Terms of A-dress

Title: Terms of A-dress.
Author: Enismirdal
Rating: PG-13
Pairing: Erestor/Duilin, (Glorfindel/Duilin)
Warnings: None
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!

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Chapter 2


“Well?”

So taken aback was Erestor at Duilin's...well, unexpected...appearance that he quite forgot he had been asked a question. Gathering back his senses, he phrased his reply with care. “Imladris is currently under threat: a host of Orcs gathers close to our borders. We think we can repel them, but we lack an experienced general able to lead our Elves in the midst of battle and devise new strategies should the battle take unexpected turns. With Lord Elrond away, Lord Glorfindel injured, and the young twin Lords nowhere to be found, there is no one who can command the kind of loyalty and courage from troops that will be required.”

Duilin nodded with exaggerated sympathy. “Indeed, it sounds as if your situation is most unfortunate. My condolences.” His voice betrayed not the slightest indication that he had picked up on the implicit hint.

“Yes. Well, as I say, we need a leader – a battlefield general whom the Elves of Imladris will follow into the fight without question, and who has the wits and knowledge to hold the force together no matter how the battle goes. Certainly, a hero of Gondolin, a valiant lord who has faced Balrogs and fire-drakes without fear, would have reputation and courage more than adequate to the purpose. My lord Duilin, if you would consent to ride out with the army of Imladris at this time when we need help so badly, we would be honoured and forever in your debt, and would certainly find an appropriate way to express our thanks.”

“Look around you,” said Duilin flatly, his irritability returning full-force. “This cottage, you may observe, is in a rather remote location. Not isolated entirely; I am not a hermit, but I certainly do not encourage wayfarers to simply drop by. And look at *me*. Do you think that, based on my current appearance and abode of choice, I am consumed with an unfulfilled longing to return to the battlefields?”

Erestor hid his disappointment, refusing to be put off so easily. “With respect, we are not asking you to come back forever, nor become our new war leader. We just need your skill, expertise and leadership on this one occasion, right now. I entirely sympathise with your wish to retire from such affairs, my Lord, but the safety of Imladris may depend on you.”

“I have already given you my answer,” Duilin replied, and began to shut the door. Then, apparently thinking better of it, he paused. “Look, the weather is terrible and it is close to dinner time. I may have lost all stomach for battle, but let it not be said that I fail in my duty as a host. There is a village a few hours' ride away – you may have passed it on the way here – but you will never make it back there before nightfall, and you are already half-drowned.” His tone grew a fraction warmer. “You had better come on inside, enjoy a meal, stay the night, and then in the morning you can ride home to Imladris and tell Glorfindel I say he is to learn to mind his bloody business.”

Erestor felt his heart leap, and not just because of the prospect of hot food and a chance to dry off; if he was able to argue his case a little longer, there was a chance that Duilin might just change his mind. He did, however, wonder how the Elves of Imladris would react to being introduced to their heroic general, clad in a floral dress and a giant bonnet...

***

Dinner was a quiet affair, the food simple but tasty and the conversation negligible. Duilin removed his hat to reveal hair that was very dark brown, unbraided and rather wavy – and currently only slightly less damp than Erestor's own, as the Elf-lord had braved the dreadful weather to ensure that Erestor's long-suffering mare was stabled and fed for the night.

Erestor found himself unsure of what topics to talk about during the meal; he felt he should make an attempt to get better acquainted with Duilin, but what could one say to an effective hermit? The current gossip of Imladris was doubtless of no interest to him, and equally Duilin seemed to be trying to separate himself from the events of history. Erestor did pass a few comments on the weather, annual trends in butterfly populations and speculation on next year's wine vintage, but Duilin's replies were, at best, monosyllabic.

On the plus side, Erestor's outer clothes were now drying rapidly, draped over the fire-guard. Being made from waxed leather, they were relatively waterproof, so his linen tunic and leggings were only mildly damp and he had decided to leave them on and simply sit by the fire once the meal was finished.

Indeed, once the plates were cleared, Duilin waved Erestor over to an overstuffed armchair right by the hearth. Erestor expected the lord to join him and take the seat opposite, but instead Duilin lifted a rolled-up mat down from a high shelf and spread it out across the floor. Around seven feet long and two wide, it was large enough for an Elf to lie on comfortably, and seemed to be made of some sort of woven grass. Duilin then hitched up his skirt and proceeded to embark on a bizarre series of stretches and contortions on the mat, demonstrating not inconsiderable flexibility and a perfect serenity. Erestor watched, unsure if Duilin expected a response from him or if he was content simply to work through his complicated exercises with a silent audience.

Eventually, Duilin looked over at him. “You can join in if you wish. I have a spare mat.” He uncurled gracefully from his posture and pointed back towards the shelf.

Erestor was far from convinced that this was a good idea, but Duilin seemed insistent so he took the mat down and laid it out. “What do I do now?” he asked.

The next hour saw Erestor contort his body in ways he had not thought possible, some mildly uncomfortable, others remarkably refreshing. With one pose, however, Duilin seemed dissatisfied with Erestor's performance. “Move your ribcage back and up,” he tried to explain. “No, no, not like that. Press down with your hands...”

Erestor, currently stuck with his head down and his backside in the air, was completely perplexed as to what was being asked of him. He kept trying...but still seemed to be getting it all wrong. Duilin stood up, having apparently accomplished the same exercise without difficulty himself, and padded over whilst smoothing his bodice. “Look, like this,” he instructed, placing a hand on Erestor's hip and guiding him into the correct position. “Feel the difference?”

Whatever Duilin had just done, it worked – it definitely felt indescribably better now, the stretch more invigorating and less just plain awkward. “I can feel something is different now,” he confirmed.

“Good. If you like, you can join me again tomorrow morning before you leave.”

“You do this twice a day?” Erestor had undergone some basic training in handling a sword and bow, but had never been a particular fan of the physical torture some soldiers seemed to favour. Provided his stomach did not stick out and he could run up a few flights of stairs without being winded, he believed he was doing quite enough exercise really. The idea of this twice-daily stretching ritual seemed more than a little abhorrent to him.

Duilin just shrugged. “Of course. I like to stay trim. And supple. It has its uses.”

Erestor had no reply. But by then his arms were feeling distinctly strained and his hamstrings distinctly overworked, so he flopped flat on his face on the mat to rest.

***

The next morning it was still raining and Duilin cursed. “The stream will be flooded at this rate. Your horse may be willing to ford it, but you may be better off waiting to see if the level drops this afternoon.” The grimace on his face implied he was not pleased about this, but as he fried eggs and bacon for breakfast he made no further complaints or grumblings. Erestor wondered whether he really ever had company out here, and whether perhaps he secretly enjoyed it on occasion.

Not wanting to dismiss Duilin's clearly superior knowledge of the route home, he agreed to stay until early afternoon and even put up with another round of Duilin's exercises. The morning also gave him a chance to talk to the Elf a bit more, as Duilin somehow persuaded him to come down to the tiny sawmill and assist in cutting up some stout branches and small felled saplings. The Elven lord was wearing a light green dress today, with a darker pinafore over the top, but no hat this time around. The gloves at the sawmill, however, did cause Erestor to raise an eyebrow; they were elaborately embroidered with small, yellow meadow flowers. It was a curiously familiar design.

“You have a nice little place here,” he commented as he tried to unstick the saw blade from a stubborn little ash trunk.

“I like it, anyway. Peaceful, straightforward. You know where you stand here.”

Erestor nodded acknowledgement. “But do you not miss the luxuries of larger settlements?” he asked. “Here, for example, you must only be able to eat that which you have grown or gathered here yourself.”

Duilin smiled, pulling his gloves off and wiping his hands on his pinafore as he straightened. “You really think that I am that completely isolated? Dear Erestor, I am not *that* far from civilisation, as your presence here well proves. I trade with your co-inhabitants frequently, via a few select and discreet representatives. Surely you remember how you enjoyed a few select dishes of butternut squash last summer?”

Erestor thought back and indeed he could recall a delightful soup and an even nicer gratin, both of which Glorfindel had praised with great enthusiasm. “I do indeed,” he said.

“Grown right here,” Duilin declared proudly, cracking his knuckles and then replacing his gloves to resume the work with the saw. “Fertilised courtesy of Miss Gladiolus the goat. In return, I received a week's worth of bacon and two bottles of miruvor. Yes, life here is simple and solitary, but I find it neither crude, nor lonely. Perhaps you should try it yourself.”

Erestor scowled. “For someone who does not care enough about Imladris to come back and help it, you have an awful lot of advice for us.”

Duilin merely smiled. “I have lived a long time, sampled both the best and the worst life has to offer, and the conclusions I have reached are that simplicity is best, and that if you pursue so-called “higher causes” with too much zeal, the journey you make along the way inevitably tends to bring you down to the level of those you oppose most vehemently. Here, I am at peace. I tread lightly on Arda, and in return she treats me kindly. You impress me, by the way.”

“Huh?” Erestor normally considered himself to be an eloquent Elf, but the offhand remark caught him by surprised. “Impress you?”

“Yes,” Duilin replied lightly. “Surely your shoulders must be seizing up and your palms will certainly be red raw by now. I could tell right away that you did not participate in a lot of manual labour. Yet you have never once complained this morning, and although your pace has been gradually slowing over the last half hour, you have kept up your best efforts.”

Erestor half suspected this was some kind of surreptitious insult, but elected to take it as an invitation to stop for a while. Indeed, his shoulders were burning with exertion and audibly creaked as he rolled them. He lowered his end of the saw and flexed his cramped fingers with a groan. “Well, I do a bit of archery and swordplay now and again, like anyone, but it does not compare to this. Given that you are barely even sweating, I have to admire your shoulders!”

Rolling his eyes, Duilin flashed Erestor a grin. “Come back inside and I will get some balm for your hands, o stoic one.”

Meekly, Erestor followed him back down the path to the cottage and sat down as instructed, holding out his abused hands. Duilin was matter-of-fact about tending to them, but considerate nonetheless, and the soothing balm helped instantly. The clean bandages Duilin carefully wrapped over the top thankfully also meant Erestor could still use his hands without getting balm everywhere; indeed, he was eager to tuck into the tea and luncheon Duilin started laying out a minute or so later.

“If the larger trees were, as you said out there earlier, felled in the forest by the last big storm,” Erestor asked presently, “how did you get them to the sawmill? They were far too heavy for one Elf to drag anywhere – even with your shoulders!”

“Steadfast.”

“Excuse me?”

“Steadfast,” Duilin repeated, amusement twinkling in his eyes. “My stallion. A gift from those scoundrel twins of your Lord, as it so happens.”

Erestor was starting to wonder if everyone in Imladris but him had known of Duilin for decades, if not centuries. “He must be a powerful beast.”

“When he can be bothered. Mostly he is a lazy oaf, but with a little talking to he has his uses. He is of Rohirric breeding, I am told; could carry a Man in full armour, and indeed he was trained to do so, once. Perhaps that is why he believes himself above hauling logs and makes the most frightful faces when I put the harness on him.” He smiled wryly. “I suppose you will not have seen him; I checked on him long before you got up this morning. I am grazing him in a paddock a little way down the track, and a good thing too, or he would be molesting your mare by now. She is coming into season, I hope you are aware.”

Erestor had not been, but he nodded thoughtfully. “Then it is a wonder, I suppose, that he has not caught her scent on the wind already and disturbed us all with his whinnying.”

“I suppose the wind has been blowing consistently the wrong way for that.” He stacked the empty plates in a basin of water to soak. “There...I will wash them properly later.” As he returned the butter to the pantry, there was a very faint shout from outside – followed by another. Duilin bolted to the door of the cottage, wrenching it open and sniffing the air with an expression of alarm. “The wind is, however, blowing the right way to give us advance warning of a party of Orcs heading our way. Valar, those creatures stink.”

He snatched up his hat from the stand by the door, then strode back to the fireplace. A beautifully crafted antique sword was mounted on the chimney breast, its steel surface well-oiled and clearly cared for; this, he seized without hesitation. Frowning at a lacquered case leaning up in the corner, he opened that too, taking out a hunting bow, stringing it and strapping it across his back. “You had better come with me and do exactly as I say.” He flexed his shoulders; Erestor had to admire how, after a morning in the sawmill, Duilin still seemed perfectly able to wield bow and sword without discomfort. Erestor himself was now aching in more places than he was not aching in; his back was knotted all the way down. “Well? I assume you at least carry a couple of knives when travelling? Go and get them – you will probably need them sooner or later today.”

“Just knives? I can shoot a bow too, you know!” Erestor began to protest, then realised Duilin was glaring at him impatiently. “What? I can.”

“I am sure you can. But unless your bow is very, very small and concealed in one of your saddlebags, you appear to have neglected to bring it, and therefore your skill as an archer is entirely moot in this case. Knives. Now.”

Erestor felt stupid, but at least he did indeed have a pair of long knives in his pack. A moment's searching and he had them, following Duilin out of the back door without further argument. The Elf-lord seemed to have a plan, and Erestor felt underqualified to question it.

“Our priority is to keep them away from the house,” Duilin explained as he led Erestor at speed along a badger-track behind the cottage. “And then we stop them bringing any useful information back to their leader.”

The pace left little opportunity for conversation; Erestor clutched his knives and tried not to worry too much. “But we must be greatly outnumbered...”

Duilin glanced back, a calculating grin on his face. “In theory, yes. But we have brains.”