Tom stretched out on his side, sleepily aware of his body’s movement against warm bare skin that was pressed to his. Gradually he came to full awareness of his arm cradled across Barard’s chest, lifting and falling with his slow even breaths, and of the entanglement of their legs. The scent of their loving reminded him why the bedclothes were so disordered, and he inhaled deeply, feeling the resisting weight of Barard’s arm that mirrored his own. He smiled, still full of sleep. This was all he ever wanted in life, to wake with his love beside him.
He was tempted to lazily nuzzle and stroke Barard to wakefulness and desire, but Barard was not at his best in the early morning, and Tom had another agenda today. Today was special. He eased his legs free, and struggled briefly with the sheet that twisted about him. As he slipped from the bed, Barard made a small noise of protest and reached after him, but Tom could see that his love wasn’t really awake. He sat on the edge of the bed, smoothing red-gold hair back from Barard’s face to kiss his brow. That, and the sheets tucked firmly back in place, were all that was needed for Barard to settle back into sleep. Fine lines around his eyes would deepen in laughter once he was awake, showing the passage of their years together, but in Tom’s mind the maturity of Barard’s face only added to his Tookish good looks.
Tom sighed and tore his gaze away. He ignored the clean clothes that Hanril had left neatly folded on the chest at the foot of their large bed, and instead pulled on the trousers and tunic he had worn the day before. He would take a trip to the baths later with Barard, and the freshly scented linens would complete his feeling of cleanliness. For now, he just wanted to be out to the market early in the day, to look for the best ingredients for the supper he planned.
Carrying a basket, he stepped out into the early morning light, and stood looking out over the city wall towards the mountains of shadow in the east. The distant ridge was tinged with a red glow from the sun rising beyond and as yet unseen. He cursed softly; he was not as early as he’d thought and the market was likely to be busy already. He took the steps down to street level at a run, and dodged the water flowing past in the gutter.
He called out good morning to the street cleaner, who raised a hand in salutation. The sweet tang of horse manure hung on the air, and Tom could see the barrow piled with dung, the street cleaner’s shovel leaning against it. He slipped through the narrow alleys, where night had barely been dispelled by the growing light and where the paving stones were cold under foot, and emerged into the busy main thoroughfare. While the way was not crowded, there were enough people that he had to keep his wits about him, his small stature and bare feet a disadvantage amongst the Big People. At each of the gates, but especially the lower levels, the crowding increased as there was a certain amount of jostling for position, and Tom’s basket came in handy as a defensive weapon.
‘ ’Ware Halfling!’ cried one of the guards, pulling a burly man away as he was about to tread back on Tom’s toes. The guard held back the crowd a little to let Tom slip through the tall gate. ‘No, no, don’t stop to thank me now,’ he called as Tom hesitated. ‘Take a breather on your way back, and tell me how your good-father is. You’re late this morning! Too much time spent rumpling the sheets last night, I’ll warrant.’
Tom laughed and nodded. He saw no point in denying what was no more than the truth. All the guards of the city regarded Halflings as under their protection, but seemed to view his relationship with Barard as meet and proper for bawdy comment. He didn’t mind, and rather liked the way they considered Pippin his good-father, as though the bond were established in law. The old Thain didn’t seem to mind either, nodding his head when he heard himself referred to that way, and joking that Tom was a Goodchild, if only through his grandmother, Bell.
Down in the wide first circle, movement became easier again, and Tom set about making his purchases. His first stop was for vegetables, and he wandered between the stalls until he found Iorlan. To Tom’s surprise, Iorlan was not alone. An old man sat beside him, watching Tom with a rheumy eye.
Tom looked over what Iorlan had to offer and smiled at the man. ‘Good, you have everything I need. How is your wife?’
‘Better. I’ll tell her you asked. This is my father.’
Tom had guessed as much, although it was harder to guess an age; the old man looked about a hundred to him, which probably meant he was nearer eighty. With the exception of the King, men didn’t seem to weather the years as well as hobbits. Tom bowed to the old man, but had no chance to greet him politely because Iorlan was running on. ‘Tom here is a Halfling, like in the old tales.’
‘I can see that!’ exclaimed the father, and Tom couldn’t blame him for the sharpness of his voice; he could imagine what his old da would have had to say if he had spoken to him like that, as though he were in his dotage. The old man peered at him. ‘You’re Sam’s son,’ he said. ‘I’ve seen your father.’ He sat back, looking smug at Iorlan’s expression. ‘First time, I was just a bit of a lad, running errands for the city during the War. Four of them there were, and one of them your father. I hear there’s one living in the city still, the one we called ernil i pheriannath. He was a one for the ladies, by all accounts.Your father, now, he was a cock as strutted both ways, from what I saw of him.’
For a moment Tom didn’t know what he was talking about, but Iorlan’s red face and horrified spluttering made the meaning clear. ‘You can’t go saying things like that,’ the stallholder choked, probably not wanting to give offence to a good customer, but his father wasn’t to be silenced.
‘You never saw the Ring-bearer without him, you know,’ he said, waving his son’s protests aside. ‘Never. It was the day of our King’s wedding I realised why.’ He leant back in his seat and pointed high up towards the upper levels of the city. ‘Up there. I was running an errand for the Master of Ceremonies and nearly ran slap-bang into them. Kissing, they were, just as though they weren’t blocking a main thoroughfare.’ He laughed. ‘It’s where their statue stands now, and that made him laugh.’
‘Who? Who laughed?’ asked Tom, fascinated by this memory. All he really knew about Frodo of the Ring’s love for his da was gleaned from the letter he’d been allowed to read.
‘Why, your father - Sam the Gardener. That was the next time I saw him, when I was a young man. There he was, laughing at where they’d put the statue, his arm around a pretty matron as was fair blooming, and a lovely lass at his side who reminded me of the t’other, the Ring-bearer, the one who went over seas with the Elves, if stories are to be believed.’
‘You’re making it all up, father,’ said Iorlan, but he was looking at Tom as he said it, apology writ large across his anxious face.
‘Do you remember any more?’ asked Tom eagerly, ignoring Iorlan.
‘Next I saw him, he had a babe in arms.’
‘That would have been me,’ said Tom, delighted. ‘I was born here, on Midsummer’s day. My eldest sister Elanor was Maid of Honour to the Queen. When I came back here, and saw the sunrise on the White Tower, I felt as though I’d come home, although I didn’t have any memory of it before. It’s good to know about the statue. I always thought it was a strange place to put it.’
‘I’ve not seen it in years. It’s not often I come to the city now, and even rarer I’d be in the sixth level. It’s a good likeness, as far as my memory serves me.’
Tom nodded. ‘Yes, it’s a good likeness.’ He resolved to go and see it again later in the day, but for now he took pity on Iorlan’s conciliatory bobbing, and settled to the matter in hand: asparagus, though his da would disapprove of its coming to the pan with such a delay after harvesting, but it couldn’t be helped; mushrooms, plenty of those, and he chose the closed cupped ones, their pinkish gills just visible, for making a light sauce; and new potatoes, to be cooked with mint grown in a pot in their small courtyard, then rolled around the pan with a knob of butter while still hot. He looked the fruit over carefully. Too early for strawberries, but the rhubarb was still looking young and tender. He mentally checked over the contents of his store cupboard. Cinnamon - yes he had that, but some cream was needed if he was going to make a rhubarb and cinnamon flan.
Tom completed his purchases with visits to the pastry cook, the poulterer and the dairy, and included some of the blue-veined Lossarnach cheese he was offered to taste. Wine they had a good store of, and there was no need to buy any today. He deposited his basket with the carter, and went to inspect the ponies penned near the main gate, close to where scaffolding had been raised against the wall. Stonemasons could be heard faintly calling to each other as they carried out repairs.
Tom climbed up to look over the top rail of the ponies’ enclosure. He hated peering through the bars, it made him feel like a small hobbitling. His friend Borondir the horse dealer came to lean on the fence beside him, and his weight made the wood creak.
‘I thought you wouldn’t make it in time,’ Tom said, looking up at him.
‘I promised, didn’t I?’ replied the dealer.
‘Yes, but there are many chances on the road that could have delayed you,’ answered Tom. ‘I wouldn’t have held it against you, but I’m glad you’re here. That’s a nice mare - the chestnut one over there.’
‘Ah, I thought you’d spot her. She’s had a saddle on, but she’s a bit skittish. Nothing you can’t handle, though. Maybe something a little quieter for your Barard. He doesn’t have your way with horses.’
‘Maybe not, but he’s still good with them. I’ll bring him down later, and let him choose, but can you hold her back, not sell her in the meantime? If he’s prepared to be patient and school her a little first - ’
‘Barard, patient! Now that I’d like to see,’ said Borondir in disbelief.
Tom laughed. ‘He can be, you know.’ He watched the ponies milling around for a little longer. There was no doubt that the mare was the best of the bunch, although loud noises from the repair works close by caused her to startle. He glanced up at the sun and jumped down. ‘Time I was heading home. I’ll see you later.’
The day was getting warm, and Tom was sweating as he climbed the winding road back to the sixth level. He was glad that he had sent his purchases ahead, and equally glad to rest with the guards and give them news of Pippin. In truth, it was hard to know what to say. The old Thain was getting very frail in body, for all that he was as sharp as ever in his mind.
‘I’ve heard he’s not been to watch the new recruits drilling this past week or more,’ said one of the guards.
‘He’s been in pain,’ said Tom, ‘but he’s getting about more now. I suggested a litter, but he wouldn’t hear of it. He’s not really been well since Captain Meriadoc died, though he won’t admit it.’ Tom knew Barard was worried about his father, and he hoped that Pippin would join them for supper. He accepted a drink, and felt his stomach growl with hunger. Time to get the long climb over.
It was as he came through the sixth gate, sidestepping for one of the king’s messengers riding in haste, that he was hailed by a familiar but unexpected voice. He whirled round.
‘Legolas!’
The Elf laughed at his surprise. ‘Good morning, Tom. You thought me far away, I see.’ He knelt on one knee, and they hugged in greeting.
‘Well, yes, and it’s a long time since we’ve seen you, though maybe it doesn’t seem like it to you. Pippin will be pleased; he says you’re an honorary hobbit, did you know?’
‘Yes, I know. “The only elf to unbend enough to hug me,” I think were his words. I was on my way to see him. How is he?’
‘Since you were last here? You’ll see the difference, I think,’ said Tom sadly. ‘But, well, you know Pippin, he makes the best of it, and still finds plenty to laugh at. Hanril will have been in to see him this morning; we’ll ask him if he’s up yet.’
‘Hanril?’
‘Oh, it has been a long time! Hanril has been our servant since forever. We had a few who didn’t suit, but Hanril is perfect.’ They climbed the stairs to the front door, and Tom bowed Legolas within. Hanril appeared immediately to take the Elf’s travelling cloak, with just a flicker of interest in his eyes. Tom watched Legolas, and sighed inwardly as the elf’s expression became bland and noncommittal. He decided now was not a good time to practice his Southron, and Hanril had apparently come to the same conclusion.
‘I’ll tell Barard we have visitors,’ the servant said in his soft Gondorian voice. ‘I’ll bring some refreshment to the morning room. Have you breakfasted?’
‘Not to speak of,’ answered Tom. ‘I had a pastry in the market, but my stomach has been growling all the way back up.’ He led Legolas into the south-east facing morning room; it was a large room, well suited to Men - or Elves - but the hobbits enjoyed its sunny aspect so much that they had made their own smaller enclave within. Ledgers strewn open on the table told Tom that Barard had been busy while he was out.
No sooner had the door closed, than Legolas turned to him, eyes drawn into a deep frown. ‘What are you thinking, Tom?’ he asked. ‘The man is one of the Haradrim; you only have to look at him to see that.’
‘Then you should look closer than his swarthy skin,’ said Tom, anger flaring on Hanril's behalf. ‘His father is Gondorian; it’s his mother who comes from the south, and she was amongst the slaves released from the Corsair ships. You released her. Anyway, there is peace of sorts between Harad and Gondor these last few years, and Hanril is teaching us Southron.’
Barard appeared in a rush then, and the discussion over the wisdom of their choice of servant was displaced by his enthusiastic greeting of Legolas. Tom watched, smiling, and waited his turn to say good morning to Barard in his own way. The light streaming through the window brought out the deep reddish gold in Barard’s hair and highlighted the planes of his face, more angular than Tom’s own. He felt the familiar warmth deep within that looking at Barard always gave him, and then Barard was in his arms. They let their hands and eyes speak, holding back kisses until they were alone.
‘Happy birthday,’ whispered Tom, pressing in against Barard in a way that said later.
Hanril entered, bringing drinks and the pastries from the market, and Barard thanked him carefully in Southron, but his request that followed made Tom choke with laughter. Hanril's mouth twitched in amusement.
‘Damn,’ said Barard, thumping Tom on the back. ‘What did I say?’
‘You said “Bring to me the camel I am leaving in your care.”
Barard’s face dropped into an expression of injured dismay. ‘Camel? But of course I said camel. Don’t say you don’t want a camel for my birthday...’ He dodged the smack Tom aimed at his head.
‘I will get you the parcel, shall I, little master?’ asked Hanril.
‘Erm, yes, that would be kind of you,’ said Barard, and he laughed. ‘We’ll fetch the camel later.’
‘So why exactly are you learning the southron language?’ asked Legolas, looking gravely down at them.
‘Because we’re hoping for an opportunity to travel there later in the year; we want to see what trade can be done,’ said Tom, while Barard handed food and drink to the Elf.
‘That sounds a dangerous idea,’ said Legolas. He sipped his drink and looked from one hobbit to the other.
‘Oh, it is,’ said Tom. ‘We’re in danger of coming back with more camels than we know what to do with, if Barard has a hand in negotiations.’ Barard snorted, and Tom watched the merest flicker of the Elf’s features that showed his amusement.
‘I’m serious. This is not somewhere to go on a hobbit walking tour.’
‘We’ve spent a lot of time talking to the king’s advisor on foreign affairs,’ said Barard, a little stiffly. ‘There is peace at the moment, and the Haradrim are courting the king’s favour; we have the king’s permission to negotiate a visit to Harad with their ambassadors. We’re not treating this as some lark, but we don’t believe we would be in great danger if we go on an official visit, and neither does Elessar.’
‘We’re not shopkeepers, Legolas,’ added Tom. ‘We’re often in some danger.’
‘It’s what we enjoy.’
‘We could give up now and live very comfortably - in the Shire, anyway - but that’s not what we want. There’d be no living with Barard in retired obscurity.’
‘And what exactly is that supposed to mean?’
‘You’d go off like a firecracker, my love; you know you don’t do quiet pastoral pursuits very well. You’d start pacing and twitching like you do when we visit Tuckborough.’
‘That’s not the quietness, that’s all those damn relations.’
‘Well, I usually hide under the table.’
‘You’re exaggerating.’
There was the sound of a throat being cleared. Hanril stood in the doorway holding out a large flat parcel. Tom kept half an eye on Legolas and saw him blink at Barard’s smooth transition from arguing to gift-giving. Barard threw an arm around Tom, where a moment before he had been glaring at him, and reached for the parcel with his free hand. ‘This is for you,’ he said quietly. ‘I hope you like it.’
It was obviously a picture - Tom could feel the frame through the wrapping paper - and suddenly the reason for Barard’s vetoing every suggestion he’d made for what to put above the fireplace in the sitting room made perfect sense. Whatever the picture was, Barard must have been planning to give it to him for some time. It was large, awkward to hold and unwrap at the same time, so Tom sat down and laid it on his lap. As the paper fell away, he gasped and looked at Barard. He was speechless and close to tears. It was a portrait of his parents.
Barard knelt beside him and touched his cheek. ‘You do like it, don’t you?’ he asked anxiously.
Tom found his voice. ‘Of course I do,’ he said hoarsely. ‘Oh, Barard, it’s lovely. How...? Where...?’
‘It was in a private collection. It must have been painted the year you were born. One of the King’s counsellors tipped me off - and introduced me to the collector.’
Tom didn’t ask how Barard had persuaded the former owner to part with it. He blinked back tears as he gazed into Barard’s eyes. As much as he loved Legolas, at that moment he wished him a thousand leagues away.
The Elf cleared his throat, as though he wished the same thing. ‘A very happy birthday to you, Barard. It’s a good painting, Tom. Very like your father. Perhaps I could come and look at it more closely another time.’
Tom looked at Barard, his question conveyed by a raised eyebrow. Barard nodded. ‘Will you join us for supper, Legolas?’ he asked. ‘Tom’s making something special, and you know what a good cook he is.’
‘Thank you, that is very kind of you, but I didn’t know that today was your birthday, and I have already promised Elessar that I will join him. Maybe you would do me the honour of being my guests tomorrow.’ Legolas laid plate and glass down on the low table. ‘Thank you for the welcome refreshment; if you will excuse me, I will go to see Pippin, now.’
‘It’s always good to see you, Legolas,’ said Tom. ‘We’d be delighted to join you tomorrow, thank you.’
Barard nodded. ‘We’ll come down with you now to Father’s, before we go to the baths.’
‘And after lunch we’ll go down to the first level,’ added Tom.
‘We will?’
‘Yes.’
Pippin was not at all surprised to see Legolas with them, and Tom suspected that Hanril had been down to forewarn him of their visitor. The old hobbit struggled to his feet and hobbled over despite Legolas’s protest that he should not trouble himself to get up.
‘Decrepit I may be,’ said Pippin, ‘but I can still get up to greet a friend, Legolas.’ Tom and Barard exchanged glances as Legolas knelt down to hug his friend; it was obvious that Pippin was in pain by the way he moved.
‘Have you taken your medicine this morning, Father?’ asked Barard.
Pippin waved a disparaging hand. ‘Yes, yes. And I’m going to the Houses of Healing later, so stop fussing. Come here and let me wish you a very happy birthday. My little Barard, fifty!’
Barard hugged and kissed his father, and helped him sit down again. Tom handed Barard the parcel he had carried down. It was much smaller than his own present, but obviously a picture as well. Barard had been very secretive about it, and Tom was intrigued.
Barard kissed his father again as he handed it over, and Pippin unwrapped it with hands that were never free of a fine tremor. He sat staring at it as his fingers traced over the features. Tom peered over Barard’s shoulder. He knew the face in the painting, just as if he had met this hero of Gondor in real life: his father’s lover, Frodo of the Nine Fingers, whose portrait had been part of his world all the time he was growing up.
Pippin looked up, his eyes overly bright, and squeezed his son’s hand. ‘I don’t know what to say,’ he whispered. ‘I don’t know where you found it, but thank you. Thank you, my dear boy. They’ve all gone now, you know, but it’s Frodo I think about the most, think about and wonder...’
‘It’s a good likeness,’ said Legolas gently.
Pippin looked up at the Elf. ‘One day you’ll know what happened, won’t you?’ he said, sadly. ‘I do wish I could know.’
Tom understood exactly how he felt: with so many memories surfacing of times past, his mind slipped into a familiar and unanswerable question. Did you find him, Dada? Was he there, as you hoped?
Later, walking to the baths, Barard sighed. ‘I think I just made Father sad,’ he said.
‘Well, maybe,’ said Tom. ‘But that doesn’t mean he’d want to give the picture back. He’s always talking about Frodo of the Ring; I think it’s a present that will mean a lot to him. Where did you find it?’
‘It was part of the same collection. I was lucky that the man was prepared to sell. I think it was only because they were going to Father and you that he finally agreed. That, and the King helped me by letting me act as go-between in arranging the sale of some artefacts from the War of the Ring that the collector wanted.’
They walked in silence for a few moments, each busy with his own thoughts, and then Barard started humming a popular song, full of innuendo. He danced sideways next to Tom for a few steps, and Tom laughed at the predictability of it; Barard loved birthdays, and they didn’t even have to be his own.
‘Have you heard of acting your age?’ Tom asked with affection.
‘The time to do that is when I’m as old as Father,’ said Barard. ‘So why are we going down to the first level later? Are you going to tell me?’
‘Not entirely, but the reason is because I’ve decided to adopt a custom of Men.’
‘Ah,’ said Barard. ‘We’re going to buy you some shoes. Hey! The baths are this way!’
‘But we’re going this way first.’ Tom smiled as Barard fell into step beside him without argument.
‘Did you know fifty is the age that both Bilbo and Frodo set out on their adventures?’
‘Yes, I did. I hope you aren’t thinking of going off on an adventure without me.’ They fetched up next to the statue of Frodo and Sam that stood in the middle of the wide thoroughfare, and Tom ran a hand over the carved figures. The white marble was cool to touch. ‘I heard an interesting story today. Apparently my da was amused about the statue being put here.’
‘It always seemed a very random place to have it,’ said Barard.
‘Not random at all, apparently, but a joke by the burghers of Gondor. My da and Frodo stood here, getting in everyone's way on the morning of the Royal Wedding and - well, I’ll show you what they did.’ He drew Barard close, and there was no passive acquiescence: Barard was ready for him, meeting his mouth with hunger, pressing in against his body with an urgency that never dimmed with the passing of time. All the years between fell away, and Tom felt like a tween again with his first taste of what loving Barard was like. They settled into a rhythm, echoed in the movement of their hands, and Barard was all lean strength confined within his arms. The taste of him, the way his tongue furled around Tom’s, the scent of beeswax and parchment, the slow thrusting grind of his arousal against Tom’s - it was all Barard, his Barard. Even the teasing, daring him to give in to the rise of desire, was Barard, carrying with it the memory of their lovemaking in outrageous places where the risk of discovery had been high.
Barard laughed softly as they parted, face and lips flushed, eyes bright. ‘They never!’ he said. ‘Shocking behaviour in public. Do you think they’ll put up a statue to us now?’
‘More likely arrest us for disturbance of the peace,’ said Tom breathlessly, glad to feel a cool breeze on his heated face.
‘Have I disturbed your peace?’
‘You always do.’ Tom looked up at the statue. His father stood just behind Frodo of the Ring’s right shoulder, where his right hand rested, covered by Frodo’s left hand. There was the slightest tilt of their heads towards each other. ‘Did they feel like this, do you think? How could they bear to part?’
‘Frodo of the Ring was ill a lot of the time, wasn’t he? Maybe that made a difference.’
‘But you read the letter! It was so... so intense. I can’t imagine living without you, my love.’
‘Whoa!’ said Barard, frowning. ‘Where did that come from? Let’s hope the baths are quiet, and I’ll bugger you until you can’t think straight, if that’s where your thinking gets you. Then we’ll go to a tavern for some lunch, and I’ll get you pissed as a newt.’
Tom laughed. ‘Sounds a good plan.’ He knew even Barard would not be so lost to public decency as to really take him like that in a public bath, but later, as he sat back in Barard’s arms on the steps leading down into the water, he was not disappointed by the slow smoothing of soap-slick hands over his body. Warm palms slid over his belly and legs, and lightly ghosted across his thighs, pulling a moan from him. It was unlikely they were the only ones to do such things, judging by the noise and bustle the attendant always made when ushering in another bather; it gave plenty of time to slip into the water and hide the evidence, should that prove necessary. Tom looked down, for now the evidence was full and needy and plain to see, leaking a little fluid in his anticipation. Barard’s hand closed around his sac, cupping and rolling, and Tom moaned again as his muscles spasmed, and his eager cock jerked to get his love’s attention.
Barard laughed softly. ‘Now who’s the impatient one?’ he asked, and the husky tone and warm breath in Tom’s ear, made his whole body arch back, lifting his hips to beg Barard to give him something to thrust against. Barard’s hand trailed up to rub over heated swelling, and Tom jerked, then swore as Barard moved on to circle over his belly again.
‘So why are we going down to the first level?’ murmured Barard. ‘What mad mannish custom are you set on following?’
‘Present,’ grunted Tom, curling his fingers in the hair at Barard's nape. After all, that didn’t tell him what the present was.
‘Really? Oh, that sounds good.’ Barard’s fingers came teasing down to brush the tip of Tom’s cock and slid away again. ‘Are you going to tell me what? No? You expect me to be patient? Like you?’
Tom whimpered as Barard stroked down between his legs. ‘If someone comes and you’ve not finished,’ he muttered, ‘then I swear I’ll... Aaagh! Do that again. Yes!’ Barard’s touch was sure, and there was no need to tell him how close... how close... ‘Oh, Barard!’
Barard was shifting, supporting him, laying him down on the cool white stone, kneeling over him. He gazed into Tom’s eyes a moment, before bending low and slowly enveloping him in his mouth. Tom’s eyelids fluttered shut, and he blindly tightened his fingers into the hair falling over the clenched muscles of his belly. Barard’s knowing tongue swirled and suckled, and Tom felt as though he were falling, falling into a roaring, rushing void.
‘Oh, Barard! I... gh...’
He gave in and went with the flow, pulsing deep in the moist warm confines of Barard’s mouth. He was only dimly aware of the rhythmical contraction that met each wave of release as Barard swallowed all that he had to give.
With difficulty in his boneless state, Tom lifted his head. ‘I love you, you crazy Took,’ he managed, and then his head fell back again. ‘Ow.’
‘Think of it as a little present on account,’ said Barard, sitting astride his hips. ‘I really am going to bugger you senseless tonight, in the comfort of our own bed.’
Tom stroked his fingers over Barard’s face, tracing along his jaw line. ‘Don’t you want me to - ’
‘Do the same for me? Not everyone is as impatient as you, my Tom.’ He laughed as Tom snorted, then tilted his head, listening. ‘Oh, orcs’ blood! Someone’s coming!’ He hauled Tom up, and they slipped into the water, snatching a last kiss before they had to behave with propriety. ‘Stop blushing, Tom,’ hissed Barard as they moved apart. ‘Honestly, you’re such a give away.’
They lunched sitting on the vine-hung terrace outside their favourite tavern, looking out over a busy square. The sixth circle was a mix of the wealthiest citizens and the king’s guards and messengers, and Barard and Tom were at home with them all. There were swordsmiths and armourers here, and a farrier; the only stables within the city walls were a short mews away, and the tavern was a good place to watch the comings and goings of the king’s messengers. It was also favoured by the Tower Guards, who looked on the Halflings as their own, and was well placed for picking up gossip and news from afar. In addition - but an important addition for the hobbits - the food was more substantial than that of the fashionable taverns in the northern environs of the circle.
The innkeeper fussed around them, usurping the place of the serving girl to bring them wine and bread and to take their order. He beamed at Barard when the hobbit ordered drinks all round. ‘A celebration, is it?’ he asked. ‘Your birthday, perhaps?’
He spread the word with the drinks, and the soldiers came to wish Barard health and happiness in the coming year. A messenger who was well known to them slipped between the guards, and Tom shifted to make room for him. ‘What news from the south, Thorgond?’ he asked.
Thorgond raised his tankard in salute to Barard and took a long pull at his beer. He placed the drink down on their table with a sigh. ‘That’s good,’ he said. ‘You wouldn’t believe what camel’s piss they call beer south of the Poros. What news? The king permits me to tell you a delegation is coming from Harad in two months; he asks me to tell you that he will speak to you further about this, since their main aim is trade.’
Tom looked at Barard, and saw his own delight reflected back. This was what they had been waiting to hear. ‘Tell us what you saw, when you were there,’ said Barard. He summoned the innkeeper over with a wave of his hand. ‘What would you like to eat, Thorgond?’
Thorgond told them all he could, which was not much. He had not been allowed to cross the Harnen and enter Harad. The two hobbits discussed what they had learnt as they walked down to the first circle. The idea of people being bought and sold as slaves, like sheep at the Free Fair, was not a welcome one, so foreign as it was to a hobbit’s viewpoint. ‘How can you own someone else?’ asked Barard.
Tom shrugged. ‘It shouldn’t be possible. I hope they don’t offer slaves to the king; Elessar would have an apoplexy. It may not be possible to even consider trading with them, if everything is based on slave labour, as Thorgond suggests.’
‘Maybe the more contact they have with Gondor and Arnor, the more influence the north can have,’ said Barard thoughtfully. ‘I think we should go and look, anyway. Thorgond seems to think their ruler is unpopular; remember Elessar said their royal family was displaced under Sauron.’
‘But that was generations back, and they must’ve all been killed, so no help there. Anyway, who’s to say they haven’t always had slaves?’
‘It seems a very Sauronish sort of thing, though, doesn’t it?’ said Barard. ‘Elessar may know. He went there, didn’t he? Maybe a hundred years ago? But the lands had already been under the sway of Sauron for a hundred years or more before that.’
They came out into the first circle, now considerably less thronged than in the morning. Many of the stall holders - those selling fresh produce - were long gone, but there were still a goodly number of traders: those selling imperishable items such as cloth, leather, and jewellery, those selling pleasure and providing opportunities for gaming, and - bowing in welcome - Borondir.
Barard looked from Tom to Borondir and back again. A smile spread slowly across his face. ‘Oh, Tom! You shouldn’t... I mean, it’s not even your birthday.’
Tom smiled back. ‘I told you, I’m following mannish customs. And anyway, I like buying you presents.’ He took Barard’s hand. ‘Come and choose. Borondir’s brought back some good hobbit-sized ponies from Rohan.’
‘Because you asked him to?’
‘Yes, of course.’
‘So you’ve been plotting this a long time?’
‘As long as you’ve been plotting to get me that portrait, I would judge.’
Barard laughed, and they climbed onto the fencing rail, leaning close together as they watched the ponies mill about. ‘I guess you were telling me the truth, in the baths,’ he said.
Tom cocked an eye at him; he recognised that look of studied innocence. Barard was winding him up, but he couldn’t yet see where this was going. ‘About what?’
‘That you love me.’
Tom leaned a little closer and brushed his lips against Barard’s cheek - anything more and they would be the subject of ribald comment from Borondir’s men. ‘My poor leman,’ he murmured. ‘I’m afraid it’s only my cock that loves you.’
Barard snorted with laughter, making the ponies nearest to them jerk up their heads and skitter away. Tom pulled back a little to gaze into his laughing eyes. He always had trouble deciding what colour Barard’s eyes were: sometimes they seemed grey with flecks of brown, but when they were bright and shining as now, they looked green. Oh, bugger Borondir’s men! It seemed that the same thought had occurred to Barard; he was tilting his head even as Tom moved to capture his mouth. Despite the precariousness of their position, Barard’s fingers very slowly traced around Tom’s ear, and Tom - with no real need for thought - braced himself to support Barard.
There were a few wolf-whistles, but not the jeers and catcalls Tom had expected. Instead, the men started singing a rather foolish birthday song. Tom felt Barard’s mouth smile against his, and they deepened the kiss to outlast the singing, moving to the rhythm of the men’s voices. They parted to cheers and laughter, and some ribald comments about mounting and riding. Borondir placed an arm around each of them and nodded to the ponies.
‘So, are you actually going to look at them?’ he asked. ‘Or just give my men an excuse to waste time?’ Barard turned to the matter in hand, fingers gripping the rail securely once more, but Tom hadn’t taken his fill of looking at Barard.
How can I still love him so much that it’s like a twist of pain deep inside? he wondered. After all these years? Aren’t we just supposed to get used to each other and not feel like this any more? He sighed, brim full of happiness, and looked where Barard was looking. Walking in amongst the milling mass of ponies with bare feet would not be sensible, and they waited as Borondir’s men separated out three ponies that caught Barard’s eye, including the chestnut mare Tom had noticed earlier.
The two hobbits slipped in amongst them with a halter. Quietly, they approached each pony in turn, seeing how easy they were to catch and how they reacted to being handled. The chestnut mare was a little wary of being caught, but Tom edged her out to the enclosing fence, and walked round with her. He didn’t crowd her, but kept pace with her, turning away a little until she came snuffling at his shoulder. The men were watching, and as Tom slipped the halter over the pony’s head, he was aware that they regarded this as some sort of magic, instead of just plain politeness. She threw her head up a little as Barard approached, but he moved slowly and spoke softly, and she quietened. They looked her over, gently feeling down each leg in turn, and picking up the feet to look at the soles.
‘What do you think, Tom?’ asked Barard, deferring to Tom’s greater horse sense.
‘She’s a fine little mare.’ He lowered his voice. ‘I think the men have been a bit... not rough, but maybe abrupt with her. She’s been very good about us looking at her. I’ll see if she’ll let me look at her teeth in a minute, and then I’ll get you to trot her up and down. Judging by what I saw this morning, she’s going to need some work to accustom her to crowds and loud noises; otherwise she might be rather a liability.’
They finished examining her, and agreed she was sound in wind and limb. She was so well mannered with them, Barard decided to try riding her. Tom gave him a leg up, but kept hold of the halter rope, gradually giving the mare her head as she responded to Barard. With no saddle or reins, he kept a hold, but the mare was untroubled by having a hobbit on her back. Barard slid off, and Borondir approached, looking relieved. The initial price he named was rather high in Tom’s view.
‘I’m not sure I should let you buy me a present like this,’ said Barard, and Tom schooled his face into regret as they ran rings round Borondir. The coins Tom finally handed over were a fair price for the mare.
They borrowed the halter to lead her up through the city, and twice she baulked, rolling her eyes and shying back. Once was for a crate of squawking, flapping chickens, and once was when a dog ran out into the thoroughfare, chased by a yelling child. There was little to be done about the dog, but they lingered by the chickens to let the pony get used to the birdbrained frenzy. Tom left it to Barard to soothe her, so she would start to learn who was her master.
In the stables, Tom’s skewbald pony, Legend, whinnied welcome, and the stable lad came forward to greet them. The chestnut pony was a little shy of entering, but they coaxed her in and filled her manger with hay. Barard hand-fed her a carrot, and patted her neck; she responded by nibbling at his hair with soft lips.
A fine bridle hung outside the stable, and Barard fingered it, looking suddenly withdrawn.
‘Give her time,’ said Tom. ‘She’ll make every bit as good a pony as Clover.’
‘I know,’ said Barard. ‘Better, maybe, if she isn’t so wilful.’ He lifted his head and smiled. ‘Thank you, Tom. I’ve missed having a pony that’s just mine.’ They shared memories of Clover as they walked back home, avoiding the last memory of all, when they had been helpless in the face of her sweating and thrashing colic.
Tom spent the rest of the afternoon in Pippin’s kitchen, mainly because it was better equipped for hobbits, but also partly because they intended to eat downstairs and save Pippin from having to slowly struggle up the steep steps. Barard played checkers with his father, and when Pippin fell asleep, he came to sit on the table edge while Tom cooked, discussing the best way to school the new pony. Tom fed him tastes of the food, and was rewarded by the slow furl of Barard’s tongue around his fingers.
After supper, Barard stretched out his legs and loosened his belt. His face, in the candlelight, was a little flushed from the wine. ‘Oh, that was excellent, Tom.’
Pippin’s head jerked up from the doze he had fallen into. ‘Huh?’ he said.
‘I was just telling Tom that the meal was excellent,’ said Barard, and Pippin nodded.
‘Quite right. Very fine. You cook as well as your father, Tom. I think... I think I’d like to retire now for the night, and leave you young fellows to do whatever it is you do.’ He laughed and coughed and laughed again.
Barard jumped up to assist his father to his feet, and went with him to get him settled for the night. While he was gone, Tom tidied the table and stacked the dishes for Hanril to deal with in the morning. When Barard returned, he took Tom in his arms, and thanked him again without words.
They were tired when they gained their own room, and they let the fire of their desire build slowly. Tom subverted Barard’s plans, and it was Barard who begged this time, clutching at the pillow and writhing beneath him. A fine sheen of mingled sweat and oil clung to his body as Tom pinned him face down, his hand beneath them wrapped around Barard’s hard cock. Tom was panting with the effort of holding back, making small breathless cries as his other hand clung to Barard in bruising possession. His own cock slid oil-slick against Barard, and Barard bucked beneath, lifting his hips to beg more now. Tom’s grip tightened, and Barard gave a low guttural cry as Tom thrust into him, the taking swift and sure. With his last vestige of control, Tom lifted his weight away from Barard to allow him to rock back against him, and they moved together with the ease of long practice. Everything merged in urgent need, hand moving against rigid heat, tight pressure sliding around his swollen cock, oil and sweat and cries, and, oh glory, Barard going rigid beneath him. Tom arched up with a cry, thrusting instinctively; they jerked together, and Tom came in shuddering waves, thrusting again with each pulse of his seed. He was only dimly aware of reciprocal pulsing beneath his hand, of Barard sobbing his name, and he gave himself up to feeling, blazing through him and finding release in his beloved.
It was over, and he slid down on top of Barard, too far gone at first to even kiss or caress. They lay together, heated and panting, unwilling to move while they were still joined. Inevitably, Tom’s spent cock slipped free, and they shifted to hold each other close. Slowly they came back to themselves, and kissed with great gentleness, in contrast to the fierce loving that had gone before. They separated, gazing into each other’s eyes and murmuring words of devotion that gradually became more grandiloquent and ridiculous, until they were shaking with laughter. Tom felt Barard’s hands caress down his back; he yawned and sighed and lost himself in sleep.
In the morning, Tom slowly opened his eyes to find Barard propped on one elbow gazing down at him. His eyes fluttered closed and then opened again as he gradually came awake, and in that small blink of time, Barard’s regard lifted from quietly studious to a smiling welcome. Barard’s free hand brushed a lock of hair away from Tom’s eyes, and he sighed in a way that said I love you as plainly as though he had spoken the words. His fingers trailed down Tom’s jaw, a light caress. ‘I’m sorry, did I wake you?’
‘If you did, I can’t think of a better way,’ murmured Tom drowsily. ‘What are you doing awake so bright and early?’
‘I don’t know. I’m just feeling restless. I think it was doing nothing very much yesterday.’ He brushed his lips against Tom’s in a kiss as gentle as a feather’s touch. ‘It was a lovely day, thank you. I don’t mean I didn’t enjoy it, and, well, if I’m honest, I’m trying to pretend I don’t feel like a little hobbit-lad wanting to rush out and see his new pony.’
‘She may have turned into a pumpkin in the night.’
‘Exactly.’
Tom stretched. ‘What plans do you have today?’ His words were half muffled in a yawn. ‘I’m meeting the representatives from the jewellers’ guild later this morning. If they want to keep their markets in the Shire, and even Rohan, they’re going to have to rethink what they’re charging. It’s not as though there’s been an increase in their costs. Gimli says prices have been falling, now that transportation is surer and there’s less lost to brigands.’ He yawned again.
Barard settled into his arms, both of them happy to lie nestled together with no thought of more. ‘With Thorgond’s news, I thought I’d go and talk to the historian in the library and see what he can tell me about the Haradrim. When the morning crowds have gone from the market, I’ll walk the pony down. Maybe ride her a little if Borondir can spare me an empty enclosure. That’s if you don’t need my help.’
‘No, I don’t think so, but how talking to a historian and looking through musty old parchments can be a cure for restlessness is beyond me.’ It was the great puzzle of Tom’s life: Barard, who had such a wild streak and was so easily bored, could disappear into a manuscript or a ledger of numbers that dismayed Tom with their incomprehensibility, and become so engrossed that he forgot to eat.
Barard didn’t bother to answer; he’d never been any different. ‘What about lunch?’ he asked.
‘How about if I walk down to join you when I’ve finished?’
‘Mm, yes. Good idea. Where are we meeting Legolas tonight?’
‘No doubt he’ll let us know.’ Tom yawned again. ‘You’ve worn me out, you know.’
‘Poor old gaffer. You stay there, and I’ll bring you breakfast in bed.’
Tom pulled up the covers and snuggled down into the warmth where Barard had been; that was a rare offer not to be refused. Obviously, he should buy Barard a pony more often.
‘I’ll take that as a yes, then,’ said Barard, and laughed when Tom just mumbled in reply.
By the time Tom had finished with the heads of the jewellers’ guild, he was more than ready to be diverted by Barard. He had to remind himself they were artisans, not businessmen, but he didn’t think they were being very honest. He would have a word with the king’s advisors. Having listened carefully - listened in the silences - he was fairly sure that the price increases were more to do with the guild’s aggrandisement than with fair remuneration for the workers.
He headed home first, to see if a message had come from Legolas, and found instead a bundle of letters from the Shire. They were mostly for Barard - birthday greetings no doubt - but there were a few addressed to himself. He became aware that Hanril was standing in the hallway, and looked up to ask him if there were any messages. The question died on his lips.
‘Hanril?’ he asked. He had not thought that it was possible for the man to look pale, but he had been wrong. ‘Hanril, are you feeling ill? Do you need to go home?’
Hanril shook his head, and swallowed. ‘No, little master. There’s been... there’s been an accident...’
Tom stared at him with horror. He clutched at the hall table and felt as though he would double up retching any moment. ‘Barard?’ he whispered. ‘Oh, Eru, not Barard!’