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 3


Duilin's route took them through the woodland, up a steep incline and out on to a precipice above the house. It gave them an excellent view of the ten Orcs marching noisily along by the river. Erestor glanced across at his companion. Duilin looked...pleased?

Apparently noticing Erestor's scrutiny, Duilin half-smiled and pointed. “They are heading in the general direction of the cottage, yes,” he noted, “but you see they just missed the turning that leads directly there. The path they are following now winds around the woodland a little; I really only use it to service the cesspit. If we descend directly towards the cesspit, I can open the sluice and block their onwards route, then advance on them and pick them off one by one whilst they are cornered by the thick forest down there.” He wrinkled his nose. “The trouble will be getting from the sluice – ahead of them – back to a point behind them from which I can attack.”

He seemed remarkably unrattled about facing ten-to-one odds, but Erestor supposed that in contrast to the situation in Gondolin this must indeed seem trivial, a mere inconvenience to his routine. “I could help, you know...” he found himself offering, wondering if he was being a complete fool getting involved. “With just knives, I would not be ever so much help in a fight, but I suspect even I can manage to run on ahead and open a sluice.”

Duilin threw a sceptical glance at the adviser's bandaged hands and slightly hunched shoulders. “The mechanism is stiff.”

“What happened to, 'You did not complain all morning'?” Erestor demanded indignantly. A born warrior he may not be, but that did not mean he would accept condescension.

“Fair enough, I suppose.” The Orcs were only a few hundred paces from the point where the path bent towards the cesspit; time was short. Duilin gestured. “There is a faint track leading directly down – try not to get caught in the brambles. It cuts past a pollarded hornbeam, then a row of hazels, then the track turns sharply and you will find yourself on the path just before the sluice. Go on, then. You had better not let me down.”

Erestor wasted no time on his descent to the bottom of the hill, keeping low to avoid being spotted if the Orcs glanced up – though surely they must be half-blind in the late morning sunshine; it was surprising enough that they walked during the day at all. The track was exactly as Duilin had described: heavily overgrown, but leading downwards past the solitary hornbeam, then the hazels, their leaves soft and green and currently extremely damp, and then the unpleasant stench hit him as he found himself beside the cesspit. It had been dug close to a tributary of the brook he passed on his way here; the sluice would divert the little stream into the pit to drain it.

By poor – or perhaps, knowing Duilin, deliberate – design, the deep, broad drainage channel cut directly across the path. When empty, it could be crossed by someone on foot if they picked their way across the channel bed with care, but when full it was evident that the path would become entirely impassable.

Taking a firm grip on the handle of the sluice and ignoring the grazes beneath the fresh bandages, Erestor tugged. The mechanism was indeed stiff, but with some grunting he got it to turn – all the time with the clatter of the ten Orcs growing gradually louder as they approached. The gate opened; water rushed into the pit, and when Erestor lifted the gate at the other end, the whole lot flooded out of the other side and into the drainage channel. Within seconds, the path was blocked off, the channel filled with muddy water flowing at quite a pace. And just in time, as the Orcs came into sight a mere moment later.

Quickly, Erestor ducked behind a bush, peering through the leaves as he calculated his next move. He assessed his position: the undergrowth grew impassably thick a few yards away from the path, so fleeing – for him or for the Orcs – was going to be almost impossible. The only escape from this newly-created dead-end was therefore back the way the Orcs had just come. Tensing, he readied his knives, in case they scattered and one of them stumbled upon his current hiding place. But then a barrage of arrows flew out of the woods he had descended through, taking out three Orcs just in that first attack, and a great battle-cry split the air. Duilin came thundering down the hillside to block the Orcs in, hair streaming beneath the hat, sunflower petals fluttering in the wind and frock hitched up to knee-height as he ran.

Never in his life would Erestor have thought that the sight of a tall, muscular Elf in a shapeless floral pinny would be so utterly terrifying. Even the Orcs hesitated for a moment, before growling rough commands at each other and rushing back along the path towards Duilin all at once.

Erestor wondered if he should run out and aid his new friend, but Duilin appeared to be holding his own, bow now abandoned as he instead carved shining arcs in the air with his sword, slicing and whirling. Two more Orcs fell in that first clash, another two falling back, momentarily stunned by the ferocity of the lone Elf. Duilin barely seemed to pause for breath before deflecting a strike, leaping on to a rock to kick an oncoming Orc in the face, beheading another, then taking yet another out with a dagger that had somehow appeared in his left hand.

It was a spectacular show, and Erestor began to imagine how it must have been to witness this skilled and fearless warrior in action back in Gondolin. He had seen Glorfindel fight plenty of times, but Glorfindel's technique was one of relentless stamina and powerful strikes, whilst Duilin was all fast footwork and sly feints to make openings for the killing blows.

Three more Orcs remained standing, one with a bleeding nose from Duilin's kick; Duilin bore some superficial cuts but nothing that looked serious to Erestor's eyes. Duilin drove back the injured Orc with a rapid series of sword-strikes, until the creature misstepped and plunged backwards into the drainage channel. His heavy armour dragged him into the thick flow almost instantly and Duilin turned his attention to the final two – both high ranking individuals, it appeared, as they fought with more skill than Erestor was used to seeing, and wielded cruelly hooked swords, the likes of which were quite unfamiliar to him. Attacking with their full force now they had seen what happened to their comrades, they managed to give even Duilin pause and the Elf-lord was so preoccupied with them both that he had stopped watching the Orc floundering in the drainage channel.

Erestor, however, had no such constraints, and he saw the clawed hand and leathery head break the surface. The hand struggled, reaching towards the channel's edge, grabbing at a root projecting from the soil...

Duilin was still matching his attackers blade for blade, but had now lost the element of surprise and was relying on his skill and agility. Could he cope with an unanticipated opponent rejoining the fray? The Orc in the pool had found a heavy rock and, braced against the side, was taking aim at the battling Elf...

Without thinking, Erestor ran out from behind his bush, sprinting the few yards back towards the channel and shouting at the top of his lungs. The other two Orcs had seen him, but there was no time to deal with them. He flung one of his knives at the Orc in the water, but at the same time as the creature sank back, bleeding, into the brown depths, Erestor felt a horrifying pain radiate out from a point on his side. A burning sensation flooded through his body, then a heavy foot kicked him and he fell to his knees.

Part of him questioned how he was still conscious as he heard Duilin snarl ferally and lay the last two Orcs open, breastbone to crotch and shoulder to hip respectively, heedless of their leather armour. Erestor clamped his hand to his side, watching his peripheral vision go hazy. Time seemed to slow, everything moving at a surreally sluggish pace. Was he dying? The pain consumed his mind, yet also seemed to be happening, on some level, to someone else.

“Erestor!” Duilin's voice broke through the haze and time returned to normal...and the pain returned in its agonising immediacy. There was the sound of a smack, and his cheek stung.

“You slapped me...?” he heard himself mumble.

“Stay with me, Erestor.” That was an order, issued by general to foot soldier. “Looks like you got your wish, young scribe. I lack the necessary supplies to stitch wounds myself; someone needs to get you back to Imladris to fix up that wound, and I seem to be the only one here...”

***

He did not resist when Duilin manhandled him on to his mare, simply focusing on pressing his hand over the wound to stem the bloodflow. Unable to spare breath to argue or question, he waited quietly, swaying in the saddle, as Duilin returned to the cottage to gather weapons and provisions.

Finally, the Elf-lord reappeared, mounted on a heavily-laden Steadfast. The stallion fought the bridle at first, more interested in Erestor's little palfrey than the journey ahead, but steadied in response to a few firm voice commands from Duilin. That same tone of authority was then directed at Erestor. “Follow me. We ride as fast as you can endure; we need to arrive before the Orcs start swarming over the countryside. If you think you will pass out or throw up, call to me.”

*Otherwise, be quiet and ride.* Erestor detected the unspoken addition. “Let us head home, then,” he whispered.

Within two minutes he had called a stop to be sick, but after that things seemed to improve. The bleeding eased, then stopped altogether; although Erestor still felt very light-headed and queasy, and his side was a wall of agony, he had not lost as much blood as he feared he might, and he could at least balance in the saddle a little better.

In fact, it eventually reached the point where, when Duilin turned back to check on him, Erestor intentionally slumped a little more in the saddle. He had succeeded in bringing back one of the great lords of Gondolin, and it may just be Imladris's salvation, but he was keenly aware that Duilin was coming mostly to get Erestor to a healer. Should he realise that Erestor's injury was not as critical as originally assumed, and that he might even make it to Imladris unescorted... Well, it was still quite possible that Duilin would then turn around and head right back home again. Thus, Erestor made sure to groan a bit and call a brief halt every half-hour, though at a pinch he could probably have made do with hourly ones; his mare had smooth paces and did not jostle him badly, and he was an experienced enough rider to minimise the jarring.

The chill that overcame him when evening fell, however, was quite genuine and required no dramatic licence. Still some hours from Imladris, but unable to go on further due to Erestor's violent shivering, Duilin stopped them for the night. He helped Erestor to stretch out on a rug, facing the fire he had built – then, to Erestor's surprise, spooned up behind him. “Fire on one side, Elf on the other,” Duilin murmured gently. “It should help.”

Erestor tried to relax against the iron-hard muscle at his back. It was not particularly difficult; with Duilin's hand resting lightly on his hip, just below the roughly-dressed injury, he felt very safe. To his relief, he managed a few hours' fitful sleep.

***

When he woke, Duilin's warm, reassuring presence had moved away, but aromas of bacon and butter informed him that breakfast was on the way. His stomach, thankfully, seemed to find the scents tantalising rather than objectionable. His side felt hot, sore and tight; terrified of reopening it, he rose with excruciating care, noting that at least he was neither feverish or delirious so far and thanking the Valar for small mercies.

“You look pale,” Duilin observed unnecessarily. “Still, it could be worse.” He returned to tending the cooking. After a prolonged silence, he added, “I appreciate your taking out that Orc, by the way. For a scribe, you have a fine aim and a lot of guts.”

“For a scribe,” Erestor echoed with tired amusement.

“Exactly. Do you think you can eat this morning?”

Erestor nodded immediately; he was ravenous.

It was partway through his bacon that he noticed something had changed. “You are not wearing a dress today.”

Duilin, who had indeed changed into plain leggings and an old but well-kept tunic, rolled his eyes. “It seemed prudent to change if I am going *there*,” he replied in a tone of great woe. “I am told that it diminishes my credibility as a hero of the First Age to parade around in a floral print day dress.”

“Why do you do it at all?” The question had been burning at him for a while but he had been too wary of rebuttal to ask before now.

His reply was a most unladylike snort. “Why do you *not* do it? Personal preference, mainly? That and social convention, I should imagine. Well, I left polite society and therefore freed myself of its absurd conventions about appearance and etiquette.” He shrugged. “Quite simply, I like dresses better. They are more comfortable, and often more practical – especially for fording streams and most particularly for pressing grapes in autumn. And I like how they look.”

Erestor was not sure if that was really the answer he had been expecting to receive. It was evident that Duilin had no desire whatsoever to actually become a woman. He just...liked dresses... Apparently. “I see,” he agreed. He did not, but he supposed there was no accounting for personal taste.

“Perhaps you should try it yourself sometime.”

“Perhaps you should stop giving me advice on how to live my life.” He regretted the acid remark as soon as he said it; it came out sounding far harsher than he had intended. “I am sorry,” he said right away.

“No,” Duilin replied, his voice a little quieter now. “You are right. It is a terrible habit of mine and I should really be the one apologising for it.”He sighed. “Living on one's own, to one's own rules, it is easy to think that one is above the failings of other Elves, that one holds all the solutions. Sometimes I need reminding that in the end, I am still just a choleric old hermit with a penchant for wearing ladies' dresses.”

Erestor smiled at that. “Yes, but I was starting to grow fond of you nonetheless.”