In Need of a Cold Shower by heget

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Chapter 10

Double length, for the conclusion and wedding.

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The missive that Elrond sent had no copy. What Hiswalagawen carried was a short letter to High King Gil-galad that their quest was fulfilled, the details withheld until explained in person. Elrond planned to write to his brother only once he was safely back in Forlindon. Elrond’s reason for this truncated correspondence rested on an immutable fact: he had nearly run out of paper, having misjudged the quantity to pack in his scrivinal satchel. The royal patron (as opposed to the royal twin) had priority. Anyways, Elrond needed the authorities in Lindon to inform the ship to return to the cove to pick up their passengers. Thoronchen’s brother would await them as long as travel schedules were not misjudged. The window of opportunity afforded little leeway, for a fishing vessel could not lay in anchor for more than two or three days. Further south, where the woods were less wild and the fresh streams charted, such a wait would not be a worry, but too long to reach their cove and the three would have to walk all the way back to Lindon.

A short missive made it easier to downplay what had happened - most of all the lingering fear and grief that Elrond dismissed as inappropriate. Hiswalagawen acted as if nothing had changed between these two letter deliveries. To mourn someone who had returned was paradoxical. Nor was Elrond’s pain solely for the swan.

Depriving Gil-galad of the details also forestalled the King from sending his own troops to try to slay the dragon. Gil-galad had more good sense and less impulsive rashness than his biological sire, but as with Seregeithon, Elrond would limit the opportunities for unnecessary acts of martial excitement seeking.

The lack of writing material meant that Elrond sat idly as Helcerían crafted her favorite fish stew, finally emptying the bounty from the tiny silver fish at her belt. Elrond recognized the citrus scent of lemon or capers, and fennel was another one of the herbs, but for the flavor of the dish itself he was unfamiliar, and Helcerían explained that the recipe was named for the ceramic bowls in which the fishmen of Alqualondë cooked this stew, a piece of pottery that she had not packed. The dish was meant for family, that gesture was plain to discern, and the warmth of Helcerían’s affection comforted Elrond. 

Seregeithon judged the two hours spent ice fishing at the lake worth the delay of their journey, that he could provide the correct type of fish meat for Helcerían to recreate her family stew. Now he sat nearby also watching Helcerían cook while idly whittling antler bone. He confessed that the skill was taught to him by the man that had found and adopted him, Albethor, and it was Albethor who excelled at the craft and found true joy in the art of carving. For Seregeithon, whittling was a way to keep his hands occupied and to remember his foster-father.

As Helcerían stirred, she sang. The Falmari Quenya concealed the meaning of her song, but between loan words and root similarities and the ósanwë that had allowed Felagund to understand the language of the Bëor during that first encounter, Elrond deciphered Helcerían’s song.

As it was a song from the people of Alqualondë, the subject matter did not surprise. A fish caught in a net, struggling to slip free and deciding not, having exhausted itself against the ropes that bound it. A catchy tune, Elrond thought, if strange in focus. Fishermen singing about a good bounty was expected. Helcerían’s song, unless there was an error in translation, was not that. The detailed lyrics about how the fish was bound by the net betrayed a preoccupation from the song’s composer that was irrational and bordering on the comedic. Shortness of breath for a creature with gills exposed to air, yes, but to make a chorus of that? And to point out every loop and knot of the net and where upon the fish were placed said bonds? Since when did a fish have legs? Elrond belatedly realized the point of the song. Not fish. Not fish at all.

Seregeithon’s jaw hanging stupidly open, doing his best unwitting impersonation of a basking shark, proved that the older man had also deciphered the hunger to which Helcerían’s song truly addressed. Erotism tied to physical restraints was difficult for Elrond to parse out - but after more than a month’s worth of exposure to Helcerían and Seregeithon, he knew that the concept existed.

Elrond was starting to have suspicions about Sindarin songs about acorns and trees, if Falmari fishing net songs and Vanyar royal poetry were indicative of a greater truth.

Seregeithon’s cow-stupid gawk was easy to see because he had one of Helcerían’s ribbons tied around his head as a band to hold back the front fringe of his white hair. It was unusual to see the entirety of his face, and the short bangs stuck up messily behind the headband. It made him look younger than Elrond. Domestic. Cute.

Elrond shook his head. That thought was not his. Helcerían’s ósanwë infected him again. Between Seregeithon’s fascination with Helcerían’s long unbound hair and this, Elrond vowed that he would shave his head bald. Their amorous capacity and creativity perplexed Elrond. He adored his two travel companions- but they sorely tested him with their lust. Yet how easily they irritated him but had his forgiveness was a quality that Elrond associated with his twin brother. 

He would need to plan a new adventure when the three returned to Lindon, some excuse as to not lose contact with either Helcerían or Seregeithon.

The stew tasted as wonderful as Helcerían promised - and the lemony scent was dried capers instead of some foreign fruit exclusive to Valinor. As they finished second helpings, the Falmari woman sighed. “It is a pity that we have not encountered any Forodrim. I met some Second-born briefly, during the stop at Elenna, and saw some, I think, at Lindon’s dock. But I have yet to speak with any. A terrible disappointment it would be to have travelled to the Farshore and yet never have more than a glimpse of the Second-born. A waste of a trip, others would tease me.”

“They are so curious to know of mortals?” Seregeithon asked, wondering why this surprised him, for the reaction had been the same among the Eldar as when Finrod Felagund had first found the mortals. He remembered his curiosity when Malach arrived in Hithlum. After two centuries the wonder and strangeness of the Second-born wore off, and for the Sindar who lived in less northerly reaches of Beleriand and thus had regular contact with the dwarves for several thousand years, the novelty was lessened.

Discussion of the Forodrim evolved into Elrond detailing more of his efforts to convince the scattered groups of men to take the offer to build new lives on Númenor and how he doubted that he would convince any Forodrim to leave for the safety and bounty of the new island even if he encountered them. Elrond did share amusing stories of helping to build boats for the mortals and the often aggravating task of guiding them to the island, stories that delighted Helcerían. Seregeithon remembered clearly the incident with the chickens. He had not been one of Círdan’s many pilots, but he had helped to load the resettlement ships. His reputation for a sharp tongue fluent in mortal swear words had not been created by those voyages, but incidents like the quarrelsome grandmother and ill-behaved livestock enhanced it. The topic shifted to the elves settling on Tol Eressëa, the pardoned Noldor and those of the Sindar who wished to finally complete the journey to Valinor but stay in a place that still felt most familiar to them rather than the mainland. Many did settle in Aman, but few in Alqualondë, preferring instead to go south and inland to where Yavanna had forested the southern reaches, and there was talk of expanding the land. The work of seeding Númenor rekindled the joy of the Giver of Fruit, and she and her spouse and sibling and Maiar wished to expand their projects. The rebodied dead settled through Aman, and the growth of the population filled many once-empty houses and lands, though the Valar wished for everyone to have room.

“I understand,” Helcerían said, speaking of the preference for Tol Eressëa and the nostalgia for old trees and stars. “They thought my fondness for the ice wastes above Araman was foolish. A Noldor-like restlessness. Moripedi .” She sighed. “They do not look different, the stars here. The land, yes, a little, and the animals upon it, and the fish. The northern oliphaunts and the deer. But for all that there is some difference in the air that I cannot explain, the stars do not shine brighter. I think because I have been to the Helcaraxë, again and again to clean the dead that despoiled it, that I am unlike other Amanyar. The ocean is the same on both shores,” Helcerían added, “only the people differ. And not that much.” Her companions joined in her laughter. Her unspoken confession that she would not resent if Seregeithon chose that they stayed in Middle-earth conjured lightness, a final burden falling from his shoulders, like the last piece of armor unbuckled.

“Has any of your family returned from the Halls of Mandos?” Helcerían asked, and Seregeithon shrugged.

“I could not guess if they have even gone to the Halls or chose to linger on this side of the shore. Albethor, my foster-father, has perhaps been reborn, and my uncles through him -Annael and his husband- took one of the first ship passages to Tol Eressëa.” 

“We should go to Tol Eressëa,” Helcerían proclaimed, “and then onto Alqualondë so that we may inform our families. There is no ban to stop us from returning to Middle-earth, if we decide not to stay.” The question of where they would live remained unanswered, and it was not one that could stay open - but at least it could be delayed.

“Do we wed then?” Seregeithon asked, referring to the planned visit to Alqualondë.

“Can you wait that long?” Helcerían asked.

The look that he gave her in reply calculated more than just her appearance (and the lust that it induced in him) but also the tone of her response. Cautiously Seregeithon answered, “I would not wait an hour more to marry you, if that was also your will. But if your will was to wait a year or a thousand, I would, to please you.”

“It is not my pleasure alone that we must consider,” Helcerían said with downcast eyes averted, her fingers smoothing the pale fabric of her sash, “but I too would rather have the hour than the year.”

Oh, Elrond thought numbly, this is happening. Damn.

“So…now?” Elrond asked. His slow delivery spoke of hesitation, but the firmness of his falling tone showed that even he knew that it was not a question that he had asked but a confirmation. He sighed. “After we finish the meal, I’ll stand for the ceremony.”

Helcerían and Seregeithon stared first at Elrond, then at each other. “Seregeithon?”

“After we finish eating?” Seregeithon asked, though the strangeness of his tone betrayed that this was not a jest.

“Yes.”

Helcerían’s ice-pale eyes pinned him, her face solemn. The rigidity of her posture recalled the towering might of a glacier, implacable and cold. 

The arch of Seregeithon’s neck and lift of his chin was subtle, as much a flex of his upper back and shoulder blades as that of his skull. The rapid heave and flutter of his chest and widened pupils of his eyes denied aggression but submission and desire as the root of his posture. His heavy jacket hid any sign of growing blush on his neck and upper chest, but now Helcerían knew that he colored prettily when so aroused. He was blushing now, under all those layers that he was mutely begging her to remove.

The boy had the correct idea. She would wed Seregeithon within the hour, strip him of all clothes, have all that scarred skin to explore beneath her fingers and mouth, those night-dark eyes worshiping her body, and initiate the long process of recreating all their fantasies.

“I have no ring,” Seregeithon said.

“We are skipping the rings,” Helcerían said forcibly.

Elrond snorted. “How do you wish for the ceremony, Helcerían? We are unfamiliar with the customs of the Falmari, if they differ from the traditions of this shore.”

Helcerían blinked rapidly. “I...I had not thought that customs would differ. Not in the ways that mattered, the vows to Manwë and Varda and to Ilúvatar. That each family would provide a married couple to present the bride and groom, to be their mentor and guide. The ones to hold their hands before the bride and groom reached for another. And the large wedding feast.” She laughed. “We have eaten a meal. As for what customs are not shared…” She bit her lip. “The Noldor exchange gifts, the father of the groom and mother of the bride, gems usually because of course the Noldor add jewelry to whatever they can. And the year of betrothal has traditions, same with courting, to exchange gifts.” Helcerían flicked her eyes to the roll of bearskin against their travel packs.

“Is the tradition the same for a war wedding?” Seregeithon asked. “You would not call it that -and we did not, at first- but there was the weddings for the full family, with everyone who was nearby to join in song and feasting, where we roasted lamb and sang and wore finery, and quick weddings where all was forgone except the two wishing to be wed, without witness except for the stars and the One, because none could be gathered. No rings either, though that was a Noldor custom widely adopted. Before the Sun we wove bracelets, I think, to bind the wrist of the bride and groom. I never learned what materials or how or why. The mortals wed with great ceremony, and did not believe it proper to have otherwise.”

“Do they not swear by Ilúvatar?”

“Some,” Elrond answered. “By their own names for the One.”

The clearest wedding that Elrond could recall in detail was that of his twin brother, which was only natural. Elros, having chosen his mortal heritage, desired a mortal wedding, but Bortë had insisted on including the elven vow ceremony before the more elaborate tradition of her own people. Fully mortal as her peredhel husband was not, still Bortë had been raised among the Vanyar troops who fought in the War of Wrath, calling the blond soldiers her uncles, and she loved them as dearly as her father and mother. She spoke their version of Quenya as readily as she did the Easterling tongue of the House of Bór to whom her father, Bledda, was a scion. She would honor Amanyar customs as well as those due to her through her father’s people. The wedding ceremony of the Bór involved dances, cups given as gifts to the families and a separate cup that the married couple drank from, a lengthy speech that Elrond did not remember, and the scattering of loose petals or grain. Other Edain traditions had been tacked on, so that their new king and queen belonged to all. Elrond had to stand for over an hour of that wedding ceremony to the left of his brother and watch as Elros recited a droning speech and swallowed fermented milk, and later dance with every single one of Bortë’s distant female relatives (nary a single one under the age of thirty) in complicated patterns that Carnambos and Bledda struggled to teach him. Not that the elf nor the doddery Bórian man were masters of old Easterling folk dances - or particularly good instructors - and the crones had patted Elrond pityingly on his head and swore that he had not stepped on their feet. Patronizingly they batted away his concerns that he had been out of tune or disruptive to the choreography. Some of the dances involved the shoulders more than the feet, but those had also been the dances with exuberant arm movements. Such dances were dangerous when in close quarters and the involvement of alcohol. Elrond did not receive a black eye on his brother’s wedding, but it had been a near miss. Bortë’s great-aunt Ataun had a wickedly sharp elbow.

The wedding ceremony of the Haladim involved the chopping of a log, first by the groom and then by the bride. Sane heads skipped that tradition when the amount of alcohol was appraised.

Elros and Bortë never complained about the abundance of ceremonies involved in their wedding. Conversely, Seregeithon and Helcerían approached the lack of anything but the barest essentials of their own wedding with eagerness.

Bortë wore unique garments for her wedding: a robe and matching trousers of rich blue embroidered and beaded with red birds, flowers, and fruit, and a headdress of silver coins and chains that covered her forehead and ears. Silver was a bride’s metal; married women wore bronze. The old women of the Hadorim and Haladim disapproved of the new queen’s wedding crown, demanding a heavy headdress of flowers.

Helcerían stood in the same fur lined coat that she had worn throughout the journey, but she pulled down her hood and brushed out her long white hair so it hung loose to the back of her thighs. Seregeithon placed himself at a parade rest across from Helcerían, also attired in the distinct lack of anything to identify this moment as significant from any other evening on this journey. Well, Elrond admitted, the grin was manic. And Helcerían was starting to vibrate. They faced each other, and Elrond stood where he remembered the Bórian priest stood, between and behind the groom and bride. His other choice was to stand either on Helcerían or Seregeithon’s side, and he was to be witness to both, a stand-in for both of their families.

Hiswalagawen in transit flight would miss the ceremony. If this was a mistake was yet unknown.

Elrond ran the blessings to Varda and Manwë in his head, his memory alternating between the verse spoken in Quenya by Carnambos, the Vanyar godfather of Bortë, and the Sindarin of Celeborn whom had stood in for Eärendil as the closest male relative on this side of the ocean that the twins had left. Married relative, that was. Gil-galad had also offered, but Celeborn as younger brother of their great-grandfather was the nearest blood relation. Also, unlike Gil-galad, Celeborn was married. The giver of the blessings was supposed to be espoused; that was the point, that they would stand as an example of a union of loving equals, as Manwë and Varda themselves. One did not invoke Ulmo and Nienna at a wedding for good reason. Elrond pondered the two that he was about to wed. Perhaps the Valar that he should be calling were Aulë and Yavanna. Best that he stick to Sindarin and the standard blessing. The hand holding and exchange would be awkward, so he should forgo that part of the ceremony as well. There were no rings to swap out either. 

The most important part was the commitment to another in oath to Ilúvatar. 

“Do you wish for me to make a speech?” Elrond tentatively asked, hoping for a denial. He could not remember what Celeborn or Bledda had said before or after the oaths, or Rúth or Galadriel, or any of the other old mortal men and women, or the guests at Elros and Bortë’s ceremonies. Repetition did that, making itself meaningless.

Seregeithon and Helcerían shook their heads. They made the single oath, sentence rushing together to become one in their impatience, then smacked their faces together in an alarmingly passionate kiss. Elrond coughed. Then cleared his throat. Then pointedly did not look at where hands were wandering.

A blasphemous thought entered Elrond’s mind. He wondered if Ilúvatar was ever embarrassed to play witness to such events. Or did the One prefer when vows were capped by enthusiastic tongue?

As a final gesture, because the abbreviated nature of this wedding offended something mortal deep within Elrond’s sensibilities, the young man scooped a handful of loose earth and gravel around his feet and then tossed it towards the couple, aiming not to hit either elf but for the bits of dirt and small stones to clatter harmlessly a foot away from them. Seregeithon and Helcerían spooked at the action. Elrond tried to shout the matrimonial blessing in Old Hadorin as his handful of dirt hit the ground, but most landed before he expelled the words. The throw had not been high.

Seregeithon raised one unimpressed eyebrow. “Isn’t it supposed to be barley chaff?”

“Seeds, not chaff,” Elrond corrected, blushing. “It is to bring good fortune and fertility.”

“A mortal custom?” Helcerían asked.

“Hadorim,” Seregeithon explained. He paused, recalling details given to him by long-dead soldiers of the Long Peace. “It is how they end wedding ceremonies, by buffeting the bride with loose grain. The seeds caught in the apron correlate to the number of expected children.” 

A pebble sat ominously in the fold of Helcerían’s coat. 

“Husband and wife. Congratulations.” Elrond patted his hands to brush off any lingering dirt. His two companions glowed at one another, mouthing their new names for one another with wonder.

Just as sappy as Elros and Bortë. Probably universal.

The awkwardness had not concluded, for there was one more element to a wedding. 

Elrond did not need ósanwë or foresight to predict what his companions would do next. Seregeithon’s hand on Helcerían ass was clear, as was the glances that Helcerían was giving towards the tent.

“I am going to gather firewood,” Elrond stuttered.

“But there are no trees for leagues,” Helcerían countered.

Too exasperated to fumble for words, Elrond responded. “I don’t care. I’m leaving the two of you alone for a few hours. Do whatever you wish to to complete your marriage. I truly wish no details,” Elrond stressed. “Please, for once, spare me. I don’t care what you do.”

“I have an idea or two what we could do,” Seregeithon growled, pulling at Helcerían’s arm to lead her back towards the tent.

“I know,” Elrond wailed. “You have plenty of ideas. So does she. Stop sharing them by accident.”

“Oh. Oh ,” Helcerían purred, her smile broad and lascivious, “but I must share them with my husband.” She turned to press against him, legs twisting, and her hands rubbed across his neck and along his collarbone. Seregeithon immediately closed his eyes in eager surrender, his hands tangled in her long hair. No longer pulling, now it was Helcerían pushing them to the relative privacy of the tent.

“Firewood,” Elrond stuttered. “Going. Back later - much later. Be in one piece when I return,” he tossed out as a parting joke, but Helcerían countered with her own jest.

“What if I want to break him instead?” she asked, and Elrond gasped in shock. Seregeithon had moaned. Never had that particular loud sound emitted from Seregeithon. The moan reached out from his core, deep and drawn out like whale song in the abyss, begging Helcerían to fulfill her jest, the hands in her hair pulling her on top of him, demanding to be broken.

Elrond fled.

 

At the breakfast table of the king of Númenor, as the pregnant queen and teenaged prince watched in concern, the king lowered the latest letter from his twin to the surface of the table, inadvertently dipping it into porridge and staining a corner of the parchment. Elros pinched his nose and bit back a scream of frustration. Queen Bortë paused in the careful peeling of her small orange, and Prince Vardamir lifted himself out of his seat and used his elbows to brace his weight as he leaned over the table to look at the letter that his father had partly submerged into spiced breakfast porridge. The angle was awkward, but Vardamir’s eyesight was keen. 

The text of the letter read thus:

“Dear Elros,

As promised the update to this freezing adventure of mine- do include more smug details of how swelteringly hot Armenelos is, I love you too, Dear Brother. The blight affecting the local bay is a dragon, as suspected. Walruses are reliable gossips, of all things. Be not alarmed; none -none of us elves- approached the beast but just enough to judge its shape in the distance, and the smell is unmistakable. One of the larger cold drakes, but nothing like Angacalon or the golden forefather. Whale-sized, but small whale with normal teeth, not the biggest comb-toothed ones. Helcerían has taught me more about whales than I ever thought or wished to learn. Nor did we have any plans of attacking it; we swiftly retreated well out of range and sent the swan to alert the Far Shore so that soldiers and Maiar may be sent to slay it. Oromë’s Hunt will be glad of the excitement. I was in no danger of recreating Cousin Túrin’s feat.”  Vardamir peered at the scribbled out tengwar, trying to decipher the crossed out letters. “What is the correct term of kinship for one’s grandfather’s first cousin?

“The other equally important update I must share with you pertains to the ongoing insufferable status of my two companions - overflowing with relief and joy I commit to you that that particular dilemma has also happily resolved. Thanksgivings onto the Valar.” This line was easiest to read, having been written with thick brushstrokes. “Seregeithon and Helcerían wed each other after we put a few days’ journey back between us and the dragon. Should have happened sooner, as I have regaled you in all previous missives. I stood in witness for both sides, though there was nothing to use as rings, and it would have been silly for me to hold both hands. But I heard them speak their vows to Ilúvatar, and then I pretended to go gather firewood for a long time as to give them room and privacy in the tent. I dare say that they exhausted themselves by the time that I eventually returned. Seregeithon in particular was dead to the world. The remainder of the journey was as miserable as the majority. Our trek on foot demanded energy that they could not spend - though often I was required to give them privacy either of the campsite or to delay returning to it. We have returned to Forlindon and the two are now Círdan’s headache. Until they board the ship to Alqualondë to visit her relatives. It will not be a permanent resettlement. Yet. They are still undecided. Olwë may have the joy of them. If Helcerían is not already with child, you may pick the rules of our next card game and I shan’t call you out when you cheat. If Seregeithon survives til then. Helcerían treats him most eagerly. Like the single stud ram for an island’s worth of ewes. Please do not tease me about my lack of spouse. I cannot wait to get back to Harlindon. ”

 

A third letter in Elrond’s handwriting, of pages numerous enough to qualify for a small book and within those many pages more tidings accounted for than just the young man’s most recent northerly adventure, rested not in the palace of Armenelos. This package the swan had delivered to the Doors of Night, and the parchment, much creased with reading, sat folded inside a basket on the deck of a most singular ship. No waves lapped against the white hull of this ship, though a faint rime of glimmering frost did cling to its surface, for perspiration froze in the extreme cold of Ilmen. The Star-Road had no wind to ruffle the pages, but the recipient was loath to lose this extensive letter and had placed it within the meal basket that his wife packed for him. She had already read the contents, and a tear blotched the ink of a paragraph or two. Most of the letter, however, had made her laugh or smile. The mariner’s journey was a long and silent voyage, familiar and a little monotonous. His wife gave him the letter to re-read during the quiet moments between the stars. 

The mariner thought back upon the contents of that letter and laughed.

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Chapter End Notes

The two are finally wed, though Elrond -and the author- is not free of them yet. The abbreviated wedding is canon to LaCE, as it follows the early medieval tradition of requiring only the bride and groom's desire to be wed, and later a witness.

Elrond's wedding to Celebrían follows the elven tradition, complete with the exchange of rings - and Seregeithon returns the favor and stands in for Elrond's father during the ceremony.

 

And for one final non-canon scene to grace the footnotes, the real reason why no Forodrim appeared on-screen:

Short men with stout limbs, the bodies that suggested a dwarven grandfather or great-grandfather, and yellow hair as pale as unvarnished pine lumber, crowded around the taller elven woman, pointing at her long white hair, pale eyes, and blue clothing.
“They think that you are an Ice Witch, some type of winter spirit,” Elrond translated helpfully.
“Ah,” Helcerían murmured. “I see why we removed this from the plot of our fic. Wrong crossover entirely.”