Tom raced across the sixth circle to the southern end, where the Houses of Healing lay, as though the whips of Mordor were after him. He was hardly aware of people impeding his way, of warning cries or swear words called after him; he had only one thought. Barard!

He crashed through the doors, shouting for the warden, and found himself restrained by a captain of the Tower Guard. He tried to fight free, but the man held him tight.

‘Steady, my Perian, steady,’ said a calm voice, and Tom recognised his captor.

‘Let me go, Mabdil,’ he cried. ‘Let me go!’

‘First you must listen to me, my Perian.’

All the fight went out of Tom, and he sagged in the arms that held him. ‘Barard,’ he whispered. ‘Take me to Barard.’

‘Yes, and I will, Tom. Trust me. But you must not make that noise here. Barard is not the only one in need of healing. Do you understand me?’

Tom nodded.

‘Good. Come then, follow me.’

The soldier released him and strode away with Tom running after. They followed a rather tortuous route that took them away from the gardens and city wall. Tom knew what that meant, and he was in no way comforted: Barard was in no state to appreciate the healing benefits of a room with a view of the gardens. Mabdil held a door open for him, and a wise-woman stood as Tom entered the room. Tom ignored her, and rushed to Barard’s side. His love was lying, pale and insensible, with bandages around his head and one arm. The bed was of a height to be convenient to men, not hobbits, and Tom scrambled onto it. He slipped an arm behind Barard’s shoulders, and raised him to hold him close and rock him in his arms. Barard was limp in his grasp, his unbandaged arm dangling. Tom kissed him and stroked his face with his free hand. ‘Barard! I’m here!’ he cried. ‘It’s your Tom.’ He blinked back his tears; they were getting in the way of seeing Barard.

Mabdil laid a hand on Tom’s shoulder. ‘The healer says he should be lying down, Tom.’

Tom shook his head. He had not heard any such thing.

‘Tom! He has a head injury!’ Tom blinked up at Mabdil; he wasn’t sure what the captain wanted him to do. ‘Tom,’ said Mabdil, more gently, ‘this is important. Lay Barard down, and you can sit by his side there. I’ll fetch the Warden, and he can tell you how Barard is. He’s concussed, do you understand? He should be lying down.’

Very carefully, Tom laid Barard down again. He eased himself over Barard to sit tailor-fashion between him and the whitewashed wall, and took his hand. He curled over him and gave up trying to prevent his tears from flowing freely. It did not seem as though any time had passed, but Mabdil was raising him up, telling him the Warden was here. He became aware that someone else was talking.

‘...looking in the old books of lore to see what I can find out about Halflings: very resilient, but rather prone to emotional and excitable outbursts. I see the latter is true; let us hope for the resilience as well.’

‘My father was in the army at the time of the War of the Ring,’ Mabdil said. ‘He told me how remarkable Halflings are at recovering from even the Black Breath.’

Tom took a deep breath, and with a huge effort brought his emotions under control. Barard’s hand was warm in his. He was breathing. ‘What happened?’ he asked, looking up at the men. ‘No, I mean, what are his injuries? Are they serious?’

The warden felt Barard’s pulse and lifted each eyelid in turn. ‘I don’t believe he is in danger,’ he said, and Tom sagged with relief, blinking back more tears. The warden looked down at him with a grave face. ‘But I cannot be sure until he wakes. His arm is no great problem: a clean fracture of his forearm, and it has not been complicated by the bones breaking through the skin. It has already been set and splinted, and there is every good chance of its healing true. As for his head injury, it depends whether there is bleeding within his skull, but I am hopeful. His breathing and heartbeat are normal, and his pupils are even. As for what happened, I am told he was thrown from his horse when part of the outer wall in the first level collapsed. There are others who are more badly injured. Stay with him for now, if you wish; I will return in an hour and see how he fares.’

The Warden and the wise-woman both left, and Tom looked up at Mabdil. ‘Were you there?’ he asked. ‘Did you see what happened?’

‘I know no more than what the Warden told,’ said the guard. ‘News was brought to the king of an accident, and he ordered me here to find out the extent of the injuries. There are five men hurt, one badly so.’

Tom held Barard’s hand tightly against his chest. ‘I bought him the pony,’ he said quietly. ‘Just yesterday.’

‘No need to blame yourself for that,’ said Mabdil. ‘He wasn’t the only rider thrown as a result of the commotion. One of the king’s messengers is amongst the injured, and you can’t better them for horsemanship.’

‘But if I hadn’t’ve bought the pony, he wouldn’t have been there,’ said Tom.

‘Ah, what if, what if,’ said Mabdil. ‘That’s a fruitless exercise, as a soldier soon learns. Deal with the what-is; anything else is just a distraction. Now, I must go and report to the king, and make sure the messenger’s bag is safe. If you will permit me, I will come back when I am released from duty and see how Barard is.’

Tom nodded, and as the captain was leaving he called after him, ‘Thank you, Mabdil.’ Mabdil just waved a hand.

Tom kissed Barard’s hand that he still held, and sat quietly watching each rise and fall of Barard’s chest. Sometimes he felt for the pulse in Barard’s neck, but he had no real sense of the passing of time. He was surprised when the Warden reappeared, and glad to hear him declare Barard no worse. The room darkened around him, but there was no need to move and light candles: Hanril arrived with a basket, and immediately set the room to rights, talking all the time.

‘I’m sorry I couldn’t come sooner. There was the pony to see to, and then I didn’t like to leave Peregrin until we had some more news. One of the guards came to tell us what happened; he said that Barard was in no immediate danger. I was very relieved to hear it. Have you eaten at all? I’ve brought some food for you.’ Hanril looked at the water jug standing on a table by the head of the bed. ‘Have you even drunk anything?’

Tom shook his head.

‘Well, this won’t do, little master.’

Tom took the proffered glass meekly, and found he was very thirsty. ‘What did the guard say?’ he asked as Hanril poured him more water. ‘About what happened? The Warden said a wall collapsed.’

‘That’s not what I was told,’ said Hanril. ‘Seems there was some carelessness, and a rope snapped on one of the big pulleys that was being used to raise the stone for the repairs. A whole load fell from near the top of the outer wall. You can imagine the noise. Apparently Barard managed to keep his seat, and bring the little mare under control, but just as he was dismounting, the screaming started, and she was spooked again. That was when he was thrown.’

Hanril handed Tom some food, and Tom realised that it could all be eaten one-handed. It was one of the many instances of the thoughtfulness of their servant. ‘Has Legolas been told? We were supposed to meet him.’

‘I sent a message with the guard, but I understand he is with the king, so no doubt he knows anyway. May I stay a little? So that I can take a report back to Peregrin?’

‘Please, Hanril, take a seat,’ said Tom, and turned his eyes back to Barard’s pale face.

‘He wasn’t being foolhardy,’ said Hanril after a moment. ‘Borondir sent a message with the guard. He said to be sure to tell you that it could have happened to anyone.’ They both looked to the door as the Warden returned, accompanied by Mabdil.

‘Good, good,’ said the Warden after examining Barard. ‘I will be happier when he wakes, but that will happen when it happens. There is nothing I can do to hasten it. You may return in the morning, master Perian.’

Tom shook his head and looked down at Barard again. ‘I’m not leaving him,’ he said.

‘He will be well taken care of.’

‘I’m not leaving him!’

‘A word, if I may,’ said Mabdil. Tom looked up, but Mabdil was not talking to him. Both he and Hanril were ushering the Warden out, but they might as well have stayed as their voices carried back into the room.

‘You will have another patient on your hands if you force the Perian to leave,’ said Mabdil. The warden’s answer was less clear, but then Tom heard Hanril’s voice.

‘It will be better for Barard if his friend is here when he wakes. They are devoted to each other. I think you will do harm to separate them.’ Again Tom could not hear the reply, but he heard footsteps fading away, and Hanril and Mabdil returned together. ‘You may stay, little master,’ said Hanril, and Mabdil laughed.

‘Stay with the Warden’s blessing, you mean; do not doubt that he would have found some way to stay regardless.’

Tom just nodded. Of that there was no doubt. ‘Thank you both,’ he said.


When he was alone again, Tom slipped off his trousers and tunic, and lifted the bedcovers. Barard had been clothed in a child’s night-shirt, and it was strange not to have bare skin to lie against, but that was a small hardship. ‘Be well,’ he whispered. ‘Oh, my love, be well.’

He hardly slept, for fear that Barard might worsen in the night, but dozed off in the small hours.

‘Tom?’

He was awake instantly, his eyes taking a moment to adjust to the low light level in the room from the one candle he’d left burning. He raised himself a little, and was met with the glitter of eyes that were not only open, but seemed alert and knowing. ‘Barard,’ he murmured. ‘Oh, Barard! Thank the Lady!’ He stroked Barard’s face and kissed him.

‘Where are we?’

‘In the Houses of Healing.’

‘Oh... Why?’

‘You were thrown from your pony. Do you remember?

Barard frowned. ‘No... no, I don’t. My head hurts, and my arm aches.’

‘I’ll find someone to get you an infusion for the pain.’ Tom pushed himself up, but Barard caught him with his good hand.

‘Stay here.’

‘Of course, if that’s what you want.’

‘How long have I been here?

‘Since midday, yesterday.’

‘Oh, love. I’m sorry.’

‘You foolish Took, whatever for?’

‘Worrying you.’

‘Who’s worried?’

With difficulty, Barard turned to be enfolded in Tom’s arms. He closed his eyes and sighed. ‘I’m tired,’ he mumbled against Tom’s chest.

‘Sleep, then,’ said Tom.


When next Barard woke, it was daylight. Tom had opened the curtains and dressed in anticipation of the wise-woman’s coming. He turned to find Barard’s gaze following his movements.

‘Where are we?’ Barard asked, and Tom’s relief faltered.

‘In the Houses of Healing. Don’t you remember?’

Barard shook his head and winced. He raised his bandaged arm a little and wiggled his fingers. The arm was held rigid from shoulder to wrist. ‘Broken?’

‘Yes, but the Warden seems to think it will heal well. How is your head feeling?’

Barard raised his other hand to touch the bandage around his head. ‘What happened?’

Tom sat on the side of the bed, bringing a glass of water. He raised Barard to help him drink and told him what he had learnt from Hanril. Barard’s eyes kept wandering away, and Tom wasn’t sure how much he was taking in.

‘Tom?’ The voice was hesitant, and Tom wondered if Barard was going to apologise again.

‘Yes, my love?’

‘Why have I got rabbits embroidered on my night-shirt?’

‘Maybe they’ve heard you bonk like one.’

‘Ah, that would be it. Can we go home now?’

‘Wait until we see what the Warden says.’

Barard lay back and closed his eyes again. ‘As long as he says I can go home.’


It took some working on the Warden for him to agree to this. Barard was dizzy when he stood, but appeared agitated about staying. In the end, the Warden allowed them to leave with Tom’s assurances that Barard would not be allowed to exert himself, but would stay in bed. It was Hanril, bringing fresh clothes for Tom, who carried Barard from his sickbed to a litter, then from the litter to his bed. He continued his kindness by helping Pippin up the steep stairs to visit his son, and - once the first flurry of activity associated with their return was over - he produced the letters from the Shire.

Tom had completely forgotten about them. He sorted out all those addressed to Barard, and broke Faramir Took’s seal on the thickest bundle before handing the letter over. Barard pushed it back to Tom. ‘No, you read it,’ he said, and Tom looked at him suspiciously. Barard had closed his eyes again.

‘Is your head hurting?’ he asked.

‘A little,’ admitted Barard.

‘When the Warden held up his fingers and you said you could see two, how many could you see?’

‘Four.’

‘Oh, Barard. He wouldn’t have let us move you if he’d known.’

‘Exactly,’ said Barard. ‘He must have thought I was really stupid. I can see two of all of you, so of course it must only have been two fingers, not four, he was holding up.’

Pippin laughed. ‘Don’t look so worried, Tom. If he can figure that out and fool the Warden, he can’t be that addled in the brain. You’d best read the letters for him, my eyes aren’t up to it.’

Tom sighed and settled next to Barard. He wanted to hold Barard’s hand, but he needed both of his own for the letter: one to hold it, and one to trace a finger along the neat lines of script. He was a slow reader, and knew he didn’t read aloud very fluently. Barard’s eyes remained closed, but his hand stroked lazily over Tom’s outer thigh to reassure him that he was awake and listening. Tom found it very soothing, and suspected Barard did as well. The news was all of small doings in the Shire, and Faramir wrote well. There were birthday greetings for Barard, details of the Thainship for Pippin, and news of Goldilocks and their children. As Tom finished reading, Hanril brought breakfast for them. Tom spread honey over the warm bread, and helped Barard to sit and eat. He was reassured by the fact Barard ate hungrily and drank a glass of milk.

‘You see?’ said Pippin. ‘He’s fine.’

Barard leaned against Tom, his eyes closed. ‘Yes, I’m fine,’ he said. ‘But I think I’d like to lie down again. Will you read some more letters?’ Tom helped Barard settle with his head on the pillow again, and picked up another bundle.

‘This one’s from Fastred,’ he said, and Barard smiled. They both loved Elanor and Fastred, who were more like an aunt and uncle to them.

‘Oh, good,’ said Pippin. ‘Has the babe arrived?’

Tom read through the letter; he looked up and smiled with pleasure when he got to that part. ‘Elfstan has another son, and he’s called Samwise.’

‘Ha!’ said Pippin. ‘It’s about time your father’s name was remembered.’

Tom looked down at Barard. His head had rolled sideways and his unencumbered arm lay relaxed on the bedcover. News of their great-nephew’s birth would have to wait until he awoke. Tom stood up and stretched, and poured himself a drink of water; all the reading had made his throat dry. He was tired as well, but climbing into bed with Barard didn’t seem very polite with Pippin there.

He sat down again, and pulled out one of the letters addressed to him. Frodo’s writing was carefully rounded and always reminded Tom of their mother’s. He broke the seal and started reading, expecting more family small talk, but it seemed that troubles flocked together.

‘What news from Hobbiton?’ asked Pippin, as Tom read silently. Then, ‘Tom? What is it?’

‘Robin,’ whispered Tom. ‘Now it’s Robin.’ He glanced up at the top of the letter. It was dated later than Barard’s letters, but had still been nearly three months in the travelling; Robin might be long dead. Or recovered, maybe he was recovered - but Frodo wouldn’t have written of his illness had it not been serious. An arm across his shoulders made him look up.

‘Tell me,’ Pippin said, and when Tom hesitated, he added, ‘He’s your favourite brother, isn’t he?’

Tom nodded. ‘Yes. Yes, he... is.’ We were the two babies of the family; the girls always treated Robin as their baby, after mothering him while Dada and Ma were here in Minas Tirith. ‘Frodo says he has a wasting disease. He thought... he thought I’d want to know, in case I could... in case I could get back to the Shire in time to see him.’ He already felt worn out by his emotions when he thought Barard was in danger, and he had no energy left to fight back the tears that were too close to the surface. He pushed himself to his feet and turned into Pippin’s comforting embrace. The old Took no longer seemed as large as he used to, and Tom thought, ‘He’ll be next, we’ll lose him soon.’

‘Oh, Tom, I am sorry. What will you do? Will you go?’

‘With Barard ill? No, of course not.’

‘ ’m not ill. Broken arm’s not ill.’

‘Barard! I thought you were asleep.’

‘I think I was. I’m not now.’

‘Stop!’ cried Tom, as Barard levered himself up. ‘Stop trying to get up!’

‘Well, come here then. I want to hug you, Tom. Both of you.’ Barard flopped back in the bed; he closed his eyes and reached out his hand. ‘Tom?’

Tom rubbed his face against his sleeve. ‘Yes. Yes, I’m coming. Just let me help your father sit down again.’

‘Hmph,’ said Pippin. ‘Just hand me my sticks, lad. I’ll leave you to Barard, and ask Hanril to help me down those confounded steps.’ He hobbled over to the bed. ‘You take care of yourself, and do as Tom tells you. Hm? And take care of him as well.’ Barard opened his eyes, and Pippin kissed him. ‘I’m glad you’re home, my dear boy. I’m glad you’re home.’ He gave Tom a last pat on the shoulder, and left them together. Tom could hear his cracked voice calling for Hanril, and a soft murmur of answer.

‘Orcs’ blood, Tom! Do I have to beg you to get into bed with me?’

Tom blinked, and realised Barard was trying to push himself up again, swinging his legs from the bed as he did so. That got Tom moving. He rubbed the heels of his palms across his eyes and hastened to the bedside. Barard had gone rather pale with the effort.

‘What do you think you’re doing, you crazed Took?’ Tom asked softly as he slipped his arm around Barard’s shoulder. Just the feel of Barard’s head resting against his shoulder eased his feelings of worry and helplessness over his brother. The realisation that Barard’s breathing had become fast and shallow banished other thoughts altogether. He moved to lower Barard back down.

‘Let me lie on your side of the bed, Tom,’ mumbled Barard, as though talking had become an effort.

That made some sense, and Tom lifted Barard’s good arm around his shoulders and knelt on the bed as he manoeuvred him over. Now he could lie down pressed close to Barard’s uninjured side. He pulled the covers over them, and tried not to remember his horror at the thought that Barard might be dead or dying. He had stayed on his feet as he ran through the city, but inside all had been dust and ashes and pain. Now he smoothed his hand over Barard’s face and kissed his pale cheek, thankful that his worst fears had not been realised. ‘Dizzy?’ he asked.

‘It’s easing,’ said Barard, and his voice did sound stronger again. He nestled in against Tom. ‘What’s the matter, Tolly? Something is.’

Tom smiled to hear Barard’s old childhood name for him, but his smile faded as he told Barard about Frodo’s news.

‘You must go,’ said Barard with conviction.

‘What! And leave you? Don’t even think it!’

‘Of course you can leave me. You can’t not go.’

‘You can’t even keep your eyes open, love, or sit up without coming over all unnecessary.’

‘I’ll be fine in a day or two, and Hanril will look after me. If you won’t leave me, I’ll just have to come with you.’

‘You will not!’

‘You must go, Tom. This is family, this is Robin. I’m just a bit rattled in my brains, nothing new there. But Robin... it sounds as though Robin is dying!’

‘He may be dead,’ said Tom, a dull pain under his ribs.

‘Oh, Tom. That’s no reason not to go. I’m serious about coming, too, if you won’t leave me. Give me a couple of days...’

‘I take it back. You aren’t crazed, you’re totally cracked. You can’t ride.’

‘Hire a cart, then. The road to Tharbad is getting better and better.’

‘If you think I’m going to let you rattle around in a cart... and the Warden says that dressing needs looking after. It mustn’t get wet, and it must be changed in a week.’

‘So, you might as well make arrangements to leave for Crickhollow as soon as possible,’ said Barard.


It was actually three days later that Tom rode out through the Great Gate on Legend, with the early morning sun in his eyes. He was accompanied by Thorgond, who was going as far as the Gap of Rohan. A garrison was stationed there, to keep the peace in Dunland and protect the northern route to Fornost and Lake Evendim. Mostly the Dunlanders had placed themselves under the King’s peace, but occasional outlaws were a thorn in the side of commerce. Luckily - or maybe as a consequence of the strong military presence - it was unusual for such ruffians to form into gangs, but even one man was a danger to be taken seriously. However, Tom was well armed, and he had learnt that a well-trained hobbit could be more than a match for a man who attacked with no skill.

Thorgond cast his eye over Tom’s weaponry. ‘I hear the guards boast about how hard they drill you,’ he said drily. ‘I hope they’ve taught you well; the unskilled are a menace to themselves as well as to their companions in arms, and that’s as true for Halflings as men, I judge.’

Tom cocked an eye up at the messenger. ‘Let’s hope we don’t have cause to find out,’ he said. ‘A wild swing from me, and you could end up gelded.’

Thorgond threw back his head and laughed. ‘A worrying thought, my small friend, but at least you’re not a braggart and that bodes well. I must say, your company is most welcome. How is Barard?’

‘His arm will take time to heal, but apart from that he’s making progress. Not right yet, you understand, and I’m still wondering how I come to be setting out on this journey. I feel torn; I don’t want to go, and yet I don’t want not to go. There is no one dearer to me than Barard, but my brother is dear to me as well.’

‘But Barard is in no danger? If talk in the taverns be true?’

‘If I believed there was any danger, I wouldn’t be leaving, but I leave him unwell, and it’ll be months before I return. You know Barard, though. He’s very persuasive.’

‘Ah, if Barard was set on your going, then the only wonder is that you held out for three days.’

Tom laughed, and they rode on in companionable silence, taking the northern way with the mountain on their left - a league away, maybe, but still dominating their view. To their right, the fields and orchards of the Pelennor Fields sloped gently away towards the distant Anduin, dotted with clusters of farm buildings. There was a lot of traffic on the paved way, slow-moving and throwing up a lot of dust, but Tom and Thorgond rode on the broad, green riding track on the eastern side of the road, and for the most part the dust didn’t bother them. Occasionally, messengers on more urgent business would pass them at a gallop, saluting Thorgond as they went. They made Tom feel restless; he would have liked to have galloped across the townlands to the distant wall. The exhilaration might have quieted his doubts about leaving, but he knew that tiring his pony, and risking a strain or a thrown shoe, was no way to set out upon a long journey.

They did not rush, but neither did they dawdle, and they rode into the evening with only short stops to refresh themselves and their mounts. They collected firewood in the Grey Wood and camped near Amon Dîn. Tom built a fire in a well-used ring of stones. There was no need to hunt for food this early in the journey, and he cooked from their supplies. Thorgond rubbed their mounts down and turned them loose to graze. As soon as they had passed the Rammas Echor, they had left the crowds behind, and now Amon Dîn was living up to its name: all was silent as they ate their supper by moonlight. They cleaned their utensils by rubbing them with the gritty soil and rinsing them with a little water, before spreading their bedrolls and settling down for the night.

Thorgond looked over to where Tom lay. ‘I hear there was a large amount of money given to the wife and child of the labourer who was badly injured,’ he said. ‘An anonymous donation.’

‘Good,’ said Tom. ‘They will need all the help they can get.’

‘He was responsible for the accident,’ said Thorgond. ‘There are some who say they don’t deserve any help.’

Tom turned his head to look at the messenger across the embers of the fire. ‘Are the woman and child to be punished because of the deeds of the father? And for my part, it seems unfair to deny even him help. We’ve all done careless things and got away with it.’

‘You’re good men, Tom,’ said Thorgond. ‘You and Barard.’ Tom raised an eyebrow, and Thorgond laughed. ‘Good hobbits, then.’

‘The donation was anonymous,’ said Tom, carefully.

‘As I said. Goodnight, Tom.’

It took Tom a while to get to sleep, as it always did at the beginning of a journey, and Thorgond’s snores didn’t help. He lay awake, missing Barard. His head knew he was doing the right thing, but his heart didn’t agree. He finally went to sleep with his old da’s voice echoing down the years: Don’t trust your head, it’s not the best part of you.


They made good time to the Gap of Rohan, and Tom was sorry to lose his companion. They had exchanged stories of the Shire and of Thorgond’s homeland in Lebennin, and the time had passed more pleasantly as a result. Talking under the stars as they settled to sleep had also helped distract Tom from the emptiness beside him. He and Barard had often been apart, but never for so long. A week was probably the longest they had ever been separated, at least since they had reached an age where their lives were their own, and now he had been away from his love for over three weeks.

From then on it got worse, as he travelled on with only Legend for company. There was only the ache deep within, which he tried to ignore. Turning to the fantasy that Barard was taking him in hand just made the reality harder to bear.

The only event of any note on the journey was near the crossing of Tharbad. There had been a light drizzle all day, and no shelter for lighting a fire. Tom ate the remains of a hare he had shot and cooked the day before, and then rolled himself up, in bedroll and waxed canvas sheet, to doze disconsolately. He was jerked awake by Legend’s neighing, and threw back his covers to leap instantly to his feet. It was never wise to ignore his pony’s warning. A man was rummaging through his saddle packs, and at the movement from Tom, he spun round with a snarl, knife in hand. Quicker than thought, Tom reached into his belt and threw one of his own knives. It quivered in the narrow space between the thief’s feet, a warning as to the accuracy of his would-be victim. By the time the man looked up again with widened eyes, Tom had his sword drawn in his right hand, and a second knife ready in his left. The man fled.

Tom sighed and patted Legend. ‘Good lad,’ he said. ‘I’m thinking we’d best move on, in case he has any friends about, but he looked half starved.’ The pony whickered softly and nibbled at his hair. Tom left some food when he went; there was a chance the man would come skulking round his camp when he had gone, and find it before the foxes did.

It was another week before he was fording the Brandywine at Sarn Ford, the fast-flowing river swirling around Legend’s sturdy legs. Ducks scattered before them, flapping at the water in their haste to get out of the way, and voicing their opinion with loud indignant cries. Tom felt a lifting of his spirits. He was back in the Shire. He still had two days of travel ahead of him, but he felt the relaxing of his guard as he entered the Southfarthing. There was a good route through the Overbourn Marshes, although the bridges over the drainage dykes were narrow. Tom dismounted at each one to lead Legend across. As far as he could remember, it had been Meriadoc Brandybuck who had overseen their drainage. The water channels were bordered by high reeds, and it was only when Tom was mounted that he could see across them to the winding course of the Brandywine, sparkling in the sunshine. A marshman’s punt was tied to one of the bridges, but the only signs of life were the many birds: coots and moorhens - only distinguishable one from the other by the flash of white or red over their beaks - and a grebe swimming upstream with her young chicks riding on her back.

There was a small delay in crossing the Shireborn while the ferryman’s wife ran to fetch her husband from the hay harvest. Tom waved aside the ferryman’s apologies, but happily accepted a warm pasty from the wife. He ate it as he rode, savouring the rich flavours after the short commons of his journey.

The ferryman at Buckleberry Ferry was less friendly. He stared at Tom, eyeing him up and down with disfavour. ‘You’re not from round here, then?’ he said as Tom led Legend onto the ferry.

‘My sister is Mistress of Buckland,’ answered Tom; he was too tired to start explaining that, no, Minas Tirith wasn’t in the Shire, and it seemed simpler not to mention where he was from at all.

‘Aye, I heard there were a black sheep in that family,’ said the ferryman. He turned away from Tom, took up his pole and steered them out into the current. Tom patted Legend, and wished Barard was with him. They could have had a good laugh about it. As it was, Tom felt tired and depressed. A black sheep? Was that what the Shire thought of him?

It was late in the day when he rode up to the Hall’s stables and swung himself wearily from the saddle. He handed Legend into the care of a stable lad, shouldered his pack, and walked stiffly to the smial. Windows threw back the light from the setting sun, dazzling him, and he didn’t see the hobbit running towards him until she was almost upon him.

‘Tom! Tom!’ The next moment his sister, Daisy, was in his arms, laughing and crying as he kissed her. ‘I can’t believe it’s you!’ She pulled back a little to look at him, and then looked past him. ‘Where’s Barard? Seeing to your ponies?’

‘Hello, Daisy. You’re looking as lovely as ever. No, Barard couldn’t come. What’s the... what’s the news about Robin?’

‘He’s very poorly, but he’ll be thrilled to see you. Barard’s all right, isn’t he?’

‘I hope so. He had concussion and a broken arm when I left, but that was ten weeks ago. He should be up and around and getting into mischief again by now.’

‘Oh, Tom. And you’ve had that long journey, and I’m keeping you from a hot meal and a bath.’ She sniffed him. ‘Maybe a bath and then a hot meal. I’ll find you some clean clothes, something less outlandish. My Théo’s will all be too big for you. Frodo’s here, by the way. They’re in the study, talking Shire politics; you know what the Master and the Mayor are like when they get together. Go and say hello, while I get hot water and a tub sent along to one of the guestrooms. They don’t know you’re here; go and surprise them.’

Tom knocked on the study door, but opened it without waiting for a reply. Théodoc and Frodo looked up as he entered, and Tom laughed at their identical change of expressions from shocked surprise to delight. ‘Tom!’

Tom gave greeting Gondorian style, placing his right hand to his breast. He just had time to bow his head before Frodo’s arms were around him. He hugged his brother back. ‘Frodo! It’s good to see you! Théo! How are you?’ He released Frodo, and hugged his brother-in-law in turn.

‘Tom, welcome! A glass of wine? Does Daisy know you’re here?’

‘Thank you, Théo. Yes, she does; she’s sorting me out with a bath before I’m allowed into polite company. She said you two didn’t count.’

Théo and Frodo laughed, and Frodo looked beyond Tom, into the hallway. ‘Where’s Barard?’

Tom sighed. ‘He had a fall, just about the time your letter arrived. He wasn’t fit to travel.’

‘Not serious, I hope.’ Frodo rolled his eyes and clapped Tom on the shoulder. ‘Now there’s a question as didn’t need asking. You wouldn’t be here if it had been, now would you?’

‘No, but... well, I didn’t like leaving him.’

‘It’s good of you to come,’ said Théo, handing him wine. ‘We wondered if you would.’

Frodo shifted a pile of maps off a chair for Tom to sit down. ‘I wasn’t sure about writing, but seeing you here I’m glad I did. How was the journey?’

‘Uneventful, for the most part. What news of Robin? Daisy says he’s poorly.’

Frodo sat down, and held out his glass for Théo to top up. He looked tired. ‘He’s been going downhill since Yule, but he’s fading fast now. He’ll be overjoyed to see you, though. You two always were close.’

Tom nodded at the truth of that. He reached out and patted Frodo’s ample chest. ‘That’s a very fine waistcoat, Mr. Mayor. Are you trying to take over the title of Magnificent?’

Théo spluttered into his wine.

‘He’s winding you up, Théo,’ said Frodo. ‘Ignore him. I always find that to be the best way.’ Tom smiled at his brother. Frodo was so like the childhood memory he had of their da, and was so much older than Tom, that it was not surprising that Frodo was something of a father figure to him.

‘Éowyn’s having a hard time of it,’ said Théo after a moment’s silence. ‘First Father, and now Robin. It would be good to hear anything you can tell us about Father.’

‘There’s not much to tell. I put it all in my letter. Merry was fine one day, then just collapsed and died. The guards like to tell the story that he was rip-roaring drunk, but he wasn’t. I think he may have been slurring his speech a little, but he wasn’t drunk. I wouldn’t mind going like that - live life to the full, and die quickly. He was a hundred and twelve. Better than... better than Robin, by a long chalk.’

‘What was it Gaffer Cotton used to say about the Captains?’ said Frodo. ‘Large as life and twice as natural?’ He sighed. ‘But I agree, the long drawn-out way would not be my choice, and Robin’s so young.’


It was too late to visit Crickhollow that night. Tom bathed and ate a substantial supper under the watchful eye of Daisy, who thought him far too lean for a respectable hobbit. He went to see Robin after breakfast the next day. If he had any doubts left about choosing to come, they disappeared right there, because Frodo was right: Robin was overjoyed to see him. He was bed-bound, and clung to Tom, laughter and tears all mixed up together. It was painfully obvious that Robin was dying; there was nothing of him in Tom’s arms. Tom laughed and cried with him, but the tears prevailed.

‘Hey, hey!’ said Robin. Even his voice was weak, but carried the same bantering tone as always. ‘Don’t drown me, little bro. Where’s Barard? Bringing your packs in? You are staying here, aren’t you?’

‘Barard couldn’t come, he was stupid enough to fall off his horse, but he sends his love. Yes, I’m staying, if Éowyn doesn’t mind.’

‘Tom! You left Barard when he wasn’t well enough to travel? I don’t know what to... Thank you! Thank you for coming all this way.’

‘Oh, well, you know, Legend needed the exercise,’ said Tom, and Robin laughed.

‘Tell me everything. I love your tales from the south. Sit here and tell me stories.’

Éowyn laid a hand on Tom’s shoulder and bent down to kiss Robin’s cheek. ‘Let me get him a drink and something to eat first, my dear, then he can tell you his tall tales.’ She smiled at Tom, and it made her look less tired and wan. As she was leaving the room, she paused in the doorway. ‘If you’re telling stories, I think you’ll have an audience. You’ll not keep the children away.’

‘Why would I want to?’ asked Tom. He turned back to Robin. ‘Your Éomund’s turned into a strapping tween while I’ve been away, I hardly recognised him. He favours the Brandybuck side.’

‘Ah, but Tomas is pure Gardner. He reminds me of you as a teen.’

‘That bad?’

‘Yes, that bad, but I don’t worry. I just remind myself how well you turned out. Once you and Barard found somewhere other than mischief to direct all that energy, there was no stopping you.’

Tom laughed. ‘I’d not thought of it like that before. Yes, you’re right, although it was Barard who was always leading me into bad ways.’

‘That’s not how I’ve heard Barard tell it, and I can clearly remember you being the ringleader sometimes.’ He took Tom’s hand. ‘I’m going to ask you something I’ve often wondered, Tom, and you don’t have to answer. Do you ever wish you could have children?’

Tom thought for a moment. ‘I love the chaos they cause, but I can have that without all the worry and bother, just by coming home to the Shire. If anything, I miss children in what they represent: a tangible proof of our love, I suppose, and a way to live on after we’re gone.’

‘So, you don’t wish you’d been drawn to a lass?’

‘No! Never. There’s nothing I’d change about my life, but I’d change this if I could.’ He stroked the emaciated hand within his own. ‘And as we’re talking children, maybe now would be a good time to say that if Éowyn or your children are ever in need, they only have to send word - I’ll do whatever’s necessary.’

‘Thank you, Tom. I know you will. Théo will look out for them, as well; all the family will. Éowyn will probably go back to the Hall to live...’

Tom nodded. There was no need for Robin to say, ‘...after I die.’ It looked to Tom as though that could not be far away. His throat hurt, but he wasn’t going to cry over Robin again, and he changed the subject to more general chat. In the end, he told stories to the whole family, and embellished a few of the ones about Legend, until Éomund was openly incredulous.

‘I don’t believe you, Uncle,’ he said.

‘That’s very wise of you, lad,’ said Robin. ‘Your uncle’s an adventurer and a rogue, but I’ve no doubt there’s some truth in there, somewhere. The pony’s not called Legend for nothing.’

‘Does he really rear up when you tell him?’ asked Tomas.

‘Actually, yes, he does,’ said Tom. ‘It’s a very useful trick. It’s saved him from being stolen before now. I’ll show you later. He won’t mind; he likes showing off.’

Éowyn laughed. ‘Like his master,’ she said, rumpling Tom’s hair.


That evening, when Robin was asleep, Tom sat on the kitchen table, hands wrapped around a mug of tea, talking to Éowyn.

‘I can’t thank you enough, Tom,’ she said. ‘It’s lovely to see Robin laughing.’

‘What does the healer say?’

‘That he could die at any moment, that there comes a time when a body is so thin that the heart just stops.’

Tom put his mug down and pushed off the table. ‘Oh, love, come here,’ he said softly, and Éowyn almost collapsed into his embrace.

‘Oh, Tom,’ she sobbed. ‘Tom.’

‘Hush now,’ he murmured, holding her close with one hand and rubbing the other slowly over her back. ‘Hush now. All we can do is wish him safe journey.’

‘I know. I know. But I’ll miss him so.’ She pushed away, rubbing her face with her hands, and rummaged in her apron pocket for a handkerchief to blow her nose. ‘I’m sorry, Tom.’

‘Don’t be. It’ll be a sad day when you can’t take comfort from friends.’

‘At least I have the children. I don’t know what I would do without them.’

‘You have lovely children.’

She touched his cheek. ‘Tom, I worry what would happen to you if you lost Barard, or - the other way about. You’d be in that big city of stone, all alone, without your family.’

He looked at her gravely. That fear of loss was not so many weeks distant that the memory of it had dulled. ‘It wouldn’t be a problem,’ he said.

Éowyn's eyes opened wide in shock as she realised what Tom was saying. ‘Oh, Tom! You wouldn’t!’ She searched his face, and sighed. ‘Yes - you would.’

‘Yes,’ he agreed. ‘I would.’

‘Isn’t that a little... well, selfish?’

Tom shrugged. ‘Then I’ll be selfish. I don’t have your responsibilities.’ He held up a hand as Éowyn opened her mouth. ‘And no, I don’t want to discuss that. Let me just give you another hug and tell you I’ll stay as long as necessary.’

Éowyn accepted the hug and gave it back in full measure. She kissed his cheek. ‘Thank you again, Tom. I’m going to bed now. Is there anything I can get you?’

‘I’ll make use of Robin’s desk, if I may, and write to Barard - let him know I’ve arrived safely. If I drop a letter off at the post tomorrow, it’ll get to Bree and hopefully find a messenger soon.’ Otherwise, Tom might be home first, but that was no reason not to write. He wrote slowly, knowing Barard wouldn’t care how badly he expressed himself in words, and went to bed feeling depressed about Robin, about the grief that was already a part of Éowyn, and about his distance from Barard.

Through the following days he helped lighten the tedium for Robin, who was too weak to do much except lie and await the end, but who was still sharp enough in mind to press Tom hard in a game of chess. Tom moved the pieces as directed, and watched as his plan was obliterated. With a little luck on his side, he managed to turn fortune in his favour again, and made checkmate.

Robin smiled at him. ‘Good,’ he said. ‘I hate it when I’m allowed to win. I can always tell. Now let’s try again. I’m beginning to remember some of your underhand tricks. I’ll be watching your wizards like a hawk this time. Look to your king!’

Sometimes, Robin just dozed, and Tom would sit beside him wrapped in his own thoughts about life and death. The words of old Gandalf in the Red Book came often to mind. ‘...and some that die deserve life. Can you give it to them?’ Tom wished that he could, and wondered how he would feel if this was Barard’s emaciated form beside him. At other times, Robin was in a mood for reminiscence about their childhood, and that was fine by Tom, because they spoke often of Barard.

‘I remember when Barard was born,’ Robin said one day. ‘You were, what, nearly four? You were so annoyed, because you’d always been treated as the baby and suddenly Ma and our sisters were cooing over Barard, and giving him all the little endearments they used to reserve for you.’

‘We wouldn’t let him play with us when he was little,’ said Tom. ‘He was such a pipsqueak. He was always trailing that awful old blanket around, and falling over and crying.’

‘And we’d usually get it in the neck for not having taken more care of him. But he always wanted to be with you when the two families were together.’

‘He says now he can’t think why.’

Robin coughed and his eyes started watering. He waved Tom’s assistance away. ‘I’m all right,’ he wheezed. ‘Just made me laugh. He always did adore you. When he got older and stopped falling over, and started having ideas as mad as your own, the pair of you were inseparable.’

‘I used to love those summers, staying at Great Smials.’

‘Especially when you were tweens, heh?’

Tom gazed back into his memories. ‘Oh, yes, especially then,’ he said softly. In his mind he followed a winding path to a deep hollow not far from Great Smials. No one could remember for sure, but it was believed to have been a quarry once. Trees grew up to its edge, but the steep sides were part exposed sandstone, part straggly grass, and the dell was full of shrubby undergrowth. He could almost hear the cries and halloos of the chase as he and Barard fled from just retribution. What had they done to their brothers? All these years later they could never agree on the answer to that, but it had been Faramir and Hamfast who had been after them. He closed his eyes. He could almost hear the angry shouts of the young adults, determined to punish their youngest brothers’ tweenage presumption.

As Tom ran, he heard the shouts grow closer. Bollocks! Barard was running well in front and Tom put on a spurt to catch up with him. He never saw the tree root that snatched his foot and threw him into Barard’s back. He heard the soft grunt as he drove the wind from Barard, and they both fought for balance. The next moment they were rolling and tumbling down the steep slope, tangled together to land with a thump that left neither of them capable of even crying out at the pain. Barard had the worst of it, as Tom landed straddled across him. They lay panting from their headlong flight, hardly daring to move as the cries of their pursuers followed around the lip of the dell and disappeared in the distance.

Tom pushed himself up, anxious to see if Barard was hurt, and found himself gazing into laughing eyes. He flopped back down again and hiccupped helplessly.

‘Did you see their faces? We’d better lie low for a while.’

‘Oof, yes. You weigh a ton, did you know?’

Tom pushed himself up again to deny the charge, and stilled at the rush of sensation as their bodies moved together. Barard’s eyes went wide and his laughing smile faded as they just stared at each other. Barard was trembling beneath him, and Tom felt as though he couldn’t breathe. There was a tightness in his chest, and an overwhelming excitement that had everything to do with his hardening cock. He had never wanted to even kiss a lass, and suddenly he understood why. He hesitated, knowing what he wanted, but unsure of the consequences. A bloodied nose and a furious Took seemed the best he could hope for, but then Barard wrapped his arms around Tom, and tilted his head in clear acquiescence. As Tom leaned in to claim him, Barard’s eyelids fluttered closed.

They moved clumsily together, hands beginning to roam, and Tom’s thigh slid between Barard’s legs. Barard gasped into the tentative kiss and arched up, rubbing against Tom’s arousal. Need jolted through Tom, and suddenly there was nothing tentative about the way they were kissing. Mouth opened to mouth in a heated sharing of desire, tongue penetrated within to be welcomed by answering tongue, hands explored bringing forth whimpers, and desperation was real and here and now and hold me, hold me, don’t stop, don’t stop. Everything roiled together into one perfect moment that faded into aftershocks, and Tom lay in a boneless sticky heap, feeling as though he’d been winded again. He had thought he had fallen into a dell, and instead he had fallen in love.

Slowly, not quite believing what had happened, he raised his head to look at Barard. Barard’s hand came curling round his nape to draw him into another kiss, quite different in its intensity. Quieter, softer, saying ‘Yes, it was good for me, too.’ They parted and stared at each other.

‘You wanker,’ said Barard. ‘I’ve come in my breeches.’

Tom gave a snort of laughter, and looked apologetically at Robin. ‘Sorry. I... I was just...’

‘Good memories?’

Tom nodded. All good, but it had left him aching for Barard’s touch.



On most days, Frodo and Daisy visited Robin, and other members of the Gardner family came and went. It was an odd way for Tom to catch up with his brothers and sisters, and Hamfast was the unfortunate hobbit who was one hobbit too many to ask ‘Where’s Barard?’ Tom erupted from his seat, his face aggressively close to Ham’s.

‘Not here, obviously!’ he shouted. Ham rocked back, holding up his hands to ward Tom off. ‘Hey! Only asking!’ he said.

Tom turned and stormed out into the garden, where he paced up and down, hating himself for losing his temper with his brother. He was glad it was Ham who came and found him there, who came and put his arm around him, and handed him a beer.

‘I’m sorry,’ said Tom. ‘You didn’t deserve that.’

‘Well, we’re in agreement, then,’ said Ham. ‘Do you want to tell me what’s wrong?’

‘It’s the waiting,’ admitted Tom. ‘I’m missing Barard, and... oh, bollocks, Ham, I’m wishing Robin would just die if it’s got to be that way. How sick is that? I’m wanting him to hurry up and die, so I can get back to Barard.’

‘You’ve been cooped up in the sickroom too long,’ said Ham. ‘And I think we’re all hoping Robin will die soon. We’ve been watching him go down and down for months now. He got around with a pair of sticks for a while, but it’s been too long since he’s even been able to stand. He’s nigh on as helpless as a babe. Éowyn told me how much you’re helping with lifting him, and keeping him clean.’

‘I’m glad to be able to do it for him.’

‘I know you are, Tom. But tonight you’re going to come out with me, and I’m going to get you as drunk as a dray master. The beer here in Newbury still ain’t a patch on the Green Dragon’s, but it’s warm and it’s wet, as our old da used to say.’

Tom was glad he went, but he was even gladder that Robin waited for him to return before he died. Later, the thought that Robin might have died while he was away singing bawdy songs in the Barley Mow was not a happy one.

Full of beer and the lingering warmth of good company, Tom and Ham walked back from the inn to the house at Crickhollow. Ham took his leave at the gate. ‘I won’t come in now,’ he said. ‘Tell Robin I’ll come by again tomorrow.’ He glanced up at the stars as they stood there. ‘Although I reckon it’s tomorrow already.’ He clapped Tom on the shoulder. ‘So I’ll be the first to say happy birthday, little brother.’

Tom mustered a suitable smile, but as Ham rode away to Brandy Hall, he blinked back tears and rubbed his nose. Maybe it was the closeness to death, but the loss of his ma was sharp and painful in his mind; she had died on his birthday.

When he went in, the door was open to Robin and Éowyn's room, and candlelight spilled out into the hallway. Tom looked in, not sure whether to intrude or not. Éowyn was sitting in a chair drawn up to the bed, smoothing Robin’s hair out of his eyes. Her other hand held Robin’s, and she was crying. Even from the doorway, Tom could hear the difficulty Robin was having to draw each breath. He quietly slipped into the room and put his arm around Éowyn’s shoulders. She looked up at him, leaning her head against his body; tears ran down her face.

‘Tom.’ It was a hoarse whisper from Robin. ‘I hope you had a drink for me.’

Tom nodded. He blinked back his own tears and kissed Éowyn on her forehead, digging into his pocket for a handkerchief as he did so, to wipe her face. He patted her shoulder, feeling utterly useless, and wondered if he should leave them alone.

‘Sit with us,’ croaked Robin.

‘Please, Tom.’ Éowyn added her voice.

Tom sat on the other side of the bed so he could hold Robin’s free hand in both of his. It was cold, and even in the indifferent candlelight he could see the bluish tinge to the skin. Oh, Robin!

‘I love you,’ he whispered. He had to lean close to hear Robin’s answer.

‘Course you do, little bro.’ Another rasping breath. ‘What’s not to love?’

Tom choked, laughter battling with his tears.

‘Tell me... tell me one of your stories.’

As Tom began, Robin gave a feeble chuckle, no doubt recognising it as one of the more outrageous tales he’d heard before. He smiled at Éowyn, and his eyes gradually closed. It was like telling a story to the children at bedtime, watching them fall asleep, and Tom continued even as Robin’s breath faltered and stilled. He’d deliberately chosen one Robin knew. It was a stupid thing, but he couldn’t have borne the thought that Robin never got to hear the end.



Funerals were usually quiet family affairs, but the Gardner family was so vast that even the funeral took on the nature of a feast, and the feast a week later at Brandy Hall in Robin’s honour was attended by half the Shire - or so it seemed to Tom. In the end, he slipped away from the memories and storytelling, and found a quiet corner to sit nursing a glass of wine and a strong desire to be on his way.

Faramir found him there, and settled in beside of him, topping up his wine glass for him. ‘I’m guessing you’ll be away soon,’ he said. ‘Thank you for the letters from Father and Barard. I’ll give you my replies in the morning.’

Tom nodded. Tomorrow he would take Legend to the farrier, before starting for home and the longed-for reality of Barard’s welcome. He wanted the comfort that only Barard could give him, and Barard starved of sex for nigh on six months was an interesting thought.


The journey itself seemed to take forever, and he was glad to fall in with a group of dwarves heading for Helm’s Deep. There were few other encounters. Once he saw a messenger riding fast back down the way he’d come, and thought he recognised Thorgond’s horse, but the dwarves had drawn into the foothills to camp, and the rider was too far away to be sure. He wished him good speed anyway.

By the time Tom was riding across the farmland of the Pelennor Fields, his excitement at the prospect of seeing Barard recalled once more the wonder of being a tweenager in lust. Legend picked up on his mood and danced and sidled at oxen they passed. The pony needed no second urging to gallop at full stretch over the last mile, arriving at the Great Gate in lather of sweat. Soon! Soon! They slowed to a walk. As Tom rode between the iron doors, he patted Legend’s neck and called a cheerful greeting to the guards.

The guards looked at each other and stepped before him. Tom thought they were going to tease him, deny him access to the city, especially when one caught Legend’s bridle. He laughed, but his laughter died as he looked down into troubled eyes, and his thoughts flew to Pippin.

‘Did Thorgond not find you?’ asked the guard.

‘Enough!’ It was one of the captains striding towards them. ‘Back to your posts! This is not the place for news, and you are not the ones to give it.’ He bowed to Tom. ‘I am sorry that my men -’

Tom didn’t wait to hear what the captain had to say; he set his heels to Legend’s flanks, and they raced through the levels of the city as only the messengers were allowed to do. What? What now? All he could think was that Pippin was dead, and he hadn’t been there for Barard. He slithered from Legend’s back and raced up the steps. The house had a forlorn and empty feel about it, and his voice echoed unanswered. There was no Barard and no Hanril. He turned, about to run out, not sure where to go for news, but he was brought up short by the sight of two letters on the hallway table. One was his own from the Shire, the seal unbroken. The other was from Barard.


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