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!

---

Chapter 4





Erestor's injury was showing the first signs of infection when they finally reached Imladris; although Duilin had diligently cleaned and redressed it several times a day, the Orc blade had gone deep even if it had missed everything crucial. Erestor was extremely relieved to know he would soon be in the hands of fully trained and equipped healers, even if it would not be Lord Elrond himself.



Though he had stubbornly sat rod-straight in the saddle through the remainder of the journey, he was unprepared for the weakness that overcame his legs when he dismounted in one of the elegant, familiar courtyards. Luckily, Duilin's arm appeared around his shoulders to steady him. “Let us get you to the healers,” he said gently. “I suppose you had better lean on me.”



Erestor had no objections to this idea and accepted the support the rest of the way to the halls of healing. He was not paying a great deal of attention to his surroundings, but did start to become aware of a couple of astonished glances directed at Duilin. He realised then that on their last stop outside Imladris, his companion had donned a deep purple and black tabard embroidered with the arrowhead emblem of the House of the Swallow in Gondolin. Any Elf with half an education could not fail to recognise the device. He truly was in the company of a hero.



Not just that, but said hero ended up answering most of the questions asked by Elrond's deputy healer. Erestor was sure he knew the answers, but found himself alternating between convulsing with shivers and burning up from the inside outwards and, to his enormous frustration, was utterly unable to concentrate. He was aware of the being helped on to a bed and Duilin assisting in unfastening his tunic. The Lord of the Swallow was conversing matter-of-factly with the healer, but the words had stopped making sense...



He never did work out if the kiss he remembered Duilin pressing to his forehead was a genuine recollection of merely a fabrication of his fever-addled imagination.



***



“Oh, I wish I had been there to see that!” Glorfindel idly traced his fingers down Duilin's bare chest, his sweat-soaked golden hair clinging in fetching curls to his forehead. “An Elf-lord of old in a misshapen day dress and that dreadful hat of yours, descending on a group of Orcs with sword in hand and a valiant cry on his lips...”



Duilin smiled wryly, shifting a little to make himself more comfortable on Glorfindel's very large bed amid the velvet cushions. “I suspect it might have been something of a sight. Though not as much as that adviser running out from behind a bush hollering, and then hurling a knife at one of them!”



“I think I will be keeping an eye on that adviser,” Glorfindel remarked. “It sounds as if he has initiative, and potential...”



“As what? He is no guard captain. A spy, perhaps...”



Glorfindel arched an eyebrow, then leaned in and kissed Duilin's jaw. “Well, if the rumours that you trained spies for Turgon are true, I think you would be the expert on that and not me... I will give it some thought.”



“You do that.” Something in Duilin's tone piqued Glorfindel's interest. But he could not quite pin it...



Duilin had apparently tired of the conversation now, however, and had let his groping of Glorfindel's backside morph seamlessly into examining his injured leg. “A fine mess you made of that,” he said.



The one thing that had remained constant in their peculiar and intermittent – and largely physical – relationship was the refreshing frankness they both felt free to use with one another. Glorfindel smiled now at Duilin's candour. “Very much so. But the healers think it should heal well so long as I stay off it.”



Duilin snorted. “Oh, the naïve creatures. If that is what it will need, they should have amputated there and then and been done with it. Back in Gondolin, one of my captains...” He was shushed by Glorfindel's hand on his mouth.



“I always forget how you do go on!” he laughed. “So much wisdom on how to put the world to rights, and yet you choose to seclude yourself...”



“I am not going to defend my decision for the umpteenth time.”



“Of course not. But I can take your continuing presence here after two full days as an indication that you are at least considering attending tomorrow's strategy meeting and then helping us to tackle this Orc problem.”



Duilin rolled on to his side, giving Glorfindel's nipple an affectionate tweak. “That crazy little adviser of yours did make quite a convincing case for why I would be indispensable.” He frowned. “And I believe that the Dark Lord's efforts to improve the Orcish breed are being redoubled. Those I met at the cottage were...different...from the Orcs of the old days. Two, especially so.”



“Different how?”



“For one thing, they were all out in daylight and did not seem overly uncomfortable with it,” Duilin mused. “And they were...faster. Smarter. Sharper. More agile. They fought with intelligent tactics as well as just brute force. You will need to make sure your men are prepared for that, or they will be caught off-guard and the results then would not be pretty.”



Glorfindel looked at Duilin thoughtfully. “In that case, yes, they need to be thoroughly briefed. They should not underestimate the enemy they face. But I do not think that will affect our overall strategy all that much. In the end, we are still outnumbered and desperately need to avoid a pitched battle unless there is no other way. Our priorities are to use the geography to our advantage, and make best use of our strengths: our archers, cavalry and stealth attacks.”



“That river of Elrond's should take care of those attacking from the west,” Duilin observed. “I know you are as able as he is to trigger the torrent if you choose.”



“When fully fit, yes. I am a little less...focused...at present.”



“You will manage. And not all the Orcs will find the inner realms of the valley, of course. Some will be thrown off the track by the wards in the woodlands and mountains.”



Glorfindel scowled. “But plenty enough will get through that there is still potential for disaster.”



“But we will be prepared.”



“So we hope.” With the scouts' reports suggesting a large, semi-organised army advancing at speed, Glorfindel found he was unable to maintain the mask of confidence any longer and heard the uncertainty in his own voice.



“Trust me,” purred Duilin, rolling to straddle Glorfindel's hips in such a way as to keep the pressure off his broken leg, then kissing him soundly. “I have a plan, and I will make it work for you.”



***



Glorfindel stared at the hastily-constructed terrain model that stood in Elrond's office. Duilin seemed utterly confident and rather pleased with himself, but Glorfindel retained a certain scepticism. The arrangement of wards, ambush parties and some conveniently felled trees would force the Orcs to mount their attack on a steep slope leading up towards one of the few passes entering Imladris. If they then reacted as Duilin predicted, the Elven cavalry and foot-soldiers – led by Duilin – could drive them back down the hill with a well-timed charge and judicious use of mounted archers. More archers hidden before then in the woods would herd the Orcs along winding paths through thick forest and then directly down that blind-ended ravine – and then victory would be virtually assured.



It was a risky plan, involving careful synchronisation of attacks and the element of surprise. The concealed units of archers had to trust Duilin completely, and hold back until he issued the order, or the Orcs may well choose to continue charging uphill and wreak havoc on Imladris rather than retreating into the trap. It also meant that only half the forces of Imladris would be involved in direct confrontation on the hill; the rest would be positioned in trees and hiding places in the vegetation, and how much fighting they would each see would depend on the way the Orcs scattered or retreated.



“You still look unconvinced.”



Glorfindel sighed. “Yes, but it is better than any other plan we have. I am willing to try it if you are willing to lead the Elves into battle. I have spoken to them, and most if not all are overawed by the opportunity to march with you.”



Duilin's expression did not betray much about how he felt about this. “I guess I had better not let them down. Which means I should go and start preparing now. Have you checked on that mad little adviser recently?”



“The healers say he is sleeping now, but should wake before too long. The infection came under control quickly – his fever was overexertion as much as anything.”



“Then I suppose we should take that as a good omen.” Giving Glorfindel a thoughtful smile, Duilin poked the model one last time and left.



Glorfindel tried to imagine what the situation in Imladris would be this time tomorrow. So many outcomes were possible. The scouts reported that the Orcs should reach the river at dusk tonight, and if they travel through the night they should be on the slope by dawn. It would be an early start for the Elven armies.



He just wished he could be out there among them, to watch if nothing else.



His gaze wandered, alighting on one of the hill-farmers who kept livestock on the steep hillsides around Imladris – they were honest, hardworking Elves and generally kept out of the politics and administrative meetings that took up so much time for those Elves more central to the running of the valley. This particular farmer was leading a little grey donkey up a crumbling scree slope; the small beast was harnessed to a cart full of animal fodder. Uncomplaining, she kept her head down and, sure-footed despite the terrain, hardly stumbled as she ascended with her heavy load. That cart could carry an injured Elf or two up to one of the lookout posts on the higher peaks...



***



Erestor woke early that evening feeling refreshed. Thankfully, he no longer felt either too hot or too cold, and his injury could definitely be categorised as “very uncomfortable” rather than “agonising”. Blinking the world back into focus, he registered that he was not alone, but he barely recognised the tall Elf sitting beside his bed. Duilin was absolutely resplendent in a sparkling replica of the armour from his days as a lord of Gondolin, his hair bound up tightly beneath the shining helmet with its fan of purple feathers. (Erestor could only imagine how Glorfindel must have looked when Duilin no doubt pointed out the wisdom of braiding one's hair tightly before battle.) He was smiling, and Erestor found himself unwittingly smiling back. “Leaving soon?” he asked. His voice sounded hoarse but could have been worse.



“I am leading the cavalry – including the mounted archers – out two hours before dawn. None of us are going to be able to sleep tonight, I daresay, so instead I chose to get everyone assembled in anticipation.”



“I suppose I should wish you luck.”



Duilin gave him a withering look. “This battle will not be decided by luck, you know. My strategy will either work, or it will not. And that simply depends on how good it is.”



“Nonetheless, good luck.” Erestor started to sit up, realising he really did feel much improved. “You know, I am not feeling too bad. There is probably still time for me to get some food into my stomach, then dress and join the foot soldiers. I can handle a short bow, and you know I am not entirely incompetent with knives...”



Duilin's hand pushed him firmly back down on to the bed. “You will do nothing of the sort, you posturing, invalid idiot. Do you really think that swelling my numbers by one is worth taking on the liability of an Elf so unsteady he would probably faint in the first charge? No; if you were uninjured I would perhaps find a use for you, but right now you are more useful to me resting. I may have need of you in a different context, in the not too distant future.”



“What for?” Erestor shifted a little, and had to acknowledge that he was still distressingly weak.



Duilin smiled cryptically. “We can talk about that later.”



Realising he was unlikely to get any more information from Duilin on the subject, Erestor turned his attention to the rest of the room and his eyes were drawn towards a small bottle of wine standing on the table by his bed. “Did you bring this?”



Duilin shrugged. “I had already mentioned wine-pressing to you, had I not? There is a south-facing slope near my cottage that traps the sun gloriously, and I grow a few rows of vines there. I get perhaps a dozen bottles from it each year; most of them I trade out to Imladris, but I talked to Lord Glorfindel nicely and begged one back for you.”



“Huh.” A little confused, Erestor lifted it awkwardly. “Should I be flattered?”



“You could be.” Duilin's smile was almost playful.



Erestor tugged at the scarlet ribbon bound artistically around the bottle's neck, freeing it. Then he reached over and retied the ribbon on Duilin's wrist. “Then I would like you to wear this, and remember how I am missing out on all the valour and glory...”



“...and blood and guts and danger and tragedy,” Duilin replied quietly. However, he made no move to take the ribbon off.



“That too,” Erestor agreed. “And you can help me drink that wine when this is over.”



As if seized by a sudden impulse, Duilin leaned in and kissed Erestor's cheek. “I look forward to it.”