THE ADVENTURES of TOM and BARARD: CHAPTER 14

It was early in the morning when Tom rose, easing himself out of Barard’s embrace. Barard muttered something unintelligible before rolling onto his back with arms flung wide. Tom paused, letting Barard’s steady breathing confirm he was still asleep. It had been a hot night; they had made love with languid movements, and slept with not even a sheet to cover them. Now the air was a little cooler in the dawn, chill only by comparison to the heat that had gone before, with no breeze to stir the silk hangings. Tom stood and smiled down at the sleeping form.

In the six weeks since Barard’s release, his cheeks had rounded a little, and his hair had grown enough to hide all trace of the skin beneath, although his ears still appeared very prominent without the thick curls to surround them. The dark circles beneath his eyes had vanished, and he looked very peaceful. One hand hung over the bed, palm uppermost, fingers gently curled; the other rested on the pillow beside his head. Tom was tempted to run his hands down over chest and hips to feel how Barard was beginning to fill out - sharp prominences disappearing under a cover of returning flesh - but he contented himself with seeing the change clearly. Barard’s ribs were no longer thrown into stark relief by the shadows between them, and the sharpness of his hips had softened. The servants in the palace kitchen seemed to have taken his health as their personal mission; treats and snacks appeared between meals with a regularity that would have satisfied even the greediest hobbit.

Tom sighed. It was no good; his will was not strong enough: he bent down and lightly touched his lips to the palm that was opened to him. I love you. As Barard sleepily murmured his name, Tom shifted to kiss the tip of the soft cock that flopped sideways against Barard’s thigh. Barard twitched and muttered, but didn’t really wake. Regretfully, Tom covered him with the sheet that had fallen off the foot of the bed in the night. He sighed again and rolled his left shoulder a little, before slipping on the traditional dress Hanril had left ready. He’d discussed this choice with Faros, and accepted his friend was right, but he still felt self-conscious as he stepped quietly through to the outer room. He was not at all surprised to find Hanril already there.

‘Good morning, Tom. You look very fine.’ Hanril circled around him, considering him from all angles.

Tom fidgeted in embarrassment. ‘You think so? I feel silly. I can just imagine what my brothers would say if they could see me now.’

‘But the point is that in Hafarian eyes it will give you the status you are entitled to; they will be more likely to listen to you, less likely to treat you as though you are a child. Look!’ Hanril turned Tom to face a long mirror hanging between the windows, and Tom stared in surprise. A small Haradrim stared back. His skin, always quick to brown in the sun, was almost as swarthy as Hanril’s, and the white of the ankle-length dress accentuated the darkness of his colour. True, his black hair was curly, and it lacked the silky fineness of a Southron’s, but overall the effect was pleasing. Hanril was right: the dress - buttoned down the front and edged in blue - didn’t look silly. Tom settled the gold belt more comfortably about his waist and wondered what Barard would think if he were to wear an earring. Hanril laughed at him. ‘Now you’re looking smug. Come and have some breakfast before Lord Faros arrives.’

Tom took the hot bread Hanril proffered in a serviette, and sat to tear pieces off and dip them in a mix of honey, ground almonds and fruity oil. He leant forward to eat the bread over the bowl, wanting to avoid any mishap involving oil and the pristine cotton of his dress. When he had eaten his fill, he licked his fingers to capture the last of the sticky sweetness, and wiped his hands on the serviette. He accepted a cup of the bitter Hafarian coffee from Hanril, looking up at him anxiously as he did so. ‘You’ll keep an eye on Barard, won’t you?’

‘And why else am I here?’ asked Hanril.

‘Yes, I know. I’m sorry. That’s the third time I’ve asked you, isn’t it?’

‘Fourth.’

‘Ah.’

‘Don’t worry, Tom. He’ll be fine.’

‘Don’t make him...’ Tom hesitated, and then spoke in a rush. ‘Don’t make him feel as though you’re his keeper, will you? He’s lunching with Legolas and Prince Barahir today, and -’

‘Yes, I do know, Tom. Stop fussing. If he wants my company, it will be my pleasure to stay with him, and if he wants to send me away, I’ll make sure he knows where I am.’

Tom sighed and nodded. Deep down, despite what he had just said, he wanted Hanril to not let Barard out of his sight. He was feeling more and more apprehensive about going with Faros, and was starting to imagine an assortment of improbable accidents that might befall Barard while he was gone.

‘Tom.’ Hanril’s voice was gentle. ‘Whatever you’re thinking to make you look as sick as that, stop it. Barard will be fine. Didn’t you learn that yesterday?’

‘But I couldn’t find him when I got back from seeing Faros.’

‘The whole palace knows that, Tom. You had the place in an uproar.’

Tom ducked his head sheepishly. He had panicked when Barard was not to be found. Balios had pointed him in the right direction, and Tom had burst into the room where Sûlos's men of science met. The smile Barard greeted him with had banished the last of his fears. Now Tom smiled at Hanril, remembering his own pleasure at finding Barard so engaged. ‘I needn’t have worried. He was in his element, playing with numbers. I couldn’t make head nor tail of all the symbols, but Barard had worked them out. They tried to get me to translate what they were showing him, but... well, truth to tell, I didn’t understand what they were saying. It didn’t seem to matter. You should have seen him, Hanril. I hadn’t realised how quiet he’s been; I mean, I knew he was, but I’d got use to it, I suppose. He got more and more excited as they drew circles and squares, and ruled lines across them and scribbled symbols. And then he started joining in, and they got excited as well, because he’d grasped whatever it was they were explaining to him.’

‘Which was?’

‘Search me. It was all Khand to me.’ An ambassador from Khand had dined at the king’s table a few nights before and had spoken only through interpretation. It hadn’t even sounded like words to Tom, with lots of rasping and clicking. Now he shrugged his confusion at Barard’s explanation. ‘Something about the “square of the hippopotamus”, but it made Barard happy, so who cares.’ He caught a flick of Hanril’s eyes to the bedroom door, and he craned around the side of his chair to see Barard leaning against the door frame, silently laughing. His dressing gown was rather skewed, and his short hair was rumpled in spikes, but Tom had always found Barard-in-disorder very appealing, and now was no exception. As their eyes met, Barard levered himself away from the door and, still laughing, came to lean over the back of Tom’s chair.

Tom tilted his head up to meet Barard, and they kissed. Somehow, in all their troubles, they had stopped minding Hanril’s presence in these moments of intimacy. Had Hanril not been there, however, Tom was sure that Barard would have done more than stroke up the taut line of his neck to cup his chin; he would have slid his other hand down to caress Tom’s belly and say good morning to his cock. They parted, and Barard was laughing again.

‘Hippopotamus? You ridiculous hobbit! One of those creatures down in the river?’

Tom didn’t answer. Truth be told, he was barely listening. He was lost in Barard’s gaze, and just stared up at him, happy to be the cause of such amusement. Barard’s smile faltered, and he swallowed, rubbing his thumb over Tom’s jaw.

A knock on the outer door made them both jump. Hanril opened it and bowed Faros into the room. Faros was looking as though he had not slept enough lately - there was a tiredness about his eyes - but he smiled widely at the hobbits. Tom stood to greet him, and Faros walked around him as Hanril had done. ‘Very good,’ he said. ‘You make an excellent Haradrim. It suits you.’

‘Will you have some coffee, my lord?’ asked Hanril, but Faros shook his head.

‘Thank you, no. We need to go. Are you ready, Tolm?’

Barard slipped his arms around Tom and hugged him. ‘Go on, Tom.’

Reluctantly, Tom followed Faros out. It wasn’t just having to leave Barard that had him dragging his feet: he wasn’t looking forward to spending a day in the court. Faros strode off towards the entrance hallway, and Tom had to run to keep up. He spared an occasional glance upwards. His friend’s face was set, and only softened as they saw Catos. The lad was wearing a plain white dress with a leather belt, and was shifting from foot to foot as he waited for them. With him stood the guards who would accompany them to the courthouse.

Catos dropped to one knee to give Tom a hug. He’d grown again in the time since Barard’s release, and had become tall and gangly, less than half a head shorter than Faros. He smoothed Tom’s dress and nodded in approval. ‘Now you’re a Haradrim. Maybe you’ll stay, yes? And be here for my birthday after the Festival of the Rains? I think it’s unfair; Faros won’t let me wear any colour on my dress until then. It’s only a few weeks away. What difference does a few weeks make?’

‘All the difference in the world between being a boy and being a man,’ said Faros. ‘And you know Tolm isn’t staying any longer than the coronation.’

‘I wish you could stay,’ said Catos as he stood. ‘I wish you’d make your home here.’

‘I wish I could stay until your birthday,’ said Tom, tilting his head and feeling a crick in his neck as he looked up at Catos. ‘But we must go. I’m not even sure about staying for the coronation. Barard’s well enough to travel, and he’s anxious about his father.’

‘Oh, but the coronation’s only a few days away,’ protested Catos, his dark eyebrows drawn together in a frown as he gazed down at Tom. ‘You said Barard told you that you must stay for that.’

Faros rested a hand on his ward’s shoulder. ‘Catos, stop hassling Tolm. He will make his own decisions, and we need to be leaving.’

As they turned to walk out into the cool of the early morning, Tom ducked his head to hide a smile. He wasn’t sure whether Catos had come through an infatuation for Faros, or whether the lad had taken his advice about patience, but whatever the reason, Catos had stopped mooning over Faros. As a result, Faros had gradually relaxed around him, and Tom was happy to see the small marks of contact and affection between them once more.

Catos bounced a little on his feet as they skirted the square, turning sideways so that he could see Faros’s face. ‘So why are you looking so cross?’

‘Cross? No, I’m not cross.’

‘Yes, you are.’

‘No! I’m not!’

‘Well, you sound cross. Doesn’t he sound cross, Tolm?’

‘Not until you started badgering him,’ answered Tom, truthfully. ‘But I don’t think he’s best pleased with me.’

Faros halted, and their guard came to a stop behind them. The market was crowded with those who were sensible enough to do all their shopping early, and many eyes turned their way. Tom could hear the name “Aquilmos” being murmured in all directions. ‘Tolm! No! I’m not angry with you. I just don’t think I can do as you ask.’

‘What’s he asked? What’s he asked?’ Catos was still bouncing with suppressed excitement.

Faros looked around, realised they were the centre of attention, and started walking again. The tramp of feet resumed behind them, and Faros lowered his voice. ‘He wanted to drop the charges against the Jackal for his betrayal.’

‘What!’ It was Catos’s turn to come to a standstill, and there was a quickly muffled curse behind them as the guards were once more suddenly stopped in mid-stride. ‘Drop the...! Tolm, why on earth would you want to do that? The Jackal sold you into slavery; Tarlos has all the evidence! The man who carried the message from Umbar, the witness of one of the bandits...’

‘Well, it doesn’t make any difference, does it?’ said Tom with a shrug. ‘I mean, why try him for that when Tarlos will see him dead for the attempted assassination of Sûlos and Yanos. It just seems... pointless. Revenge for the sake of revenge.’

‘Not pointless,’ said Faros. ‘Catos, keep walking, or we’ll never get there. Look, Tolm, I told you: we have precious little evidence for his involvement in the fate of the Disappeared, apart from hearsay; the evidence for the attempted assassination is scant; yours is the strongest case. If the other cases fail, would you see him walk free?’

‘I would not see him hang because of me.’

‘Because of you! Tolm, are all Harfflings so... so wrong-headed!’

‘You see. I said he was cross.’

‘Catos! I am not cross! It’s just... it’s just, well, the Eye take it, Tolm. Do you think I enjoy the idea of sitting in judgement?’

They were back into the cycle of argument they’d been locked into the day before. Tom knew his views would get little sympathy, since unlawful enslavement in Harad was considered tantamount to murder, but he wasn’t about to stay quiet on that account. He glanced up the hill, but he could not see the place where Sûlos had hung eight of his own soldiers found guilty of rape and pillage. ‘You are too quick to deal out death in this country,‘ he said quietly.

‘That may be true,’ admitted Faros. Tom looked at him in surprise; that was more of a concession than he had got the previous day. Faros shrugged at Tom’s raised eyebrows. ‘But the Jackal must take what comes to him. He is an evil man.’

‘Is any man wholly evil?’

‘I don’t know the answer to that,’ said Faros. ‘There may be some who are. Tell me, on what grounds would a Harffling be executed in your Shi-er?’

‘It has never happened. Not to my knowledge.’

‘Never!’ Catos gaped in amazement. ‘Not even for murder?’

‘I don’t believe a Halfling has ever killed another. Nineteen were killed by men in the Battle of Bywater, after the defeat of Sauron.’ Tom could have named every one of the fallen hobbits.

‘And what happened to the men?’ asked Faros.

‘Many were killed in the battle, but those who surrendered were escorted out of the Shire.’ They were climbing the hill now, and Tom was a little breathless with talking and the pace the men were keeping. It was irksome to realise that he was still not completely fit. ‘Some would have liked to have killed them at the time, in the heat of their anger over their fallen companions, but Frodo of the Ring persuaded them otherwise.’ He sighed. ‘I do understand that Sûlos has to be a strong leader, and I do understand he had to act swiftly against his own soldiers. It’s just that my father always taught me to have mercy.’

‘But lives hang -’ Faros appeared to reconsider his choice of words. ‘Showing mercy to such a dangerous man as the Jackal mercy may jeopardise the lives of many, even that of Sûlos.’

‘As may hanging him, since a blood vendetta could ensue, yes? I don’t want revenge. My father would not have wanted me to take revenge.’

‘It isn’t a question of revenge, Tolm. It’s a question of justice. He is treacherous and deserves to die.’

Tom’s eyes slide out of focus, and in his memory he sat curled in Elanor’s lap. His head rested against her shoulder, and his fingers twined in her golden hair. His gaze never left his da’s face as he listened to the words of the Red Book. In the here and now, Tom’s toe snagged on an uneven paving stone. Catos grabbed Tom’s arm and pulled upwards to keep him on his feet. ‘Careful, Tolm!’

Tom caught his balance. ‘Bollocks. That will teach me not to try walking in my memories like the Elves. Sorry.’ His toe was smarting, and he hopped a couple of steps, but he had the words he wanted now. He turned to look up at Faros, bringing their guard to a halt again. ‘Listen, Faros. This is what the wizard Incánus once told Frodo of the Ring...’


The courthouse was close to the Citadel, but not within its walls, and Tom spared a glance for the tall gateway, outside which he had waited in such fear for Barard’s life. Guards stood there as still as statues. They wore the knee-length tunic of the Citadel guards, but each had a star emblazoned on the chest: the morning star, Dada’s star. Later, Tom had a favour to ask Faros. If it were granted, he would be seeing the inside of the Citadel for the first time. And if it were refused? Well, then he would try to find his own way to the dungeon after the coronation. For now, it seemed as though Sûlos wished to clear as many court cases out of the way as possible before his coronation. Tom felt bad about haranguing Faros; he knew that his friend was taking his duties as judge seriously, and that he’d been worked hard these last few weeks.

The courthouse was built on a natural plateau on the side of the hill, and its white stone would dazzle the eye once the sun rose above the mountains. It made a striking contrast against the red stone of the citadel. The entrance was flanked by tall pillars; statues stood in arched recesses on either side. On one side a young man fought with a snake that twined around his body, and on the other a woman was letting fly a bird of prey. Tom had no idea of the symbolism, but the woman’s nose was broken, and there were chips in the stone of the columns: a legacy of the recent fighting.

He had little time to speculate. They climbed the wide steps that led up to the entrance, their way flanked by two lines of guards who snapped to attention at their arrival, and entered a large hall already thronged with people. There was the murmur to which Tom was becoming accustomed, as heads turned and the crowd saw Aquilmos in their midst. Faros touched his shoulder, and led him and Catos to a seat at the front. Guards sat either side of them, making Tom feel like the criminal. He watched Faros stride away to a raised dais where many lords were already seated. Some of them Tom recognised from the palace, but others were unknown to him. What had Faros said? There must be at least ten lords present to try Karios? He counted twenty-four. Was that good or bad? He was honest enough about his feelings to recognise his own ambivalence. As much as he wanted Karios shown some mercy, he didn’t want him acquitted of all charges. Would those who had fought against Sûlos welcome some means of proving their loyalty? Or would they be set on letting one of their own walk free?

Seating was a series of low benches that part-filled the hall, with standing room behind. The benches were widely separated with long, narrow rugs between each row, finely woven in dark reds and blues so typical of Haradrim weaving. Tom understood Barard’s interest in seeing such carpets made; there would be a good market for them in the north. He looked up and around. The king’s throne was set off to one side, beneath an ornately carved and gilded canopy. He stifled a snort of laughter as he remembered Barard’s words. They like gold, then?

A series of banners hung on the wall behind the raised dais where Faros had taken his seat. As Tom watched, a guard hoisted the banners of the Sun and the White Tree. ‘Why is your banner there?’ he whispered to Catos.

‘Faros is head of my House, because he’s my guardian,’ came the whispered reply. ‘He casts my vote as well. Shh, here’s the king.’

There was a crash of spear butts against stone, which brought silence to the hall. A loud voice called, ‘The Lord Sûlos! High King by consent of the people!’ Tom twisted to look, but Catos grabbed his arm and almost dragged him from the bench. Around them, all were prostrating themselves on the rugs. Ah! So that’s what the carpets were there for! Tom knelt and leaned forward, forehead pressed against the dense woollen pile. This was a stupid custom; he wanted to be able to see. He kept a sideways eye on Catos, waiting for any sign that they could rise, but there was no mistaking it when it came.

‘All rise in the presence of the king!’ cried the voice. Tom thankfully rocked back onto his heels and levered himself up onto the bench, then hastily stood as he realised that no one else was seated. Behind him, voices were whispering, the words just audible.

‘The king’s Hawk!’

‘Now we will see if a hawk can bring down a jackal.’

‘I will put my money on it.’

Tom straightened and looked forward. Sûlos stood bareheaded in front of his throne, his profile grave. He was wearing a robe of deep purple, and Tom’s trading instinct wondered at the cost of so much precious dye: possibly greater than that of the gold that adorned the king’s neck and wrists. Yanos stood at his side in his customary southern dress, one hand on the hilt of his sword, glaring across the room. Even from where Tom stood, he could see that Yanos’s brow was drawn into a frown. Tom turned his head to see what Yanos was staring at so intently, and jumped as he met Karios’s gaze, fixed upon himself. The man’s lips curled into a sneer. He was dressed in the garb of a slave or prisoner - Barard had worn something similar - and he was chained hand and foot, as Tom had been in his early captivity. Despite Tom’s instinct to show mercy, he felt a satisfaction in seeing Karios so restrained. Maybe his satisfaction showed on his face, or maybe Karios just despised him for being an imp; whatever the reason, the man reacted by spitting in Tom’s direction. The guards who flanked Karios dragged him back a step as voices behind Tom cried out in indignation. Sûlos made no movement, and it was Tarlos who stepped forward from Tom didn’t see where. Presumably he had arrived in the king’s train, which explained the whispers about the hawk. It seemed that Barard was not the only one who thought Tarlos looked like a bird of prey. Tarlos halted in front of the prisoner and spoke loudly for all to hear.

‘Behave with contempt in the presence of the king again, Karios bar-Karos, and you will be removed from this court and your trial will take place in your absence.’ Tom wondered if the man he’d known as Mehos would spit upon Tarlos, but the prisoner glanced sideways at the guards and remained silent. Tarlos nodded in satisfaction and turned to bow his head to Sûlos.

‘Thank you, Lord Tarlos. Proceed,’ said Sûlos. He seated himself. All around Tom, people followed the king’s example, and a soft murmur of sighs filled the room.

Tarlos turned and addressed the lords seated on the dais. ‘We are hear to decide the guilt or otherwise of Karios bar-Karos, known also as the Jackal, and on occasions as Mehos. He stands charged on three counts: that he was responsible for the fate of those known as the Disappeard; that he did unlawfully sell a freeman of the north, one Tolman bar-Samwise, into slavery; and that he conspired to assassinate the lord Sûlos and his brother, Lord Yanos.’ There was an angry muttering in the hall. Karios stared in disdain at the king, and his head twitched. Tom guessed that he wished to scratch at his scalp, but was prevented by the chains.

Witness after witness was called, including both Tom and Catos. Tarlos brought forward the man whom Tom had seen taking the message from Karios in Umbar, a slave trader, the wife of one of the dead assassins, relatives of the Disappeared, and guards from the Citadel. The last proved the least helpful, giving surly and unwilling evidence, and contradicting each other. There was only a brief recess for lunch, and as the afternoon wore on, Tom became more and more weary of swinging his heels there. He yawned, and fretted over his absence from Barard.

Eventually, all that had to be said was said - or rather, all that Tarlos had wanted said. Tom was not best pleased with the Hawk.

‘Tolman, tell us who first introduced Karios to you.’

‘King Elessar Telcontar of Gondor and Arnor.’ Tom ignored the gasps of surprise throughout the hall. Out of the corner of his eye he could see several lords leaning towards each other and talking in low voices.

‘And how was he introduced to you?’

‘As Mehos, a spy in the employ of Gondor, but -’.

‘Thank you, Tolman. Please be seated.’

It had been cleverly done. Tom had seen the anger on the faces of those lords whom he didn’t know, those who were maybe not under the king’s influence. He bit his lip. He should have protested against his dismissal, but seeing Mehos standing there in person, arrogant and sneering, made it much harder to follow old Gandalf’s teachings. If they were going to hang the man, Tom wished they would just get on with it, so he could do what he wanted to, and then get back to Barard. It was not over yet, though. The lords filed out into a side room to make their decision, and an attendant of the king bowed before Tom and Catos, inviting them to join Sûlos for some refreshment.

Catos yawned and stretched, as wearied as Tom by all the words, and they followed their guide past two guards and up a flight of stairs into a light and airy room. A servant was just fastening back the last of a long series of shutters, and Tom blinked after the cool dimness of the court. The walls were whitewashed - from the smell, freshly so - and outlines of a fresco were drawn in faint lines. The rugs that part-covered the dark orange-red tiles were woven in pale blues and greens. Little could be seen of the table - it was hidden beneath white cloth and a rich array of food - but the chairs that stood around it were of a light-coloured wood. It was very different from the heavy opulence of the palace dining room. Tom accepted a tall glass of faintly-yellow wine from another servant, and noted the lack of collars. Sûlos had gained many slaves after his capture of Hafar, but all were now freemen in his employ, even if their freedom came at the price of their market value, paid back over many years.

‘You are weary, Tolm?’ said Sûlos, smiling down at him. ‘Come and eat. Hopefully it will not be long until my lords reach their decision and we are called back.’ He beckoned one of the servants forward. ‘Find a cushion and a footstool for our good friend, Tolman Aquilmos.’

The company was small. Yanos, Tarlos, Catos and Tom waited for Sûlos to sit before they did likewise. Tarlos nodded to Tom. ‘You did well,’ he said.

‘I do not thank you for letting me tell only half the truth,’ said Tom. ‘You let them believe Mehos - Karios, I mean - really was a spy for Gondor.’

‘Peace, Tom,’ said Yanos. ‘We believe he did give Elessar information about a Haradrim raid over the Poros, and that as a result the raid ended in disaster, with much loss of life. The raid had been ordered by Daros, on the advice of Karios, but the Gondorians knew exactly where -’

‘But why?’ interrupted Tom. ‘Why would Karios do such a thing, when he hated Gondor?’

Tarlos leaned forward. ‘Everything points towards Gondor knowing of the plan; the lord who led our force had offended Karios, and what better way for Karios to convince Elessar of his worth than by giving him information that was true? There is only circumstantial evidence that Karios betrayed the force he sent out - nothing that we can bring to court - but you have made those who were loyal to Daros think twice about supporting his cousin.’

Tom laid down his fork, his food untasted. ‘He would do that? Deliberately send his own countrymen into a trap in order to gain the trust of Elessar?’

‘If he wished them dead for other reasons? Yes, we believe so, although from what you have told us, the northern king did not trust him.’

‘No. No, he didn’t. Tell me, is Meh - Karios mad? Like Daros?’

‘Not like Daros, who had little sense of the real world,’ said Sûlos, ‘but mad for power? Yes, I believe so. From what others now tell us, Daros had rightly begun to fear him -’

‘So Daros wasn’t as mad as all that,’ Yanos interrupted.

Sûlos ignored him. ‘ - and welcomed our arrival as a check on Karios’s power. It seems that it was not Daros who wanted us dead, but Karios. Daros was very cold to his cousin after the assassination attempt. There is no witness to the murder of Daros, but we think Karios is the most likely suspect. He tried to escape in the guise of a slave, but was discovered by my men.’

Tom picked at his food; his revulsion at Karios’s cold and calculating schemes was at war with his sense of mercy. They made polite conversation: Sûlos asked Tom of his plans after the coronation, and Yanos questioned Catos about his lessons, and about his ambition once he came of age.

Catos washed his fingers in the bowl provided, and carefully dried them before he answered. He looked at Yanos, almost defiantly. ‘I want to join your cavalry,’ he said.

Tom stared at Catos in surprise. It was the first he’d heard of it, but he had not been so much in Catos’s company in the last few weeks. What he did know was that Yanos was planning to take a large force out to patrol the border with Khand as soon as the coronation was over, and it was thought likely that there would be trouble: another cousin of Daros’s had retreated there and declared himself both the head of the House of the Eye and rightful king of Harad.

‘What has Faros to say of this?’ asked Yanos, not unkindly, but as though he had no wish to commit himself to encouraging Catos against his guardian’s wishes.

‘It won’t matter, when I’m of age, will it?’ said Catos.

‘So, he is against it,’ said Sûlos. Tom watched muscles tighten around Catos’s jaw, and wondered if this was an attempt to - what? Get Faros to take more notice of him? An attempt to declare his manhood? Whatever the reason, Tom thought Catos far too young to be a soldier, but it seemed this was not the prevailing view.

‘If you are really set on this, Catos, then you will be welcome in my command when you can ride a horse at speed without saddle or stirrups,’ said Yanos. ‘And when your swordsmanship is more consistent.’

‘Then let me spend more time at those lessons,’ said Catos. ‘I hate the writing and history, and stupid numbers. What do numbers matter?’

‘I would wish that my advisers had more skills than how to cut off my enemies’ heads at a gallop,’ said Sûlos sternly. ‘You may not be under Faros’s guardianship after your birthday, but I am your king.’ He ruffled Catos’s hair. ‘Don’t look so glum. I hear you have learnt much with my physician. If you wish, you can start by joining Yanos’s surgeon. I will send a tutor with you, and as for riding and swordsmanship, you will have some of the best trainers. How is that?’

From the expression on Catos’s face, as he looked from Sûlos to Yanos and back again, he was delighted, and even Tom laughed, although he was disquieted by the thought of Catos going into danger. The idea that his young friend should soon be considered a man, when his voice had only just settled down into pleasing deepness, and his shaving was a vanity, not a necessity, seemed ridiculous.

As the time went by, and they nibbled small delicacies to fill up corners, Sûlos laid a hand on his cousin’s shoulder. ‘This does not bode well, does it, Tarlos?’ he said. ‘There must be enough dissension that the vote could go either way.’

‘I admit, I expected a quick verdict, but the charge of responsibility for the Disappeared was not as well supported by the evidence as I would have wished. Let us hope they only argue over that. As long as they find him guilty on one charge, we have him.’

‘But those whose loyalty is secure are in the minority,’ said Yanos.

‘It will be interesting to see who votes against the charge,’ said Tarlos. ‘What’s the matter, Tolman?’

‘I’m sorry.’ Tom felt his face heat. He had been staring at Tarlos. ‘I just... I just realised how easy it would be to... to become like the Jackal.’

‘Tolm!’ exclaimed Catos, shocked. Tarlos pushed up to stand glowering down, but there was a twitch of amusement around Sûlos's mouth.

‘Is it your intention to liken me to the Jackal?’ demanded Tarlos, his anger barely in check, ‘A desert rat, who would kill his own mother if he thought it would profit him!’

‘Sit down, Tarlos,’ said Sûlos, with quiet authority, and his cousin obeyed. ‘I would also be interested to hear what you mean, Tolman.’

‘I’m sorry,’ said Tom again, feeling very small and wishing he’d kept quiet. He liked and admired Tarlos, and he would not have spoken at all if he’d not considered that their friendship gave him the privilege of choosing honesty over diplomacy. ‘It’s just that you don’t really think of others as people, just whether they are for or against you, and you would do anything to protect Sûlos. Lie, break the law, kill - anything.’

Tarlos nodded. ‘Yes, of course. He is my king. He has been, since his father died. I am sworn to protect him. It is not just my duty, but my responsibility to protect him. If necessary, I would lay down my life to do so.’

‘And in that he shows himself other than Karios, Tolm,’ said Yanos. ‘Karios would do all those things, but only for his own gain.’

‘But...’ Tom knew he should just shut up, but his Gardner stubbornness wouldn’t let him. ‘Tarlos, would you not “disappear” people if you thought they were a danger to the king? And isn’t that what you are trying Karios for?’

‘But we have brought him to trial,’ said Sûlos. ‘I could have asked Tarlos to kill him, but instead, the rule of law is taking its course.’ There was a finality in his voice that said no further discussion was permitted. Tom bowed his head to Sûlos; what the king said was true, but he wasn’t convinced that Tarlos would always follow the law.

‘My lord king!’ It was a servant at the door. ‘The verdict has been reached.’

Sûlos washed his fingers and dried them; they all stood as he did. ‘Let us go now and hear what my lords have to say.’

Tom hung back to walk next to Tarlos, and resigned himself to the familiar crick in his neck as he looked up at him. ‘Forgive me, Tarlos. I did not mean to cause offence. I don’t mean that you are really like Karios; you are honourable and loyal.’

‘But power changes a man?’

‘Yes,’ said Tom. ‘Or it can do, but I’m glad that Sûlos has you to protect him.’

Tarlos smiled and patted Tom on the back. ‘Come, my outspoken friend, the king is waiting for us.’


Within the courtroom there was a hush as Faros and the other lords returned to their dais. Karios was brought in through a side door and stood before them to hear their verdict. It was Faros who also remained standing as the other lords took their seats, and Tom spared a thought for how strange it must be to Faros to be considered the foremost amongst the lords of Harad. His composure gave no hint of this as he turned towards Sûlos.

‘My lord king, we have reached our decision.’ Faros glanced back to Karios. ‘On the first count, of culpability in the fate of those known as the Disappeared, we find the evidence is not sufficient by thirteen votes to twelve.’ There was a murmur of anger from the crowd, but Karios made no sign. Tom glanced at Tarlos, but he also gave nothing away.

‘On the second count, of enslavement, we find him guilty as charged.’ Tarlos let out a soft sigh, but his head came up as Faros continued to speak. ‘The penalty for this is imprisonment.’ Tom stared at Faros, and Tarlos cleared his throat.

‘My lord Faros, the law -’

‘My lord Tarlos, this council will interpret the law.’ Faros gestured to include his fellow judges, who variously nodded or murmured their agreement. Tom and Catos caught each other’s eye, and both bowed their heads to hide their smiles. Tom was pleased that his wishes had been carried out, and amused that Tarlos was being reminded he was there to serve the law; he suspected Catos was simply amused at Faros pulling rank on Tarlos.

‘By what majority was this ruling reached?’ asked Tarlos.

‘It was unanimous.’

Tom’s head jerked up. He stared at Faros. Catos started whispering in his ear, but Tom hushed him without listening. That meant Faros had voted against the death penalty for this crime.

‘And the third charge?’ demanded Tarlos. He looked more hawk-like than ever as he leaned forward to glare at Faros.

‘That also was unanimous,’ answered Faros. ‘On the third count, of conspiring to assassinate the lords Sûlos and Yanos, we find him guilty as charged. The penalty for this is to be beheaded.’

Tom watched Karios, even as he listened to the crowd cheering. The man had started to look hopeful after the first two verdicts, but now he sagged for a brief moment before recovering his facade of disdain.

A voice rang out over the court. ‘Lord Sûlos, High King by consent of the people!’

Tom was ready this time. He knelt and prostrated himself as Sûlos stood to leave, no warning nudge needed from Catos. As footsteps died away, a babble of voices broke out. Tom stood a little stiffly and stared at Karios, aware that Faros was making his way over to join them, accompanied by another judge. Tom was not at all sure what his feelings were for Karios: pity or elation. Karios made the sign of the Eye and spat at him.

‘I suppose you are sad that I was not condemned for your slavery,’ he sneered at Tom. ‘Although the end is all the same.’

Faros halted before him. ‘Yes, it is all the same,’ he said. ‘Had that not been the case, I doubt I could have persuaded my fellow judges to consider Tolman’s wishes.’

‘And what wishes were those? That I should be teased with the lesser sentence first?’

‘That you should be shown mercy, Karios.’

‘Mercy! The imp would show me mercy! I should have killed him when I had the chance, but the wolves were greedy and wanted more than I was prepared to pay them to get rid of an annoyance.’

Tom went to stand beside Faros, glancing briefly up at the lord he did not know. The man was thin, with a rather sickly appearance, but Tom was more interested in the prisoner before him. ‘Karios, why did you agree to bring me here?’

The answer was a snarl. ‘Because to refuse would have raised suspicion.’

‘And yet you showed me some kindness.’ Tom had to dodge as he was spat at again. The guards jerked the chains, pulling Karios back.

‘You are a gullible fool. I had no wish that you should run to your Gondorian friends.’

Faros laid a reassuring hand on Tom’s shoulder. ‘A fool? And yet he is the one who stands free, his quest achieved. Come away, Tolm. There is no gain to be had from bandying words with such as he.’ Gratefully, Tom turned and walked away, feeling revolted. Catos ran up to flank Tom on the other side. With the unknown lord following, they walked out into the afternoon sunshine. Tom took a deep breath.

‘I was wrong, wasn’t I?’ he said, sadly. ‘Mercy is wasted on such a one.’

‘No,’ said Faros, surprising Tom again. ‘I thought on what you said, and I thought on what you’ve told me in the past. It was not the creature Gollum who was ennobled and saved by the mercy shown him. It was Frodos bar-Drogos who gained in the end.’ The other judge nodded, pushing forward a little to be noticed by Tom.

‘I agree with my friend Faros.’ He bowed his head. ‘I am delighted to have this chance to meet you, Aquilmos.’

Tom looked at him warily; something about him struck a false note. The man was quick to claim friendship with Faros, but the very fact that he was unknown to Tom meant that he was not in Sûlos's inner circle, and so was, by default, a former supporter of the Eye.

Faros smiled as he placed a hand on the man’s shoulder, acknowledging the claim of friendship. ‘Allow me to introduce Baklos, of the House of the Moon. Baklos, this is Catos, my ward, and Tolman Aquilmos.’

Tom returned the man’s bow in the briefest of gestures. He wasn’t interested in Baklos. He wanted to see the dungeon, with or without the help of Faros, and then get back to Barard. Baklos, however, wished to make conversation.

‘How is your friend, the Harffling Barard?’

‘Well. Thank you,’ said Tom, but not with any warmth; he had no wish to encourage the lord in his familiarity.

‘Please give him my good wishes and my sympathy for his ordeal. He endured -’

Tom’s anger flared and he did not give Baklos the chance to finish speaking. He was in no mood to be diplomatic. ‘Your sympathy! Tell me what you did to help him, and then you may send your sympathy!’

‘Tolm.’ There was quiet warning in Faros’s voice. Tom ignored it.

‘How dare you speak of what he endured! How dare you! Were you imprisoned? In the dungeon?’

‘Yes. I was.’ The quiet answer quenched Tom’s wrath like iced water thrown over his head. Suddenly the man’s sickly appearance was explained. Tom swallowed.

‘You were imprisoned?’ he asked, his voice turned hoarse. ‘In the dungeon?’ He studied Baklos’s face as the man nodded, and he silently cursed his own stupidity and rudeness. The lord wore a wig, no doubt to hide the shameful baldness; it was that detail which had given a falseness to his appearance.

‘Baklos was active in promoting the idea of peaceful trade with Minas Tirith,’ said Faros.

‘I’m afraid I was responsible for your friend’s coming to Harad,’ agreed Baklos. ‘The invitation was given in good faith, although I did not know that the merchant recommended to me was a Harffling until his arrival.’ He smiled suddenly. ‘I was a little taken aback, but he was an interesting companion, even with the limitations of language and interpretation. He was greeted warmly at first by Daros, but that changed. I thought it was because those who promoted conflict were gaining the upper hand, but from what Lord Faros tells me, it is more likely that they used the prophecy to create fear in Daros’s mind - never hard to do - and that in turn made him more willing to listen to their policies. Whatever the reason, I felt Barard’s safety was no longer certain. It was at my suggestion that we travelled north.’ Baklos sighed. ‘I mistakenly thought he would be safer away from Hafar, but I do not blame your friend for what happened.’

‘Blame him!’

‘No, indeed. He was naturally curious.’

Faros touched Tom’s shoulder, his usual way of getting Tom’s attention. ‘I think you should ask Baklos why he was imprisoned.’ His expression said, You are behaving badly. Stop it!

Tom looked from Faros to Baklos, letting Faros’s words ask the question for him. With a dull certainty, he knew the answer before it was given.

‘I was guilty by association. I invited Barard here, I took him north, and I protested his innocence before the king.’

If Tom had felt small before, it was nothing to how he felt now. ‘Forgive me. I... I didn’t know. I’m sorry. Barard will be...’ Mortified. ‘He doesn’t... I don’t think he knows.’

‘I was held in house-arrest for some months before I was transferred to the dungeon, but my short time in there was more than enough. I do sympathise with your friend. I hope he really is doing well.’

‘Yes, yes, he is. He makes progress all the time. Thank you for your concern; it is very kind of you.’ In the circumstances. Tom stopped talking, afraid he was gabbling.

‘I would be delighted to see him again. Please do not distress him over my imprisonment. I will ask Lord Faros for news when I next see him. When Barard is well enough, perhaps you will both dine with me.’

Tom bowed, Gondorian fashion, hand on breast. ‘You are very kind, my lord.’ He watched Baklos walk away, past the guards who waited for them. The captain stepped forward, saluted Faros, and asked where they would go next.

‘We will return to the palace,’ said Faros. Now was the time, and Tom wished he didn’t feel so defensive over his anger towards Baklos and the implied lack of trust in Faros’s choice of friend. He took Faros’s hand to get his attention. Faros came down on one knee, his hand still held by Tom’s. ‘What is it, Tolm?’ he asked with a kindness Tom did not feel he deserved. ‘Surely you wish to get back to Barard as soon as possible?’

‘Yes, I do, but... but I also want to look at the dungeon. Will you take me?’

‘I do not think that is wise,’ said Faros quickly. ‘I can’t see any need for that.’

‘Faros,’ said Tom wearily. ‘I know you think of me as a younger brother who needs looking after, but I am fifty-four years old. I think I know my own mind.’

‘You can’t really want -’ began Catos, but Faros silenced him with a hand held up. He searched Tom’s eyes.

‘Very well. We will go to the dungeons.’

‘Thank you.’

They walked in silence to the Citadel gate and were saluted as they passed through the tall archway. The whole place had an ancient feel. Minas Tirith might be older - Tom didn’t know - but the red stone here was more weathered. He paused a moment, looking up a wide paved road that led to the golden-domed hall where the coronation would take place. Faros did not follow this main way; he dismissed their guard, and turned right along an alley that was bounded by the high Citadel wall. He turned again, following a broader way that climbed in a wide circle around the hill. They came out into a large square, facing south-east and bordered by a low wall; even Tom could see over it. He turned his back on the view, feeling a little queasy with vertigo at the way the hill fell steeply to the river far below. On the far side of the square, the hill rose sheer again to meet the great crowning hall, but within the wall of rock stood a low door in an archway that was delved, not built.

‘There would have been guards here before,’ said Faros, ‘but it’s empty now. Nothing to guard.’ He pulled open the door. A dank chill met them as he fumbled in a recess for the means to light one of the torches that stood in brackets by the entrance. The light flared, throwing shadows across the walls and enabling Tom to see that this part of the dungeon had housed the guards; here there were rooms with some degree of comfort. Faros lit a second torch and handed it to Catos before leading them to another solid door that barred their way. He took out a set of keys to unlock it. As the door swung open, they were met with a stench that made Tom gag.

Catos choked. ‘It’s foul! Why does it smell so bad? I thought it had all been cleansed?’

‘It has,’ said Faros. ‘Believe me, it was worse before, but the smell lingers. Are you sure you want to do this, Tolm?’

Tom nodded, not daring to speak. He was beginning to shiver in the chill, damp air. Marks running down the walls looked as though they were made by water seeping through the rock when it rained. A grill set into the stone barred their way. Faros pushed a gate open with a rusty creak. ‘This would have been locked,’ he said, a little unnecessarily. They passed a number of cells on both sides of the way, each marked by a metal grill doorway. Tom could see little within, until Faros stopped by a door and pushed it open. ‘Here,’ he said.

Tom stood on the threshold and swallowed as his shadows chased across the wall with the movement of the torches behind him.

‘Oh, Tolm!’ whispered Catos in a croak.

Oh, Barard! thought Tom. The cell was hewn out of the rock, and manacles hung from the far wall, where the prisoner could be seen by guards as they looked through the doorway. There was evidence that the chains had been higher, but now they dangled at hobbit height. This corroboration that it truly was Barard’s cell brought tears to Tom’s eyes. All the straw had been removed, along with the urinal pot, but even with those, its bleakness would have been horrifying. The floor was compacted sand, scuffled up in the area below the manacles. High in the wall a little grey light showed where the morning sun would shine through a narrow aperture. Tom swallowed, knowing he was going to meet resistance. ‘I want you to leave,’ he said, amazed at how steady his voice sounded. ‘I want to stay here alone for an hour.’ As though an hour could compare! ‘I want you to manacle me.’

Catos just stared at him, but Faros shook his head. ‘No, Tolm. I’m not doing it. You’re being morbid. You’ve seen what you wanted to see.’

Tom spun round, hands clenched at his side. ‘Leave me,’ he shouted. ‘Just leave me!’ His voice echoed back to him, shrill even to his ears.

‘We can make him come with us,’ said Catos. ‘We could carry him out.’

‘I’d like to see you try,’ said Tom angrily.

‘Peace, Tolm,’ said Faros. ’You are too quick to anger these days. I will not force you, but neither will I manacle you.’ He reached to place his torch in a bracket in the wall, but Tom stopped him.

‘No. No light. Barard was often in darkness.’

‘Oh, Tolm,’ whispered Catos again.

‘Go!’ said Tom through gritted teeth, the only way that he could stop a tremor in his voice.

‘Tolm, I don’t think -’

‘Please,’ Tom begged. ‘Just go.’ He sat down between the manacles, drew his knees close in to his body and rested his forehead against them. The scuffed sand! Oh, Nienna’s tears, that must be where Barard struggled, thinking he was going to his death! He reached out with one hand, smoothing the sand flat with his palm. Faros and Catos held a whispered argument, and then the light filtering through Tom’s closed lids dimmed and went out. He was alone. He reached out for the manacles, feeling for the attachment of the chains, and wrapped his hands around the cold links. Slowly he stood, testing how far he could walk. A few steps, and he was pulled up short. He returned to the wall, misjudging the distance and grazing his elbow on the rock face, but his eyes were beginning to acclimatise to the hint of light, and he fared better as he sat down again. He wasn’t at all sure why it was important to do this. He just knew it was important. He heard the creak of the gateway further up the corridor. Good. They were really leaving.

The sound of the creak died away in faint echoes, and silence wrapped around Tom. He shivered again, and found himself straining to hear any noise other than his own breathing. There was nothing to mark the passing of time, and as he continued to sit, he was unsure how long he had been there. The walls - barely seen as a play of shadow against blacker shadow in the faint light - seemed to be closing in on him. It was almost a relief when something brushed against his foot, making him yelp in surprise. There was a flurried pattering of feet, and then silence again. Rats! How did they live now the prison was emptied? Or could they run up the wall and out through the high vent? He closed his eyes to make the darkness absolute, and tried to imagine the terror of being manhandled into the cell, forced into chains, left...

Already a little voice was whispering that surely the hour must be nearly up, that Faros would return soon. What had Barard said? That at first he hadn’t believed his imprisonment was happening? How long before that disbelief turned into the sickening knowledge that his world was this cell? ‘I always knew you’d be looking for me.’ How had Barard continued to believe that, as day followed day in this foul orc pit? Tom shifted uncomfortably, and the chains clinked and rattled; the sound, amplified by the silence, echoed faintly. If just sitting was uncomfortable, how had it been sleeping? In the dark, Tom pictured Barard curling into straw like an animal, hampered by his chains. Tears were not far away. He stood and stretched his shoulders, stiff already, and moved so that he could lie down while still holding the chains. He found a hollow in the sand that he could curl into. At the realisation that it must have been made by Barard’s body, he laid his head on his arm and stopped trying to hold back his tears.

Barard! Oh, my Barard, how did you bear it? I can’t bear thinking about you here for even one hour! Surely, the hour has gone by? Where is Faros? It’s all right, it’s all right, he’ll be back, and I can walk out at any time, feel my way along the corridor. I want... I want you, Barard!

He rubbed his face against his sleeve, feeling the dampness seep through the cloth - warm at first, but rapidly becoming chill. It was a struggle to get up. He rubbed the hip he had been lying on, and moved around in the cell to warm himself, turning back and forth as he reached the limit of the chain. Very clearly, he could see Barard’s halting gait in the immediate aftermath of his release. Of course! His ankles had been chained as well. Well, Tom knew what that felt like, how awkward his movement had been; he adjusted his stride accordingly, listening all the time for the welcome creak of the outer door.

It was tiring walking with such little steps, and eventually Tom sat again, but his guess was that only exhaustion would allow him to sleep here. How many breaths made up a minute? Eight? Ten? He tried to keep his breathing even as he counted each slow rise and fall of his chest. The time taken to draw and release ten breaths seemed to stretch into an eternity of darkness. He took a deeper breath as he reached ten, and had to force himself not to repeat the exercise. An hour in Harad was not set as it was in Gondor. Here, an hour was one tenth of the daylength. With that realisation, he stood again, shaking. He had been away from Barard too long - for his own good, if not for Barard’s. He released the chains to clatter against the rock wall, and walked unsteadily towards the dimly-seen bars of the door. As he reached them, he heard the creak of the outer gate, and light flooded the corridor. He sagged with relief. Faros was back.

Tom waited, leaning his head against the cell door. Faros took one look at him, handed his torch to Catos, and without a word, picked Tom up and carried him out into the daylight. Tom made no protest, but wrapped his arms around Faros’s neck to feel his solid warmth. Faros sat him down on the wall, and Tom carefully avoided looking over his shoulder at the steep drop behind him. Faros crouched down and rubbed Tom’s hands between his own.

‘You’re frozen,’ he said. ‘I’m glad we didn’t wait out the hour.’

‘And filthy,’ added Catos. ‘What have you been doing? Rolling in the dirt?’

Tom looked down. His white garb was stained with dark smears, probably from when he’d lain down. It didn’t matter.

‘He’s doing his not-talking thing, isn’t he?’ said Catos, looking to Faros.

Faros nodded. ‘Come on, Tolm. Let’s get you back to the palace. You need a hot bath, I think. Shall I carry you? Send for a litter?’

‘I... I can walk,’ said Tom. He wanted to get out of the shade of the Citadel and into the sun. He shivered. ‘I want to get back to Barard.’

What Tom really wanted was time alone with Barard, but there he was out of luck until late in the evening. When he returned to the palace, Hanril was waiting for him with the news that Barard was again with the men of science. Tom bathed and changed, and by the time Barard appeared, it was time to join the palace household for supper. Tom made his excuses early. He was tired by the heat and the eventful day, and he felt drained. Barard took his hand as they walked back to their room and looked at him with concern.

It was another hot evening. Their windows stood open, and again there was no breeze. Tom pulled off his clothes and threw them down anywhere. He flopped out on the bed and lay staring up at the silken hangings.

Barard knelt, straddling Tom’s hips, and smoothed his hands over Tom’s chest. Candlelight flickered over his naked body: night lights to ease his terror and disorientation when he awoke from a nightmare. ‘You look exhausted, love,’ he said. ‘Was it so bad in court? Sûlos and the others seemed very satisfied, although I couldn’t quite work out what was going on between Tarlos and Faros. They were like two dogs with their hackles up, eyeing the same bone.’

Tom yawned and rubbed his eyes. ‘A little shaking down. Faros showed he was prepared to stand up to Tarlos today. That bodes well for Hafar, I think. Tarlos is a good man, but he needs to know that he answers to the law. I believe Faros can do that.’ He sighed as Barard leant his weight into the sweep of his palms, upward and outward over Tom’s shoulders, easing the tension there.

‘Was it so bad?’ Barard asked again softly. He rocked back a little, his weight on Tom’s hips, a frown of concern drawing his eyebrows together. ‘Tom? What is it? You’ve been out of sorts all evening.’

Tom raised a hand to his eyes, squeezing to block his tears, and felt Barard cover him with his body. Kisses ghosted across his temple, and fingers gently traced over his face.

‘Tell me, love. Is this something to do with the Jackal?’

Tom didn’t answer. Behind the darkness of closed lids and hand, he could see the miserable prison. He hugged Barard to him.

‘Tom.’ Barard nuzzled close, solid and warm in his arms. ‘Tell me.’

There was a part of Tom that didn’t want to burden Barard with this, but he had taken to heart Barard’s words on trust, although news of Baklos could wait. ‘I went to the dungeon. I wanted to see for myself.’

Barard went very still, and for a moment was silent. He sighed. ‘Was that wise, love?’

‘You sound like Faros.’

Barard pulled away. ‘What! Faros calls you “love”? I’m heartbroken!’

Tom opened his eyes, and couldn’t help smiling at Barard’s expression of mock woe. He knew it was an act - not of woe, but bravado. He could feel Barard trembling, but if Barard wanted to try to make light of the dungeon, then Tom would help him. ‘He’s a handsome man,’ he said.

Barard tried to laugh, but his breath caught on a sob. ‘Why did you go, Tom?’

‘Because I had to see. I... I can’t explain any better than that.’

‘And now I suppose you think you know what it was like!’ The sudden anger caught Tom unawares, and he flinched.

‘No. I can’t possibly.’

‘No! You can’t possibly! So why... so why try?’ Barard’s anger collapsed back into tears. ‘Don’t think of me there! Don’t!’

Tom drew Barard back down into his arms. ‘Shh, love. I really did need to go and see. It’s haunted my dreams for so long. I don’t know what it was like for you, and I can’t, but I know a little better than I did this morning. When I think of you - when don’t I think of you? - I think of you lying in bed with the morning sun lighting up your hair into flame, or in moonlight with your body as pale as silver.’ He tucked a leg around Barard’s and rolled them both over. ‘I think of you caught in a thunderstorm with your shirt clinging to you. I think of you laughing in the Green Dragon and calling me a wanker, or stretching at sword drill with the Tower Guard.’ He freed an arm from beneath Barard to stroke down his body, cupping and kneading at his hip; with Barard beneath him, all thoughts of tiredness had vanished. ‘I think of how much I love you, and how much I love loving you.’ He kissed the corner of Barard’s lips, tasting the salt of tears, and Barard turned his head to capture Tom’s mouth, opening to him in a way that said Love me, I’m yours.

Their tongues and lips moved together in slow heat, while their hands took up the rhythm. Love me, slowly. Fingers tangled into Tom’s hair, pressing him closer. Tom arched his body, pushing his hips down against Barard’s, and eased from the kiss to gaze down into Barard’s eyes.

‘I’m going to suck you off until you’re begging for it,’ he whispered. ‘And then I’m going to fuck you senseless, but first... first I’m just going to look at you.’ He kissed Barard - a brief promise - and pushed himself upright. Barard made a small protest, lifting his head to try to catch Tom back into a deeper kiss, then stilled beneath him. Straddling Barard’s thighs, Tom shifted his weight until he could capture both their rigid cocks. He rubbed his thumb over the silk-smooth crowns, spreading and mixing the beads of fluid that leaked there, and reached forward again so he could trace Barard’s lips with the fingers of his other hand.

Barard slowly stroked up Tom’s thighs. ‘Fuck me,’ he pleaded. ‘You haven’t fucked me since I... since...’ He swallowed. ‘Fuck me now.’

Tom shook his head, thoughts hazing into desire. What was the first thing he’d been going to do? Oh, yes! He stared into eyes that were dark with wanting, and it was only with a huge effort that he found his voice. His words came out in a hoarse whisper. ‘I’m going to have you; wait now.’ He rolled their cocks together, feeling Barard tense beneath him as he tried to thrust up, fingers tightening against Tom’s thighs in frustration. Tom’s gaze travelled slowly down Barard’s face and body, taking in the tracks of dried tears, the full lips parted on a soft sigh, the chest rising and falling. The areolae were dark against the candlelit skin, the nipples aroused and inviting. Below Barard’s navel, hair grew in a sparse line that thickened and spread into red-gold framing the base of his cock. Tom’s own cock was the thicker, but Barard’s was longer, and the exposed crown was a darker red. ‘So beautiful,’ Tom murmured. ‘You are so beautiful.’

‘This is my cock you’re talking to?’

Tom lifted his head to smile at Barard. ‘If you say so.’

Barard swallowed and reached up to frame Tom’s face with his hands. ‘I love you, Tom Gardner. Did you know?’

Tom shook his head. ‘I don’t think you ever told me so before.’ They both snorted with laughter. Tom shifted to turn and lie alongside Barard, head to cock, and Barard rolled into his upside down embrace, nuzzling and licking. Their actions mirrored each other, head pillowed on the other’s inner thigh, even as they both rolled their hips out a little and bent the upper leg away to give the other unfettered access. Tom ran his tongue down over the root of Barard’s cock, licking and teasing a little at his arse, while his hand was busy dragging back the loose skin from the crown. He closed his eyes, heightening his awareness of Barard: the feel of his skin, the rich muskiness of his scent, the small sounds of arousal. The next moment he cried out softly, the sound muffled against Barard’s skin. Barard had taken his cock deep within his throat to suckle, and at the same time grasped his balls to roll one against the other. Shit! That was so good! Tom tightened his grip to slide his hand back up, and traced the crown of Barard’s cock with his thumb, the silken smoothness made smoother by the fluid he found to spread there. Barard moaned and pressed in, encouraging another slow downstroke, even as Tom’s tongue was busy elsewhere. Barard was... Tom wasn’t sure what Barard was doing with his tongue, but there was no mistaking the effect. Tom was falling into the darkness, conscious thought slipping away as another part of his mind was wordlessly demanding more. He wanted to give way, fuck Barard’s mouth until the throbbing need found relief in the intensity of release, but... Oh, that was so... So good! But! He had promised to make Barard beg, promised to fuck him; he wanted to fuck him. It had been far to long. There was no oil, not without moving, and he wasn’t ready to do that. He coated his forefinger with Barard’s fluid while his tongue delved deep, giving promise of penetration. Barard’s body went rigid, a silent plea, and Tom shifted slightly and eased his finger home. It was so much easier to broach Barard than in their first tweenage fumblings. Even so, Tom wasn’t going to go any further yet, not without oil, however much Barard was pushing against him, demanding more. He captured Barard’s cock within his mouth and felt Barard’s dilemma as he tried to both fuck Tom’s mouth and ride his finger at the same time.

Tom pressed in deeper, even as he worked Barard’s cock. Barard clutched at him, and his whimpering cries spoke of control that was almost lost. Tom’s own thoughts were clouded with need. He could carry on, bring Barard off now, and it was tempting not to have to move, not to lose this close communion, but he wanted more. The thought of entering Barard after so long almost pushed Tom over the edge, and he rolled back, panting.

‘Tom!’ wailed Barard.

‘Sh, shh. I’m going to fuck you, and for that I need some oil.’

Barard’s body was flushed and bathed in sweat, a lovely sight. He reached out to their bedside table, fumbling for the small flask to give to Tom.

Tom rolled up and knelt beside Barard, fondling around his cock and balls. ‘How do you want this?’ he asked softly, taking the oil. ‘Do you want to ride me?’ That would be good, he could watch Barard come. ‘Or shall I take you from behind?’ That would be better; he wanted to thrust deep into Barard.

For answer, Barard rolled over onto his side and curled a little, offering himself. He turned his head back to look up at Tom. Like this? Tom bent down to capture his mouth, overcome with desire, and Barard’s hand came curling at his nape to hold him there. There was nothing slow about this kiss, nothing gentle. The message it carried was deeper, harder, fuck me. Fuck me, now!

Panting, Tom straightened, and tipped the oil out with difficulty; he was trembling in anticipation of that moment when he entered Barard, when Barard opened to him and tightened around him. He spread the oil, enjoying the feel of his hand wrapping around his cock in promise of another sheathing.

‘Morgoth’s balls, Tom! Stop wanking yourself.’

Tom smiled down at Barard and gave him some of the same treatment, watching his eyelids flutter closed and his face go slack. He slid his hand over Barard’s arse to spread more oil there, loving the way Barard arched into his touch. Slowly, Tom eased down behind him, moulding to his back. Barard raised himself a little, just enough for Tom to slip an arm beneath him, and then settled with a sigh into Tom’s embrace.

‘Do you want me?’ whispered Tom against Barard’s ear. He guided his cock into position, teasing a little as Barard pressed against him, whimpering now.

‘For fuck’s sake, Tom. Do I have to beg? I do, don’t I! Oh, fuck, please, Tom. I want you so badly. I need you so badly.’ His pleas ended on a cry as Tom eased into him, and Tom’s breath caught on a gasp. There was no resistance, and he thrust deep. Oh, glory, but that was perfect. He reached around Barard to stroke his rigid cock again, at the same time nuzzling into his neck to suckle and bite below his ear. He held Barard pressed close against his chest and thrust again with a low cry. He was falling, falling into a place where he was as helpless as a leaf tossed by an autumn storm or a branch trapped in a raging torrent, tumbled and submerged by powers beyond his control. He thrust again, not holding back, and cry met cry, wordless and primal. So close.

Barard leaned back into him, his fingers snagging painfully into Tom’s hair as he went rigid, and with one final deep thrust Tom gave himself up to Barard and lost himself within Barard, and for a glorious moment, was one with Barard as they came together.

The moment slowly faded, and he was Tom Gardner with his dear love in his arms. He fell back, exhausted, and Barard came with him, their legs tangled together. Barard’s fingers were still locked into his hair, but apart from that he was like a rag doll in Tom’s arms. They lay together, panting. Tom hadn’t noticed how hot they were, how drenched in sweat. With difficulty, Barard rolled off Tom, and turned to cover him again, sharing sweat and oil and his own seed that covered his belly. His eyes shone in the candlelight, and he looked very Tookish as he grinned at Tom.

‘I don’t see why I should be the only one needing a wash with cold water,’ he said.

‘Thoughtful.’

‘Mmmm. Yes. I always try to be.’

They lay together, hearts still racing, breathing still ragged, hands soothing over heated skin. Tom closed his eyes as Barard buried his face against Tom’s neck, nipping little kisses over his collarbone. Somehow, Tom felt as though they had crossed an invisible barrier and come safely through to the other side. He stroked the short hair over Barard’s head.

Barard lifted his head, and sighed in contentment. ‘I feel thoroughly...’

‘Fucked.’

‘Yes.’

‘Loved?’

‘Oh, yes.’

‘Used?’

‘In a good way. I’m glad you’ve decided I won’t break.’

There! That was the barrier, and Tom hadn’t even realised. ‘I wasn’t too rough?’

‘No.’ Barard’s whole body was sated and relaxed. It gave Tom the confidence to believe what he said.

‘I didn’t hurt you?’

There was a sleepy negation. Tom yawned, suddenly aware again of how tired he’d been when he came to bed. They really ought to get cleaned up, and he wasn’t sure where the oil was, nor whether it was securely stoppered, but... but... He yawned again and fell asleep with Barard in his arms.