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enismirdalTitle: 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 5
It had taken Glorfindel half an hour of bargaining to commandeer the donkey-cart, and now as he was carried up towards the highest lookout post in Imladris, he had to remind himself that the jostling of his broken leg, and the shudders that went right through him when the wheel hit a rock, would all be worth it at the top. The outpost was a semi-fortified peak on the hillside that afforded a truly unparalleled view of the surrounding land – one could see the Trollshaws in the east and on a clear day one could sometimes see the tips of the Ettenmoors to the north. It was undoubtedly the best vantage point in Imladris from which to watch the battle ahead.
Already, the scouts reported that the Orcs had taken heavy losses when the Bruinen surged over them as they forded its broad expanse; Glorfindel had triggered it himself, with perfect timing, he had to admit. Even so, a frightening force still came onwards, and as Glorfindel's borrowed vehicle ascended a little higher, he thought he could see them massing at the base of the chalky slope that he and Duilin had identified as the main battleground. Unbeknownst to the Orcs, the flanking woodland was full of Elven archers posted in the trees, and just where the slope began to plateau and meet up with the final pass leading to Imladris, Duilin was organising the impressive infantry and two units of light cavalry; the horse-archers would be led from the front by Duilin himself.
Glorfindel idly glanced back down the hill suddenly spotted a figure clambering up after them. Urgently, he tugged at the hill-farmer's arm. “Hold, hold!”
The farmer blinked at him, but obeyed – a phlegmatic young Elf, his attitude throughout seemed to be that the Orcs would not be interested in his smallholding or his sheep, and therefore he need not panic about the coming hours. Equally, his reaction to the scrambling figure, who seemed to be pausing an awful lot in his ascent to suck in deep breaths of air, was one of mild disapproval of any Elf who was so ungainly on the hillside.
“Mind if I join you?” gasped Erestor a minute later when he drew closer.
“Erestor, what in Morgoth's name are you doing? You should be in bed! You had no business climbing all that way!”
Erestor muttered something rude as he awkwardly climbed into the wagon beside Glorfindel, panting heavily and letting out a groan of relief when he was able to sit and relax. “And you were of course acting entirely in accordance with the healers' advice?”
Glorfindel chose not to answer, instead asking the farmer to move onwards again. As they completed the ascent, he gestured towards the panorama unfolding within sight. “Should be quite a battle, do you not think? I still wish I could join them, but all things considered I think we should have the next best thing.” He peered at the scene, seeing what he could identify. “Oh, look. You can just about pick out Duilin if you look really hard.” He pointed.
“Thank the Valar for Elven eyes,” said Erestor, following the finger. “A Man would be left guessing. So, what is the battle plan? I missed the meeting, as you may recall.”
“Perhaps you should be quiet and watch,” Glorfindel replied with a smile. They reached the top and the two injured Elves awkwardly manoeuvred themselves out on to the stone pavement that topped the peak. Glorfindel perched himself on the crenellated wall at the edge, glancing down briefly. Everyone assumed that given his history, he should have a problem with heights now, but he never found they fazed him. And here, they were a very long way up, far above all the action as well as at least half a mile away horizontally.
Erestor joined him, seating himself stiffly on the wall beside Glorfindel; the adviser looked uncomfortable, sitting on a wall with only the sheer drop directly below, and further away, the houses and telain of Imladris, the protective fence, the pass and the battlefield. “Oh! Duilin is moving the line forward. They will come into sight of the Orcs any moment!”
Sure enough, a shout went up from the Orcs as the Elven cavalry filed along the pass and rounded the lip of the slope, now visible to the army below. Morgoth's creatures broke into a run, their longer legs covering the ground rapidly, but many stumbled on the chalkier parts of the slope. As they sped up, Duilin signalled to his light cavalry for a controlled advance, the horses breaking simultaneously into a sedate canter once they drew closer.
Glorfindel admired the precision as the ranks of horses forced the Orcs to one side and then moved into a circle formation halfway down the slope and the infantry spread out along the lip. Pairs of riders steered the horses with their legs and as each pair passed the Orcish army, they shot well-aimed arrows on to the enemy before turning suddenly away, leaving two new mounted Elves to take their places. As planned, it resulted into a rain of arrows on to the Orcs and heavy losses; they had to move archers from the front lines and the rear in order to defend the flank.
The infantry rushed forward, engaging the narrowed column of advancing Orcs head-on, but now the Orcish army could not spread wide enough to outflank them and their archers had been moved back to deal with Duilin's vicious cavalry attack. The Elven defenders were hard-pressed, but the distractions further down the slope meant that even with their limited numbers they were able to hold the line.
“Ah, some of the Orcs are starting to split away now, trying to retreat into the forest, away from the cavalry,” Erestor observed. “The forest is defended, I hope?”
“They are, and it is,” Glorfindel agreed coolly. His leg was aching so he shifted position and stretched it out a little. The healers had been nagging him to keep it elevated, but he found it so restrictive having it propped up on a cushion. “Do not worry – it is all part of the plan.”
In their element and far more mobile than Orcs on the soft mosses and slippery leaf-litter of the forest, the archers in the woods sprang to attack; from their vantage point, Glorfindel and Erestor could only see flickers of movement, Orcs falling at the woodland edge and the dark blurs of arrows.
“What about that group there?” Erestor asked suddenly. He indicated a company of Orcs ascending the hill rapidly from their previous rearmost position. Fearlessly, they advanced between the lines beleaguered by cavalry on one side and those that had all but given up fleeing into the death-trap that was the woodland on the other. “They carry heavy armour and bows. I think it is likely they are more of the enhanced breed that attacked us before...”
Watching them, Glorfindel soon agreed. Their formation evidenced good discipline, and their movements were calculated. The “lesser” Orcs – grudgingly – fell back to let them pass.
Duilin had spotted them too, however. A few quick arm signals and his cavalry reformed into a spearhead. Bows abandoned at close range, they charged into the fray, cutting and slashing and beating a line directly towards the group of Orcs.
The enemy tried to take advantage of the cessation of the arrow bombardment from the Elven cavalry and spread wider, but the centre of their company was carnage, Orcs falling to all sides in the face of Duilin's onslaught.
Erestor leaped to his feet, heedless of his injury. “Duilin just got dragged from his horse by an Orc!”
Glorfindel did not comment, waiting a few moments longer...and there it was, Duilin's helmet with its plume of indigo feathers caught the morning sun once more; the Elven lord was back on his feet and the Orc responsible for the mishap was undoubtedly very dead. Now on foot, Duilin was if anything more brilliant. “The swiftest of all the Elves to run and leap...” he murmured, reciting from the old lay. Here was the evidence. Like the flash of sunlight on rippling water, his silver-armoured form jumped, span, danced and lashed out over and over. Some of the other cavalry were unhorsed too, but with Duilin leading them, they still advanced. Fearlessly, it seemed, they engaged these new Orcs. Both sides took injuries, yes, but the ring of destruction around Duilin's band left the outcome in little doubt.
The surviving Orcs, losing ground and organisation, began to retreat down the slope. Glorfindel noted with interest that the leaders were using their inferior comrades to shield them from the arrows from the woodland and the swords of the Elven army. For a moment, he thought he lost sight of Duilin as the Orcs managed a final coordinated charge – Erestor, too, gasped in horror – but the shining head emerged once more from the fray a moment later. He and the other unhorsed cavalry joined up with the infantry line; those still mounted charged downhill in pursuit of the retreating Orcs.
As the Orcs reached the bottom of the slope once more, the final regiment of archers, still fresh, having waited on Duilin's command, rushed from hiding. They eagerly employed a barrage of arrows to herd the Orcs towards the ravine, with the help of the mounted archers. Glorfindel lost sight of them within a short time as they plunged into deeper forest, but he felt it was safe to assume that the Orcs would be decimated and that Imladris was not going to fall today.
He glanced across at a relieved-looking Erestor. “The result we wanted, then.”
“It seems to be,” he agreed, then grinned widely and let go of the edge of the wall; he had been clutching it so hard throughout that his fingers had gone quite white. “We won. Thank the Valar.” More soberly, he added, “Still, there will be a number of families in Imladris who are grieving tonight.”
“But fewer than there might have been,” Glorfindel reminded him. “I have you to thank for that. Well, you and that old bastard down there.” Duilin was organising the Elves who had not gone in pursuit, arranging for the injured to be carried or supported back to the halls of healing. “You did well, coaxing the grumpy bugger out of his hermit-hole. Even if you needed to get stabbed to accomplish it.”
He was rewarded with a coquettish smirk from Erestor. “Just call it dedication to duty.”
Glorfindel ran a hand through his hair and levered himself back upright, checking that the farmer was making his way back to them with the donkey-cart. “Well, my dedicated young friend, we had better be making our slow, limping way back down the hill. I believe we have some heroes to greet.”
***
It was more or less mid-morning by the time Erestor had been returned to Imladris by the long-suffering hill farmer and his donkey. It had taken so long that Duilin had had chance to catch Steadfast off the battlefield – Erestor was surprised he had risked such a valuable stallion in battle, but he supposed the horse had spirit and training to match any of his peers, and barely had a scratch on him now. The Elf-lord was finishing off a very large tankard of water provided by the servants when Erestor made his slow way into the courtyard, and looked grave but, in fact, considerably livelier than Erestor or Glorfindel did as they came over to join him.
Glorfindel leaned close just before they were within earshot of Duilin, moving a little awkwardly because of the way he was balanced on his crutches, to murmur to Erestor, “If you want to cheer him up a little, get a damp cloth and some soap from somewhere and help him clean up. He never did like the post-battle filth. Not that any of us did, of course – it reminds you too much of what has just happened. But Duilin hates it more than most.”
Erestor nodded thanks and caught a servant hurrying past. A few persuasive words and a bowl of hot water, lightly scented with Gondorian lemon, a washcloth and a bar of soap appeared. As Erestor presented the offerings to Duilin by way of greeting, the old warrior smiled. “Good of Glorfindel to put you up to this,” he said, winking at the golden-haired lord and wringing out the cloth. He passed his helmet to Erestor, tugged his hair loose and began to wash the blood and dirt from his hands and face. He moved easily, clearly not concealing any significant injuries; the worst seemed to be a shallow graze on his cheek, just beyond the protection of the helmet.
“As a matter of fact, I would have requested it anyway,” Erestor retorted, but he was grinning. “Good show out there.”
“Could have gone worse,” Duilin agreed. “I am guessing you and the limping blond invalid somehow went up to the lookout post to watch – no doubt against the advice of every healer in this place.”
Erestor opened his mouth to protest, but Duilin cut him off. “...Actually, it was nice to know you were up there, lending your support, since your sword-arms were of no use.” He shrugged out of his armour and tunic, then upturned the bowl and its remaining contents over his head. “Ohhh, that feels good.” Despite his flippant exterior, Erestor could see his eyes were troubled – a natural reaction to the horror and mess of battle, he was sure. His instinct was that Duilin would talk about it, but later, in his own time. “If you want to make yourself useful, Erestor, you can follow me back to my chambers and make sure my blue pinafore is pressed and starched by the time I am finished with my bath.”
Taking that as an invitation, Erestor smiled quietly and followed Duilin as hastily as his physical condition would allow.
Back to Chapter 4
Onwards to the Epilogue...
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 5
It had taken Glorfindel half an hour of bargaining to commandeer the donkey-cart, and now as he was carried up towards the highest lookout post in Imladris, he had to remind himself that the jostling of his broken leg, and the shudders that went right through him when the wheel hit a rock, would all be worth it at the top. The outpost was a semi-fortified peak on the hillside that afforded a truly unparalleled view of the surrounding land – one could see the Trollshaws in the east and on a clear day one could sometimes see the tips of the Ettenmoors to the north. It was undoubtedly the best vantage point in Imladris from which to watch the battle ahead.
Already, the scouts reported that the Orcs had taken heavy losses when the Bruinen surged over them as they forded its broad expanse; Glorfindel had triggered it himself, with perfect timing, he had to admit. Even so, a frightening force still came onwards, and as Glorfindel's borrowed vehicle ascended a little higher, he thought he could see them massing at the base of the chalky slope that he and Duilin had identified as the main battleground. Unbeknownst to the Orcs, the flanking woodland was full of Elven archers posted in the trees, and just where the slope began to plateau and meet up with the final pass leading to Imladris, Duilin was organising the impressive infantry and two units of light cavalry; the horse-archers would be led from the front by Duilin himself.
Glorfindel idly glanced back down the hill suddenly spotted a figure clambering up after them. Urgently, he tugged at the hill-farmer's arm. “Hold, hold!”
The farmer blinked at him, but obeyed – a phlegmatic young Elf, his attitude throughout seemed to be that the Orcs would not be interested in his smallholding or his sheep, and therefore he need not panic about the coming hours. Equally, his reaction to the scrambling figure, who seemed to be pausing an awful lot in his ascent to suck in deep breaths of air, was one of mild disapproval of any Elf who was so ungainly on the hillside.
“Mind if I join you?” gasped Erestor a minute later when he drew closer.
“Erestor, what in Morgoth's name are you doing? You should be in bed! You had no business climbing all that way!”
Erestor muttered something rude as he awkwardly climbed into the wagon beside Glorfindel, panting heavily and letting out a groan of relief when he was able to sit and relax. “And you were of course acting entirely in accordance with the healers' advice?”
Glorfindel chose not to answer, instead asking the farmer to move onwards again. As they completed the ascent, he gestured towards the panorama unfolding within sight. “Should be quite a battle, do you not think? I still wish I could join them, but all things considered I think we should have the next best thing.” He peered at the scene, seeing what he could identify. “Oh, look. You can just about pick out Duilin if you look really hard.” He pointed.
“Thank the Valar for Elven eyes,” said Erestor, following the finger. “A Man would be left guessing. So, what is the battle plan? I missed the meeting, as you may recall.”
“Perhaps you should be quiet and watch,” Glorfindel replied with a smile. They reached the top and the two injured Elves awkwardly manoeuvred themselves out on to the stone pavement that topped the peak. Glorfindel perched himself on the crenellated wall at the edge, glancing down briefly. Everyone assumed that given his history, he should have a problem with heights now, but he never found they fazed him. And here, they were a very long way up, far above all the action as well as at least half a mile away horizontally.
Erestor joined him, seating himself stiffly on the wall beside Glorfindel; the adviser looked uncomfortable, sitting on a wall with only the sheer drop directly below, and further away, the houses and telain of Imladris, the protective fence, the pass and the battlefield. “Oh! Duilin is moving the line forward. They will come into sight of the Orcs any moment!”
Sure enough, a shout went up from the Orcs as the Elven cavalry filed along the pass and rounded the lip of the slope, now visible to the army below. Morgoth's creatures broke into a run, their longer legs covering the ground rapidly, but many stumbled on the chalkier parts of the slope. As they sped up, Duilin signalled to his light cavalry for a controlled advance, the horses breaking simultaneously into a sedate canter once they drew closer.
Glorfindel admired the precision as the ranks of horses forced the Orcs to one side and then moved into a circle formation halfway down the slope and the infantry spread out along the lip. Pairs of riders steered the horses with their legs and as each pair passed the Orcish army, they shot well-aimed arrows on to the enemy before turning suddenly away, leaving two new mounted Elves to take their places. As planned, it resulted into a rain of arrows on to the Orcs and heavy losses; they had to move archers from the front lines and the rear in order to defend the flank.
The infantry rushed forward, engaging the narrowed column of advancing Orcs head-on, but now the Orcish army could not spread wide enough to outflank them and their archers had been moved back to deal with Duilin's vicious cavalry attack. The Elven defenders were hard-pressed, but the distractions further down the slope meant that even with their limited numbers they were able to hold the line.
“Ah, some of the Orcs are starting to split away now, trying to retreat into the forest, away from the cavalry,” Erestor observed. “The forest is defended, I hope?”
“They are, and it is,” Glorfindel agreed coolly. His leg was aching so he shifted position and stretched it out a little. The healers had been nagging him to keep it elevated, but he found it so restrictive having it propped up on a cushion. “Do not worry – it is all part of the plan.”
In their element and far more mobile than Orcs on the soft mosses and slippery leaf-litter of the forest, the archers in the woods sprang to attack; from their vantage point, Glorfindel and Erestor could only see flickers of movement, Orcs falling at the woodland edge and the dark blurs of arrows.
“What about that group there?” Erestor asked suddenly. He indicated a company of Orcs ascending the hill rapidly from their previous rearmost position. Fearlessly, they advanced between the lines beleaguered by cavalry on one side and those that had all but given up fleeing into the death-trap that was the woodland on the other. “They carry heavy armour and bows. I think it is likely they are more of the enhanced breed that attacked us before...”
Watching them, Glorfindel soon agreed. Their formation evidenced good discipline, and their movements were calculated. The “lesser” Orcs – grudgingly – fell back to let them pass.
Duilin had spotted them too, however. A few quick arm signals and his cavalry reformed into a spearhead. Bows abandoned at close range, they charged into the fray, cutting and slashing and beating a line directly towards the group of Orcs.
The enemy tried to take advantage of the cessation of the arrow bombardment from the Elven cavalry and spread wider, but the centre of their company was carnage, Orcs falling to all sides in the face of Duilin's onslaught.
Erestor leaped to his feet, heedless of his injury. “Duilin just got dragged from his horse by an Orc!”
Glorfindel did not comment, waiting a few moments longer...and there it was, Duilin's helmet with its plume of indigo feathers caught the morning sun once more; the Elven lord was back on his feet and the Orc responsible for the mishap was undoubtedly very dead. Now on foot, Duilin was if anything more brilliant. “The swiftest of all the Elves to run and leap...” he murmured, reciting from the old lay. Here was the evidence. Like the flash of sunlight on rippling water, his silver-armoured form jumped, span, danced and lashed out over and over. Some of the other cavalry were unhorsed too, but with Duilin leading them, they still advanced. Fearlessly, it seemed, they engaged these new Orcs. Both sides took injuries, yes, but the ring of destruction around Duilin's band left the outcome in little doubt.
The surviving Orcs, losing ground and organisation, began to retreat down the slope. Glorfindel noted with interest that the leaders were using their inferior comrades to shield them from the arrows from the woodland and the swords of the Elven army. For a moment, he thought he lost sight of Duilin as the Orcs managed a final coordinated charge – Erestor, too, gasped in horror – but the shining head emerged once more from the fray a moment later. He and the other unhorsed cavalry joined up with the infantry line; those still mounted charged downhill in pursuit of the retreating Orcs.
As the Orcs reached the bottom of the slope once more, the final regiment of archers, still fresh, having waited on Duilin's command, rushed from hiding. They eagerly employed a barrage of arrows to herd the Orcs towards the ravine, with the help of the mounted archers. Glorfindel lost sight of them within a short time as they plunged into deeper forest, but he felt it was safe to assume that the Orcs would be decimated and that Imladris was not going to fall today.
He glanced across at a relieved-looking Erestor. “The result we wanted, then.”
“It seems to be,” he agreed, then grinned widely and let go of the edge of the wall; he had been clutching it so hard throughout that his fingers had gone quite white. “We won. Thank the Valar.” More soberly, he added, “Still, there will be a number of families in Imladris who are grieving tonight.”
“But fewer than there might have been,” Glorfindel reminded him. “I have you to thank for that. Well, you and that old bastard down there.” Duilin was organising the Elves who had not gone in pursuit, arranging for the injured to be carried or supported back to the halls of healing. “You did well, coaxing the grumpy bugger out of his hermit-hole. Even if you needed to get stabbed to accomplish it.”
He was rewarded with a coquettish smirk from Erestor. “Just call it dedication to duty.”
Glorfindel ran a hand through his hair and levered himself back upright, checking that the farmer was making his way back to them with the donkey-cart. “Well, my dedicated young friend, we had better be making our slow, limping way back down the hill. I believe we have some heroes to greet.”
It was more or less mid-morning by the time Erestor had been returned to Imladris by the long-suffering hill farmer and his donkey. It had taken so long that Duilin had had chance to catch Steadfast off the battlefield – Erestor was surprised he had risked such a valuable stallion in battle, but he supposed the horse had spirit and training to match any of his peers, and barely had a scratch on him now. The Elf-lord was finishing off a very large tankard of water provided by the servants when Erestor made his slow way into the courtyard, and looked grave but, in fact, considerably livelier than Erestor or Glorfindel did as they came over to join him.
Glorfindel leaned close just before they were within earshot of Duilin, moving a little awkwardly because of the way he was balanced on his crutches, to murmur to Erestor, “If you want to cheer him up a little, get a damp cloth and some soap from somewhere and help him clean up. He never did like the post-battle filth. Not that any of us did, of course – it reminds you too much of what has just happened. But Duilin hates it more than most.”
Erestor nodded thanks and caught a servant hurrying past. A few persuasive words and a bowl of hot water, lightly scented with Gondorian lemon, a washcloth and a bar of soap appeared. As Erestor presented the offerings to Duilin by way of greeting, the old warrior smiled. “Good of Glorfindel to put you up to this,” he said, winking at the golden-haired lord and wringing out the cloth. He passed his helmet to Erestor, tugged his hair loose and began to wash the blood and dirt from his hands and face. He moved easily, clearly not concealing any significant injuries; the worst seemed to be a shallow graze on his cheek, just beyond the protection of the helmet.
“As a matter of fact, I would have requested it anyway,” Erestor retorted, but he was grinning. “Good show out there.”
“Could have gone worse,” Duilin agreed. “I am guessing you and the limping blond invalid somehow went up to the lookout post to watch – no doubt against the advice of every healer in this place.”
Erestor opened his mouth to protest, but Duilin cut him off. “...Actually, it was nice to know you were up there, lending your support, since your sword-arms were of no use.” He shrugged out of his armour and tunic, then upturned the bowl and its remaining contents over his head. “Ohhh, that feels good.” Despite his flippant exterior, Erestor could see his eyes were troubled – a natural reaction to the horror and mess of battle, he was sure. His instinct was that Duilin would talk about it, but later, in his own time. “If you want to make yourself useful, Erestor, you can follow me back to my chambers and make sure my blue pinafore is pressed and starched by the time I am finished with my bath.”
Taking that as an invitation, Erestor smiled quietly and followed Duilin as hastily as his physical condition would allow.
Back to Chapter 4
Onwards to the Epilogue...
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Date: 22 Jul 2010 02:24 (UTC)