This is the last chapter of the story. I’d like to thank all the lovely people who helped me with beta comment and encouragement. My main betas on this story have been Ghyste and Mariole (content) and Aliena and Peachy (spelling and grammar), but I have also had “guest” betas from Laurelindorian, Notabluemaia, Princess of Geekland and Elycia at various times along the way. Thank you all; I am overwhelmed by how much time and effort people are prepared to put into helping in this way. Mistakes that remain are due to my own stubbornness.

As for my readers, I have valued all your feedback. Thank you. I don’t know if you appreciate how encouraging you have been.

Although this is the end of the story, there is room for a little more. I am currently writing an inset chapter, expanding on a scene that is mentioned in chapter 15. If you send me an email, guessing the scene correctly, I will send you a preview of what is to come...

THE ADVENTURES of TOM and BARARD: CHAPTER 15

The Shire, Halimath SR 1498 (FA 77)

Tom drew himself a mug of water, drank half, and poured the rest over his head. He was feeling hot and sticky, his shirt was clinging to his back, and the sun had given him a headache. Somehow the heat in Hafar had never drained his energy like this. He looked out over the part-harvested field that was half stubble and half standing corn, the ears of grain hanging over in abundant ripeness. Stooks of wheat stood dotted over the stubble, waiting to be pitched up into wagons and taken to the threshing floor. It was a beautiful sight, which somehow epitomised the Shire: blue sky and golden harvest, for all that rain in late Wedmath had delayed it into Halimath. Faramir had finally pronounced the wheat dry enough to harvest without fear of its rotting in the barns, and all hands were not just welcomed, but expected to help in any way they could before the weather turned again. Tom knew that Faramir was hoping for a run of fine days - a Halimath summer as they called it in the Shire - to get all the grain harvest in over the following week.

Tom looked to where hobbits worked with long-handled scythes, moving in staggered rows to prevent accidents from the wicked blades swung from side to side in sweeping curves. Barard had almost finished his row, and Tom smiled to himself as he watched the damp cloth of Barard’s shirt cling to the developing muscles of his upper arms and chest, the result of their daily wrestling and sword practice. Despite a wide-brimmed hat, the sun had caught Barard’s cheeks, reddening them with that Tookish tendency to burn easily. If there were any present who did not know the youngest brother of the Thain, the stray curl of red-gold plastered against his face would at least give away his connection to the family.

Tom knew better than to call out or otherwise distract that seemingly casual swing; a scythe was a dangerous thing, for all that Barard handled his like an expert. The foreman did not let novices loose in the main harvest, and each hobbit’s scythe was carefully matched to his height.

‘He looks well.’

Tom jumped and turned to find Barard’s brother - his own brother-in-law - Hildimir had joined him by the water barrel which had been set up on an old sawhorse. He nodded. Yes, Barard did look well, but it had been a long slow process, where two steps forward had been followed by one back.

‘It’s been good for him, to be back in the Shire.’

‘When you came back last Yuletide I was shocked by how thin he was, and how... well, forgive me, reclusive you both were. It’s good to see that between Goldilocks’ and Rosie-May’s fussing and feeding, and your care, he’s beginning to look his old self.’

‘I’ve never thanked you, Hil, for taking over the Thainship so that Faramir could come to Minas Tirith. Your father’s death set Barard back more than anything. It helped him to know that Pippin had Faramir with him, and it helped knowing that Pippin lived to see him safe.’

Hildimir nodded. ‘That’s what Faramir said. You know it was his opinion that Father hung on stubbornly until he did know, don’t you? He said that Father kept saying you would rescue Barard, and never mind how much anyone told him you were both feared dead, since there was no news of either of you.’ Hildimir smiled, his former grief turned to fond memories. ‘Faramir said Father had great pleasure in saying “I told you so”, but he always did like being proved right.’

‘You mean like the time you planted that new grape variety?’

‘No need to bring that up, Tom.’ Hildimir winked at him. ‘Nothing ventured, and all that. How’s your business going?’

‘We’re doing well with trade from Harad. Our partner, Hanril, is there at the moment.’

Hildimir nodded and changed the subject. Harad wasn’t a popular topic of conversation amongst their relations. ‘Will Barard come to the harvest supper? He’s been coping much better with big family gatherings recently. Do you think you can persuade him to something as public as that? After all, he’s here, and I have to admit, I doubted he’d show.’

‘He knows as well as any how important it is to get the harvest in, but you notice he’s been swinging his scythe most of the time.’

‘Keeping himself to himself, you mean? Yes, I noticed that. How are things between you two? Is everything all right?’

‘Fine. We’re fine.’

‘That’s good. I can’t tell you how grateful we are that you found Barard and brought him home. We were all in shock when your letter came last year. When you disappeared as well, Ruby was beside herself. I’ve not really had a chance to talk to you about all this, I never see you apart from Barard.’

‘And you want to spare Barard?’

‘Exactly.’

‘You’re wrong. Barard finds it hard that you all tiptoe around him. I made the same mistake myself to start with, but Barard put me right. He’d rather any problems he might have aren’t in public, though, with the likes of Hob Sandyman looking down their noses and making snide comments. It’s one reason he doesn’t like going out in public. With family, it’s different.’

‘All very well to say, Tom, but he did scare the children when that wind whipped through the Great Hall, and all the candles went out.’

‘Maybe, but I think they understood better than any of you. Were you never afraid of the dark when you were little?’

Hildimir ignored that question. ‘So what do you do at night?’ he asked.

Tom looked at the older hobbit and kept a straight face as he said, ‘Well, Barard likes me to -’

‘Tom! I don’t want to know the lurid details of what you do behind closed doors! Stop laughing, you upstart Gardner; you know that’s not what I meant!’

Tom carried on laughing. Angelica’s insult had passed into legend as a family joke, and he took no offence at what had become the Tooks’ equivalent of the Gardners’ calling them crazy. ‘I’m sorry, Hil; you were just being rather pompous. We leave an oil lamp burning. He still has occasional nightmares, and he panics if he wakes in the dark.’ That Tom could say this lightly was a reflection of how very much better Barard was getting. Tom had found it hard to talk about, even to their own families; they hadn’t seen Barard when he was first rescued, hadn’t sat alone in the dungeon cell. They had no real concept of what Barard had suffered in fear, privations and beatings, nor how he had been pushed to the edges of madness by his solitary confinement.

‘Tom! Are you all right?’

Tom jumped. ‘Ye...es,’ he said, drawing a deep breath. ‘Yes. I’m sorry.’ He tilted his face up to the sun. How to make Hildimir understand? ‘All Barard saw of the sun for a year was a little strip of light on the ground that wide.’ He held his thumb and forefinger apart to show Hildimir. ‘Mostly he was in complete darkness. Imagine being chained up in the Great Smials’ icehouse, your only contact someone to bring you food twice a day, but they don’t speak the common tongue. You have a pot to use as your toilet, but it isn’t cleaned, just emptied when it’s full. Imagine that you’ve been beaten and there’s no one to treat your wounds. They must fester or heal as they will. Imagine -’

‘Gentlemen! If you’ve finished slaking your thirst, there’s help needed raking up and stooking the corn.’

Was it his imagination, or did Hildimir look relieved at the interruption? Tom set down his mug, and flexed his fingers where he’d been gripping too tight. ‘Sorry, Melinas; we’ll get on to it.’

The old steward nodded. ‘It’s good to see you and young master Barard helping, sir, but there’s no doubt we need all the help we can get. We’ll be stopping for lunch in a couple of hours.’

Melinas had grown old in service to the Thains, and had never quite got to grips with the fact that Pippin’s children were not only of age, but getting on in years. Tom grinned inwardly at the “young master”. He wasn’t at all sure Barard should be continuing for another two hours, but he had learnt the hard way - through arguments - that he couldn’t make those decisions on Barard’s behalf. Even more than a year later, he still felt overly protective, but he was trying hard not to be so. He was reassured by the sight of Barard reaching the edge of the field, to be met by a small hobbit hung about with water skins. He watched Barard talk to the small lad, then tip back his head and drink deep. Good, at least he was drinking plenty of water; that fool Tobbold Banks was taking nips from a hip flask. Tom rolled his eyes at such foolishness. He didn’t like Tobbold at the best of times, and hoped he would succumb to the heat, the drink, or possibly both.

For now, there was plenty to do. Hildimir clapped him on the back to get his attention away from Barard, and they worked together, making up sheaves, then leaning them against each other with the ears of corn uppermost: twelve sheaves to make a stook. Hildimir pushed back his hat and rubbed a hand across his forehead; the band had left a red indented line there, but it was the sweat he was rubbing away. ‘Barard loses his temper more easily since you came back,’ he observed; he replaced the hat and tapped it on the crown to wedge it more firmly onto his head.

‘Not with me,’ answered Tom.

‘That’s good, but he snapped at Ruby yesterday when she tried to do him a kindness.’

‘Kindness is relative, Hil. Ruby may have thought she was being kind, but Barard didn’t. What she said was as good as accusing him of being too feeble to help, when you start the grape harvest.’

‘She just didn’t want him to feel he had to help, Tom. With this good weather, the grapes are sweetening fast; the harvest’s likely to go back to back with this one. It’s a tiring time of year, and you can’t tell me Barard isn’t worse when he’s tired. I know she could have phrased it better, but you know Ruby, and really, there was no excuse for Barard to storm out and slam the door behind him. It’s hard to be patient.’

‘Aye, and your patience riles him as much as anything. Don’t you realise that he’d prefer you to have this conversation with him, have you get mad at him and tell him he was way out of line.’

‘So you told him, did you?’ Hildimir tapped the loose bundle of corn he held against the ground, as much as he could encompass in his arms, until the stalks of wheat were shaken into a neat sheaf, to be expertly tied. Tom leaned on his rake.

‘No, I don’t need to. He knows without me telling him. There’s no need for me to rub it in.’

‘There you are, then.’

‘Not the same. He knows I’ll have a blazing row with him if there’s the need.’

‘You? Have a blazing row with Barard? Now that I’d like to see.’

Tom laughed. It was an exaggeration on his part. He got angry, and Barard soothed; that had always been the way of things. It was only with others that Barard’s temper had become more frayed through the year, as the well-meaning things they said and - more to the point - the way they said them, rubbed at him like fine sandpaper. ‘Look, all I’m asking is that you start treating him like you always have, like he’s normal.’

‘But he’s not normal, Tom. No, don’t get me wrong!’ Tom had halted, knuckles whitening on the rake. ‘I mean, he used to be so full of himself; a lot of the time we were just cutting him down to size, teasing him, that sort of thing. He’s different, now. Quieter, more serious. It’s hard to know what to talk to him about.’

‘If you teased him more, it would be good for him.’

Hildimir looked doubtful. ‘Well, if you’re sure, I’ll try.’

They worked on, grateful for the break when a lad or lass brought them water. They talked about the approaching grape harvest and the prospects for a good vintage, about Tom’s family and Hildimir’s grandchildren. They were more than ready to eat when Faramir came to tell them lunch was ready in the shade of the trees. They walked with him across the field to where the draught ponies stood, with nosebags in place, flicking their tails at the flies that gathered around them. Barard was already there, being talked to by Tobbold. His back was to Tom, but Tom could tell he was tense, an unwilling party to the exchange - not that surprising, since Tobbold always pressed his attentions on Barard. The gathering for lunch was a peaceful scene, with hobbits lounging in the shade, taking their ease. Food was plentiful, but apart from water, drink was scarce. All knew the Thain would do them proud come evening, and that too much drink in the middle of the day led to befuddled heads and poor work. Of course, there were a few like Tobbold, nipping from their own flasks, but fights were rare because of the general sobriety. Tom was therefore not the only one taken by surprise when violence suddenly erupted, although to call it a fight was to overstate the case. It was almost entirely one-sided, short and to the point.

Tom drained the mug of water a lass handed him, watching Barard over the rim all the time, and ready to give the support of his presence if Tobbold became too objectionable. Tobbold caught Tom’s eye over Barard’s shoulder and leaned close to make some remark. Barard’s reply was angry. Tobbold stepped in, pushing Barard back a little, and Barard retaliated so fast it was hard to see what had happened; Tobbold doubled over, crowing for breath, and was floored by a blow to the back of his shoulders.

‘What the...!’ Faramir, who was closest, slammed down his own drink and hauled Barard back. ‘What in the Fell Winter do you think you’re doing?’

Barard glared at the hobbit lying at their feet and fought against Faramir’s restraining arm. ‘Don’t you dare say such things about Tom!’ he shouted as Tobbold pushed himself up onto all fours and spat fine soil from his mouth. ‘You bloody prick! I’d like to see you risk your life for me in a strange country!’

Tom laid a hand on Barard’s arm; it was all that was needed. Faramir released his brother as soon as he stopped struggling, and with the help of one of the draymen pulled Tobbold to his feet. ‘Ugh,’ said Faramir. ‘You reek of whisky, Tobbold.’

‘What did he say?’ asked Tom quietly.

‘He had the gall to call you a waster and a loser.’ Barard was so indignant that he had trouble keeping his voice down.

Faramir burst into laughter. ‘We’ll have you as the jester at the harvest-home supper, Tobbold,’ he said. ‘You have no idea, have you?’

‘No idea about what?’ asked Tobbold sullenly. ‘That Tolman tells fine tales, but he’s never done better than that pokey little hovel in Hobbiton.’

Barard growled, but Faramir held up a hand. ‘Peace, brother.’ He was still laughing as he turned back to Tobbold. ‘I don’t know why I’m even bothering to answer you, but when I was in Minas Tirith with the mayor, we were asked to help oversee our brothers’ business interests. The trustee they’d appointed thought it only right, since we ourselves were trustees under the terms of their wills.’

Tobbold shrugged out of the drayman’s hold and yawned; the action was exaggerated, a pantomime of boredom, and any sympathy he might have had from the onlookers was lost at this rudeness to their Thain.

‘In brief, then,’ said Faramir. ‘If Barard and his good friend, Tolman Gardner, live without ostentation, it is from choice. Tom is a very wealthy hobbit. If you call his home in Hobbiton a hovel, I can only assume you have never been inside.’

‘Too right,’ muttered Barard.

‘I have no wish to hear any guest of mine insulted - especially not Tom - and I have no wish to see a drunkard let loose with a scythe. I will therefore dispense with your help this afternoon, Tobbold. If you see fit to apologise to Tom, and to myself, and leave all alcohol behind, your help tomorrow will be welcomed.’

‘Pah!’ Tobbold turned away, his response as short as it was expressive. Tom decided against calling out to recommend petticoats for flouncing better; he was fairly sure that Faramir had not finished with Barard, and levity on his part would probably bring a well-remembered tirade down upon them both: ‘You two think you’re very funny, don't you?’

He was right that Faramir had more to say to his youngest brother. The Thain watched Tobbold out of hearing, and then rounded on Barard. ‘That was a disgraceful display,’ he said angrily.

‘Nah,’ a voice with a strong Tuckborough accent piped up from somewhere in the gathering. ‘Right good, it were.’ There was a general laugh, and Tom was almost certain he saw a twitch of amusement on Faramir’s features, quickly suppressed. Tobbold was generally thought to come to the harvest only for his place at the harvest-home supper, one of the great social events of the Shire calendar, and he had never been seen to push himself hard, even when storm clouds were gathering on the horizon.

‘I mean it, Barard,’ said Faramir, when the laughter died down. ‘Just because Tobbold is an arsehole -’

Barard muttered something, making a face as though he had sucked a lemon.

‘What?’

‘Faramir, he’s always propositioning me.’ Barard was getting angry again. ‘It’s too hot, and I’d had enough, all right? Insulting Tom was just the final straw, and he had a lot more to say about Tom that I’m not going to repeat.’ He glared at his brother. ‘And is that where you think Tom’s worth lies? In his wealth?’

‘Actually, no. Although that is probably what Tobbold understands best. I think Tom’s worth lies in his loyalty and bravery, and in his putting up with you all these years.’

There was some laughter at that, and some scattered applause. ‘Mr. Tom’s a good’un,’ someone called.

Barard caught Tom’s hand and twisted it palm up to show a scar. ‘You’re not the only one who thinks so, Ted Flaxman. Tom is blood-bonded to one of the highest lords in Harad, and has been honoured by the Southron king for his bravery, before all the Haradrim.’

Tom felt his face heat in embarrassment. ‘Barard,’ he hissed: a plea to shut up.

‘Come now, Mr. Barard. Tell us the story, do.’ Tom couldn’t see who the speaker was, but Faramir held up his hand.

‘Not now, Bert. I know my brother too well. He seeks to distract from the purpose, which is that he showed violence to one of my tenants. Barard?’ He held Barard’s gaze until Barard dropped his eyes to the ground. In Tom’s opinion, Faramir was one of only a very few people, including King Elessar, who could do that, and he schooled his face to stop the smile that was trying to break out. This was Faramir treating Barard as he had always done, and Barard wasn’t liking it. Be careful what you wish for, Tom thought.

‘I’m sorry, Faramir. Please don’t make me apologise to Tobbold.’

‘No, I’ll not do that - as long as you behave from now on, eh?’

Barard nodded, and released Tom’s hand to take Faramir by surprise with a hug. They were of a height, although Faramir was much broader across the shoulders, and his return hug engulfed Barard and almost lifted him from his feet. Tom stopped trying to suppress his smile, and grinned broadly, despite the tears that prickled at his eyes. It was a poignant reminder of their exhausted arrival in Minas Tirith, to be met with crushing hugs from their brothers, and the news that Pippin was dying. Maybe the same thought had occurred to Barard, because suddenly he was sobbing in his brother’s arms, while Faramir held him tight and rubbed slow circles over his back. Tom waited patiently beside them, grateful that the hobbits around them had melted away. A grown hobbit crying was a family matter, and the Tuckborough workers obviously respected that.

Hildimir leaned close to whisper, ‘You see? That’s where treating him normally gets us.’

‘Good,’ said Tom shortly. ‘It’s what he needs.’


Barard was subdued all through lunch, but he smiled his quiet pleasure when Melinas congratulated him on his scything. His fellow workers added their ‘Ar, ar,’ of approval, a sound peculiar to Tuckborough, meaning anything from a greeting to general agreement with sentiments expressed.

‘I thought I’d have forgotten,’ said Barard.

‘Yew don’t never,’ replied one ancient in a battered straw hat. ‘It just take a few swings, and it all do come back.’

‘Ar, ar,’ agreed his companions.


They worked hard all afternoon, and well into the early evening. Supper was a good solid meal of stew and dumplings, and afterwards Barard sat leaning against Tom, drinking cider and staring into the campfire. It was late enough in the year that the sky had already darkened, a backdrop to a myriad stars. Tom tucked his arm around Barard’s waist and kissed the top of his head. Somewhere a cricket was chirping rhythmically, a sound of summer evenings.

‘Now then, a story afore yew goes off with a flash ‘n’ a bang, like that there mad Baggins,’ called a gaffer, and both Tom and Barard laughed.

‘Aye, tell us a tale from the south.’

‘Is it true they’re as brown as walnut juice?’

‘How’d yew come t’ hobnob with lords and kings, Tom?’

‘Unsanit’ry, I calls it. Mixing blood with a savage.’

Tom sighed and rubbed the scar on his palm. ‘They aren’t savages. They’re a very great people. I once told Lord Faros that he treated me like a brother, and he came to me the next day and asked me if I would make it a blood bond. I was doubtful at first. They take it very seriously. It means that his friends are my friends, but also that his enemies are mine, as well. Harad has a long, bloody history of fighting with Gondor, although they are at peace now, but who knows what the future holds? I was worried... well, about enmity with King Elessar, but he pointed out that if Elessar was my friend, then he couldn’t be an enemy to my blood brother.’ Tom smiled at the memory. ‘We made the bond in the presence of their king. I was very honoured.’

‘That’s what yew meant, were it, young Barard?’ asked another old gaffer. ‘Yew said he were honoured by that there king. Like old times, in’t it? Hobbits hobnobbing wi’ kings and such, but your dads were great ones for that.’

Barard pushed himself upright and sat cross-legged, facing the circle of Tuckborough worthies. ‘I meant at the coronation of their new king, Sûlos, when Tom was awarded for his bravery.’ He glanced at Tom, and grinned. Tom rolled his eyes. ‘Tom didn’t know. They let me in on the secret, because they wanted me to make sure he was at the ceremony. He stopped the king’s enemies’ signalling for help, and was badly wounded doing so. I thought... I thought he might die.’ Barard fell silent and gazed into the fire.

Tom looked at Barard, wanting to hug him. He cleared his throat. ‘I didn’t, though.’ There was a general laugh, and the conversation around them moved on to Shire gossip. Tom would liked to have believed that their fellow hobbits were being tactful, but the truth was they probably weren’t interested in hearing about the Order of Aquilmos. For him, it had been hugely embarrassing, only made bearable by Barard’s shining eyes and the form the award had taken. Barard liked Tom to wear it on Highdays and holidays, and that was all right, since no one had commented on it; it had just been accepted as another example of Tom’s outlandish ways, like the three small gold rings that curled snugly around the edge of one ear. It was quite some time since anyone had even mentioned them, although there had been plenty said on the subject when he first returned to the Shire.

‘Do you want to go?’ asked Tom quietly. Barard was sitting with his hands clasped tightly together in his lap, a sign of anxiety. Tom set down his drink and slipped one arm around Barard’s shoulders. He laid his free hand over Barard’s hands, rubbing soothingly with his thumb. ‘The moon will be up soon, there’ll be plenty of light to walk back to Great Smials.’ Most of the assembled hobbits would ride back in the harvest carts.

The fiddler had started up with a tune, and all around them voices sang the well-known words. Barard took a deep breath. ‘No. We can stay, unless you want to go. Just a few memories I’d rather not have, that’s all, but we don’t get a lot of choice over those, do we? Some lusty singing is probably just what I need.’ Tom watched him pull himself together, and when the next song started, Barard joined in.

The moon edged above the trees in the east, large and round and golden: the harvest moon, the full moon closest to the equinox. In Minas Tirith and Hafar, they would be gazing on the same moon. Tom was silent as the fiddler moved through a repertoire of old Shire favourites. He was beginning to get edgy, a feeling that had been coming on for the past few weeks as the swallows congregated in larger and larger groups, alighting in lines strung out along barn roofs. The birds would be leaving soon, heading south to Harad. Tom had not spent so long at a stretch in the Shire since he came of age over twenty years ago. The slow pace of life had been very restful to start with, but now, faced with the repeating cycle of the year that Yule would bring, he was itching to be gone. A visit to Harad was out of the question - Barard was not ready for that - but soon Tom would broach the subject of returning to Minas Tirith. Maybe tonight, when they were alone.

There was a lull in the singing as the fiddler took a rest and downed a well-earnt pint. Tom slid his arm down to Barard’s waist again, and Barard shifted to settle comfortably against Tom. The fiddler put down his pint pot with a sigh of appreciation and took up his fiddle again. He tuned it and started idly picking out a dance tune, waiting for someone to lead in with another song. Tom smiled up at the stars and took up the challenge, his voice as deep and rich as his father’s. It wasn’t a Shire song, and the fiddler let him sing the first verse and chorus through, unaccompanied apart from shouts of laughter at the apposite words.

I’ve been a wild rover for many a year,
And I’ve spent all my money on whisky and beer,
But now I’m returning with gold in great store,
And I never will play the wild rover no more.

And it’s no, nay, never
No, nay, never, no more,
Will I play the wild rover
No, never, no more.

Barard added his voice, and the fiddler picked up the tune, pushing the pace along.

I went to an alehouse I used to frequent
And I told the landlady my money was spent.
I asked her for credit, she answered me nay
For ‘tis custom like yours can be had any day.

And it’s no, nay, never
Everyone was singing the chorus now.
No, nay, never, no more,
Will I play the wild rover
No, never, no more.

I took from my pocket ten gold coins bright
And the landlady's eyes opened wide with delight.
She said, "I have whiskey and wines of the best
And the words that I spoke, they were only in jest."

The chorus was roared out with enthusiasm. Mugs of cider and beer swung in time to the music, and were lifted high on the long “plaaaay”, to sweep back down again with much slopping of contents on “rover”.

I'll go home to my parents, confess what I've done
And I'll ask them to pardon their prodigal son.
And if they forgive me as ofttimes before
Then I never will play the wild rover no more.

Back into the chorus again, and the audience had got the hang of the four rapid beats of stamping at the end of the first line.

And it’s no, nay, never (Stamp - stamp - stamp - stamp)
No, nay, never, no more,
Will I play the wild rover
No, never, no more.

There was much applause and laughter as Tom and Barard finished. Hildimir clapped Barard on the back, and handed him another pint of cider. ‘Well sung, bro! Is it true, now?’

Barard took a deep pull at the drink. ‘I doubt whoever wrote it gave up their roving ways,’ he said thoughtfully. ‘It gets into your very bones, somehow. It’s good to be home, but the call’s getting stronger to be away.’

Tom smiled into his mug. So, Barard felt it, too. ‘Aye,’ he said quietly. ‘I think we’ll be off soon.’


Minas Tirith, Urimë FA 79 (SR 1500)
Tom threw the letter from Hanril onto the bed and scowled at it. As though to protect itself from his ire, the paper instantly rolled up.

‘So,’ said Barard, eyebrow raised at Tom’s bad temper. ‘Do you know it off by heart now? You’ve read it how many times?’

‘Why couldn’t he just say who is coming!’

Barard picked up the letter and smoothed it out. “I cannot say yet who will be trusted with this emissary from King Sûlos, but I do not doubt it will be someone of rank.” Well, there you go. Oh, look! There’s some small writing on the back. “Do not tell Tom: I withhold this information because I know it will tease him so!”

‘What!’ Tom looked at Barard’s smirk. ‘Oh, stop it, you idiot!’

Barard put an arm around Tom’s shoulders. ‘Does it really matter, love? We’ll find out soon enough.’

‘But if it’s a friend, we should ride down to the Harlond to meet them off the ship. We’ll have time. The lookout said that the ship was making way slowly up the Anduin, rowing against the tide, and there’s only a light wind to help them.’

‘If we go to the Harlond - I’m quoting you here - and some stranger disembarks, we’ll risk not being invited to join them, and then, by the time we get back to the city, we’ll have no chance of getting a decent position in the Court of the White Tree to watch Elessar receive them.’

‘Why couldn’t Hanril have sent another letter when he knew? If it’s Faros -’

‘He would have, if he could. You know how meticulous Hanril is in all things. Maybe he sent it, and it’s gone astray; maybe the first vessel to leave was the one they’re on.’ Barard slipped his other arm around Tom’s waist and pulled him into an embrace. ‘If it is Faros, then I promise I won’t stand in your way. Of course, he’s a married man, but the Harad custom of a harem -’

‘You are in so much trouble!’ Tom was trying hard not to laugh; Barard would just look smug at having lifted his mood, which was no more than the product of his anxiety and excitement. If Faros was not amongst the first Harad embassy to Minas Tirith, Tom was going to be very disappointed. Catos, he knew, was away campaigning, and anyway, Sûlos would not send such a young man to represent him before Elessar. Tarlos or Yanos, maybe? No, not Yanos. If Catos was away, then so was his commander.

His laughter vanished as quickly as it had come. ‘It’s been three years,’ he whispered. Three years of letters through the intermediacy of Hanril, because although Tom spoke Southron fluently, he could neither read nor write the Haradrim script.

Barard hugged him tight. ‘I know, love. It’s time we paid a visit. Past time, but I know you’ll forgive me for that. Would you like to go, when this emissary returns to Harad?’

‘Nothing to forgive, and I’m not going if you mean you’d stay here.’

Barard nuzzled his ear, nipping and licking at the rings that studded it. ‘Let me rephrase, then.’ His voice was quiet, no trace of the earlier bantering tone. ‘Would you like us to go?’

‘Truly?’

‘Yes, of course, truly. You don’t think I’d joke about that, when I know how much you want to go back.’

‘Oh, Barard.’

‘Bollocks, I didn’t mean to make you cry.’

Tom sniffed. ‘I’m not really crying, you pillock.’

‘No. And I’m not really a pillock.’

‘You are a pillock.’

‘Well, all right, granted. But I’m your pillock, and that has to count for something.’

‘A pillock of the community.’

Barard pressed his hips against Tom. ‘An upstanding pillock of the community.’

‘Mmmm. Soooo you are.’ Tom suddenly realised what he would have realised before, had he not been so on edge: Barard was wearing only a shirt, if “wearing” was the right word when not a button was fastened. He slipped his hands beneath the light cotton and stroked down Barard’s back, kneading a little at the curve of his rump. There was a knock at their door, making them both jump. Barard sighed and released Tom, but Tom slid to his knees to smile up at Barard. ‘Go away!’ he called.

‘But sir!’ the young voice of their servant was muffled through the door.

‘Targon, go away.’

‘I have a message from the King.’

‘Can it wait five minutes?’ Tom grinned as Barard rolled his eyes.

‘I suppose so, sir.’

‘Good, then go away.’

Barard stroked Tom’s upturned face. ‘Five minutes?’

‘Easy.’

‘You think?’

‘I know.’

Tom found the action of his hand and tongue very calming; he knew every trick to push Barard to release, and he used them. Barard spread his legs wider with a whimper and pressed into Tom’s hold. ‘You... smart arse,’ he managed, and then he was coming, his legs shaking, his fingers wound tightly into Tom’s hair.

Tom swallowed and gave Barard’s cock a last swirl with his tongue, eliciting a sensitised twitch. He sat back on his heels to smile up at Barard’s flushed face. Barard lowered himself to kneel across Tom’s thighs, and pulled Tom into a kiss that was only interrupted by another knock at the door. Barard made to rise, but Tom held him a moment longer. ‘Thank you,’ he said quietly.

Barard raised an eyebrow. ‘I think courtesy dictates that I thank you.’

‘Thank you for suggesting we go to Hafar.’

‘I wish I’d suggested it sooner.’ Barard ruffled Tom’s hair as he stood. He grabbed a robe to swing around his shoulders, and by the time he reached the door he had shrugged the robe on and pulled the belt tight. He swung the door open just as Targon was bringing his knuckle down to knock again.

‘Careful, lad,’ said Barard, reaching up to steady him by the elbow.

‘Thank you, sir. Here’s the letter, sir. It has the king’s seal on it, and everything.’ Targon had not got used to the fact that his employers moved in such exalted circles, and was clearly overawed to be even holding a letter from the king.

Barard broke the seal and started to read. Tom came to peer over his shoulder, but was only a third of the way down, mouthing the words to himself, when Barard lifted his head. ‘Thank you, Targon. There’s no reply needed. We’ll be dining with the king tonight. Finish what needs to be done, and take the rest of the day off. They’ll be some fireworks later.’

‘Fireworks, sir?’

‘The finest rockets ever seen; they burst in stars of blue and green.’

‘Sir?’

‘Never mind. Something Samwise the Gardener once wrote. We’ll see you tomorrow. Don’t forget to cheer the Haradrim; they may be friends of ours.’ Barard shut the door after Targon and laughed. ‘Fireworks! I love fireworks!’

‘After thunder golden showers come falling like a rain of flowers.’ Tom completed his da’s small tribute to Gandalf, and rested a hand on Barard’s shoulder, feeling the excitement like a fine tremor. It was probably true to say that he enjoyed Barard’s delight in fireworks even more than the fireworks themselves. Once, in the Shire, they’d found a secluded vantage point and made love to the accompaniment of the crashing explosions of rockets, the very ground shaking beneath them. Barard had lain under Tom, his eyes reflecting the rain of flowers falling like a curtain around them, until his eyelids had drifted closed and he had shuddered his release.

Now, Barard stroked his cheek. ‘You’re looking happier, love.’

Tom nodded. He was feeling happier. Bringing Barard to release, the knowledge that he would soon be seeing Hafar again, and his memories, had all combined to lift the tension from him. He still hoped Faros was on the boat, but he was no longer wound tight with the anxiety that he might not be. ‘I think we should get ready, and then find a good vantage point in the court.’

‘Are you sure you want me to try doing this?’ asked Barard doubtfully as he picked up some strands of gold thread.

‘If it doesn’t come out right, you can undo it, so it’s worth a try,’ said Tom. ‘It’ll help me look the part.’

‘And that’s important because?’

There was a whole swirl of reasons, and Tom had to think before he could pick them out. ‘Well, to honour our visitors - that’s one reason - but if it’s Faros, I don’t want to look too different from when he last saw me.’ He sighed. ‘And then there’s an undercurrent of anti-Haradrim feeling in the city. There are a lot of soldiers here who fought them, and they can’t grasp that things are different.’

‘“The only good Haradrim are dead Haradrim.”’

‘Exactly.’

‘Sit down then, and I’ll see what I can do.’

Tom fidgeted as Barard separated his hair into strands and plaited in the gold threads, but in the end they both agreed it didn’t really work with Tom’s thick curls. Barard compromised by weaving the gold thread into one small braid. Tom shucked off his clothes. He hesitated, then threw off his drawers. To wear them under the traditional Hafarian dress seemed wrong, like having a Hafarian pastry for breakfast and spreading marmalade on it - a clash of cultures. He reached for the light cloth, wound it about himself, and expertly tied the ends. Suddenly he wasn’t dressing as a Southron, he was a Southron. He pulled on the blue-edged dress he had worn to the coronation of Sûlos, and topped that with a blue robe with wide, loose sleeves.

‘You’ve forgotten something,’ said Barard. He held up a gold necklace from which hung three eagle feathers. Green emeralds caught the light on either side. ‘You should wear this.’ He teased at one of the feathers, neatening the barbs, and then slipped the gold around Tom’s neck. ‘There.’ He stepped away, admiring the effect. ‘My Aquilmos is back.’


By the time they set out, the main way to the seventh circle gate was lined with people, and every window was being used as a vantage point. There were some exclamations at the sight of Tom in such strange attire, and some jeers and catcalls. Tom minded only in as much as it reflected the mood of at least some of the crowd. He hoped the ambassador was someone with patience and understanding.

At the entrance to the citadel, the guards stood blocking the way with spears, their height made greater by the tall mithril helms that dazzled the eye. Only those with some reason to enter were being allowed through to the Court of the White Tree. Barard showed the letter from Elessar, and the guards withdrew their spears to allow the Halflings passage through the high arching gate. Tom did not miss the fact that Barard glanced at the road that led to Fen Hollin, his father’s resting place.

The King’s marshall appeared before them, to guide them to join a group of dignitaries. Even with restricted entry, there was a great throng of people waiting in the wide court, and many turned to stare at the Halflings as they skirted the White Tree. The doors to the Tower Hall were open, and before them stood two high-backed thrones. Guards of the Tower were lined up on either side of the court, their black surcoats embroidered with the livery of the heirs of Elendil. It would be warm work, standing there unmoving in their tall, close-fitting helms.

‘You will wait here,’ said the Marshall, looking flustered and hot, and talking to the group of dignitaries as a whole. ‘When the king has greeted the visitors, and the initial pleasantries are over, they will enter the hall for the reception, followed by their respective guards. You may enter behind them. There will be drinks and light refreshments. Afterwards, the Southrons will be given time to rest before the banquet, which will be held in the palace. The king will not tolerate any display of ill feeling towards his guests.’ He bustled away, and Tom looked around. He recognised most of those who waited: important burghers of the city, with their wives. One of them, a man Tom had never liked, sneered down at him.

‘So, it is true that you went native when you lived with the savages,’ he said.

‘And so gained an advantage that we can only envy him,’ said another, a good friend. ‘Is this what the Haradrim wear, Tom?’

A third man broke in. ‘You mean, when they aren’t fighting us?’

Tom answered only his friend, but for all to hear. ‘The Haradrim are many people, Braldir. Those of the ruling city of Hafar wear clothes like this. There are good men and fools, in Hafar as here.’ He turned to the front. The courtyard looked like an ants’ nest that had been turned over by a spade, with courtiers rushing here and there. Presumably they knew what they were about, but the appearance they gave was of chaos. A horn sounded from far below, and the courtiers fled, to gather beside the battlements that crowned the great bastion of stone.

Nobles of Gondor appeared from within the Tower Hall, arrayed in fine velvets and silks, and walking leisurely to take their places around the thrones. First came Prince Eldarion and his royal sisters, followed by the princes of Ithilien - Boromir and Barahir, son and grandson of old Faramir - and the princes of Dol Amroth. After a few minutes, Elessar and Arwen Undomiel appeared. All present bowed as the king and queen took their seats. Elessar’s face was deeply lined, and his hair was greying around his temples. Tom had heard him claim the latter to be the result of having Halflings living in the city. Arwen, on the other hand, was a flawless being of grace and beauty, with no sign of ageing, unless it was in the depths of her eyes.

Barard tapped Tom under the chin. ‘You’re doing your staring-at-the-queen-with-your-mouth-open thing again.’

Tom grinned sheepishly. ‘She’s very beautiful.’

‘Not my type. Too tall.’

They hastily stifled their laughter, because now guards were marching in from the gate. This was the Gondorian escort, and Tom shifted this way and that, trying to get a view. Once through the gate, the guards wheeled off to left and right, forming a guard of honour. Barard clutched Tom’s arm. ‘It is - it is!’ he hissed, and Tom nodded, too full of joy to speak. Faros had come!

Faros did not look around, but kept his eyes upon the seated king and queen. His robe, over his white dress, was a deep ruby-red, and he wore a gold collar around his neck. He had a small entourage with him, amongst them, Hanril. A company of Haradrim soldiers brought up the rear. Close behind Faros walked another man - a personal guard, perhaps, since he was the only one wearing a sword, apart from the soldiers. He was a young man, taller even than Faros, dressed in the style of the southern Haradrim, with close-fitting tunic and trousers, and high boots. Around his neck hung a necklace identical to the one Tom wore. Whoever he was, he had been honoured for bravery. All Tom could see was his profile. Whatever had left the scar that ran from temple to cheekbone, it must have narrowly missed taking his eye. Tom scanned the rest of the Haradrim, and almost laughed out loud as he realised that the small guard was comprised of those who had travelled with him to meet Legolas and Prince Barahir; some had also been of the company that rescued Barard.

Barard nudged him, and Tom realised he was missing the Haradrim being greeted by Elessar and Arwen. Hanril stood forward, making introductions. Nothing could be heard of the words, but he indicated Faros and the man with the scar, who both bowed Gondorian fashion. Elessar bowed his head, but there seemed to be some hiatus. Faros spoke to Hanril, and glanced around for the first time. Tom guessed he was seeing a confused blur of faces. He wondered how Faros was feeling. He knew what it was like to be in a strange country, where words made no sense and everything looked strange. Hanril translated for the king, who laughed and nodded. He beckoned his steward close and gave him some instruction. The steward made his way to where Tom stood.

‘Tolman, son of Samwise, the king requests your presence as interpreter for the Lords of Harad.’

Tom glanced at Barard, who simply gave him a little push. Go! Tom went, trying to look dignified as he followed the steward, and just managing to restrain himself from running in his excitement. Faros! He only just remembered to bow to Elessar and Arwen first.

‘Thank you, Tom,’ said Elessar. ‘Take a moment to greet your friends, and then we will continue.’

With beating heart, Tom turned to the Haradrim. Hanril gave him a wide smile. The next moment, Faros had knelt on one knee, arms held open, and Tom threw himself into a hug that lifted him off his feet. There was a murmur of laughter from the crowd.

‘Faros! Faros! It’s so good to see you!’

‘As it is to see you, my small brother. Our news must wait, but you will speak for me before the king, yes?’

‘Of course I will!’

Faros smiled and stood, stepping aside to allow the other man to come forward. Only then did Tom register the plural of the king’s words. Friends! He stared up into a grave face, and watched lips twitch in amusement.

‘I told you he would not recognise you,’ said Faros. ‘You were a boy when he left.’

‘I was not!’

Faros laughed at Tom’s expression. ‘Ah, now his eyes widen. Your voice, he knows!’

‘Catos? Catos!’

Catos went down on one knee as Faros had done, and hugged Tom close. Tom burrowed into the embrace. They clung together, not speaking, until Faros spoke quietly. ‘Catos, Tolm, we must continue. We will find time together later, yes?’

Tom pulled away and rubbed tears from his eyes. Faros had one hand on Catos’s shoulder, and it was a moment before the young man rose and took a deep breath. They all three turned to Elessar and Arwen.

Faros bowed. ‘I thank you for your courtesy in allowing us this favour,’ he said. There was a silence. Hanril gave a small cough, and Catos nudged Tom, who suddenly remembered why he was there. He translated a little slowly, since he understood in Southron, and had to take a moment to put the words into his own tongue.

Elessar smiled at Faros. ‘You have pleased the crowd.’

Faros looked at Tom in concern as he heard the translation. ‘Is your king annoyed? Does he think we wanted you with us to make the people think more kindly of us? I swear -’

‘Peace, Faros. He is amused.’

‘What does he say, Tom?’

‘My lord Elessar, he is worried you might believe our greeting no more than a strategy.’

‘Reassure him; there was no false note, but genuine joy at the reunion of friends.’

Tom translated, and Faros held out his right hand, palm to the king.

‘Tolman is my brother; his friends are my friends.’

Even before Tom had finished speaking, Elessar stood to take the proffered hand in a firm grasp. ‘We have heard much of you, Lord Faros. We are greatly pleased to meet you.’ There was some scattered cheering from the crowd.

In Tom’s view, everything that usefully needed to be said had been said, but words followed words, with speeches of welcome that tested his ability to translate. In the end, he settled for giving the flavour of each speech. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Elessar raise one eyebrow, as a long flowery oration from the Chief Guildsman was rendered into two short sentences.

By the time they finished, Tom’s throat felt dry from all the talking, and he was longing for Barard’s presence, to share the joy he felt. At last it was time to move into the Tower Hall for some much-needed refreshment. Barard caught up with them as they reached the end of the corridor, and his meeting with Faros and Catos held up all movement into the hall for several minutes. The press of people behind meant that there was no opportunity to talk, and once in the hall, it was even harder to have a private conversation. Faros and Catos were in demand, and Hanril and Tom were both kept busy translating. It was not until the steward came forward to guide the Haradrim to their guest rooms that the chance came.

Even when they had followed the steward across the courtyard to the palace, it was a while before they could get rid of him. A fussy man at the best of times, he was determined to make sure the foreign nobles had everything they needed. The king had given Faros and Catos a suite of rooms with two large bedrooms, a sitting room, and a small servant’s quarter. Tom curtailed the steward’s directions to the palace baths.

‘I can show them,’ he said. ‘And if they would rather, I will ask the servants to bring a bath here.’ Barard held the door open in a pointed manner, and finally the steward took the hint and left.

Faros eased down into a deep armchair with a sigh. There was a silence, in which they all smiled at each other rather foolishly. Tom didn’t know where to start. ‘So,’ he said at last. ‘You’re married, Faros.’ It seemed so unlikely, and the letter had said little beyond ‘I know you will be happy to hear that I am married.’ Instead, Tom had been saddened.

Catos rolled his eyes. ‘Sûlos insisted.’

‘What!’ Tom knew he shouldn’t be surprised. Barard had pointed out that it was likely a political alliance.

‘You make it sound as though he forced me, Catos,’ said Faros quietly. ‘He asked me to, and I could not in all conscience refuse my king, but do not make Tom believe that I was somehow coerced into the union.’ He turned to Tom. ‘She is the daughter of the lord who was displaced by the reversion of his lands to the House of the Sun. He was offered an estate, a place on the king’s council, and an advantageous marriage for his daughter. Had I refused, Sûlos would probably have taken her into his harem.’ He shrugged. ‘It is not a marriage of love, I don’t have to explain that to you, but I like her well enough, and the House of the Sun needs heirs.’

Barard perched on the arm of a chair and looked up at Catos. ‘What about you? Sûlos find wife for you?’

Catos grinned. ‘Me? I think I have a few years’ grace, and my brother is already showing a way with the girls, despite his tender years. Maybe he will provide me with an heir.’

‘You’re looking well,’ said Tom. ‘Both of you.’ There was almost a glow about them, but probably the same could be said of himself, he felt so happy to be with them. ‘I can’t believe how you’ve grown and changed, Catos.’ He eyed the scar. ‘That must have been a nasty wound.’

‘A charge against the Khand. The man who gave it to me did not live to try again. Anyway, it had its uses.’

‘Its uses?’ Tom had no idea what Catos could mean.

Catos stood behind the chair where Faros was seated, and laid his hands on Faros’s shoulders, kneading a little. ‘It brought Faros racing to my side; I have never seen him in such a panic.’

Faros relaxed back into the touch. ‘I was not in a panic. The message was quite clear: you were not in any real danger.’

‘Really? Well, no one could believe how quickly you made the journey from Hafar.’ Catos smiled down at Faros for a moment, a soft smile that left Tom dizzy with awareness. ‘It gave me the courage to stop being patient, anyway.’ He met Tom’s gaze. ‘So next time I was on leave -’

‘I woke up and found him in my bed.’

‘And invited him to stay?’ suggested Tom; the small signs that they were lovers were so obvious that he was surprised he hadn’t noticed before. The way they looked at each other, touched each other - the indefinable air of happiness.

Faros gave a huff of laughter. ‘No, I threw him out.’

‘You - ?’ Tom was confused. He looked at Barard to see if any help could be had there.

‘Well, are they or aren’t they?’ asked Barard in Westron.

‘They are, I think.’

Catos slid his hands down over Faros’s chest, a very possessive gesture. ‘I told him I only had one love and that was him, and if he didn’t love me, to say so, and I’d never ask again.’

‘Risky,’ said Tom.

Catos nodded. ‘But you didn’t see him when I was wounded. I needed him to admit how he loved me.’

Faros tilted his head up to Catos. ‘I love you,’ he said quietly.

Catos kissed his forehead. ‘I know, I knew - you don’t really think I’d have...’ He glanced at Tom, and cleared his throat. ‘Well, never mind. I knew.’

Tom swallowed past the lump in his throat. None of them had drunk much at the reception, but he was so happy, he felt as though he were drunk on the finest Lebennin sparkling wine. His eyes fell on a bottle, standing in a clay vessel and packed around with melting ice from Mindolluin. ‘I think this calls for a drink,’ he said. His voice came out funny, and his vision was beginning to blur, but he didn’t care.

Catos opened the wine, and the cork came out with a soft ‘pop.’ A faint mist curled from the bottle mouth. He poured carefully, letting the bubbles froth up in the glasses before he topped them up and handed them around. They were all on their feet now, all torn between laughing and crying at their reunion. The men knelt down to hobbit level, and four glasses clinked together in salutation.

‘To peace and friendship,’ said Faros.

‘To loving and being loved,’ said Tom, and his free hand sought Barard’s. As Faros and Catos stood, Tom smiled up at them. ‘There’s something I want to ask you both: a favour.’

‘Tell us. You know we’d do anything for you, Tolm.’

‘I want you to kiss.’

Faros’s mouth dropped open, and Catos gave a snort of laughter. The next moment Faros was thumping Catos on the back as he choked in earnest. Catos waved a hand to say ‘enough’.

‘I’m all right,’ he croaked, his eyes watering. ‘The bubbles came down my nose. That was a cruel thing to do, Tolm, when I’d just taken a mouthful.’

Faros gave Catos a final pat. ‘You’re joking, Tolm. Yes?’

‘No. I’m serious, although I’ll let Catos get his breath first.’

‘You want us to just kiss to order?’

‘Yes.’ Beside him, Barard was laughing now, probably at the expressions on the men’s faces. ‘In the Shire, a couple have to kiss in front of friends and relations.’

‘Oh. I see. It is a Shi-er custom?’

Barard nodded enthusiastically. ‘Yes, yes. The shorter the kiss, the badder the omen for long, happy life together.’

Faros and Catos looked at each other doubtfully. Tom thought it was a good thing they didn’t know Barard very well; he could tell the most extravagant lies, and sound utterly sincere, even in a language he didn’t have mastery of.

‘But we’ve never... I mean, in front of anyone,’ said Catos. He looked down at Tom, and then shrugged. ‘But it’s not as though it’s a hardship.’ He lifted a hand and brushed the backs of his fingers down Faros’s cheek.

‘But -’ began Faros.

‘Shh, love. It’s Tolm and Barard who are asking.’ Catos pulled Faros close, and they each curled a hand at the other’s nape. Faros tilted his head up to meet Catos, and their mouths came together. They were a little self-conscious at first, but then Catos made a small sound in the back of his throat, and it seemed the hobbits were forgotten.

Barard poured more wine and handed a glass to Tom. He raised an eyebrow. ‘A Shire custom?’

Tom shrugged and grinned. ‘That was a nice touch about the length of the kiss.’

‘They look good together, don’t they?’

‘Is it just me, or is it a little warm in here?’

‘Mmmm.’

‘They won’t be needing both bedrooms, will they?’

‘Bring the wine.’

‘We can take them to the baths afterwards.’

‘Good idea.’

Tom took one last look at Faros and Catos, happy beyond any words, and shut the bedroom door quietly behind himself.