THE ADVENTURES of TOM and BARARD: CHAPTER 12

Tom finally slipped into an exhausted sleep as the first light of dawn picked out cracks in the closed shutters: thin lines of grey seeping into the darkness of the room. He woke some time later with a start, not knowing what had woken him, but knowing something was wrong. He reached out sleepily, then jerked up into a sitting position, crying out as he did so with the intensity of the pain. He was alone in the bed.

The lines of light through the shutters had intensified while he slept, and now bars of gold picked out bright strips of pattern on the carpet. The room was dim otherwise, but not so dim that Tom couldn’t see Barard sitting hunched up in one of the sunlit patches. Ignoring the pain, he slithered from the bed and was at Barard’s side in an instant, his good arm around the thin, bare shoulders.

‘Barard?’

Barard held his hands cupped before him, watching the play of light across them as he swayed back and forth. It wasn’t like the rocking of the evening before, but his obvious delight in the changing pattern of light was somehow both childlike and outside of sanity. Tom remembered Tarlos’s description of Barard in the dungeon, how he would sit in a small patch of sunlight that filtered down into his dark prison. He stroked Barard’s cheek. ‘Would you like me to open the shutters and let the light in?’ he asked gently. Barard looked at him blankly, and Tom tried again. ‘Barard, would you like to go out into the garden?’ It was suddenly very important that Barard should see the open sky.

Barard blinked and looked down at the sunlight he held in his hands, but made no response.

Tom changed tack. ‘Barard, stand up. I’m going to take you into the garden.’ He pulled Barard to his feet and encouraged him to dress, but Barard’s confusion, and Tom’s painful shoulder, made the simplest of actions a challenge. Catos was still asleep, and Tom had no intention of disturbing him to ask for help. He dressed himself with difficulty, trying not to cry out when the pain tore at him as he struggled single-handed to put on his tunic and fasten the clasps. He had to stand for a moment with his head bowed, while the pain subsided to a more bearable level, and his breathing deepened and slowed back to normal.

Under his guidance, Barard managed a few shuffling steps before he halted, swaying, a look of panic on his face. He clutched wildly at Tom, and it was several minutes before Tom could persuade him to take another step. When Barard did so, he staggered, just as Catos had described. Tom gave what support he could, hampered by his own weakness. Carrying Barard was not an option - not with his shoulder injury - and he patiently persuaded Barard to take one step, then another. By taking it very slowly, Barard managed to walk without falling, but his odd shuffling gait spoke of manacles burnt like a brand onto his memory.

Tom was surprised to find guards outside their door, but they just nodded to him and stayed where they were; it seemed they had been placed there for the protection of the House of the White Tree, not for the benefit of two stray hobbits. He led Barard down the dim corridor and pushed open the door into the herb garden. It was not only the closest garden, but also the most Shire-like. Barard ducked his head, screwing up his eyes at the sunlight, and Tom led him as though he were blind to a seat in the shade. It was late enough in the morning for the sun to be above the rooftop, but early enough for there still to be long shadows and for the heat to be comfortable. The raucous and gaudy birds, which had been feeding as they entered, flew up at their approach with a loud clatter of wings. Barard jumped at the sudden noise, but kept his head down and his eyes tightly closed.

‘It’s only a flock of birds, love. We frightened them.’ Tom gently guided Barard to sit and was relieved to join him. The short walk had left him feeling shaky and drained, and the pain in his shoulder was nearing unbearable. He took a deep, steadying breath and looked around. There were only a few flowers to see, but it was green and restful, even with the chatter drifting from the direction of the kitchen. Many of the plants would be unknown to Barard, but some were to be found in Minas Tirith, and a few even grew in the Shire. Tom plucked a growing shoot of rosemary, crushed it between his fingers to release the scent, and held it under Barard’s nose. Slowly Barard’s head came up, and equally slowly, he smiled. Tom placed the sprig into his hands and kissed him on the cheek. ‘Open your eyes, my love.’

Barard obeyed, staring at Tom for a moment before looking down at the aromatic leaves; he turned them over in his hands, and smiled again. It was a shy smile, his gaze not quite rising to meet Tom’s. He raised the herb to his face and took a deep breath, closing his eyes once more as he did so. Tom smiled at the look of rapture, but the next moment his delight at Barard’s reaction was torn away, as Barard collapsed against him, shaking and weeping.

‘Oh, my love. My Barard,’ murmured Tom. ‘Hush, it’s all right. You’re free.’ But it wasn’t all right. Barard’s grief, so suddenly released, spoke deep within Tom, unlocking the months of fear and loss. He tightened his hold on Barard, and his own tears were there before he could stop them, gathering into a flood as Barard clung to him. His raw emotion was a pain as real as that in his shoulder - more so, as his mind ignored the torn muscles and skin to enfold Barard in both arms. He held Barard close and rocked with him in a world of darkness.

Gradually a calm returned, their shaking and tears lessening together. Tom felt light-headed as he sat cradling Barard in his arms. He kept his eyes closed, denying for the moment what Barard had become. He should have remembered: Barard could always be relied upon to surprise him. Barard shifted within his embrace, and the lightest of kisses brushed Tom’s lips.

‘You’re bleeding, Tom. You should be in bed.’

Tom’s eyes flew open to meet Barard’s worried gaze. He squinted down at his shoulder and found Barard was right. Blood had seeped through his dressing, and was spreading out through the fabric of his tunic in a widening stain that was warm and wet. He stood, swayed, and sat again as his knees buckled. Bollocks! He felt as though he might faint at any moment. Now what was he going to do? Barard was in no state to support him.

A door slammed, and feet came running. ‘Tolm! Tolm! What in the Pit are you doing! You should be... Oh, fuck!’

‘Catos,’ mumbled Tom in relief. There was a roaring in his ears, and he felt cold, so cold.

He heard a ripping sound. ‘Good. Just hold that there, Barard. Do - you - understand? We have to stop the bleeding.’

‘Yes. Me know. You go now. Quick.’

There was a confused blur of noise and movement, but no sense of time passing. A searing pain in his shoulder made Tom jerk up with a yell, sweating and shaking. Hands forced him back into recumbency. When had he been laid on a bed?

‘Here, Tolman, drink this.’ A cup was held to his lips, but he pushed it away. His hand was caught and trapped, and fingers entwined with his. The command came again, in gentle Westron this time.

‘Drink it, Tom.’

Someone lifted his head, and he drank, tightening his hold on Barard’s hand as he did so. He was only dimly aware of his wound being bandaged again as the room receded away. When he was conscious of anything at all, it was that his hand was still held.

‘Barard?’

‘I’m here, love.’

Tom sighed and slept. His dreams were vivid and confusing, and when he woke, he was not sure whether he had dreamt Barard’s release. He turned his head, and there was Barard, sitting at his side, his hand still clasping Tom’s; he looked tired, his eyes unfocused, but Tom knew now that he could be drawn from his blankness. He tightened his fingers around Barard’s hand, and Barard blinked and turned his eyes to study Tom’s face. Tom lay quiet, letting him take his time, and it was Barard who broke the silence.

‘You’re such a pillock, do you know that? The healer was furious with you. I don’t know what he called you, but it sounded like it was worth learning. Is this... is this a good time to say I’m sorry?’

‘Sorry?’

‘For being so stupid.’

‘Stupid?’

Barard stroked his face. ‘I didn’t really believe it was happening when I was imprisoned, but it was you I worried about. I knew you’d be distraught, and I couldn’t bear that it was my fault.’ His eyes filled with tears, and his voice rose in pitch. ‘I’m so sorry, Tom. So sorry.’

‘Oh, Barard, love, come here.’ Tom tugged at his hand, and Barard lay down beside him, his head against Tom’s sound shoulder.

‘Forgive me.’

Tom’s tears were back, and he bit his lip, feeling his chin tremble as he tried to find his voice. ‘There’s nothing to forgive. I’ve been so worried about you. I still am. Such a terrible thing... alone, scared, chained, beaten. How did you endure it?’

Barard lifted his head. ‘I... I can’t talk about it. It’s... it’s hard enough believing this is real, without... without... This is real, isn’t it? You look different - I mean, that’s a good thing, because when I... when I imagined you, I saw you as you were. I didn’t see you injured, or so brown, and your hair’s different now, cut straight like that. You... you talk Southron as though you were born to it.’

‘That worries you?’

‘It scared me. The young man - Catos? - he was so kind to me. I didn’t know they could be kind. Those who guarded me were never kind, and they never talked to me. It was a... a relief to be beaten, to feel that I existed.’ The trembling of Barard’s body increased, and the pitch of his voice rose again as he spoke of being beaten. Tom soothed him with his hand, and turned him away from memories that would need time for him to face.

‘Catos will be pleased you called him a young man. He’s a boy, really, but he desperately wants to be considered a man. And you’re right: he is kind.’

‘And sad.’

‘His guardian, Faros, is missing in the fighting. Catos adores him. Faros is a good friend. He was the man who rescued you from the dungeon.’

‘I can’t remember. Not really. I mean... I mean, I do remember, but not details. Not what he looks like.’

They lay quietly together for a while, not talking, and then Barard lifted his head again. ‘Where are we, Tom?’ He smiled, not waiting for an answer. ‘Tom-m. That’s a lovely sound. Tom.’

‘We’re still in Hafar, but outside the Citadel. We’re in the palace of the new king; at least, he’s most likely to be.’

‘Is that what the fighting’s about?’ Barard’s trembling had returned, and Tom hastened to reassure him.

‘Daros is besieged in the Citadel. You’re safe, my love.’ It wasn’t strictly true. There was a whole army that was possibly still unaccounted for, but there was no need for Barard to know that yet.

Barard sighed and relaxed. ‘Say that again,’ he pleaded.

‘Daros is -’

‘No, not that.’

‘You’re -’ But Barard shook his head. Tom smiled at him. ‘My love.’

‘Yes.’ The word was hardly more than an exhalation of sound, a soft whisper.

‘My. Love. Did you ever fear you weren’t?’ He regretted asking as soon as he’d spoken. Barard’s expression became a blank mask again; all light had gone from his eyes. Tom silently cursed the bandages that once more prevented him from enfolding Barard in his arms. ‘My love, always my love, never forgotten. My Barard.’ He tried to push himself up, and his breath caught on the pain.

The sharp gasp seemed to rouse Barard more than Tom’s words had done. ‘What do you think you’re doing!’ he cried. ‘Lie still! You’ll start bleeding again. You’ll die if you start bleeding again!’ He looked so distressed that Tom lay back obediently.

‘Hush, my love. I’ll be good, I promise.’ He gave a snort of laughter.

‘What’s so funny?’

‘I never imagined I’d find you, and I’d be the one who needed taking care of.’

Barard thought about this. ‘Not enough care. You should be drinking something. Are you thirsty?’

‘I feel like I could drain the Bywater Pool dry.’

Barard patted Tom, to remind him to stay put, and pushed himself up to stretch for a jug standing on a table at the bedside. He filled a glass rather clumsily, and held it with two hands, like a small child might who is concentrating hard on not dropping his burden. Tom took it while Barard slipped an arm behind his shoulders and raised him just enough to allow him to drink; he had been serious about how thirsty he felt, and he drained three glassfuls before he was satisfied. Barard had just set the glass aside when there was a soft knock at the door. It was Catos. A worried frown cleared from his face when he saw that Tom was awake, but Barard was right: he did look sad. Tom wondered if it were no news or bad news.

‘Catos, please, come,’ said Barard in Southron as Catos hesitated in the doorway. ‘Tom is good.’ That brought a smile to Catos’s face, and Tom suspected the smile was not just because he had been pronounced “good”, but also at Barard’s recognition and acceptance of Catos as a friend.

‘The physician wants to examine you, Tolm,’ said Catos. ‘And you’ve got some visitors later, but the physician first.’

‘What’s he saying?’

‘The... healer,’ it didn’t seem the right word, the physician seemed more important than that, but it would have to do, ‘wants to look at me.’

Barard frowned. ‘As long as he’s not going to hurt you again.’

‘What’s he saying?’

Tom sighed. This could get tedious. ‘He’s worried that the physician may be going to hurt me again.’

‘No, no. It was to stop the bleeding, Tolm. He had to stop it. You’d already lost far too much blood yesterday. He was very worried about you; we were all very worried about you.’ Catos stood back to let the physician into the room. The man looked tired, but he smiled down at Tom.

‘How are you, little bird? You gave us all a fright.’

‘I feel weak, and my shoulder hurts, but not badly - not badly enough for a dose of medicine,’ Tom added hastily. It wasn’t true, but he wanted to stay awake for Barard’s sake.

‘Hmmm.’ It didn’t sound as though Tom was believed. ‘Well, let’s have a look at you, then.’ Barard sat beside Tom, watching anxiously as the man pulled down Tom’s lower eyelids, pinched the tip of a finger to blanch it - nodding as the colour came back as soon as he released the pressure - and felt for Tom’s pulse. ’Good. You’re very pale, but you’ll do - as long as we don’t have a foolish repetition of this morning. I’ll leave another dose of the physic to dull the pain, in case you change your mind. Tell your friend here that he mustn’t let you out of bed. Go on, tell him.’

Tom looked at Barard. ‘He says I’m fine.’

Barard nodded and turned to look up at the physician. ‘Me no let him,’ he said, and Tom choked.

‘Good.’ The man looked back to Tom. ‘Tell him it’s his turn now; I don’t want to frighten him.’

With Barard’s sores dressed, the pungent smell returned in full force. Catos jumped up from where he’d been sitting on his own bed as the physician took his leave. ‘Can they have their visitors now?’ he asked.

The physician turned at the door. ‘After they’ve eaten something, yes, but I don’t want those foreigners doing any hocus-pocus on my patients, and Tolman is not to get out of bed.’

Tom pushed himself up in his delight. ‘Foreigners...? Legolas? Hanril?’

‘You are to stay there, Tolman! Or you will have no visitors, do I make myself clear?’ Tom flopped back. ‘That’s better.’ The physician smiled. ‘I’ll see you tomorrow morning.’

Tom had to wait while Catos fetched a tray of food from the kitchen before he could find out more, but it was Faros who was foremost in his mind. ‘What news?’ he asked anxiously.

‘No news of Faros,’ said Catos as he set the tray down beside them and helped Tom to sit. ‘And... and Tarlos says that’s a good thing. If he were dead in the fighting here, or outside the city, his... his body would have been found by now. Some soldiers are missing, as well: the ones who rescued Barard. Tarlos thinks they might be with Faros.’

‘Any news of the third army?’

Catos bit his lip, and nodded. ‘They’re advancing on the city. That’s why your Gondorian friends have been brought into the palace. There’s a big cloud of sand rising out in the desert, and occasionally there’s a flash of gold as the sun catches a spear or shield. Sûlos is out there with his army to meet them, and Yanos waits in the east to charge their left flank. Tarlos says they’ll be here in under two hours. I wish you could see all the mûmakil lined up, they’re huge!’ He sat on the edge of their bed and looked anxiously at Tom. ‘How are you? It’s a good thing I found you when I did.’

‘Thank you, Catos. Again. You’re determined to save my life, aren’t you?’ Tom smiled as Catos ducked his head in embarrassment. His young friend seemed changed - more mature and thoughtful - for all that his usual enthusiasm had been evident as he mentioned the mûmakil.

‘But how are you?’

‘I’m hungry,’ said Tom, eyeing the varied food. Everything was in bite-sized pieces, suitable for eating with fingers alone, but there was plenty of it. He found himself wondering again whether the kitchen servants actually knew there was a war on; it seemed so bizarre to have such a feast when an army was advancing on the city.

Barard looked at Tom quickly when he spoke, and reached for a small savoury pastry. He held it to Tom’s lips, and Tom took it, letting his tongue fold around Barard’s fingers as he did so. He felt close to tears at Barard’s knowing the Southron for hungry, but Barard just smiled in delight and reached for a second pastry. Tom shook his head. ‘Not unless you eat, as well,’ he said, and then, since Barard seemed to respond best to being told what to do, ’You eat it, love.’

As they settled into a pattern of one-for-me-one-for-you, it was clear that Barard was making no attempt to choose what food he offered and ate. Catos must have realised what was happening; he winked at Tom and moved the plates around so that both hobbits got some variety. Tom’s lips twitched in amusement. Things could be so much better, but Barard was here within the confines of his arm, showing his care for Tom, and that was a miracle all in itself.

When Barard had eaten as much as he could, he curled up against Tom again, one hand fisting into Tom’s shift, and closed his eyes. Tom kissed his head, and blinked back more tears. He felt fiercely protective towards Barard. He could have happily sat there for hours, pain or no, to simply gaze at Barard’s sleeping face, but it was not to be. There was a loud knock on the door, and Barard reacted with a violent jerk. His eyes flew open, wide and fearful, and he clutched at Tom, his whole body shaking. Catos jumped up to open the door, no doubt hoping to do so before the knock was repeated. The next moment Barahir and Hanril were in the room, bringing laughter and tears with them, and both talking at once. Legolas followed more sedately, to simply stand quietly to one side. Catos hurriedly cleared away the tray with the remnants of food as Hanril leaned over the bed to hug Barard, exclaiming at his thinness.

As soon as Barard was released from this enthusiastic greeting, he shrunk in against Tom again, and stared down at his hands that fretted in his lap. He had been passive in Hanril’s arms, but now Tom could feel the panic building, could feel Barard’s withdrawal into himself. He had no need to see Barard’s face to know that the lost look was back. He tightened his hold around Barard’s shoulders, and Barard turned into his embrace, burying his face against Tom’s chest. More loud exclamations and questions followed. Tom closed his eyes, too exhausted to halt the torrent of words.

‘Quiet!’ The command was in Southron, but so peremptory that not only Hanril obeyed: Barahir also fell silent. Catos stepped between them and the bed. ‘I’m sorry, but you must go. All of you.’ He addressed his words to Hanril, who visibly stiffened with resentment.

‘Hanril,’ said Tom gently. ‘I’m truly glad to see you, but Barard isn’t ready for this. I’d like to speak with Legolas, but I think the less people in the room, the better for Barard.’

Prince Barahir made no difficulty over this. He bowed to Tom. ‘I will take my leave and look forward to seeing you when the perian Barard is feeling stronger - or sooner, if the army that approaches proves victorious. We will not leave you here to your fate.’

Hanril, however, looked hurt. ‘You are my master, Tom. I will do as you wish, but I had hoped to serve you.’ His eyes betrayed his thoughts, flicking to Catos and back to Tom.

Tom sighed to himself. He felt exhausted, Barard needed him, and Hanril was jealous. He had often thought unkind thoughts on the aloofness of Elves, but Legolas’s quiet detachment was a relief now. It was not unlike having a tree plant itself in the corner of the room, and Tom had always found trees very restful. He sought for reserves of patience and tact. ‘Thank you, Hanril. Have you been introduced to Lord Catos, of the House of the White Tree?’ He switched to Southron as the surprise in both Barahir’s and Hanril’s eyes confirmed that they had thought Catos a palace servant. ‘Catos, this is Legolas, Prince Barahir of Ithilien, and Hanril, of whom I have spoken.’ He kept his voice low and soothing, hoping to calm Barard and ease the raggedness of his breathing, but it wasn’t helping; Barard was drawing breath too rapidly, his shoulders rising and falling beneath Tom’s arm.

Catos nodded. ‘I am pleased to meet them, but they must go. I’ll go, as well, since this is a problem, yes?’ He kissed Tom on the forehead. ‘Remember, you are not to get out of bed. I’ll come back later, let you know what’s happening outside the city.’ He bowed stiffly to the Gondorians, and stalked out of the room.

Barahir could not have understood, but it seemed his thoughts were turning the same way. ‘Come, Hanril,’ he said. ‘Come with me to the city wall; you can tell me what those around us are saying.’ He ushered Hanril out, and Tom sighed in relief as the door closed behind them.

Legolas made no comment. He sat in the high-backed chair, his hands folded together, and took on the faraway look that characterised an Elf walking in his memories. Time was not an issue; when Tom was free to talk, Legolas would be there. Tom closed his eyes for a moment, feeling sick and drained, but Barard still needed him. ‘Barard,’ he murmured.

‘I’m sorry, I’m sorry.’ Barard’s voice was muffled against Tom’s chest, the pitch climbing towards hysteria. He had curled tightly in on himself, his hands clenched between them.

‘Hush, my love. It’s all right.’ Fuck this bandage! ‘I wish I could hug you properly, I want my arm free.’

That got the desired reaction. Barard uncurled enough to wrap his arms around Tom in a fierce hug. ‘No, no, you mustn’t!’ It was still panic, but to Tom it seemed a healthier, more rational panic - a reaching out, not a drawing in.

‘Will you look at me, my love?’

Barard lifted his head and met Tom’s gaze. Gradually the fear faded from his eyes, and his breathing slowed. He studied Tom, his expression muted, then raised a hand to stroke Tom’s face in a gesture that was achingly familiar. Fingertips brushed across Tom’s lips, and it took no thought on Tom’s part to kiss them. Barard sighed and nestled in against him in a far more natural way. ‘You’re in pain,’ he mumbled against Tom’s chest. ‘You should take some of the healer’s medicine.’

‘Then I’ll fall asleep, and I’d rather be awake with my arm around you. I’ve been without you far too long.’

‘I think... I think I was asleep. They startled me.’

‘I know, love. Go back to sleep, if you like. There’s just Legolas here.’ Tom kissed the top of Barard’s head, tasting a bitterness from the salve that the physician had applied, and sat quietly as Barard gradually slumped more heavily against him. He could not prevent Barard’s head from flopping forward against his chest.

Legolas stirred. ‘Would it help if I laid him down next to you?’

‘No, this is fine.’ It wasn’t just that Tom wanted to keep his arm around Barard. ‘I’d rather not risk startling him again. He was much better earlier, really he was.’

‘That is good to know.’ Legolas came to sit on the edge of the bed next to Tom and looked gravely down at him. ‘And how are you?’

‘That depends.’

‘On what?’

‘On how Barard is. I’m so happy to have him here with me, but so... so sad to see him like this.’ Well, that was an understatement, if ever there was one, but Legolas seemed to understand. He nodded and lifted Tom’s chin to look deep into his eyes.

‘Yes,’ he said gently. ‘Your recovery is bound together, I think. What did you wish to talk to me about?’

‘Can you help him? Heal him?’

‘I’m sorry, Tom; I do not have such skills. I am not as Elrond, or even as the descendants of Elros. I am of the Grey-elves.’

‘Oh. I thought all Elves were good at healing.’

‘Sadly, no. Elessar may be able to help Barard, but I would put more faith in your love. Círdan once told me that Gandalf and Elrond were amazed at what your father was able to do for Frodo.’

Tom tried to keep calm, to stop the telltale signs of the tears he was fighting back, but Legolas wasn’t fooled.

‘Why does that cause you grief, Tom? Círdan said it was a triumph of love over darkness. I know I have said it before, but you are your father’s son.’

‘But he failed,’ Tom whispered. ‘Frodo of the Ring had to leave him; he had to go away to be healed, or so Dada always hoped.’

Legolas looked at Tom with compassion. ‘Barard has been damaged, but not as Frodo was; he does not have the Ring-sickness, nor has he walked in the shadow world of the Nazgûl. He needs time and patience, I think.’ He released Tom. ‘Will you take him home to the Shire?’

‘Unless he wants otherwise, yes, but he seems unable to make any choice for himself.’ Tom looked down sadly at Barard and kissed the top of his head again.

‘I suppose he has been stripped of the need to do so. I hesitate to advise you, but do not usurp his choices now. Encourage him to make even small decisions, and do not become overprotective.’

Tom took in Barard’s frailness, the prominence of his bones, the light bandages that hid the broken skin at wrists and ankles. Overprotective? Yes, that was very likely. He closed his eyes and leaned back into the pillow that supported him. Movement of the mattress told him that Legolas had stood.

‘I will be here, Tom. Get some sleep.’

It was easy to obey, and when Tom woke again, it was to the sound of quiet voices. His head had slipped sideways, and he had a crick in his neck. It took him a moment to realise that he no longer held Barard within the curve of his arm. Instead, he was the one being held, his head resting against Barard’s chest.

‘He won’t take anything.’ Barard’s hoarse voice vibrated beneath Tom’s ear, and Tom lay still, feigning the sleep that had not quite let him go.

‘That is for him to decide, but for the most part the pain is no more than he can bear.’

Barard shifted slightly. ‘How do you know?’

‘I looked into his eyes.’

‘As you look into mine?’

‘Yes.’

‘And what do mine tell you? Am I mad? I fear it is so.’

‘My dear hobbit, you are not mad. Your mind has had to escape from the horror of your captivity, and it will take time for you to realise that this is no longer necessary. Like a hand snatched from the flame, you cannot control your reactions, but you watch and wait, and return to us when you can.’

‘Tom calls me back.’

‘Yes, and why does that not surprise me? But there is more. It is not just something that you play a passive part in; you are not just waiting for Tom to bring you home to yourself. When he needs you, you are there for him in an instant. We heard how you cared for him this morning, and I think that led Hanril to believe you were stronger than you are. He did not mean to cause you such distress.’

‘Will you tell him I’m sorry?’

‘I will, but there is no need to worry yourself about it. Can I pass you something to drink?’

‘I’ll wait until Tom wakes. I need to relieve myself, truth be told.’

Tom raised his head a little. ‘I’m ’wake.’


In the end they both took advantage of the chamber pot that stood behind a screen in the corner. Barard needed help getting up, but Tom thought he walked a little better. Tom himself was carried, protesting, by Legolas, but when he was allowed to stand, he almost fainted. He stood swaying as Legolas left him to Barard’s support. With one hand clutching Barard’s shoulder, and the other arm encased in bandages, he relied on Barard to help him aim. If he hadn’t felt so weak, it would have been laughable: Barard was holding his cock after all this time, and he was as limp as a baby.

When Tom had finished, Legolas carried him back to bed and settled him against the pillows. Barard sat cross-legged beside him and reached for Tom’s hand to link their fingers together. Tom closed his eyes again as the world swam around him, but gradually the sickening sensation abated, and the hammering of his heart eased. Taking a deep breath, he opened his eyes, and was disappointed to find that Barard was no longer looking at him. He turned his head to follow Barard’s gaze. Legolas had paused in the act of pouring a drink and was listening intently with his head cocked towards the closed shutters. Slowly he set down the jug he held.

‘What is it?’ asked Tom.

‘I can hear shouting.’

Tom looked at him with sudden apprehension. He could hear nothing. Had the third army overrun the city? His mind raced. There was the hidden door in Sûlos's rooms...

Closer, within the palace, came the sound of running feet. The noise sounded nearer and nearer, then stopped abruptly outside their door. Barard’s finger’s tightened painfully against Tom’s hand, but Legolas smiled. ‘It is a friend.’

Tom gaped at him. ‘How...?’

‘Someone pauses to draw breath, not wishing to burst in and startle Barard.’ Legolas crossed the room and pulled open the door. Catos almost fell through the opening, his eyes bright with excitement.

‘What is it? What’s happened?’ demanded Tom.

‘It’s Faros! I had to come and tell you.’ Catos was bubbling over with laughter, almost to the point of incoherence. Tom glanced at Barard, but he was responding to the laughter, his mouth twitching at the corners.

‘Come here, Catos! Come here and tell me what about Faros. He’s safe?’ It was a fair assumption, given the fact Catos looked as though he might burst with happiness; then and there, the knot of fear that Tom had carried for Faros unravelled.

Catos nodded. ‘Yes, yes!’ He stood over them. ‘He... He’s... Oh, I wish you could have seen it!’

‘Catos! Seen what?’

Catos took a deep breath. ‘I went out to the city walls with Tarlos. He’s in charge of the city’s defence. There was a long column of soldiers approaching, and more on horseback protecting their flanks.’ His hands sketched the scene in the air. ‘Sûlos had his army drawn up ready outside the walls, and Tarlos said Sûlos was speaking to them, but there’s no way more than a few could have heard him: they were all cheering and yelling, and clashing their spears together.’ Catos paused with an inane grin on his face.

‘But what of Faros?’ Tom asked impatiently, not seeing where this was leading.

‘Wait, wait. I’m coming to that. A small company of soldiers rode out from the third army with three lords at their head, and... and they raised a standard. Everyone fell silent except for Tarlos.’

Tom sighed as Catos paused for dramatic effect. ‘What did Tarlos do?’

‘He said, “Well, fuck me!”’ Catos started laughing at the memory.

‘Catos!’ Tom was getting annoyed. ‘Are you going to tell me?’

Barard tugged Tom’s hand to get his attention. ‘What’s he saying, Tom? I can’t follow him.’

‘He’s saying very little of anything at the moment, and I’m going to shake him if he doesn’t get on and tell me what’s so funny!’ Tom switched back to Southron. ‘Catos! Tell me! What was so funny about the standard?

‘It was... it was Faros’s standard.’

‘What!’

‘They were riding under the banner of the House of the Sun.’

‘No!’

‘Yes. It’s true, and that’s not the best bit.’

‘Tell me.’

‘The lord at their head... it was Faros.’

‘Now you are joking!’

‘No, I swear. At first I thought it was Yanos, but Tarlos said Yanos wouldn’t sit his horse so badly.’ Catos’s words came tumbling out in his excitement. ‘Sûlos rode to meet them with a guard, and they all dismounted. Faros embraced Sûlos, and the other lords made their obeisance.’

Barard laughed. It was a harsh contrast to the laugh Tom remembered, but he didn’t care: Faros was safe, Catos was about to go off like one of the dwarves’ firecrackers, and Barard was laughing - sweet Lady, he was laughing!

‘I’ve no idea what your friend’s saying, except that it’s something good; he’s talking far too fast. If he doesn’t calm down, I think he’ll burst.’

Tom nodded, aware he must have a foolish grin on his face to match the one Catos wore. ‘It seems as though our good friend Faros has delusions of grandeur and has arrived back at the head of an army. The Lady only knows how he pulled that off.’

‘Really? So you mean they’re not going to fight?’

‘Who is Faros, Tom?’ asked Legolas. He had taken a seat while Catos told his tale, and now he leaned forward.

‘He is the House of the Sun.’

Legolas frowned. ‘Is he likely to try to seize the kingship from this Sûlos? If there’s going to be a struggle for power, I think we should take you away from here. I know you’re in no state to travel, but - ’

Tom interrupted Legolas. ‘No, Barard has the rights of it. It means there will be no battle. Only the Citadel stands against Sûlos now.’ He switched back to Southron, speaking quickly to Catos in the hope that Barard would not understand. ‘It couldn’t be a trick, could it? The third army’s leaders could be using Faros to get close to Sûlos, maybe to get into the city and free Daros?’

‘No, I don’t think so. Anyway, Sûlos sent for Tarlos, and you know what a suspicious bastard he is.’

‘Catos! There’s no need to talk like the soldiers!’

Catos grinned again. ‘Oh, like you don’t! Tarlos was muttering about dispersing them and not letting them into the city, so be easy: Sûlos has won. I’ve been ordered to change into something more fitting my rank and join them, but I wanted to come and tell you first.’

‘Thank you! What are you waiting for? Go and find Faros! Go!’

Catos laughed and ran from the room, skidding around the door frame as he went. They could hear his feet racing away down the corridor.

Barard leaned in and surprised Tom by kissing him on the lips. ‘I’m glad your friend is safe. It’s good to see Catos looking so happy.’

Tom tightened his fingers on Barard’s hand, drawing him back to return the kiss. He repeated Barard’s action: a light kiss, not demanding anything. Legolas cleared his throat. ‘I think this might be a good time to take my leave,’ he said as he stood. ‘I’ll see if Hanril can find someone to bring you supper.’

‘Will you ask Hanril to bring it?’ Tom looked back to Barard, wordlessly asking for his agreement, and Barard nodded.

‘He’ll be delighted,’ said Legolas. He bent over the bed to kiss each of them on the brow. ‘Don’t tire yourselves.’

As the door closed, Barard raised his eyebrows. ‘Did he just wink?’ he asked incredulously.

Tom freed his hand to stroke Barard’s bald head. He himself must have looked just as strange when his head had been shaved. ‘Mmm, yes, I think he did. Come here, love.’

Barard untangled his legs and tucked himself up against Tom. ‘Tom?’

‘Mmmm?’

‘Do you know how Father is?’

Tom sighed; he’d hoped to avoid this conversation for a few days. Barard was doing so well, but the gains were fragile. ‘When Legolas left Minas Tirith, Pippin was very poorly. Faramir’s with him.’

‘I kept thinking about all the pain I’d caused you and... and Father, and all the family.’ Barard rubbed at his eyes with his arm. ‘I kept thinking Father could be dead, and I’d never know. Robin’s dead, isn’t he?’

‘Hush, love. Yes, Robin’s dead. When Hanril comes we’ll ask him to send a message straight off to Gondor to let them know we’re safe. Frodo’s there with them.’

‘Sometimes, I feared you might be dead.’ The edge of hysteria was back in Barard’s voice. ‘Sometimes I just thought I should give up, but... but you wouldn’t let me.’

‘Look at me, my love.’

Obediently, Barard raised his head, and Tom gazed into his eyes, holding him here, now. Gradually, the wild look faded. His expression softened, and as Tom curled his free hand at Barard’s nape to draw him in, Barard tilted his head a little, his lips parting. Tom completed the movement, intending it to be a comfort kiss, but suddenly Barard’s mouth was wide open and hard against his: an urgent and frantic rhythm that seemed to have nothing to do with love or desire, and everything to do with desperation. Never before had Tom felt used when kissing Barard, but he felt it now. He had to force himself to keep giving, to not break away as he tried to calm Barard’s frenetic movement. Barard clutched wildly at him, and pain overwhelmed Tom, engulfed him, left no possibility for coherent thought. He broke into a cold sweat, and his head snapped back as he cried out at the unbearable intensity and rawness of it.

Only as the pain abated a little did Tom realise he was held in Barard’s arms, that Barard was sobbing his name over and over. His own breath was shallow and erratic, and he struggled for some semblance of control. It took all his effort. He had no strength left to question as Barard held a cup to his lips and begged him to swallow. It was easiest to obey. Not until the pain faded into a fog that clouded his consciousness did he register the bitter taste on his tongue. He tried to fight against it, desperate to reassure Barard and worried that they were alone, but he might as well have tried to stop a mist rolling in from the river. He lost himself in a world of dark dreams, where he searched for Barard down endless corridors.


Tom emerged once again from confused dreams into confused reality. How long had he slept? Barard? What of Barard? He groaned aloud at the memory of his pain and Barard’s panic.

‘Tom?’

Tom blinked his eyes open. It was at least still daylight, so maybe the physic had not held him in thrall for very long this time. A familiar face came gradually into focus. ‘Hanril?’

‘Yes, it’s me. I’ve been here all night.’

‘All night!’ Tom struggled to raise himself. The panic was his now.

‘Careful, Tom, that’s a bad wound. You have damaged ribs, and -’

‘The Eye take the wound! How is it with Barard?’ Tom did not even realise that he had slipped into the language of the Haradrim.

‘Small Southron, he is beside you. No need to wake him with your noise.’

Tom fell back against the pillow and rubbed his eyes with thumb and forefinger. The throbbing in his head eased as he relaxed. He turned his head, and the last of the tension left him at the sight of Barard’s sleeping form.

Hanril slipped an arm behind Tom’s shoulders. ‘Let me help you to sit, then you can look at him while you drink something. The physician said you should drink plenty when you woke. He said your body will crave fluid after the loss of blood.’

Tom was glad of the help and drank thirstily, his eyes on Barard. His recent memory, of Barard’s face drawn into worry and desperation, gradually faded. There was no doubt that Barard was sleeping peacefully: he lay on his back, no longer curled in on himself as Tom had come to expect. Tom reached out his free hand to caress the starkly defined features, but withdrew it before he touched Barard, not wanting to wake him. He looked up at Hanril as the man handed him a freshly-filled cup, and frowned in puzzlement. ‘You were speaking in Southron,’ he said. He had not realised before that Hanril spoke it with an accent, but the overtones of Westron were clear to hear.

‘Only because you did,’ Hanril answered.

‘Oh.’ Tom looked more closely at Hanril, who looked tired and rumpled. What had he said? ”I’ve been here all night.” ‘Have you slept?’

‘Dozed in the chair. Your young friend offered me the bed, but I was afraid I’d sleep too soundly.’

‘What happened, Hanril?’

Hanril turned the question back on Tom. ‘What happened after Legolas left you? I knocked softly and entered as I’d been told, and...’ Hanril hesitated, and Tom raised his eyebrows.

‘And?’

‘I should have remembered how you were with Barard when he was in the Houses of Healing. I should have remembered that Halflings do not react as men. When I came into the room and saw Barard rocking you in his arms and keening over you, I thought you were dead. You appeared... lifeless.’ Hanril looked sick at the memory.

‘Barard dosed me with whatever they use here for pain. It’s very potent.’

‘So it seems. Barard was not in a state to explain; all he did was cry, “I hurt him! I hurt him!”’

‘It was an accident.’ Tom touched his fingers to his shoulder at the memory of it.

‘Of course, but I could get nothing else from him, and I was worried for the both of you. Your pulse was very slow. I fetched the healer. I thought he might not be interested in Halflings, but he came at the run. He was very gentle with Barard: showed him the empty cup and asked if you had drunk it. He assured us both that you were in no danger and prepared a sleeping draught for Barard.’

‘He took it?’

‘He refused, to start with, but the healer suggested that I tell him it would allow him to sleep while you slept, so he would be the stronger to help you when you woke.’

Tom looked back at Barard. He was disappointed that the peace wasn’t natural, but glad that Barard had been given this respite. ‘It wasn’t his fault, it was mine. I was pathetic. If I hadn’t made so much fuss -’

Hanril interrupted him. ‘Do you know how bad your injury is? The healer told Barard he’d done the right thing.’

‘But if I hadn’t -’

‘Stop it, Tom! It’s not your fault, either. You’ve got two shattered ribs below your collar bone, and a lot of other damage besides. You’re lucky the arrow didn’t go on to shatter your shoulder-blade or pierce a lung. The healer was very pleased you were getting a good sleep. He said you’re very stubborn.’ Hanril smiled down at Tom. ‘I told him stubborn was your middle name.’

Tom rolled his eyes and changed the subject. ‘You said Lord Catos was here?’

‘He came in late last night, might even have been early this morning. I thought he was a slave when I first met him, but he’s a very imposing young man in full ceremonial costume.’

‘I wish I could have seen him.’

‘He’ll be back.’

Tom nodded, but he doubted Catos would be dressed in his finest clothes. He was right: when Catos did appear, it was in slaves’ garb again. Tom fingered the cotton and asked the question with his eyebrows.

‘I’m helping the physician,’ Catos said with his mouth full. He had brought breakfast enough for all four of them, and sat on the edge of the bed, eating. ‘It’s easier like this.’

‘Are there many hurt?’

‘Enough, but all agree it could easily have been worse. They’re calling Faros “The Peacemaker”. He’s already tired of telling his story, but he said to tell you he hopes to be along to see you later today. It depends on his duties, and on how Barard is. Aren’t you going to eat anything?’

Tom glanced down at Barard. He showed no sign of waking, and Tom pushed the food away. ‘I’ll wait. Tell me Faros’s tale.’

‘When he left us - you know, after Barard’s rescue - he sought out the men who’d gone to the Citadel with him. Officially, they were still under his command, but he didn’t want to order them, not with the risks so high. They thought he was mad.’ Catos shifted, settling comfortably into his story, and his smile widened. ‘Their captain told me they decided it was inspired madness. They all went with him. Faros borrowed Yanos’s clothes, but his hair was a problem: too short to dress properly, though one of the soldiers braided it into lots of fine plaits, instead. Another fetched a banner of the House of the Sun from the market square. They rode north, and were met by a large scouting party from the third army in the late afternoon.’

‘What happened?’ Tom couldn’t imagine how Faros had convinced them to capitulate.

‘Faros tells it very baldly, but I’ve spoken to some of those who were with him. They seem to have forgotten he was ever a slave; it’s all “Lord Faros this” and “Lord Faros that”. He refused to speak to any but the commander, except to say he came from the king.’ Catos took more food, and Tom waited impatiently for him to continue; if Barard awoke, then all storytelling could go hang. Catos swallowed and licked his fingers with maddening deliberation before he continued. ‘Faros soon found out that no signals had come from Hafar. Apparently, the army had been expecting orders to march north and cross the Harnen. Two lords met with Faros in private. They feted him, since he claimed to come from the king, but looked sideways at him for his short hair. They wanted to know what Daros commanded.’

‘What did Faros say?’

‘He said he didn’t know. The lords started muttering together, so Faros asked them if they really thought the Sun owed allegiance to Daros. He told them he came from the true king, Sûlos. I wish I could have been there to see their reaction. One of the lords demanded to see his right shoulder.’

‘His brand? Did he refuse?’

Catos shook his head. He reached for more food, and when he spoke it was with his mouth full again. ‘He showed them, and asked how else they thought he had survived. He told them Daros was trapped within his citadel, his other armies defeated, and that Sûlos had been welcomed by the people of Hafar as their rightful king.’

Tom thought about what Catos was saying. ‘But Faros didn’t know that Yanos was victorious.’

‘It was a bluff,’ said Catos happily. ‘No news from Hafar made it very believable, thanks to you. It would have been harder to convince them that Daros was a lost cause if they’d received orders from him. As it was, they questioned Faros closely, but they’d met Sûlos and seemed inclined to like him. Faros gave them a gold coin with Sûlos's head on it, and told them Sûlos would honour the debts that Daros had failed to pay.’ He swallowed and reached for a drink. ‘Apparently, the men were near mutiny: no pay, no leave and poor rations. I met the lords last night; they told me. They considered the planned invasion of Gondor to be ill-judged, and they didn’t think it a coincidence that they had both, at some time, openly criticised Daros for his policies.’

‘Did Faros know that?’ Tom was still trying to work out how Faros had ever imagined his scheme could work; the fact that he had succeeded made Tom think his own understanding of Hafar politics must be deficient.

‘He knew they’d been critical, these things don’t remain secret, but he had no idea Daros was planning a northern invasion.’

‘Well, it seems he persuaded them.’

‘Bravery is greatly honoured and admired,’ said Catos with pride, and Tom had no doubt who was Faros’s greatest admirer in this. ‘They’d had enough of Daros, but I don’t think they were fully convinced until they saw the army arrayed against them. Their scouts reported Yanos waiting on their flank, and Faros says they were impressed by the mûmakil. They put themselves under the protection of the House of the Sun, and swore allegiance to Sûlos.’

‘And the rest you saw.’ Tom smiled, happy for Catos, despite his worry over Barard.

‘Saw, yes, but didn’t hear. Sûlos took his time returning Faros’s embrace - did I tell you? - but that was because Faros was explaining himself. Sûlos told me later that Faros had been very free with his treasury.’

‘But Tarlos told Sûlos to be prepared to pay the armies!’ protested Tom.

‘Don’t look so worried; he was laughing when he said it.’

Tom would have asked more, but Barard stirred and mumbled his name. Catos stood, no doubt recognising that Tom’s attention was elsewhere. He dusted crumbs from his tunic. ‘Sûlos says to tell you that he’s also looking forward to seeing you, when he’s permitted.’

That diverted Tom’s attention for a moment. ‘Permitted? He’s the king!’

‘He’s not crowned yet, and anyway, he has a healthy respect for the physician.’ Catos kissed Tom on the forehead, then straightened and bowed to Hanril. ‘Thank you for staying with the Harffings,’ he said rather stiffly. Tom suspected that Catos had yet to forgive Hanril for causing Barard distress.

Barard moved restlessly, reaching out. ‘Tom?’ he said more clearly, and Tom shifted awkwardly to lie beside him and part cover him with his body. Still half asleep, Barard wrapped his arms and one leg around Tom, and gave a small, contented sigh. Tom nuzzled against his cheek, giving some warning of what was to come, then enveloped Barard’s mouth with his own. Barard responded sleepily to the slow rhythm, and his hands joined in the gentle communion, sweeping over Tom’s back. As Tom withdrew from the kiss, Barard gave a small whimper of protest; eyes still closed, he raised his head, seeking the lost contact with Tom. That small action brought memories crowding in, and Tom’s eyes blurred again. It seemed to him that he had spent the time since Barard’s rescue on the edge of tears. He had no care that Hanril was there, and possibly Catos; he had conveyed more to Barard in that kiss than he could easily have said in words, and far more quickly. See, I’m here. I’m fine. I love you, oh, so much. Don’t worry about hurting me. Don’t be scared to kiss me. Kissing is good.

Barard’s hand went unerringly to the back of Tom’s head. The pressure was light - please, more - and as Tom responded, he felt Barard’s lips smile beneath his in sleepy warmth. They kissed and parted, settling together, and Tom couldn’t believe how normal it felt.

Hanril gave an apologetic cough. ‘I’m sorry, little masters; I’d love to let you sleep some more, but neither of you ate any supper, and breakfast is here.’

‘I’m not hungry,’ mumbled Barard, but Hanril was having none of it.

‘You look half-starved, Barard, and Tom needs to eat. After the healer has been, you can sleep again, if you wish.’

Barard did wish, and he was deeply asleep when Faros visited later that morning; he didn’t stir as Catos helped Tom to sit up against a support of pillows. Faros looked in need of a good sleep himself, but he just shrugged when Tom told him he looked exhausted.

Catos was more forthcoming. ‘Sûlos has made him a Justice of the Court and given him command of the third army.’ He look at Faros with evident pride, and possibly a hint of mischief at Faros’s evident discomfiture.

‘Hardly “command”,’ Faros corrected Catos, his dry tone dismissive of the honour. ‘I have several lords to advise me; I simply do as they say.’ He leaned forward to look at Tom. ‘But what I want to know is how you are. How is your Barard?’

Tom looked down at Barard as he twitched in his dreams; he kept a hold on one of his hands, wanting always to keep some contact with him.

‘How is he?’ repeated Faros.

‘I... I don’t really know,’ admitted Tom reluctantly. ‘Sometimes, he’s so real and lucid, and here, and then he’s gone again.’

‘What does he say about his captivity?’

‘We don’t talk about it.’ Tom blink away tears again. ‘He doesn’t want to, and I can’t bear it when he... he...’ When he curls whimpering into a ball, trapped in the prison of his mind. Tom couldn’t even bring himself to say it. He stroked the back of Barard’s hand with his thumb to calm himself. ‘I... I can’t ask him.’ He looked up at Faros and saw only understanding.

‘You’re afraid the memories are too painful.’

Tom nodded, but there was no opportunity to say more. Barard stirred, his fingers tightening around Tom’s.

‘Tom?’

‘I’m here, love.’

Barard gave a small sigh and opened his eyes. He studied Tom’s face, as though this was not something to take for granted. ‘Yes,’ he agreed. ‘You are.’ Tom raised the hand he held to press a kiss against the palm, and watched Barard’s face light into a smile. Such a simple thing, a smile, but Tom felt as though a warm glow of happiness had wrapped itself about his heart. The pain in his shoulder eased a little, but whether from the warmth of the smile or a lessening of his tension, Tom couldn’t say. He had already found that it took time to judge Barard’s state of mind at each awakening, but for now the signs were good.

‘We have some visitors, love. Catos is here, and Faros.’

Barard struggled up to sit beside Tom. He accepted the help Catos offered him without question - leaning back against the pillows that Catos arranged for his support and taking a proffered drink - but he eyed Faros warily. Tom hastened to reassure him.

‘Faros is a good friend. He rescued you from the dungeon. We were worried about him - do you remember? - and Catos came to tell us he was safe.’ Tom inwardly winced. He was talking to Barard as he would to a child.

Faros inclined his head in greeting at the sound of his name, but made no other movement. Barard’s response was to lean in against Tom and close his eyes, but if the slow, even rise and fall of his shoulders beneath Tom’s arm was anything to go by, he was still relaxed. Tom held him close and worried whether to talk over him in Southron or not. In the end, it seemed the best way to allow Barard to become accustomed to Faros’s presence.

Interspersed by quiet questions from Tom, Faros gave his own account of his meeting with the third army. Except in minor details, it was as Catos had already described. Tom looked at his friend in exasperation. ‘What were you thinking?’ he asked. ‘You could have been killed!’

Faros raised his eyebrows. ‘I am not the one who nearly died, my friend, and I was thinking that I would try to prevent more blood being spilt. My lord Sûlos may relish a battle, but I have not been raised to it, and it sickens me.’

‘Did you know there was so much dissatisfaction in the third army?’ Tom was still trying to understand how Faros had thought his idea could possibly work.

‘Tarlos said they’d not been paid, remember?’

‘I still can’t believe -’

Catos interrupted Tom. ‘I told you. We Haradrim admire bravery.’

Faros made a dismissive noise, and Catos turned to him indignantly. ‘Of course you were brave, and that’s partly why they listened. I heard them tell Yanos.’

‘Why else did they listen?’ asked Tom with interest.

‘They were intrigued. Faros had clearly been a slave, but he was dressed in clothes fit for a king.’ Catos laughed at the memory. ‘I saw Yanos roll his eyes when they said that.’

Faros looked uncomfortable. ‘He said he didn’t mind - that I took his clothes.’

‘Of course he didn’t; anyway, you outrank him.’

‘No! I do not! He’s next in line to the throne, after Sûlos's sons.’

‘But you’re the head of one of the great Houses, and Yanos is just a younger brother.’ Catos said this with all the satisfaction of knowing the same could be said of himself, once he came of age.

Barard nudged Tom. ‘What are they arguing about? Something about clothes?’

Tom nodded. It seemed he had been right: talking over Barard had allowed him to accept that Faros was no threat. He tried to explain. ‘It started with clothes, but now it’s about rank. I’ve no idea who is right, but Faros has just reminded Catos that neither of them actually owns anything.’

‘Why? I don’t understand. Your friends are important lords, aren’t they?’

‘Yes, love, but until recently they were slaves.’

‘Slaves!’

Faros and Catos stopped arguing and stared from Barard to Tom. ‘What’s the matter?’ ‘Why’s he looking like that?’

Tom ignored them and stayed in Westron. ‘Yes.’

‘But... but you said they befriended you. How did...’ Barard changed tack, ‘Just how long have you been here, Tom, to speak Southron as you do?’

Only honesty would do. ‘Nearly nine months.’

‘Nine months,’ whispered Barard. ‘How have you lived?’

Tom sighed. ‘As a slave.’

‘You mean, you pretended to be a slave?’

Tom wished for the hundredth time that he could hug Barard properly. ‘No, love. It’s a long story. I was a slave.’ He swore softly under his breath as he recognised the drift into otherness in Barard’s eyes and felt the trembling begin. ‘Stay with me, love,’ he pleaded.

‘What’s the matter,’ asked Faros, a worried frown dragging his eyebrows together.

‘He does this,’ said Catos quietly. ‘I’m sorry, Tom. Did we scare him? Was it our arguing?’

Tom shook his head. Explanations could wait. ‘Barard,’ he said gently, ‘look at me, love.’ A small part of him was aware of Catos shooing Faros from the room. Catos himself stayed, there if Tom needed help, but otherwise as unobtrusive as possible, and Tom gave all his attention to Barard. ‘My love,’ more urgent now, ‘look at me!’ With difficulty he brought his fingers up under Barard’s chin to force his head up, but looking into Barard’s eyes was not the same as Barard looking back into his. Barard had disappeared into himself, and Tom gave up. It pained him to see Barard lose himself like this, but Legolas hadn’t seemed to think it a bad thing, just something that in time Barard would no longer need. Tom allowed Barard to curl against him and bury his face, and settled for providing a haven of safety.

He let his mind wander. Possibly because he was thinking of providing a haven, or possibly because he was looking forward to the moment when they would be sailing home, a song came to mind that had been a great favourite of the crew on his journey to Umbar. It was very similar to songs enjoyed in the inns of the Shire, where the rhyme was sacrificed for innuendo, to roars of laughter. Tom started humming it quietly, but finding that Barard relaxed, he switched to the words.

Then up comes a mermaid covered in muck
We took her to the fo’csle and had a good time
Stormy weather boys, stormy weather boys
When the wind blows our barge will sail.

There was a muffled snort from Barard. ‘I had a... a dream that you came to find me, and sang to me like your father did in the orc-hold. Only your song wasn’t fine and noble; it was a dirty ditty that the soldiers sing in Minas Tirith.’ He lifted his head to look at Tom, and the smile on his face faded. ‘A slave? Oh, Tom!’

‘Well, it’s allowed me to learn some tavern songs of Hafar,’ said Tom lightly. ‘I’ll teach them to you, and you can shock Hanril.’

‘But a slave!’

‘It doesn’t compare, not to what you’ve been through.’

Barard’s eyes were overly bright with tears. ‘But I had only myself to blame -’

‘Stop it!’ Tom softened his voice as Barard flinched. ‘Stop it, love. I told you before, there’s nothing for me to forgive. One day you can tell me what you were doing, but that’s not important. You were just unlucky, or maybe they were looking for an excuse; I don’t know, it doesn’t matter.’

Barard looked down. ‘I didn’t really think of it as spying. I mean, all Elessar asked is that I tell him what I saw.’

‘Elessar!’

Barard glanced at Tom’s face, and bit his lip. With a conscious effort, Tom softened the anger that must be showing in his face. Elessar! King or no, he would be on the receiving end of Tom’s ire when they got back!

‘He asked me to take note of any movements of soldiers, so when I saw the signals in the hills, I thought I’d take a quick look.’

‘A quick look?’ Tom was unable to hide his disbelief. ‘It took Faros the best part of a day to get there!’

‘But I was there already. In the hills. They took me to see the carpets being made in one of the villages. I saw the lights at dawn, and went to investigate.’

‘The bastards.’

‘What? Who?’

‘They fucking set you up, I’m sure of it.’ Tom shifted, angry once more. ‘I bet they wanted you to go and look. Maybe they didn’t realise before you arrived, but I bet someone told them.’

‘What? You’re not making sense.’ Barard looked bewildered; he sat up straighter and laid the back of his hand to Tom’s forehead. ‘Are you feeling all right?’

‘You might just as well blame your father for naming you so, or the old prophecies.’

‘Catos,’ said Barard urgently, ‘go to pheeseeshun. Go now. Tom not well.’

Catos jumped up, but Tom stopped him. ‘I’m fine. I’m just explaining badly.’ He took Barard’s hand and recited the prophecy of the Sun in Southron.

Barard just looked more worried, if that were possible. ‘Catos, why you here? Go!’

‘Did you understand any of that?’ asked Tom.

‘My name was in it.’

‘That wasn’t your name; at least, I suppose it was, but it translates as “son of justice.” Listen.’ Tom spoke the words in Westron, ‘“First comes the Son of Justice. The Sun will rise after a long night, and an eagle will fly on the north wind to put out thine enemy’s Eye.”’ He sighed. ‘That really pisses me off. Faros is damn lucky he’s such a good man.’

Barard frowned. ‘Why’s he lucky? I still don’t understand.’

‘I think you were arrested simply because of your name. If Faros wasn’t such a good friend, I might hate him for what was done to you all because of his House’s stupid prophecy.’

Barard stroked his face. ‘Don’t be silly, Tom. You’re not looking at this the right way round. A seer sees the future; he - or she - doesn’t make the future. It’s not Faros’s fault, is it? What about the eagle putting out the enemy’s eye? What was that all about?’

Tom coughed, embarrassed. Catos had already said, I told you so. ‘Erm, I rather think that was me.’

‘You put out someone’s eye?’

‘Not exactly.’

Barard stroked Tom’s face. ‘Tell me, love.’ His face was full of concern, a concern that understood just how bad Tom would feel if he had really done such a thing.

‘It was a mirror. Used to signal across the desert. I’ve no idea if the prophecy means the mirror was like an eye, or breaking it helped put an end to the Eye, or what.’ Tom glanced at Catos, but his young friend had seated himself in the high-backed chair and was waiting - surprisingly patiently - for Tom to say something he understood. ‘Catos says that’s what people are saying, anyway.’ Tom let his head fall back against his pillow and closed his eyes. He had a headache, and felt exhausted. He could have sworn he’d done no more than close his eyes for a few seconds, but when he opened them with a jerk of his head, it was Hanril who sat dozing in the high-backed chair.

Barard had eased down the bed just enough for his shoulders to fit more comfortably under the yoke of Tom’s arm, and his head lay against Tom’s shoulder. One arm wrapped across Tom’s chest in a comforting embrace. Tom squinted down at him. He was asleep.

Tom laid his cheek against the stubble of Barard’s hair and sighed, almost happy. His shoulder pained him, and Barard was far from normal, but - all things considered - there was plenty to be thankful for. He closed his eyes again and drifted back to sleep.