Terms of A-dress
folder
+Third Age › Slash - Male/Male
Rating:
Adult
Chapters:
6
Views:
2,261
Reviews:
1
Recommended:
0
Currently Reading:
0
Category:
+Third Age › Slash - Male/Male
Rating:
Adult
Chapters:
6
Views:
2,261
Reviews:
1
Recommended:
0
Currently Reading:
0
Disclaimer:
I do not own the Lord of the Rings, any of Tolkien's other works, the fandom or any characters within it. I am not making profit from this work.
Epilogue
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!
Epilogue
Erestor sat by a window in the library, the murky afternoon sunlight illuminating the parchment on which he was scribbling hurriedly. His side was healing well now but not quite there yet – but this was far too important to wait until he was fully recovered.
Duilin had eaten ravenously once he had bathed and changed back into the clean dress Erestor had prepared for him. After that, however, he had stretched out on his bed without further conversation, holding Erestor's hand lightly and finally falling asleep like that. He had slept for the remainder of the day and the following night, but upon waking seemed to be in more coherent state of mind; he had willingly curled up with tea and asked Erestor to sit beside him, and then he had begun to talk. He had talked for an over an hour, ignoring the brunch that was brought in for him: about the battle, about death and blood and fear. He had talked of the Elves lost – the numbers were thankfully few, but Erestor was surprised to learn that Duilin knew quite a few of them, in spite of his self-imposed isolation.
The Elf-lord's expression had been drawn throughout, but as he approached the end of his monologue it seemed that giving vent to his unrest had been cathartic. He had relaxed into a contemplative silence then, eyes shadowed with wistful sorrow.
Erestor had remained quiet, sensing that this process of reflection was an important one for Duilin, and wondered who had been party to it in the past. He properly appreciated now that in spite of his irritable and occasionally arrogant exterior, Duilin was an Elf who felt deeply the gravity of war – as might be expected, with his history. It rather highlighted for Erestor that even the heroes of the old tales had started out as ordinary Elves, with fears and failings just as much as everyone else.
“I am going out,” Duilin had said eventually, later that morning. Clearly, Erestor must have looked concerned because Duilin had given him a crooked smile then. “I *will* be back. We still have that bottle of wine to drink, after all. At least, I assume you are still willing to share?”
Left alone, Erestor had found himself at a loss and then had abruptly remembered his job. Lord Elrond would, of course, need this attack chronicling in full. And so he had ended up here, thankful that the clouds that had marred the morning were starting to clear and allow some beams of pale sunlight through the leaded windows as he worked on the half-finished manuscript. Duilin had been gone for a good portion of the day and the sun would set in the next couple of hours; Erestor was starting to wonder if the Elf-lord would be back in time for dinner.
There was a rustling; the stack of finished pages, already blotted to dry the ink and merely awaiting the remainder of the document to join them, were lifted from the desk. “The manuscript is not complete...” Erestor complained, assuming it was one of the librarians “helpfully” taking the pages away to be bound.
“I can see that.” Duilin's tone was unmistakable and mostly back to normal – though less cutting than Erestor had grown accustomed to. He perched on the desk, rearranging his skirt and leaning back, blocking the light from Erestor's work. “Let me see that last page too?” He was leafing through the sheets, sometimes tutting, other times smiling sardonically. “Ah, this one is a good page. Describes the Orcs nicely, does not mention me. The rest...” Sighing, he dropped the sheaf of carefully scribed papers – including the one Erestor had not yet finished – into a nearby fireplace.
Erestor opened and closed his mouth repeatedly as the edges of the parchment sheets curled and singed and scorch-marks spread across the pages. “B...but I have been working on that all afternoon.”
“Trust me, it is better this way,” said Duilin softly. “If word gets about that my appearance might become a regular event, I will never know peace and quiet again. Especially if Lórien start getting interested.”
“But...you knew half the valley already. Everyone saw you yesterday with their own eyes. You cannot just vanish back into obscurity now!”
Duilin grinned, albeit still with a faint sadness beneath the expression. “Can I not? Oh, people will talk, but with no documentation, no material evidence, if I do not reappear any time soon... Well, give them a century or two and they will start to wonder perhaps if they misremembered, or at the very least, assume I must have moved away by now.” He sighed. “Dark times are ahead. They will find themselves with bigger concerns than the minor details of a skirmish a hundred years previously.”
Erestor privately doubted this, but was currently far too preoccupied with trying to accept that Duilin had just flung half a day's work – and a few dozen sheets of expensive parchment – into the fire. He also did not have much opportunity to argue, as it turned out: Duilin had taken his hand (the grazes were now almost fully healed) in his firm grip and was tugging him to his feet. “You can leave all that nonsense now, and come with me. You need to start packing.” His voluminous sleeve fell back slightly and Erestor recognised instantly the scarlet ribbon knotted there. It was a little ragged from battle but still in one piece.
“You are keeping that, then?” he asked as he followed Duilin down the corridor, nodding at the little token.
“Oh yes,” replied Duilin without further explanation.
“So where are we going? And what should I be packing for?” Erestor finally demanded in exasperation when they had all but reached his rooms and Duilin had still offered no information about what was going on.
They entered the modest suite and Duilin locked the door behind him. “Pack for...hmm...we will say three weeks initially. Hardwearing, practical clothes – none of your elegant scribe outfits.” He fingered Erestor's velvet overrobe with a disapproving expression. “Dresses are, of course, fine, but optional.”
“And...where will I be going?” Erestor repeated, an edge of frustration creeping into his tone as he pulled out a bag and started to push clothing items into it.
“Oh, back to mine. I want to teach you a few things. Train you to make you more useful to Lord Elrond – stealth, subterfuge, espionage. Lord Glorfindel and I agree you have what it takes. So...I intend to give you some lessons. Oh, and make hot, mindblowing love to you each evening in front of the fire after doing my exercises.”
Erestor dropped the pair of leggings he was about to fold. “You...what?”
Duilin clicked his tongue and chuckled. “Surely you must have guessed? I know full well you are more than a little interested in me in turn. So we may as well give it a try, whilst I train you up as Lord Elrond's finest and most valuable spy, do you not think?”
Erestor turned around, meeting the eyes of this tall, cocky and extremely unpredictable hero of the First Age, who stood before him in a blue gingham day dress with daisies embroidered along the hem. “I think...I could do worse.”
Duilin kissed him.
~*~THE END~*~
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!
Epilogue
Erestor sat by a window in the library, the murky afternoon sunlight illuminating the parchment on which he was scribbling hurriedly. His side was healing well now but not quite there yet – but this was far too important to wait until he was fully recovered.
Duilin had eaten ravenously once he had bathed and changed back into the clean dress Erestor had prepared for him. After that, however, he had stretched out on his bed without further conversation, holding Erestor's hand lightly and finally falling asleep like that. He had slept for the remainder of the day and the following night, but upon waking seemed to be in more coherent state of mind; he had willingly curled up with tea and asked Erestor to sit beside him, and then he had begun to talk. He had talked for an over an hour, ignoring the brunch that was brought in for him: about the battle, about death and blood and fear. He had talked of the Elves lost – the numbers were thankfully few, but Erestor was surprised to learn that Duilin knew quite a few of them, in spite of his self-imposed isolation.
The Elf-lord's expression had been drawn throughout, but as he approached the end of his monologue it seemed that giving vent to his unrest had been cathartic. He had relaxed into a contemplative silence then, eyes shadowed with wistful sorrow.
Erestor had remained quiet, sensing that this process of reflection was an important one for Duilin, and wondered who had been party to it in the past. He properly appreciated now that in spite of his irritable and occasionally arrogant exterior, Duilin was an Elf who felt deeply the gravity of war – as might be expected, with his history. It rather highlighted for Erestor that even the heroes of the old tales had started out as ordinary Elves, with fears and failings just as much as everyone else.
“I am going out,” Duilin had said eventually, later that morning. Clearly, Erestor must have looked concerned because Duilin had given him a crooked smile then. “I *will* be back. We still have that bottle of wine to drink, after all. At least, I assume you are still willing to share?”
Left alone, Erestor had found himself at a loss and then had abruptly remembered his job. Lord Elrond would, of course, need this attack chronicling in full. And so he had ended up here, thankful that the clouds that had marred the morning were starting to clear and allow some beams of pale sunlight through the leaded windows as he worked on the half-finished manuscript. Duilin had been gone for a good portion of the day and the sun would set in the next couple of hours; Erestor was starting to wonder if the Elf-lord would be back in time for dinner.
There was a rustling; the stack of finished pages, already blotted to dry the ink and merely awaiting the remainder of the document to join them, were lifted from the desk. “The manuscript is not complete...” Erestor complained, assuming it was one of the librarians “helpfully” taking the pages away to be bound.
“I can see that.” Duilin's tone was unmistakable and mostly back to normal – though less cutting than Erestor had grown accustomed to. He perched on the desk, rearranging his skirt and leaning back, blocking the light from Erestor's work. “Let me see that last page too?” He was leafing through the sheets, sometimes tutting, other times smiling sardonically. “Ah, this one is a good page. Describes the Orcs nicely, does not mention me. The rest...” Sighing, he dropped the sheaf of carefully scribed papers – including the one Erestor had not yet finished – into a nearby fireplace.
Erestor opened and closed his mouth repeatedly as the edges of the parchment sheets curled and singed and scorch-marks spread across the pages. “B...but I have been working on that all afternoon.”
“Trust me, it is better this way,” said Duilin softly. “If word gets about that my appearance might become a regular event, I will never know peace and quiet again. Especially if Lórien start getting interested.”
“But...you knew half the valley already. Everyone saw you yesterday with their own eyes. You cannot just vanish back into obscurity now!”
Duilin grinned, albeit still with a faint sadness beneath the expression. “Can I not? Oh, people will talk, but with no documentation, no material evidence, if I do not reappear any time soon... Well, give them a century or two and they will start to wonder perhaps if they misremembered, or at the very least, assume I must have moved away by now.” He sighed. “Dark times are ahead. They will find themselves with bigger concerns than the minor details of a skirmish a hundred years previously.”
Erestor privately doubted this, but was currently far too preoccupied with trying to accept that Duilin had just flung half a day's work – and a few dozen sheets of expensive parchment – into the fire. He also did not have much opportunity to argue, as it turned out: Duilin had taken his hand (the grazes were now almost fully healed) in his firm grip and was tugging him to his feet. “You can leave all that nonsense now, and come with me. You need to start packing.” His voluminous sleeve fell back slightly and Erestor recognised instantly the scarlet ribbon knotted there. It was a little ragged from battle but still in one piece.
“You are keeping that, then?” he asked as he followed Duilin down the corridor, nodding at the little token.
“Oh yes,” replied Duilin without further explanation.
“So where are we going? And what should I be packing for?” Erestor finally demanded in exasperation when they had all but reached his rooms and Duilin had still offered no information about what was going on.
They entered the modest suite and Duilin locked the door behind him. “Pack for...hmm...we will say three weeks initially. Hardwearing, practical clothes – none of your elegant scribe outfits.” He fingered Erestor's velvet overrobe with a disapproving expression. “Dresses are, of course, fine, but optional.”
“And...where will I be going?” Erestor repeated, an edge of frustration creeping into his tone as he pulled out a bag and started to push clothing items into it.
“Oh, back to mine. I want to teach you a few things. Train you to make you more useful to Lord Elrond – stealth, subterfuge, espionage. Lord Glorfindel and I agree you have what it takes. So...I intend to give you some lessons. Oh, and make hot, mindblowing love to you each evening in front of the fire after doing my exercises.”
Erestor dropped the pair of leggings he was about to fold. “You...what?”
Duilin clicked his tongue and chuckled. “Surely you must have guessed? I know full well you are more than a little interested in me in turn. So we may as well give it a try, whilst I train you up as Lord Elrond's finest and most valuable spy, do you not think?”
Erestor turned around, meeting the eyes of this tall, cocky and extremely unpredictable hero of the First Age, who stood before him in a blue gingham day dress with daisies embroidered along the hem. “I think...I could do worse.”
Duilin kissed him.
~*~THE END~*~