THE ADVENTURES of TOM and BARARD: CHAPTER 13

Tom and Barard did a lot of sleeping over the days that followed. Both of them were easily exhausted, and Tom found that even after the smallest exertion he was breathing as though he’d run a race. He needed help to do the simplest tasks, but that was no bad thing. Legolas was right: Barard was at his best when caring for Tom. It was worth being wounded just for that.

Their world was bounded by their room, and they had only a small number of visitors, but within those confines, Barard became more confident and less prone to slip into a state of fear or panic. Catos showed him how to soak off Tom’s dressing - stripping with it the damaged flesh that would hamper healing and provide fertile ground for contagion-bred fever - how to salve the wound, and how to bandage Tom effectively.

‘You could leave it off,’ said Tom hopefully, but Barard just raised an eyebrow and kept unrolling the bandage around Tom’s chest. Tom was glad this required Barard to work facing him. As yet, Barard knew nothing of Tom’s branding, and Tom wanted to spare him that knowledge as long as possible. Their conversations were limited to their immediate needs, and Tom baulked at the question to which he most wanted an answer: had Barard been abused in more ways than physical beatings and deprivation?

Barard himself was frequently silent and seemed content to sit pressed against Tom. They touched and kissed, but not as lovers, not to arouse. ‘I love to sit and hold you,’ murmured Tom as Barard finished with the bandage and settled back beside him. ‘I’ve missed you so much.’ Barard turned within the protective circle of Tom’s arm, burrowing closer, and Tom blinked back his tears.

When Sûlos visited, Tom nearly missed him. With sleeping so much, it was not surprising that he should wake to find the men around them had come or gone, with the occasional welcome presence of an Elf. Hanril and Catos seemed to have some arrangement whereby one or other was always close by, and it was Hanril’s voice interspersed with those of Barard and Sûlos that Tom woke to. He lay quiet, gauging Barard’s mood; Barard was at ease with their small circle of visitors, but Sûlos was unknown to him.

‘So you work together?’

‘Yes, for years - twenty years.’

Hanril translated the question and the answer, and for Tom it was like hearing an echo of the words.

‘And you trade between your Shi-er and Gondor?’

‘And Rohan. Tom is very good at negotiating terms.’

‘And what are you good at?’

‘Facts, figures.’

‘Do you mean that you are good with numbers?’

‘Tom says they dance for me, but for him they tangle their feet together and end up in a heap.’

Barard’s words lost something in translation, but Sûlos laughed. ‘The science of numbers has withered under Daros, but I intend to revive the once-famous school. I have granted the use of a room in the palace here in the meantime. Maybe you would like to join our men of science when you feel a little stronger.’

‘I... I don’t know, my Lord,’ said Barard.

‘You need make no decision. If you are interested, simply join them anytime they are there.’

‘You are very kind.’

‘I’m sorry you have suffered such unkindness and injustice at the hands of Daros. I am delighted we were able to free you, and not only for your sake. I owe my life to Tolman, did you know that?’

Tom decided it was time to stir. He had no wish to listen in as they talked about him. He lifted his head. ‘My lord king, you honour us.’

Sûlos was seated in the large, high-backed chair; he turned at the sound of Tom’s voice and jumped up to help Tom into a sitting position. ‘Tolman, it is good to see you.’ He smiled down at Tom’s confusion. ‘Once more I am in your debt. Had the third army arrived a day earlier, I would have been hard-pressed to meet them in battle.’

Tom glanced at Barard, cross-legged at the end of the bed, and back to Sûlos. ‘I would say that the debt is mine.’

‘We will not argue over this, my friend, but I know my opinion on the matter. I’m glad you have your Barard back. The physician says that he will allow you up today or tomorrow, providing you do not try to do too much, and I would like to invite you to dine at my table when you feel ready. My private baths are at your disposal; Balios will show you.’

‘Thank you, my lord.’ Tom wasn’t going to even mention dining in company to Barard, but a proper bath sounded like a gift from the Valar.

‘Is there anything else you have need of?’

Barard reached out and rubbed a thumb against Tom’s sole. ‘Ask him for some oil.’

Tom jumped at the touch. He hadn’t worked out exactly how much Barard did understand in Southron. ‘Is there oil for... for Barard to rub my feet?’ Tom didn’t have the word he needed.

Sûlos laughed. ‘Well, that’s an interesting euphemism.’

Tom flushed. ‘It is a skill Barard has. He can ease pain and help healing by... by rubbing my feet.’

Sûlos's mouth twitched, and his thick eyebrows rose.

‘No. It’s true. My father taught him.’

Hanril had been keeping a respectful silence, but now he nodded. ‘Barard has been kind enough to massage my feet when I have had the headache.’

‘And the headache went?’

‘It eased.’

‘I suspect our good physician will consider it some impish magic, but I will tell him of your wish for some oil. If the Citadel falls, as I believe it will soon, I will have little time to visit, but do not think that means you are not in my thoughts. I have seen many strange things since I left my home in the south, but none so strange as Halflings. I think you have bewitched us all into loving you.’

‘My lord!’ Tom protested, but Sûlos laughed again, his dark brown eyes warm with affection.

‘I jest, small friend, but the city considers you its lucky charm. Aquilmos they call you now: little eagle. I advise you against going out without a guard; you are likely to find that you are mobbed by well-wishers and those hoping to touch you for good luck.’

Tom shifted uncomfortably and changed the subject. ‘Why do you think the Citadel will fall soon? Are they running short of food?’

‘I doubt it. However, many of those close to Daros are not there for love or loyalty, but because he gives them the power they crave. I suspect their sycophancy will be wearing thin. I would rather they did not kill him, but - ’ Sûlos shrugged at the inevitability of it, ‘- if he does not surrender the Citadel to me soon, I think those around him will tire of their prison, despite its many comforts.’


Sûlos turned out to be right on all counts: the physician did allow Tom up the following day, and by then Daros was dead, and the Citadel had welcomed its new king. The need for a guard to protect the Halflings was also well judged, but Sûlos had not anticipated the need within the palace confines. Such a thought certainly never occurred to Tom as he and Barard followed Balios to the promised bath. The small exertion of walking made Tom feel as though he had run round the barrack square half a dozen times. At least Barard was stepping out a little better at his side, although he had twice stumbled for no good reason. Tom slipped a hand beneath Barard’s elbow, and wondered how much support he would be able to give him. ‘It’s not far,’ he said, partly reassuring himself. ‘We have to cross the entrance hall to gain the west wing; it’s the quickest way.’ Tom’s voice gave away how short of breath he was, and Barard’s quick look of concern made him wish he hadn’t spoken.

As they emerged into the large room that gave on to the front entrance, Tom halted in amazement. The palace was no longer imbued with the quiet atmosphere of conspiracy and secrecy to which he had become accustomed; in his short absence, the place had become the king’s residence and centre of governance. Guards were in evidence, not only at the front doorway, but also guarding the corridors that led to the private rooms. People hurried across the wide marble floor in a whirl of coloured robes, dodging and weaving past each other to different goals. Tom could make little sense of it, but most people appeared to know where they were going. A scribe was explaining to an agitated family group that any news of the Disappeared could be gained at the Citadel, not the palace, but Tom already knew from Faros that few had been found alive.

Barard pressed in against Tom as they followed Balios across the crowded hall, and Tom kept close behind the servant, letting him clear a way through the press of people. They were partway across before they were noticed. The babble of noise died away, to be replaced by hushed whispers that rippled across the room in a soft susurration of sound, as all eyes gradually turned to them.

‘It’s our little bird, our Aquilmos!’

‘The rumours are true! Look, there are two of them!’

‘That is bar-Ard, whom he sought.’

With frightening speed they were surrounded and separated from Balios. Barard clutched at Tom as sound rushed back - in cries and cheers - and hands reached out to touch them. Tom wrapped his arm securely around Barard, holding him close as the suffocating mass of people pressed in. He could see nothing beyond the crowd. Where was Balios? The guards? His shortness of breath increased with his anxiety, and he was not strong enough to prevent Barard from sliding down into a whimpering heap at his feet. He wanted to drop to his knees beside him, but was frightened of their being trampled. He stood over his love, shielding him as well as he could; he was shaking almost as much as Barard. He could hear the guards shouting and swearing, and Balios trying to fight his way back to them. Someone patted Tom’s shoulder, and he made no effort to hide the pain it caused him; he cried out, and was answered by a roar of anger.

‘The Eye take you! If the Halflings are injured you will answer to me!’

There was a definite easing of the press now, and Tom knelt on one knee by Barard, feeling physically sick to see him so distressed. He laid his arm across the trembling shoulders and held him close. ‘They mean no harm; we’ll be out of this soon.’ He kissed Barard on the temple, and looked up as Balios reached their side. ‘Take Barard,’ he said urgently, but as Balios tried to obey, Barard fought back in a blind panic; he seemed unaware of Tom’s presence.

‘Here, let me.’ It was Tarlos, his anger scattering the crowd like sheep. He pinned Barard’s arms to his sides and took him from Balios. Barard’s flailing feet made contact with Tarlos’s thighs, but the man held on and strode away. ‘Carry Aquilmos,’ he barked over his shoulder.

Tom had no intention of being carried; he ran after Tarlos, heedless of where they were going. They passed two guards, and a clash of spears behind them told Tom the way was barred to any who might follow. He doubted it was necessary; surely none would be so foolish as to try the patience of Tarlos when he was angry. There had been fear in the eyes of those who had fallen back at the coming of the king’s cousin. Fleetingly, Tom wondered if they would soon be calling Tarlos “the king’s jackal”, but he pushed the thought aside and hastily opened the door the man had stopped in front of. He held it wide so that Tarlos could carry his burden into the room, but he had no thought of courtesy, and let the door go almost in Balios’s face in his haste to be at Barard’s side.

Tarlos set Barard down on a low couch, and released him to Tom.

‘Barard! You’re safe. It’s all right.’

Barard took a great gasping breath like a drowning hobbit suddenly finding his face above water. He clutched Tom, his eyes wide with fear. ‘Don’t let them take me back! Don’t let them!’

Tarlos stepped away from them, hands spread wide in a placating gesture. ‘I will send for the physician.’

‘No,’ said Tom quickly, trying to keep his voice under control so that Tarlos would take heed of him, not just think they both needed a healer. ‘Not yet. Give him time. He just needs time.’ He swapped into Westron, gentling his voice. ‘Barard, no one is going to take you anywhere. We’re...’ He looked around. ‘We’re in Sûlos's private rooms.’ His nausea had faded, but seeing Barard like this always brought him close to tears. He’d been unable to prevent himself from tensing as Barard grabbed hold of him - it was something beyond his conscious will, an instinct to protect himself from pain - but it was unnecessary: Barard had spared his wounded shoulder, and Tom did not believe that to be a lucky chance. It was an encouraging sign that Barard was not completely lost within his fear.

‘What would you have me do?’ asked Tarlos.

‘If you are staying, sit quietly,’ said Tom, rather curtly. He rubbed his hand over Barard’s back. ‘Shhh, shhh, you’re safe. They meant no harm, truly.’

Slowly the fear faded from Barard’s face, to be replaced by confusion. He curled against Tom, so childlike that Tom had a sudden memory of a small Barard, the baby of them all, snuggling up in Pippin’s lap to stare at Tom over the top of his thumb; in his other hand, an old worn fragment of blanket was clutched tight. Remembering, Tom rocked Barard and quietly sang - not bawdy ditties this time, but songs of their childhood. He smiled as he remembered his childish annoyance when Barard had overtaken him in height, and had dared to call him a pip-squeak. They’d fought like a pair of barn cats, and been prised apart by Frodo and Faramir. Now he kissed the top of Barard’s head, feeling the harshness of the short stubble of hair against his lips. Barard seemed to have relaxed, but his face was still hidden; Tom was not sure if he was asleep, and sat in silence. He yawned, suddenly very tired, and Barard shifted.

‘Tom?’

‘Yes, love?’

Barard sniffed pointedly. ‘You need a bath.’

Tom choked on a laugh. ‘Will you give me one?’

‘Can I sleep on it?’

‘On it, or in it? No, it’s all right, I know what you mean. A sleep would be good if we can find somewhere better than this couch.’ Barard raised his head, nervously chewing at his lip, and Tom hastened to reassure him. ‘Not back through the crowd; I don’t mean that.’

‘Who was that man? He looked angry.’

‘Not angry with you, love. He is Tarlos, the king’s cousin. He rescued you.’ Tom realised that was ambiguous. ‘From the dungeon,’ he added.

‘I thought Faros -’

‘Faros was the one who carried you from the dungeon, but Tarlos planned and led the rescue. ‘

‘Oh.’

‘He’s here now.’

‘Oh.’ Barard pushed himself up until he could see past Tom’s shoulder. Tarlos bowed his head, but stayed where he was.

‘He looks... he looks like a bird of prey.’

‘Well, I wouldn’t want him as my enemy, but he is a good friend -though it’s best to remember that anything you say to him may be passed to the king.’

‘I’m not making a very good impression on your friends, am I?’

Tom made a dismissive noise. ‘Tarlos understands. He really does.’

Tarlos stood slowly, but moved no closer, no doubt gauging Barard’s reaction. ‘Will you introduce us?’ he asked. ‘If you are going to speak of me.’

‘Barard, this is Tarlos, of the House of the Morning Star, cousin to the king.’ Tarlos bowed, although he could have understood no more than his name. ‘Tarlos, this is Barard. He’s worried about what you think of his... fear.’

Barard scrabbled free of Tom’s arm and slid to the floor to bow low. ‘I thank you,’ he said in careful Southron. ‘Tom tell me you...’ He looked at Tom.

‘Rescued.’

‘Rescued me. I sorry I make, err...’ He searched for the word he wanted, but Tarlos waved his apology aside.

‘Please, do not worry yourself. You are not alone in this. There are others who have suffered as you have. Most are worse. The physician marvels at your resilience; you are recovering quicker than I ever expected.’

Tom had to translate this. He finished and looked up at Tarlos, seeing only compassion in the man’s face. ‘Is there anywhere we can lie down? Barard tells me I smell, but we both need a rest before a bath.’

‘Of course. Can you walk? There are rooms prepared; I think you will like them.’


They could walk, although Tom was shaky on his legs after the exertion of running. He hoped the physician would not get to hear of it. He went slowly, glad when it turned out to be only a short distance. Tarlos threw open a door, and Tom exclaimed in delighted surprise.

‘Who? How?’ he asked, rather stupidly, since it was obvious the furniture had been made specially for them. Barard wandered through to an adjoining room while Tom was still trailing his hand over the back of hobbit-sized chairs; his voice called out, the hoarseness slightly muffled, but delight clear to hear. Tom followed to see for himself, and stopped short at the sight that met his eyes. Screens painted with flowers and birds had been set to make the room seem smaller, and windows stood open onto a bright garden. Coloured swathes of a fine material had been hung beneath the ceiling in sweeping curves, reducing the height of the room to more intimate proportions. Tom stared up as the cloth shimmered and fluttered in the light breeze from the window; surely it wasn’t silk? As in the outer sitting room, the furniture had been designed for hobbits, and Tom felt a warm glow of happiness at the sight of Barard lying back on the bed, propped on his elbows. The fine regrowth of his hair was only a distant promise of the richness of red-gold to come, and his cheekbones were still unnaturally gaunt. Dark shadows beneath his eyes bore witness to the nightmares that dragged him screaming and fighting into wakefulness, but somehow he looked less of a waif when he wasn’t dwarfed by the furniture. He smiled at Tom, and shifted his weight so that he could hold out a hand.

Tarlos stood in the doorway. ‘When you are ready, the baths are two doors down on the opposite side of the passageway. You will find clothes and dressing gowns through there,’ he indicated a door by the bed, ‘and there are bandages and salves in that cupboard.’

‘Tarlos, thank you. This is lovely.’

‘Thank Faros. It was his idea. If you will excuse me, I have much to do for the coronation. It is our hope that you will be able to come.’

‘I’m sorry, Tarlos. That’s not possible. You must see that, after this morning.’

‘Let us wait and see nearer the time, yes? I will leave you to rest, and hope to see you again soon.’

Barard stretched out and ran his hands over the sheets. ‘Silk,’ he said. He held out his arms to Tom again. ‘Come here, love.’ Tom was happy to obey, but he wasn’t at all sure what Barard wanted from him. He still had questions he needed to ask about Barard’s captivity, and he didn’t know where to start without risking the fear returning to dull Barard’s eyes. Without answers, and without some sign from Barard, Tom was unsure about touching him with his old intimacy. The perversion of Bayos was clear in his mind, and his fears of how Barard might have been treated had not been dispelled with his rescue. He settled awkwardly next to Barard, hampered by his bound arm, but preferring the discomfort of lying on his wounded side to having his good arm trapped beneath him. He pulled Barard close, rolling half onto his back to take his weight off his shoulder. Barard came willingly into his embrace, shifting down the bed until his head rested below Tom’s chin. He yawned, wriggled to get more comfortable, and hooked a leg over Tom’s. His breathing deepened, and Tom squinted down at him. He appeared to be asleep already.

Sleep, for Tom, was elusive. He was here in this beautiful room, with the comfort of Barard’s breath warm against his skin, as each exhalation permeated through the light weave of his tunic. He stared up at the silken hangings and thought of Faros. His friend had been abused, but still had a lover, and that was encouraging, but Tom - on an emotional knife edge - found tears obscuring the bright colours as he remembered that Faros had rarely even shared a bed with his love, and that love had been lost. He caressed Barard’s head, feeling the roughness of the short regrowth of hair. So close. He had come so close to losing Barard. What did it matter what Barard wanted Tom to be? If he only needed Tom to be a comfort to him like that old blanket of long ago - well, that was fine. It was just... it was just knowing how to talk to Barard without causing him pain or fear; better to say nothing than do that. What was it his da used to say? Least said, soonest mended, that was it. He closed his eyes, resting rather than sleeping, but glad to be lying down.

When Barard woke, they rose and explored the room more thoroughly. The door Tarlos had indicated led into a dressing room, and all the clothes that hung there were hobbit-sized. There were fine cottons, linens and expensive silks. Barard held out the hem of a dressing gown, so that the richly-coloured material fanned out before them. ‘I think this is yours,’ he said drily, and Tom gave an embarrassed huff of laughter when he saw the eagle embroidered across the back of it.

‘After the crowd today, I feel as though I need camouflage, not a large sign saying Aquilmos is here, he said.

‘Look at the craftsmanship,’ said Barard, and for a moment he was Barard, trader, of Minas Tirith. ‘This is beautiful work.’ He slipped it off its hanger and threw it around Tom’s shoulders. ‘Mmm, yes, the dark blue suits you.’ He paused, considering, and then pulled it off again, throwing it rather carelessly over a chair back. ‘Let me help you undress and remove your bandages, and you can wear it to the bathroom. The healer said you could have the dressing off to take a bath.’

‘You could leave it off,’ said Tom, ever hopeful, but Barard shook his head.

‘Still no, love. It must be horrid in this heat, but no.’

Tom sighed, but it would be good to wash properly without having to keep the bandages dry. He stood patiently while Barard unbuttoned his tunic; the left sleeve had been turned inside to keep it out of Tom’s way, and it slipped easily from his shoulder. He shrugged the garment off his other shoulder and watched as Barard carefully unravelled the bandage, rolling it up as he did so, and reaching behind Tom to pass it from right hand to left and so to the front again. The gauze pad beneath had stuck to the wound, and Barard let it be.

‘I’ll soak it off when you’re in the bath,’ he said. ‘It’s not how I’ve seen wounds treated before, but it seems to work. I just wish it wasn’t so painful for you when I remove it.’ Each dressing change had stripped away unhealthy tissue, leaving a cleaner wound. Tom had thought he’d hidden the pain it caused him, but it seemed not.

Barard picked up the dressing gown again and carefully slid the sleeve up Tom’s left arm. Tom expected Barard to reach around him again, but Barard moved behind him instead, talking about the eagle design. ‘I’m glad they think so well -’ he began, and stopped with a sharp intake of breath. Fingers hesitantly touched Tom’s right shoulder, lightly tracing the scar.

‘Tom?’

‘I told you,’ said Tom, trying to sound matter-of-fact. ‘I was a slave.’

‘They branded you?’ It was a whisper. The questing fingers shifted to trace the scars running across his back. ‘They whipped you? Oh, Tom. I’m so sorry.’

Tom didn’t need to see Barard to know that tears were welling along his lower lids; he could hear them in the tremor of his voice. He let Barard finish helping him on with the dressing gown before he tried to turn, but Barard caught him around the waist, and bowed his head to lay his forehead against Tom’s shoulder.

‘Barard, love, this is not your fault. Will you stop apologising.’

‘But branded!’

‘I told you, it was nothing to what you went through.’ Tom bit his lip, annoyed with himself at the note of impatience that had crept into his voice. He didn’t want Barard to dwell on this, but getting cross with him for doing so wasn’t going to help. Barard pressed a kiss against the scar, and pulled Tom tighter against himself.

‘I had a dream while I was held prisoner. Well, lots of dreams -sometimes I couldn’t tell what was real - but one dream kept coming to me again and again.’

Tom let himself relax back into Barard’s support. ‘What? What was it?’

‘Somehow I was free and with you, and everything was just as it had always been.’

‘And it’s not?’ Stupid question.

‘No, it’s not. You’re hurt, but that’s not it. That’s not the problem.’ Barard kissed Tom’s shoulder again and was silent.

Tom felt suddenly cold. ‘So what is it?’ he asked, his voice gone croaky. ‘Are you... are you telling me you don’t love me the same way?’

‘Nienna’s tears! No!’ Barard jerked upright. ‘What makes you think that?’

How to answer? ‘I don’t know what you’ve been through. I... I don’t know how you feel.’ Fuck! I don’t know if you’ve been raped! But he couldn’t bring himself to say that.

‘I feel...’ Barard hesitated, and Tom waited in the silence, painfully aware of the thumping of his heart. When Barard spoke, his words did nothing to reassure. ‘I feel as though I can’t trust myself, and I can’t trust you.’

‘What!’ Tom tried to pull away, but Barard held tight.

‘Listen. Will you listen, Tom!’ With difficulty, Tom relaxed back into Barard’s embrace, and Barard kissed his cheek. ‘Thank you, love.’

‘Why don’t you trust me?’ Tom almost choked on the words. He had been so sure that Barard did.

‘I don’t trust you to tell me what’s going on, I don’t trust you to treat me as though I won’t shatter into a thousand pieces. You’re acting like you’re walking on eggshells, trying to keep me... sane, trying not to do or say anything that might upset me.’

‘What am I suppose to do?’ cried Tom, angry and hurt. He struggled again to free himself.

‘Shhh, love. Listen. Take the risk. Take the risk that I’ll be all right, that I have to fail.’

‘Fail?’

‘Fail to be as normal as you’d like me to be.’

‘It’s not like that.’ Tom was close to tears. ‘I want you to feel safe.’

‘Just being with you makes me feel safe. I know I’m not right in the head, Tom. It’s one of the reasons I don’t trust myself; I know I can’t stop myself being as I was earlier, but will you trust me to come back to you? Back from the madness?’

‘You’re not mad.’

‘Yes, Tom. I am, a little, whatever Legolas says. Will you accept me, let me be so?’

Tom swallowed. ‘Do you know how hard it is to watch you?’ he whispered.

Barard loosened his hold to slip a hand inside the dressing gown and rub his palm over Tom’s belly. His answer was the question turned back on Tom. ‘Do you know how hard it is to hurt you when I change your dressing?’

‘That’s different. It’s over very quickly,’ said Tom.

‘That’s not my point. I hate doing it, but it has to be done. It strips the badness away, and the wound is healing better for it, much quicker than I thought it would.’

‘Are you trying to tell me that your... your terror attacks -’

‘ - are a badness that has to be stripped away? Maybe. Legolas said as much, anyway.’

Tom hung his head. ‘He told me not to be overprotective.’

‘There you are, then. I love you for wanting to protect me, but will you promise me you’ll stop?’

‘I promise I’ll try; I don’t think I can do more.’

Tom was hoping that Barard would nuzzle and nibble at his neck, but instead he released Tom and came to stand in front of him. He cupped Tom’s face with his hands, and kissed him lightly on the mouth. ‘Good. No, don’t you dare use that arm. I’m going to make you a sling.’

‘What do you mean, I don’t tell you what’s going on?’ asked Tom, as Barard tied a length of bandage into a loop.

‘Sûlos invited us to dine; Tarlos wants us to go the crowning - at least that’s what I think he said. You’re not even telling me you refused on my behalf.’

‘But... but...’

Barard slipped the loop of the bandage over Tom’s head, and twisted it into a figure of eight. He carefully placed Tom’s arm in the makeshift sling. ‘Oh, I know I shouldn’t go, not to the crowning, anyway. The last thing they need is a hobbit having - what did you call it, a terror attack? - in the middle of the festivities, but that’s no reason for you not to go.’

‘But... but...’ Tom was very aware of the inadequacy of his argument. He tried again. ‘I’m not leaving you!’

Barard kissed him. ‘Overprotective,’ he murmured against Tom’s lips, and drew back to look into Tom’s eyes. ‘Are you never going to leave me? Let me out of your sight? If you really don’t trust me on my own, Hanril can stay with me.’

‘It’s not a question of not trusting you,’ said Tom miserably. ‘I can’t bear the thought that you might need me, and I’d not be there.’

‘Well, I think you should go, for friendship’s sake, and to represent Halflings.’

‘I’m not going.’

‘No?’

‘No!’

Barard shrugged, pulling off his clothes in silence. He didn’t argue further, but Tom had the distinct feeling the subject wasn’t closed. Watching Barard, as he stood naked, reaching for the other dressing gown, Tom was painfully aware how little he knew about Barard’s ordeal. The bruises had gone, the sores had almost healed, but the wasted muscles would take time to fill out between prominent ribs and over limbs that were startling in their stick-like fragility. And what of the haunted look that could appear with so little warning? Would that fade?

Barard held up the dark-green dressing gown, one eyelid quirked up in his What the fuck! expression, and Tom was pulled from his introspection as they both burst out laughing. Embroidered over the back was what Tom guessed was a muskil, but as near to a stoat as made no difference. Barard’s smile faded as he slipped it on. He tentatively touched Tom’s right shoulder.

‘I can’t imagine how much that hurt,’ he said quietly. ‘What happened?’

‘A man betrayed me. Mehos.’

‘Ah. This would be who Faros was talking about this morning? I couldn’t work out what he said.’ The faint accusation hung unspoken between them: something else you didn’t tell me.

‘He was captured trying to leave the Citadel in disguise. He’s to stand trial. Unlawful enslavement of a freeman - freehobbit - is the least of his crimes. Conspiring to assassinate Sûlos and his brother, Yanos, are among the charges laid against him.‘

‘Well, I think I’d rather he were dead.’

‘I think he will be. He’s believed to be behind the murders of many who opposed Daros. Public feeling is running high against him, and if he’s found guilty, he’s likely to be executed.’ Tom bowed his head.

‘Tom, oh, Tom, love. What is it? Do you mind that he’s to be executed?’

Tom shook his head, although he did mind that he was expected to testify against the man, and so contribute to his execution. ‘No, it’s not that. So many chances.’ So many chances that led me to you in time. He wiped his eyes on the material of his sleeve, the dampness turning the dark blue even darker, and looked up at Barard. ‘Did you know? That you were to be executed that day you were rescued?’

Barard frowned. ‘Yes, I knew. They couldn’t resist tormenting me with that, except, to me, it was a... a way out. Forgive me. I wasn’t surprised when the soldiers came, though I didn’t see why I should make it easy for them, but then he - Faros - came, and spoke to me in Westron, spoke of you.’ Now the tears were back in Barard’s eyes. ‘I couldn’t... I couldn’t believe... Oh, Tom, help me.’ The last was a whispered plea, and Tom wrapped his arm around Barard’s waist to draw him in close. With his left hand he pulled their robes open, so they were pressed naked against each other.

‘Shhh. I’m here, we’re here together,’ murmured Tom, his lips brushing Barard’s ear. ‘You collapsed as he carried you out, but I was there waiting for you. I was so desperate to hold you. I couldn’t really believe it, either. I’d been trying to find you for so long.’

Barard took a deep breath. ‘I always knew you’d be looking for me.’ His voice was a little shaky. ‘But the worst days were when I thought you might be dead.’

‘They were the worst for me: the days I despaired of finding you alive.’

They stood in silence a moment, and then turned to each other, tilting their heads as their eyes closed and their lips met. Barard gave a small murmur of contentment as his body seemed to melt against Tom’s, and Tom slipped his left hand from the sling to enfold Barard fully in his arms. He hardly noticed the protest of his shoulder as their mouths moved together, warm and comforting in the familiarity of the dance.

In the past, such a kiss would have picked up momentum, moving into arousal and foreplay. Any surface, horizontal or vertical, might have been called upon to take over the support of a hobbit heading for enthusiastic climax. The means and duration had varied - depending not only on their own stamina, but also on their location and the likelihood of interruption - and the resultant release might be one-sided, or shared. Tom was certain that it had never before ended with Barard avoiding his gaze as he carefully tied Tom’s dressing gown belt, and replaced his hand in the sling. Only after Barard had fussed around making sure Tom was comfortable did he raise his eyes. Tom, who could read Barard’s moods like a book, could tell he was anxious, and a little voice inside said, Ask him why! Do it now! - but Tom was finding the day tiring enough already, and was inclined to put off any such question. Instead, he stroked the backs of his fingers down Barard’s face and lightly kissed him: whatever it is, don’t worry.


In the baths, it was pure bliss to be immersed in hot water, surrounded by marble and a plethora of ornamentation. ‘They like gold, then?’ said Barard as he dropped his robe and slipped into the water beside Tom.

Tom snorted with laughter at the understatement. ‘You could say that.’ He watched Barard float back in the water with eyes closed. ‘I think Sûlos could fit his whole harem in here.’

Barard jerked and floundered, getting water up his nose. He came up coughing and spluttering. ‘He has a harem?’

‘Apparently.’ Tom helped Barard find his feet. ‘But only one queen; I asked Faros.’

‘Maybe we should suggest it to Elessar, just to see Arwen’s face.’

‘You’re a braver hobbit than me to even think it,’ said Tom in all seriousness, and it was Barard’s turn to laugh.

‘Hmm. Yes, maybe you’re right.’ He scooped lemon-scented soap out of an onyx dish and lathered it up. ‘Come here, love.’

Tom sighed with contentment as Barard’s soap-slick hands smoothed over his skin. Water and Barard were always such a great combination, even now when he only seemed concerned with a careful cleaning. The Barard of Tom’s memory would have viewed any opportunity involving Tom, water and soap as utterly wasted had it not led to one or both of them coming with noisy appreciation. Now, Barard’s eyes followed his hands with calm intent as he carefully rolled back the foreskin from Tom’s cock to wash beneath. He rinsed the soap away, apparently oblivious of the reaction he had drawn forth. Tom bit back a whimper of frustration, and with a great effort held back his body’s urge to lift and thrust into the well-remembered touch.

The drying was not much better, as Tom stood - cool marble beneath his feet - to let Barard rub him all over with a soft towel. There was little doubt about his own arousal. His hardened cock twitched as he shifted his stance to allow Barard room to dry between his balls and his thighs, and he was tempted to just grab Barard’s hand and wrap it around his need. Again, memory did not help. Barard loved - had loved - sucking Tom’s cock, and even had they lacked the time, he would have dropped to his knees to tease Tom with a promise of later.

Barard looked at Tom, his brows drawn into a slight frown, his mouth twisted slightly in a way that meant he was thinking. ‘We’d better leave the wet sling in place, and I’ll finish drying you in our room,’ he said.

‘Why not take it off, and I’ll hold my arm. It’s not far.’ As much as Tom hated the bandage, he was looking forward to its being replaced. The sling didn’t give enough support, and his shoulder was aching, although at least that was a distraction from another ache deep inside. He hoped that either his body would realise the futility of its present demand, or that they might return to their room unobserved; the dressing gown would do nothing to hide his state. It was going to be bad enough passing the servant in the anteroom. The man had given them a knowing smirk when Tom had told him they needed no help and did not wish to be disturbed.

As it turned out, Tom got both his wishes. His cock gave up its hopeful stand, and they met no one. In their room, Barard dressed Tom’s shoulder with care and bandaged his arm again. They spoke little, just the chat needed to get the task done.

‘There,’ said Barard, as he finished. ‘Is that comfortable?’ He picked up a small glazed earthenware bottle with a cork stopper, and Tom swallowed. For love of the Lady! Did Barard not know what he was doing to him? Here he was, naked, in a room that appeared to have been conceived as a backdrop to making love, and he wasn’t sure he could bear the thought of Barard and oil right at this moment. His memories had treacherously brought to mind how sweet it was to fuck Barard, and he knew exactly where he wanted that oil. He knew - so clearly it was painful - how he would tremble in anticipation of the bond of penetration, and how Barard’s whole body would somehow, in a way Tom had never been able to define, yield to him at that moment of entry.

‘Are you all right, Tom?’

Well, there was really no answer to that, not without risking upsetting Barard, so Tom just nodded. He reached for the cloth that would at least let his poor cock hide, but one-handed, it was impossible. Barard made no move to help. Instead, he stayed Tom’s hand.

‘Do you mind? Leaving it off?’

Tom took a deep breath and shook his head, not trusting his voice. It would not take much to push him to tears again. He lay back on the silk sheet with his free arm bent over his face, shutting out the light and the room. How ungrateful could he be, he wondered. He was behaving like a spoilt brat, who on receiving a wondrous present, sulked because he wanted more. He rubbed his face, removed his arm, and smiled at Barard. ‘Sorry, headache,’ he said.

Barard looked less worried. ‘Well, I can do something about that,’ he said, and the slight emphasis on “that” implied there were other things he couldn’t do anything about. He settled at Tom’s feet, and Tom had an excuse to close his eyes as Barard set to work. The touch was hesitant at first, but became surer, and even though Tom had lied about the headache, he found himself relaxing. Barard’s hands moved on, and Tom’s shoulder warmed, and the dull ache diminished.

‘That’s wonderful,’ he mumbled, and meant it.

Barard finished and lay down next to Tom, reprising his position of earlier: head on Tom’s chest, one leg bent up across his body. ‘Can I ask you something?’

‘Mmm.’ Tom wrapped his arm around Barard’s shoulders, and his fingertips lightly defined the shape of his ear. It was very endearing how much his ears seemed to stick out when there was no hair to frame them.

‘Why were you whipped?’

‘I threatened to kill my master.’ Don’t ask me why.

‘Why?’

‘He was... he was going to harm Catos.’

‘Well, good for you. What was he going to do to him?’

Tom was silent, and Barard raised his head. ‘This is you not trusting me, isn’t it?’ he said, not with any bitterness, just stating a fact.

‘I... I...’ Tom gave up, because Barard was right. ‘Yes, I’m sorry. He wanted to make Catos suck him off.’

‘What!’ Barard bolted upright, outrage written clearly in every line of his body. ‘How old... No, that doesn’t matter, does it? Orcs’ blood! I’d have tried to kill him, as well.’ His eyes narrowed. ‘He didn’t try anything like that with you, did he?’

Tom shook his head. ‘No, but he abused Faros for years. Maybe from as young as eight; Faros wouldn’t say.’

‘The slimy lecher! What’s happened to him?’

‘He’s been arrested on Sûlos's orders, but I think they’re shy of bringing him to court and dragging Faros and Catos into the mire. I can see their point. It isn’t very good for the restored Houses, is it? They might just banish him.’ Tom looked up at Barard: there was no sign that this subject had any personal resonance. He seemed shocked on behalf of Tom’s friends, that was all, and Tom was at last emboldened to ask the question that had filled his mind like a fiery Eye. ‘So... nothing like that happened to you?’ he said with enforced casualness.

Barard stared at him a moment, and then collapsed back down beside him. His face was hidden, and Tom cursed himself as he felt Barard shaking against him. There was a noise - half sob, half hiccup - and Tom bit his lip. ‘I’m sorry, love,’ he murmured. ‘Sorry to ask, but -’ He broke off as Barard raised his head, shaking with laughter.

‘You wanker, Tom. Is that what this is all about? Not touching me? Pretending you’re not aroused? And I thought... Oh, you are such a wanker.’

‘What? What did you think?’

Barard pushed himself up further, laughter lighting his eyes in the way Tom loved. ‘I thought you didn’t know how to tell me you didn’t... desire me.’

‘Not desire you!’ Tom spluttered.

‘Well, I look like a scrawny chicken plucked ready for the oven.’

‘And what’s that got to do with anything? It’s you who’s been avoiding - mmmpf.’

Barard’s mouth closed around Tom’s to silence him, and his hand wrapped around Tom’s cock. ‘Shhh, love, just tell me you want this,’ he murmured against Tom’s lips. Tom opened to him, his tongue giving answer, but not in words, and his hips added their plea, lifting to meet Barard’s hand. Oh, I want this, I want you. Oh, my love. Yes, YES! Oh, fuck this bandage, I want to touch you. Do that... do that again. Oh, Barard, I love you, I...’ His body lifted, pushing up against Barard. He scrabbled uselessly with his feet for purchase, trying to arch into the thrust of his hips, and then his whole body went rigid as release took him. He fell back bonelessly, eyes closed, panting. Fingers stroked over his face, and Barard’s voice was soft against his temple.

‘Wanker.’

Tom opened his eyes to find Barard’s gaze on him: green fire that burnt too close to bring into sharp focus. ‘Wankee,’ he corrected, and the green fire flared in laughter. He moved with difficulty, to push Barard onto his back and cover him. Mouth sought mouth, tongue met tongue, and their bodies seemed to relax into each other. Tom eased sideways to slide his hand down Barard’s belly, slick with his own seed, and suddenly Barard was tense beneath him, and his mouth stilled. Tom froze, confused, and shifted his hand to the bed beside Barard’s head so that he could raise himself. Barard reached up, his face anxious again, and cupped Tom’s face with his hands.

‘I... I’m sorry, Tom. I told you; I don’t trust myself.’

‘Don’t...? What!’

‘If I don’t... If I can’t... Will you mind?’

The last piece of the puzzle fell into place. This, this, was why Barard had been holding back. First answer the question, Tom decided, then worry about why. ‘No, love - or yes, but only because I’ll mind for you. Would you rather I didn’t even try?’

The anxious lines of Barard’s face smoothed away; his right leg was trapped beneath Tom’s body, but the other rolled out in clear invitation.

Tom’s arm was getting tired of supporting his upper body, and he struggled up into a kneeling position. ‘This would be easier with the bandage off,’ he suggested.

‘No.’

‘It’s just that I could -’

‘No.’

Tom sighed, but he hadn’t really expected anything else. He shifted clumsily until he was between Barard’s legs, and Barard’s right leg rolled out to mirror the left. Tom knelt back on his heels in silent enjoyment of the sight - short hair curling at the base of part-lengthened cock, balls hanging low in their sac - until Barard lifted himself on his elbows and raised a quizzical eyebrow. ‘This is your trying, is it?’ he asked.

‘No, this is me thinking how much I love you.’ Tom cupped Barard’s balls, feeling their weight nestle in his palm, and rolled them gently with his thumb. ‘You are beautiful,’ he whispered and bent over to kiss Barard’s cock. Barard snorted in disbelief, and Tom raised his head. ‘Excuse me, I was talking to your cock.’

Barard’s body shook with laughter. ‘Oh, I’ve missed you,’ he said quietly. They smiled at each other, and Barard stayed propped on his elbows to watch Tom lick and nibble his way up to the tip. As Tom shifted his hand, to drag back the loose skin, he wondered what Barard was worried about: already his sac was tighter, his cock fuller and more rigid. It was awkward, though, like bobbing for apples with hands tied behind the back, and Tom’s own worry was whether he would be able to stay the course if Barard were slow to come. He was getting stronger every day, really he was, but already he needed his hand to support himself; he was shaking slightly with the effort of holding himself in this position. He captured the crown of Barard’s cock in his mouth, and his lips slid over silky smoothness; he gave a hum of pleasure as his tongue explored the different contours and textures and he tasted Barard. How could he have forgotten how good this felt? And yet, maybe in a wish to dull the pain of loss, he had forgotten. He gave up trying to use his hand as well, and propped himself on his forearm as he dragged his lips back up, feeling them catch on the ridge that defined the crown. He teased and sucked, his tongue busy all the while, and Barard’s hips pushed up in a slow writhing thrust.

‘Oh... fuck,’ whispered Barard.

Tom laughed softly just at the moment his tongue was busy exploring the fluid leaking from the opening, and he nearly lost his hold. Barard came to his aid, his fingers wrapping around the base of his shaft, and that was easier. Tom took him deep, caressing and loving Barard’s cock, caressing and loving Barard.

As he drew back again, he tilted his head to look along taut belly and panting chest to Barard’s face. No longer propped up, he had fallen back against the pillows, his eyes closed and mouth softly open. There was no doubt in Tom’s mind that Barard would not last long: the small whimpers told him so, and the fingers that caught at the silk sheets as though begging for release. Long absence had in no way dulled Tom’s knowledge of Barard, gained over so many years, and he knew exactly how to give Barard what he craved. There was the merest flutter beneath his tongue, and he would have laughed again with joy had he not been so busy. In past times, he would have worked to delay the moment, eased back and teased Barard, but that wasn’t what he wanted now. When had Barard last come? To worry that he couldn’t? He sucked hard, and Barard jerked beneath him with a cry. The flutter became a rhythmical pulsing of warm seed flooding Tom’s mouth.

When Tom lifted his head, Barard was lying with his forearm across his eyes, his chest heaving; there were tears on his face. ‘Oh, love,’ murmured Tom. He couldn’t lie down next to Barard fast enough, and with a sob Barard pulled him close and hugged him. Tom rubbed the tears from Barard’s face with his thumb, and kissed him. ‘Are you going to tell me why you were worried?’ he asked gently.

‘I... I was so lonely in my prison, and I tried to make myself come, just for the comfort of it, really, but I... I couldn’t. I had memories of you that were so vivid I could almost believe I was feeling you touch me, but my cock just stayed limp. I gave up trying, in the end. It was just one more thing that made me feel as though I didn’t exist, that I was no longer me.’

‘My poor Barard. What was it like? In the dungeon?’

‘There wasn’t much light. To start with I had a long chain, and I could walk about, but that changed after I tried to throttle one of the guards with it. He had his keys at his belt, and I thought I might escape, but there were others close enough to hear.’

‘What happened?’

‘They kicked me off him and beat me senseless. They didn’t give me any food or water for a day, maybe more. I thought they were going to leave me to die. In the end, a woman came. She was terrified of me. Those bastards didn’t know that I wouldn’t attack her, and just sent her in on her own.’

‘But you didn’t.’ Tom hadn’t needed Tarlos telling him that to know Barard would not have done so.

Barard shook his head. ‘So the guards always used the slave girls after that. They were kind; they even cared for me when I got some sort of dysentery and was throwing up and soiling myself. I wouldn’t have minded if it had been you cleaning me up, but it was embarrassing, or it was afterwards; I was too far gone to care at the time. They brought me things sometimes, trying to give me some comfort.’

‘And the guards took them away and beat you up,’ said Tom, anger welling.

‘How did you know?’

‘Tarlos talked to one of the girls.’

‘I’d like to thank them. Do you think...’

‘I’m sure that can be arranged. I’d like to thank them, as well, and thank them for telling Tarlos about you. That was the first I knew you were alive.’

Barard stroked Tom’s hair back from his face. ‘When? When did you find out?’

‘A week before you were rescued.’

‘What? No!’ His hand stilled in the act of tucking Tom’s hair behind his ear. ‘You didn’t know that I was alive?’

Tom shook his head, and suddenly all the misery of the not knowing came back to catch his breath in his throat and bring tears to his eyes. ‘No one knew; no one had seen you.’

‘Oh, shit and corruption! I can’t imagine what it would be like not to know for so long. Oh, Tom. I’m s -’

Tom shot up. ‘Don’t say it. Don’t you dare say it! You don’t have to apologise to me, Barard. Can we get that straight right now!’

The look of contrition vanished from Barard’s face, to be replaced by a Tookish grin. He patted Tom’s cheek. ‘I love it that you’re getting angry.’

‘What!’ Barard had always hated it when he was angry. Tom hoped he hadn’t developed a taste for getting beaten up, because he certainly wasn’t going to oblige him.

‘Tom! Your face! I meant you’re treating me normally.’

Tom lay back down and glared at Barard. ‘You really are a crazy Took, do you know that?’

Barard wrapped his arms around Tom again, and kissed him. ‘I’ve been waiting for you to call me that. Now I know you don’t really think I am.’ Tom rolled his eyes at this logic, but Barard was right up to a point: he had consciously avoided using the word “crazy”.

‘It wasn’t because I thought you were,’ he explained. ‘It was because I was worried you might think I thought you were.’

Barard unwrapped his arms from around Tom, and knelt up over him. He twined the fingers of his left hand with Tom’s right. His face was serious. ‘There’s something I have to tell you, Tom. Something important.’

Tom swallowed and waited, holding eye contact with Barard. Now what?

Barard smile down at him. ‘I love you.’