Terms of A-dress

Title: Terms of A-dress.
Author: Enismirdal
Rating: PG-13
Pairing: Erestor/Duilin, (Glorfindel/Duilin)
Warnings: M/M, battle scenes, nothing shocking
Disclaimer: None of the Elves and nothing of Middle-earth belongs to me. Everything was invented by Tolkien, and I write fanfic about it only because I love it. No defamation to his characters is intended – I love them too – and no money is being made.
Summary: When Rivendell is under threat of attack, Erestor has a bright idea that might just save them. Unfortunately, things are never quite that straightforward, are they?
Beta: The most wonderful Tuxie, who attempted to stem the rising tide of my new ellipsis fetish, with moderate success.
A/N: Responsibility for this fic lies firmly on the shoulders of Miss Keiliss for suggesting something about a frock, a large floppy hat and a sword and apparently intimating that I should be the one to write this...

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Chapter 1


“In summary,” said Glorfindel grimly, “the situation is somewhat dire. Lord Elrond is at the Grey Havens, working with Lord Círdan to save Galdor, who is gravely injured from an accident at sea. The Lords Elladan and Elrohir are away on patrol, probably somewhere near Lórien, and cannot be located or contacted. And I...well, I think my appearance speaks for itself.”

There were a few dry chuckles; Glorfindel was pale from blood loss and propped up on crutches, his right leg badly broken after being thrown from his horse. The injury, sustained during a skirmish with Orcs two days before had, however, at least served to warn them of what was coming. They had met a mere advance party; it heralded a far larger force behind. “We now hear rumours of a substantial Orcish army massing a week's ride to the south, but the four Elves with the military experience and rank to direct an opposing force on the battlefield are all, at present, unavailable for duty. I will do my best to find a solution, including tying myself to a horse and riding out myself if necessary, but we have a weighty challenge ahead and I really need you all to be efficient and supportive right now.”

Erestor, taking notes at the meeting, could sympathise with the difficulties, and was privately glad he was not the one in temporary command of Imladris. They had a week to prepare for an invasion of unknown strength, led only by an injured captain and the advisory team. Granted, the twins might return unexpected just in time, but they were notoriously unpredictable and it was never wise to rely on them in any crucial strategic plans. Besides, it was not inconceivable that they had already fallen afoul of the hordes of Orcs sighted by the terrified scout who had ridden in this morning.

Hew wondered how on Arda they would manage - and if the deep lines across Glorfindel's forehead were any indication, the captain was doing the same. Still, Erestor was confident that the Lord of the Golden Flower would manage something; plenty of veterans of the Hidden Valley were respected veterans of the Last Alliance, even if Erestor himself had been only a child at the time. He imagined that if he were to get to work after this, however, and help the wounded lord organise a strategy meeting with those old soldiers, they could certainly devise a plan of some sort.

Glorfindel shifted his weight so he could gesture to a few of the senior advisers. “Gelirîn and Colluial, I need an immediate and comprehensive inventory of the armoury. Lanthigail, can you please round up the lieutenants who are able to fight and organise a meeting later today so that I can brief them. Tathardîr, make sure that the sentries are doubled – and check that wards in place on the approach paths are all intact.” His gaze fell to Erestor and the two other junior advisers sitting with him. “You three, distribute information to the citizens. Perform an evacuation drill – though I sincerely hope that it will never come to that – and make certain everyone is kept calm but has some means of protecting themselves and their families.”

Erestor sighed inwardly. That meant primarily creating notices to be nailed up all over Imladris, as sending someone door-to-door with the important information could take days. He was good at his job, and willing to take on whatever duties it entailed – an adviser with an aversion to dull paperwork would not go very far – but he could not help but feel underutilised. Certainly, he lacked military field experience, but he had been specifically trained in strategy and could surely provide some input in technical meetings. The cynical part of him suspected that Glorfindel was just trying to keep the youngest of Elrond's advisers out of trouble and allow the “grown-ups” to conduct their business in peace.

***

It was a thought that continued to preoccupy him as he and his colleagues copied out three dozen safety notices, affixing them to trees and balconies around the valley. They organised the evacuation drill for early evening, just before dinner, so the residents of Imladris would have some practice at interrupting important activities such as food preparation in order to move out swiftly. Unfortunately, this timing placed it just after Glorfindel's first strategic meeting, which would no doubt leave Erestor far to busy to attend. Surely he could do more to help than just copying notices and shepherding around concerned citizens?

Skipping his lunch break, he took some bread and cheese into the library (food was officially forbidden, but when the duty librarian was his sister, he could get away with a few liberties) and started examining maps of Imladris, ancient and recent, in exhaustive detail.

As an administrator rather than an explorer, Erestor's familiarity with the wilder parts of the valley's surroundings was limited to walking routes and well-trodden bridlepaths. Some of the hunters' tracks marked on these maps were completely new to him – as were the places they led to. “Wytch Well” sounded intriguing, and “Silver Stag Glade” equally so – but both appeared likely to be tactically entirely irrelevant. There was a deep ravine running south-east from the populated part of the valley, however; it seemed to be a dead ending, but a lake was marked at the tip. Instantly, Erestor started to consider ways it could be used in battle. Now he considered it, he *had* walked that way before, but along a path at the top of the ridge: the walls of the ravine were sheer for a quarter of a mile leading up to the lake, and he recalled no cracks that could offer escape into the cave networks underlying the hills. With a sigh, he realised that Glorfindel had almost certainly noticed this ravine already, and worked it into his plans.

He then raised an eyebrow at a small mark a few miles beyond the ravine. It was only indicated on the map with a sketch of a cottage and the letter, “D”, so his gaze flicked to the edge of the page for any further clarification. Oddly, the form of the letter reminded him rather of Glorfindel's hand, but it was most likely to be coincidence. Indeed, in the margin, in firm, clear letters – this time the firm, deliberate writing of Aurorthaen, Elrond's chief cartographer before she was lost in the Battle of Fornost – the explanation was written:

“Here dwelleth Duilin, formerly of Gondolin.”

Erestor's jaw dropped most inelegantly. Assuming this was not some kind of cartographical in-joke that was entirely lost on him, this had to be the best-kept secret in Imladris! One of the heroes of Gondolin, a contemporary of Lord Glorfindel – right here, a day's ride from the valley? Erestor wondered why the Elf never visited Elrond; indeed, did he have no inclination at all to call by sometimes and catch up with his former comrade, Glorfindel? But then again, it was not unknown for the former Lord of the House of the Golden Flower to vanish periodically with no explanation, sometimes for several days – and who was to say that the Balrog-slayer did not ride out to that secluded little hut for social visits?

A plan started to form in his mind. If, indeed, Duilin, Lord of the House of the Swallow, still lived in that cottage and was half the warrior he once was, all their problems may well be solved. Who would better motivate and lead the army of Imladris to salvation than one of the most valiant generals of Gondolin?

***

Erestor caught up with Glorfindel late that evening, visiting the lord personally in his rooms. Glorfindel's' face was now almost ashen from the day's overexertion and stress, and the way his expression fell as Erestor entered made it clear that he had been hoping for nothing more than to rest now. “Erestor, this had better be important,” he snapped, his usual smooth charm and ready smile vanishing in the face of near-total exhaustion.

“I think so, my Lord,” Erestor replied, coming over and seating himself beside the couch on which Glorfindel was reclining, his injured leg supported by cushions. “I have a suggestion regarding our current predicament.”

Glorfindel rolled his eyes. “Oh, really? After I spent all afternoon in conference with the top advisers and lieutenants of Imladris trying to find a solution?” He snorted. “Out with it, then. Tell us how we can assure our salvation.”

Erestor forced himself not to be offended: Glorfindel was under pressure, in pain and weakened from his injuries. He took a deep breath. “My Lord, with your permission, I would like to ride out to visit Lord Duilin and request that he return to Imladris in order to command the army. His reputation alone is without doubt enough to win the loyalty of our forces, and his experience on the ground is precisely what we need...” He broke off at Glorfindel spluttered and then started to snigger. “What?”

“Yes, yes...” laughed the golden-haired Elf. “Wonderful idea. Er...good luck with that.” He gasped slightly. “Thank you, Erestor. Valar, I needed a good laugh.”

“I do not understand,” Erestor replied in confusion. “Why is the idea so amusing?”

Glorfindel seemed to sober a little, sitting up straighter. “You found Aurorthaen's map, then? Hmm. I told her to burn it after I saw she had glossed the margin, the arrogant creature... Right, so you really think you want to try this? Well, I suppose I can probably spare you for three days, given that I heard the drills went very smoothly today. But I warn you: it will never work. Still, right now even the craziest ideas have some merit. So, yes...have fun.” He sniggered again.

“I still do not see what is so funny!” Erestor protested.

Glorfindel just shook his head. “Do not worry about it. You had this idea. I think you will find the trip very...enlightening. Let me know how it went when you get back.”

“This *is* the same Duilin who died in the Fall of Gondolin, presumably reborn?” Erestor asked, suddenly self-conscious and wondering if it would turn out to be some entirely different Duilin, possibly a sheep-herder with a wooden leg and no teeth.

“If you mean in terms of the fëa, yes. But remember that time tends to affect us all. I am not the *same* Elf I was in Gondolin – thank the Valar, or I suspect Elrond would have strangled me by now. Likewise, you may find that the years have altered the outlook of my esteemed contemporary.” After that not particularly reassuring statement, Glorfindel waved his hand. “Anyway, it is late and I am exhausted. Will you be kind enough to let this old, wounded general get some rest now? But I must thank you for lightening up what has otherwise been a cheerless day.”

Unable to think of a suitable reply, Erestor merely shrugged, nodded and left the room.

***

The rain dripped off Erestor's nose and he cast around desperately for a copse or stand of trees affording enough shelter that he could risk getting out the map to check his route. Unfortunately, the path picked its way up a steep slope of chalk downland – and was all but identical to all the other paths also criss-crossing the downs – and the nearest trees were some distance away still.

Sighing, he halted his horse. A willing but docile animal, she stood stoically still, seemingly unconcerned by the drops of water falling from her coat and soaking into her saddle-pad, whilst her rider closed his eyes and tried to recall the layout of the map from memory. It was certainly a safer option than risking ruining the fragile parchment in such weather.

He pictured the ravine, the rolling downland, the craggy cliffs. He recollected a narrow brook, then a strip of elm and hazel woodland with a service tree marking some now-irrelevant boundary, and then there should be a faint track leading to the cottage where Duilin allegedly resided.

Erestor opened his eyes. Yes, according to the curve of the brook – just visible off to his left – north was exactly where he expected it to be. So long as he made sure to turn eastwards when he reached the service tree (he dearly hoped that the storm three years ago had not blown it down), he was probably only another three or four miles from his destination. Three or four miles of pouring rain, granted, but the thought lightened his mood somewhat. Besides, the weather would be impeding the progress of the Orcs just as much.

He dabbed at his dripping face and hair with a handkerchief that was merely damp rather than utterly sodden like the rest of him, and nudged the patient mare forward.

Sure enough, a little over an hour later, he scented smoke on the air. The rain was, thankfully, easing from a downpour to a heavy drizzle; there was even a tiny suggestion of sunlight coming from the south-west. As he followed the trail deeper into the trees, he let a little optimism lighten his mood. It really was a neglected track he followed: waist-high nettles on both sides, and further on even hawthorn and hazel branches arcing across the path so that several times he had to dismount and snap them back before he could pass. Still, he took this as a good sign: if the path to Duilin's house had been well-used, everyone would know about it by now and the Elf would probably have moved elsewhere.

Finally, after the path climbed steeply uphill for the last few minutes, the trees parted to reveal a clearing. Here, Erestor discovered the source of the smoke to be a terracotta chimney set on the roof of a neat and well-maintained little cottage. Erestor smiled. So here he would find the legendary Elf-lord and hero of Gondolin, Duilin of the Swallow.

He tethered his horse to the fence, not because he was concerned she would wander off, but more out of respect for the carefully-tended marigolds growing in rows either side of the garden path. It was a delightful cottage garden, in fact, with blue delphiniums, red geraniums and chrysanthemums in yellow and white. The mellow scents of lavender and thyme hung in the air as he approached the front door, clearly discernible in spite of the dampness clinging to the foliage.

Erestor raised his hand to the knocker and gave two sharp raps.

There was no reply from inside. He frowned, waited a while longer – he supposed Duilin might be cooking or engaged in some other activity which could not simply be abandoned – and then knocked again.

After an extended silence he heard a faint thud, followed by the creak of an interior door on unoiled hinges and a string of cursing. “Fine!” came a voice from within. “Maybe I am here after all. What do you want?”

“Lord Duilin?” Erestor called back hesitantly. “I...”

“*Lord* Duilin?! Morgoth's balls, it has been a while since someone called me that. You are not some young aspiring warrior – or worse, a historian – wanting to be regaled with tales of derring-do or to witness a re-enactment of the Fall of Gondolin, are you? If so, I can tell you now that I have neither the time nor the inclination for it, so you may as well be on your way now.”

“Lord Duilin,” Erestor interjected firmly, realising this was not going to be remotely straightforward unless he found reserves of charm that even Glorfindel did not possess. “I am an adviser from Imladris. I spoke with Lord Glorfindel about you yesterday...”

“And he told you to come here? The old bastard! I will make him pay for that, I can tell you!” A heavy tread sounded behind the door, which swung suddenly inwards to reveal a finger standing akimbo, framed by the doorway.

Erestor felt his mouth fall open.

“Well, what *do* you want?”

Erestor was at a momentary loss for words. Of all the things he had anticipated, the scene before him was not among them.

Lord Duilin of the Swallow, noble of Gondolin, hero of the First Age and fearsome warrior, stood before him wearing an ankle-length yellow frock with lace trim and floral embroidery. The outfit was further complemented by an enormous straw hat adorned with a large silk replica sunflower.

Suddenly Glorfindel's earlier reactions made a lot more sense.