Work Text:
Elrond was worrying about something.
Durin sensed it immediately, even though the two of them had known each other but a year. As travelling companions went, Elrond was usually the mildest of company, good humoured even in bad weather, level headed no matter how lost they got. Durin, who was used to much more argumentative and short tempered travelling companions (namely his brothers and extended family) found it a welcome change. After a while he'd begun deliberately seeking out Elrond and they'd gone on many trips together, journeying across Middle Earth often just for the pleasure of doing so.
But now, as they made camp on their third day into a tour of the Misty Mountains, Durin could tell – Elrond was worrying.
Elves were usually quite impassive of course, and Elrond was no exception, although he was a little more inclined to smile than most Elves. But now he was – for want of a better word – restless. He'd picked at dinner (roasted rabbit and some stringy beans) and now, while they sat by the fire and Durin was regaling him with one of his many adventures, he was practically squirming in his seat. Durin soldiered on with his story for a while, but it was clear Elrond wasn't paying any attention.
“Aulë's beard, what has gotten into you?” he snapped, interrupting his own story. “You're fidgeting worse than when my brother had those fire ants down his pants.”
Elrond smiled, but it was a touch forced. “It's nothing,” he said. “I'm fine.”
“Yes, you sound very convincing.” Durin sat forward, arms crossed. “Come on, out with it.”
Durin had always suspected he'd make a good father – he already had the tone of voice down pat. Elrond struggled for a bit, shoving his hands under his knees in an oddly guilty move.
“You'll think it ridiculous,” he said at last.
“I won't know what I'll think until you tell me, will I,” Durin reasoned, and in his heart of hearts thought Aulë, please don't have him tell me our friendship was a mistake. Because their friendship was odd, Durin knew that. Elves and Dwarves didn't get on – it was a basic fact. When they were forced to interact, they did so grudgingly and with many misunderstandings and prejudice on both sides. They didn't enjoy each other's company. But Elrond and Durin did, they had since day one. It made no sense to either of them, but there it was. Elrond was the cool water that quenched Durin's flame forged anger, and Durin was the glitter of gold in the grey rock of Elrond's world.
But Durin knew, even though it hadn't been long, that there had to be pressures surrounding their companionship. He'd experienced it himself, mutterings from other Dwarves that he was too friendly with the Elves. Maybe the Elves had demanded Elrond break it off.
Elrond was eyeing Durin with a strange expression. He shifted in his seat for a moment more, while Durin held his tongue with a sinking heart, and then blurted out his secret all at once.
“Have you ever braided your beard?”
Durin blinked. “What?”
Elrond removed a hand from under his knee to wave a bit uselessly at Durin's beard. “It's so long. Do you braid it?”
Durin must have been looking at Elrond with an aghast expression, because Elrond bit his lip. “I'm sorry – if I transgressed some kind of – ”
“What?” Durin said again. “No, no, it's not that.” He stared at Elrond. “I thought you were – ”
He stopped. Now it was Elrond's turn to stare. “What?”
“Nothing.” Durin shook off his unease like it was an old coat. Of course Elrond wasn't going to break their friendship. “And in answer to your question, no. Dwarves don't braid, that's something Elves with too much time on their hands do.”
Elrond fidgeted. “It's more than just a way to pass the time. Braids...can hold meaning. Significance.”
Durin surveyed his friend with a serenity that usually came from Elrond's side of their partnership. The silly Elf was still shuffling around, and he'd trapped at least one hand under his leg altogether, clutching at his knee with the other one. Durin watched his hands flexing nervously and came to a realisation.
“Elrond,” he said gently. “Do you want to braid my beard?”
Elrond slumped in relief. “Yes. Can I? Really?”
Durin shrugged, nonplussed. “If you really want...” he started, but Elrond was practically scrambling around the campfire to sit beside him and examine Durin's beard more closely. He smiled softly at Durin's bafflement.
“I'm sorry,” he said. “Your beard is just such a nice colour and texture, it's perfect for braiding. I wanted to ask but I feared you'd think I was strange.”
“I do think you're strange,” Durin countered, with a grin. “But you don't have to hide your strangeness from me.”
Elrond looked up from where he'd been studying Durin's beard. “No,” he said. “I don't, do I.”
It was not a question, and Durin knew then that he could make just as bizarre a request if he wanted and Elrond would venture to understand as well. That was how good the communication between them was. One always made an effort to know the other.
He grinned at Elrond. “Go on then, Elf. Get on with it.”
Elrond paused. “I have a comb in my bag, if I could...?”
Durin shrugged again. He only ever combed his hair and beard in formal situations – in the wilds it picked up bits of leaf, twig and food on a regular basis. Elrond left briefly, recovered his bag and then returned with a wide toothed wooden comb, positioning himself carefully in front of Durin so he was able to reach all of his beard.
And then they began. Durin braced himself for an uncomfortable ripping of knots but Elrond was incredibly gentle, painstakingly picking every tangle apart with careful fingers. It was steady, peaceful work, and they lapsed into a companionable silence, broken only by the crackling of the campfire and the rustling of the trees above. Durin found himself, against all odds, relaxing.
He peered down at Elrond. The Half-Elf was concentrating hard on his task with a focus that he usually only reserved for speech writing or difficult puzzles. Durin supposed he should be gratified that his beard was the subject of such attention, although the whole thing still seemed a mite bizarre.
This is an Elf thing, he thought. I will never quite grasp the concept. But I can try.
“What's so meaningful about braids anyway?” he asked. This granted him a glance upwards and a small smile from Elrond.
“Sometimes they don't mean anything,” Elrond said, tackling a particularly gnarly knot at the end of Durin's beard which resembled a bird's nest. “Sometimes it is just for practical reasons. A braid can keep your hair out of your face if you're an archer, or remove distractions when you fight.”
“Or mine rock,” Durin said, imagining how easy it would be to swing an axe in a confined underground space if you didn't have to worry about your beard flying everywhere.
Elrond flashed him another smile. “Or mine rock,” he echoed, and sat back. Durin looked down. Somehow the birds nest of a tangle had fallen apart in his fingers and Durin's beard was looking smooth and glossy.
Durin grunted. “Looks good.”
“I've just laid the groundwork,” Elrond said. “Now we must decide on a braid.”
“And how do we do that?” Durin asked.
Elrond hummed. “A braid should reflect the person. In your case, I would suggest something simple but effective, uncomplicated but powerful.”
Durin nodded. “A Dwarf's beard is a symbol of their strength and vitality. It is a matter of great pride. It is often trimmed but rarely cut.”
“Then we must make sure the braid is as strong as the beard,” said Elrond. “Like the Dwarf beneath the beard.” And he gave Durin an oddly shy little smile, and set to work.
This time there was no comb, but Elrond simply raked his fingers along Durin's beard, separating it into three sections, all the while humming some slow, measured Elven song beneath his breath.
“What's the song?” Durin asked, interrupting him.
“It's about a mighty battle long ago,” Elrond said. “Part of the braiding process can be to invoke a song that embodies the braid. To give it...a memory, I suppose. Of what it should be.”
Durin grunted. “Elves will take any opportunity to sing.”
“Not half as much as Dwarves with a few ales in them,” Elrond countered, and they grinned at each other, the braid momentarily forgotten, Durin's hair tangled between Elrond's fingers.
For a second, Elrond paused. Then he said, apparently apropos of nothing, “The singing is usually only done with a friend. Which is why I sing it with you.”
Something in Durin's chest tightened. They'd never actually called each other that before, although Durin had been thinking of Elrond in those terms for months. “We're friends?” he said, and his voice was a little sharper than he'd meant it to be.
Elrond flashed him a slightly nervous look. “If you wish it.”
“I wish it,” said Durin a bit too quickly. “I mean. Yes.”
And Elrond beamed. It was like the sun had come out in their little campsite, in the middle of the night. Durin had never been much of a fan of sunlight, but he basked in this.
“My heart sings to hear it,” Elrond said, and returned to his braiding whilst Durin was still blinking from the force of his happiness, his voice once more returning to song.
Durin half closed his eyes and relaxed into the feeling of Elrond's hands so gently and deftly curling his hair together, the auburn strands sliding through his fingers like flames on still water. He was working slowly but efficiently, expertly weaving Durin's hair into a long, strong braid. It looked simple enough to Durin but he knew complex things often appeared that way.
“Could indeed prove useful in the mines,” Durin said, as quietly as possible so as not to disturb Elrond's singing. “You'll have to teach me how to do it.”
Elrond's singing stopped abruptly, his fingers faltering. Durin opened his eyes properly and glanced down. Elrond's head was lowered, his hair falling forward over his face, but the tips of his ears had gone suspiciously pink.
“What?” said Durin. “What did I say?”
Elrond shook his head and raised his face, though he was not quite looking Durin in the eyes. “Nothing. It's nothing. Yes, of course I can teach you.”
Durin frowned. “It's obviously not nothing. Did I say something wrong?”
The pink on the tips of Elrond's ears deepened, and his eyes flitted from Durin, around the campsite, and back to Durin again. Durin shot him a questioning look, which made Elrond smile and relax a little.
“You said nothing wrong,” he reassured Durin, returning to the braid with quick fingers. “It's just that whilst braiding another's hair is done between friends, teaching a braid can be a little more...”
He paused delicately, but Durin had got the gist. “Intimate?”
The pink spread from Elrond's ears to his cheekbones. He cleared his throat and nodded. “But we can – ” he started, just as Durin said, “We don't have to – ”
They both stopped and looked at each other. The blush on Elrond's face had darkened to red. There was a laugh bubbling up in Durin which he attempted to choke down, only to spy the corners of Elrond's mouth twitching, which promptly set him off. The next thing he knew they were both giggling like children, a shade of hysteria in their laughter.
“You really don't have to,” Durin said, but Elrond was shaking his head, and even though he was as red as Durin's beard, he said, “I'd like to. May I?”
Durin paused, wondering if he should really be doing this, but curiosity got the better of him. Besides, it would be good to know how to braid for himself. “All right,” he said.
Elrond nodded. “Give me your hands.”
Durin stared at him. Elrond grinned. “You wanted to learn. Give me your hands.”
Durin obeyed, although his pulse had started hammering in his neck for some strange, unknowable reason. Elrond took his hands in an achingly light grip and guided them to the unfinished ends of Durin's beard. “Now take that strand in one hand – yes, like that – between finger and thumb, and then this hand goes here – ” And so he taught Durin, simply and with great patience, merely laying his hands on Durin's when he had got something wrong and directing him as to what to do. Together they braided, unbraided and then rebraided Durin's beard until Durin had got the hang of it, and his head was spinning from Elrond's tender touch.
“There,” Elrond said, once Durin had finished the braid for the fifth time. “Perfect.” And he looked up at Durin to smile at him, and all at once Durin realised how close their faces were.
Both of them froze. The red in Elrond's face melted into a pretty pink and Durin's heart hammered against his ribs. Their hands remained clasped together, still tangled in Durin's auburn hair, and yes, the Elves were right, it was more intimate. Durin had no idea what to do next.
Then, with great gentleness, Elrond extricated his hands from Durin's and the spell was reluctantly broken. “You can braid with the best of the Elves now,” he said, and sat back grinning, and the campsite floated back into Durin's vision with all the mundane normality that came with it.
Durin sat back too, embracing the real world with a little desperation. “I doubt that,” he said wryly. “But thank you.”
“Any time,” said Elrond, and then paused, like he had not quite meant to promise that. Durin, unable to resist, smiled at him.
“I'll hold you to that, Elf,” he said, and watched Elrond fidget in his seat for a completely different reason to earlier with no small sense of glee.
Carefully, they lapsed back into their old routine. The fire was burning low and Elrond poked at it with a stick. Durin turned his attention back to his beard, carefully braiding it through once again and humming an old Dwarven battle song to give his braid all the strength of a warrior.
When he looked up again, perhaps half an hour later, Elrond had closed his eyes, sat back in his seat and was listening to Durin's song with a fondness on his face that Durin suspected he'd worn when Elrond had been singing. And that was the moment that Durin decided, no matter who complained or what happened, he would always remain friends with Elrond.
He looked down at his braid and decided to start over again. He had the whole evening to get it right, after all.