Seregeithon. “Is the skill uncommon here?”

“Not particularly,” Elrond answered, “for it is not found among mortals. And Oromë does not roam among us teaching students how to speak to animals.”

Happily assured of the privacy of his thoughts from the one he feared most to behold them, Seregeithon pointed to a distant rocky outcrop. “Let us aim for that point before sundown.”

 

A new fantasy, and one whose mix of emotions confused Seregeithon, for he did not understand how the potent mix aroused him, though he knew the seed of the thought could be blamed on how often he incited Helcerían’s ire. He was kneeling before her, the pose such as he had when making oaths of fealty, though his hands were weaponless, and she was in that outfit he loved to envision her in: the tight leather boots that reached above her knees, the pale blue sash low around her hips cinched by her favorite large whale broach, and some narrow bands of fabric barely covering parts of her breasts and the smallest of loincloths. Just enough fabric to give plausible deniability of modesty. Copious bare skin on display, but he was not allowed to touch. He was wearing … ah, in this unfamiliar fantasy: nothing but a leather band around his ankle. Helcerían’s face was stern, angry almost, watching him kneel before her. Already Seregeithon’s muscles felt the strain of holding this pose. “Lower,” she commanded, and he shifted to bow prostrate before her on both hands and knees, forehead touching the earth before tilting his head up to see if he gained her approval. The angle was not ideal to see her face. Helcerían, obviously still displeased, reached out a foot and placed it on his head, the heel carefully positioned to not hurt his ear, but still applying enough light downward pressure to force his head back down and hold him in that position. His face pressed against the earth. He counted seconds. Seregeithon’s emotions in that moment confused him with the mix of shame and smug delight. The indignity of the pose, that she was stepping on him, that he had not knelt enough on his own to soothe her- but that she was focused utterly on him, that choosing to submit in the first place was his choice to please her and that it was working. The exquisite tension. Above he could hear her moan - not the adorable coo that Helcerían made for soft things but a full and throaty sound, long and involuntary. The boot-clad foot shifted, stroked his face along the curve of his cheek, found the point of his chin and lifted his face up. His chin balanced on the tip of her leather-clad boot. Now she was bending over him with no trace of her original anger, her pupils wide and her lips parted. The pale irises were almost devoured by those wide pupils. One of them was panting - no, both. The invitation in her eyes was giving him a carte blanche to do what he pleased, sate appetites, to-

Elrond fake-coughed loudly behind Seregeithon, disrupting his concentration and banishing the detailed fantasy. Low enough not to carry over to where Helcerían trudged but with as much force as Elrond could pack into one word, he spoke. “Stop. Stop it, whatever it is you are thinking. I don’t want to know; I don’t care. But I don’t want to sense even the echoes of whatever it is. Sweet Elbereth! Confess your feelings or go head-butt a tree like any other rutting deer.” Elrond continued to mutter to himself as he abandoned Seregeithon to poleaxed blinking. “One would think Lady Helcerían as beautiful as Lúthien the way he carries on, or that he never met a woman before.”

As Elrond pulled abreast of Helcerian, he could hear that she too was muttering under her breath, preoccupied with her own thoughts and barely noticing him. To Elrond’s dismay, while the bulk of her words remained indecipherable, the gist he could deduce with ease. So Helcerían wanted to rip all of Seregeithon’s clothing off, shove him onto the muddy earth, and conduct the marriage act. No surprise any more. And if neither of them made an effort to admit these desires to one another instead of pretending that their tension was professional animosity, then Elrond might knock them both out and leave their unconscious bodies to freeze overnight on the permafrost.

No, he would not. He had decided years ago to follow the healer’s path.

But as a guilty fantasy, it felt good.

Elros’s imaginary smarmy voice piped in, “I don’t have to deal with shit like this.”

In the distance one of the bull seals called out to his harem. Elrond almost screamed in reply.

 

 

The bay, when they woke the next morning, was as smooth as glass, the waves small and the surf against the rocky beach barely jostling the pebbles and slushy remains of last week’s snow. The water was eerily quiet, but instead of unsettling Helcerían, she smirked. “Lady Uinen took her husband last night, and she has worn him out with her love, and he will have no energy or wish to create even the mildest of storms for a fortnight yet. The Storm Terror rests limp in her arms. When the shore is this calm, we Falmari know what has come to pass.”

Elrond stared at her, silent and incredulous. She had to know what she was doing. That she would say that, bring up that imagery, her back was to Seregeithon but there was the faintest smug lift to her lips, she must know what thoughts were flooding his head, why was she teasing him so, did either of them remember that Elrond was here, maybe he should hike back down to the Havens, did Ulmo put up with this - he couldn’t breathe and the stupidly cold air was not the reason, this trip was a mistake.

Elrond hyperventilated through breakfast and the dismantling of the tents and dousing of the fire, though he had calmed by the time they were ready to continue walking. It was an effort he made under duress and resentment

Elrond made a silent declaration. 

Helcerían and Seregeithon would not survive a traditional year. Just jump straight to the vows.

Then they would pull muscles that should not be stretched after rushing through the short verbal declaration element of the vows, most likely. Exhaust themselves needlessly. Decide to create more offspring than they could raise.

Elrond ran a hand down his face. Elbereth, no. Children of those two. The Valië of Mercy protect him. 

 

 

“You have been irritable for a few days now,” Seregeithon said, attempting to start a dialogue with the young man. Elrond winced and willed himself to remember his courtly manners instead of answering Seregeithon with rudeness more accustomed to resting upon the old spear-weilder’s tongue.

“Mayhap I am tired from the walking.” Elrond said, though he wished to reply otherwise and repeat his complaints unconstrained. Seregeithon guessed anyway, if his loud grunt was clue, and Elrond rolled his eyes. High road abandoned. “You are far too old -both of you- for infatuations.”

“And how old was Princess Lúthien when Beren stumbled into her glen? Or, if you need an example of a non-mortal, Lady Galadriel and Lord Celeborn?”

Elrond’s spiky gray anger fled from his face, banished by the brightness of his eyes and glaring white teeth. “So you do wish to marry Lady Helcerían!”

“Hush, Boy!” Seregeithon snapped, lunging for Elond and shoving a hand over his mouth- an impressive act of coordination in snowshoes. Elrond, giggling, tried to shove the taller man away, well-versed in the grappling moves of brothers. Elrond forgot, as Seregeithon pinned his head between an elbow and armpit and laughed, that Seregeithon had once had a younger brother to tease and roughhouse with and knew the tricks. Elrond was too old -and kept enough presence of mind to remember that he tussled not with Elros- to avoid biting Seregeithon. Elbows did end up in unfortunate places, and jaws were lightly bruised. Their bulky coats protected them from tickling - but not from the unbalancing that came as a natural consequence of trying to weasel free of grappling moves. Feet gave out. Down the two fell, comedy in motion, still wrestling.

Their switch to horizontal alignment shocked sense back into the pair, and they stretched out prone and still side by side on the permafrost, each a little ashamed at their ridiculousness.

“You admit then,” Elrond said between pants to refill his lungs, “that you love Helcerían.”

Seregeithon groaned. The comparison was a snap decision to which he knew that he would long regret. He had given Elrond ammunition, a fool mistake with younger brothers, blood-kin or not. His reply was timid. “I desire her. I desire to be her husband. I want ...peace with her. A soft life, this new era, and she would fill it. To follow her. I want...many things from her. Too many- and she does not desire me,” Seregeithon hurried the final words, prompting Elrond to snort.

“She wants you, my friend.” Elrond started to shake with laughter. “She wants to drain you like a wineskin left in a barrack.”

Face as red as a cooked lobster, Seregiethon hollered, “Boy!”

Elrond shrugged his shoulders. “My good-sister Bortë’s words. She was raised by Vanyarin soldiers. It is a most vivid analogy, is it not? And accurate.” 

Seregeithon, imitating a corpse, refused to reply, so Elrond did what he would have done had this been Elros. He balled his fist and struck sideways, socking Seregeithon firmly in the stomach.

Elros would have known the blow was coming.

Seregeithon expelled a curse. Elrond regretted that he had not pulled back a portion of his force, for the punch had not meant to be serious. He muttered an apology and a command that Seregeithon confess to Helcerían, then awkwardly shuffled upright just in time to see the lady herself walking over to their prone bodies, arms crooked at her hips. Elrond offered her a grimace and shuffled away. “I’ll skip the lecture,” he said as he fled, leaving Seregeithon breathless on the ground. 

Helcerían decided against chasing after Elrond to walk up to Seregeithon, stopping at his feet so that she loomed over him, her silent expression akin to that of a disappointed mother, her face a mix of stern disapproval and befuddlement. Rather than ask for an explanation, she let her silence speak for her.

Their relevant positions and the imbalance of power inherent in it, that Helcerían stood while Seregeithon was helpless - soft belly exposed, on the ground, every battle instinct screaming that he was dead now - triggered a fear in him. It was not the fear that his long years of training and longer years as frontline soldier would have predicted. Don’t turn away, he screamed in his mind. The desire for her was overwhelming. He had no blood to spare for his legs to stand even if he wished to. Milady, please, don’t turn away from me; don’t leave me here. Say anything. Tell me how disappointed you are, berate me, your tongue is cutting and let me feel it once more. Step on me. It was the potent fantasy once more, the lust and shame and submission. Or smile. He wanted her to smile at him, that soft and beautiful face. Join him, ride him. He was helpless, exposed, if she wanted to do anything to him he could not -nor would- stop her. The only choice that Seregeithon could not accept Helcerían making would be to walk away from him, to deny this opportunity. He stared directly into her pale eyes, accepting that his own expression stood nakedly exposed to her. The fear that she now knew of his strong desire for her fought but fell defeated before his desperation. Ósanwë was unnecessary before the betrayal of his face, that potent tangle of hope and fear in his eyes. If Helcerían turned away without speaking, she could continue to play innocent of his feelings, but they would both know it to be playacting. Seregeithon knew not when he would have the courage to confront her. He needed to speak. His voice croaked.

“Whatever excuse you two had for acting like young boys, I care not,” Helcerían said lightly, cutting him off, and she reached a hand down to help pull Seregeithon up. Seregeithon took the proffered hand, memorizing the feel of calluses on her fingers, editing his future fantasies, still trying to stammer a confession pass his tongue before his courage failed him. He stood inches from Helcerían and could count every nearly imperceptible freckle on her face. Her lips were close. With more courage, with any encouragement from her, he could kiss them. She could stand on her toes and kiss him. Helcerían did not move; Seregeithon sought the willpower to initiate. He began to lean down. Helcerían broke eye contact. She turned her eyes away. Seregeithon froze.

This was all his fears. She rejected him. Her feelings were not the same, he had disgusted her, too much pressure, too much desire, twisted and wrong and marred. Self-loathing overwhelmed him, and to further his disgust he could feel no abatement in his loins even with this sign that she refused to court his attention. The proper action would be to pull away. 

Helcerían’s fingers tightened around his. “Stop. Don’t pull away. Wait. Seregeithon, I...” Her words came out soft, halting, and quiet, and her eyes flicked back to his, no longer half-lidded but wide and filled with some emotion that Seregeithon could not understand. “Wait until after we finish this quest. Then we shall have the leisure to plan, to decide where.”

It was as if she spoke Telerin; Seregeithon did not understand. “Forgive me, Milady.”

Her fingers squeezed so tightly it was as if she was trying to pull the bones away from their joints. “A fool you are,” Helcerían snapped, her pale brows pushed down together in anger. “Why it adds to your allure, it is incomprehensible.”

That Elrond might not have been hilariously wrong about Helcerían’s attitude towards him was starting to dawn on a dumbstruck Seregeithon. “You desire me?”

She scoffed, “You are asking me this? When I was…” Helcerían trailed off, once more staring up into his eyes for the wondrous confirmation that he was offering her. “Could I kiss you?” she whispered.

“Yes,” Seregeithon croaked, closing his eyes, overwhelmed by the whiplash of emotions, the death and resurrection of hope. “Helcerían, if you wish me to beg you to-” he started to state, but her hand yanked on his hair and she shoved herself up to smack her lips against his. It was not a tender kiss - not even a decent kiss, for her nose hit his, and it was awkward and painful, and he could barely feel her lips for they were pressed so firmly against his lips that teeth received the sensation without any involvement of biting, which overall would have probably improved it. Not a glowing omen of compatibility - Helcerían was right in that they needed to have a long and serious conversation about if a life together would work for them and where would they live, if he was willing to give up Middle-earth for her because Seregeithon wanted her so much that he was willing to say yes, damn the sea, the pull on his scalp from the way she was yanking on his hair to drag his mouth within reach was exquisite. By all the stars, yes.

Elrond, watching from a safe distance, felt relief and apprehension. Now that wind had shifted, he could also smell the unmistakable stench of rotting flesh, but he would wait a few moments before alerting Helcerían and Seregeithon to the lead.

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