Tom snatched up the letter addressed to him and broke the seal. Where in the pit was Barard? He read it through once hastily, making little sense of the meaning, looked to the date at the top, and read it again slowly and carefully. There was a tight pain up under his ribcage as though a knife had been thrust in and twisted.
Dearest Tom,
I will leave you this letter in case of any delays, but I fully expect to be home by the time you return. You will be pleased to hear that I am of as sound a mind as I ever was, or can ever hope to be, although I shall miss seeing two of you when you return. Two of you to make love to me - now there is a thought to keep me warm in my bed tonight.
The warden has pronounced himself satisfied with my arm, and apart from a slight weakness (which he assures me will pass as I use it more) I am quite fit again, as I will prove to you in due time.
Life has been rather dull without you, but now the Haradrim are here, and I have been attending the King in his deliberations with them. I have decided to sail with them to Umbar and thence to Hafar. I do not intend to spend long there - just long enough to get a feel for the place, and an idea of the opportunities there may be for trade. If I stay two or three weeks, I can still be home before you, even allowing for contrary winds and other such nuisances.
However, if you are reading this, then maybe I have misjudged. Do not worry, I will be home soon. Know that I am thinking of you, and cursing whatever has delayed me. I miss you.
Barard
There was a drawing of a stoat in graceful lines beneath the signature - shaded above, and white below, a private joke between them - but it was the date at the top that drew Tom’s eye again. Barard had set out over four months ago. Tom judged the journey would take five or six weeks each way at the most, and far less with favourable winds, and yet Barard was not back. Did Thorgond not find you? With a certainty that numbed his mind he remembered the messenger he had seen riding hard in the distance towards Helm’s Deep. The words of the captain at the gate echoed in the silence of the house. This is not the place for news, and you are not the ones to give it.
What tidings had driven Thorgond to race the wind across the plains of Rohan? One thing was sure: standing in an empty house was not the way to find out, and whatever his desperation, his duty to Legend came first. Tom ran from the house, taking the steps at a precipitous pace, and found what he took to be a street urchin holding Legend’s reins. Legend looked at Tom, showing the whites of his eyes, and Tom rubbed the pony’s forehead, beneath his forelock. ‘No, no, my lad. You did right. He is just a child and no thief.’ He went to lead Legend away, and found the movement resisted by the drag of the child, who topped him by an inch or so.
‘Please, sir, I was to watch for your return and send you to the king’s chambers. I am a stable boy in my lord’s stables. He said to tell you that I will care for your pony well. Lord Peregrin is with the king.’
‘And what of his son?’ asked Tom carefully.
‘I was told not to say, but... but my lord is in a towering rage.’
Tom realised he was standing rooted to the spot with his mouth open. Barard sometimes tried the king’s patience, but a towering rage? What in Eru’s name had he done? Still, if Elessar was angry with Barard, then at least Barard was alive to be angry with. The next moment that comforting thought was shattered into a thousand shards.
‘Oh, not with Barard, son of Peregrin,’ said the boy. ‘With the Haradrim, of course.’
Tom pulled out a coin and flipped it in the air. ‘And you can tell me no more?’ he asked, trying not to scream and go down on his knees to beg for all this servant could tell.
The child viewed the coin with a light of longing in his eye, but swallowed and shook his head. ‘I made a promise, sir, but I do know the king was due to see them - the Haradrim, that is - in the Tower Hall this morning. I heard that last night, and no one’s made me promise nothing about it.’
Tom tossed him the coin, and patted Legend. ‘Go on,’ he said. ‘Go with him, my friend.’ He himself turned and ran to the gateway into the seventh circle. The guards of the Citadel stood aside at his coming, and he didn’t even spare them a glance. He was hardly dressed for the council chamber, but he had no care for that. He raced into the bright sunlight of the Court of the White Tree.
The entrance to the Tower Hall stood open, and Tom could see along the paved passageway to where a crowd had gathered within the main hall. He rushed in at full pelt, skidding to a halt as three guards stepped out of the shadows to block his way. Nothing could be seen beyond them, but Tom reckoned a feint and a bit of weaving should do the trick. He had no chance to carry out his plan. A hand clamped over his mouth, and his arms were pinned to his sides. He struggled furiously as he was lifted off his feet. Just let them give him the merest whisker of freedom, and he would show how well they had taught him to fight! He was carried from the hall, kicking at his captor.
‘For mercy’s sake, Tom, stop kicking me,’ hissed a voice in his ear. Mabdil! Tom squirmed and kicked harder, and tried to bite Mabdil’s palm, but he couldn’t get a purchase. Another guard tried to grab hold of his legs, but Tom caught him under the chin hard, and the man swore. ‘Quiet!’ commanded Mabdil, but his voice was low, and he sounded out of breath. ‘That’s the king’s orders. Wait until we’re out of the hearing of those painted heathens, and I’ll join you in cursing the stubbornness of Halflings.’
Tom was vaguely aware they were carrying him down an alleyway and through a doorway, but he was too full of a combination of desperate worry and fury to take much notice of where he was. He heard a door slam behind them and a lock turn, and he was set on his feet.
He spun around. ‘Morgoth’s balls, Mabdil! What do you think you’re doing!’
‘Obeying orders,’ said Mabdil, rubbing his shins. ‘The king’s orders.’
Tom found he was shaking. It was all too much. He had thought Mabdil a good friend, and King Elessar had ordered that he be rough-handled like this? Not knowing what else to do, he looked around. The room was comfortably furnished, although comfort was relative. It was comfortable for a man, not a hobbit, and far from comfortable when it was also a prison. It was easier to sit on the floor than to scramble onto a high chair; Tom’s legs folded and he sat with a force that jarred through him. He wrapped his arms around his shins and laid his forehead against his knees, rocking slightly in his distress. All he wanted was for someone to tell him where Barard was.
Arms enfolded him, and he was lifted again, but all the fight had gone from him. Mabdil set him in one of the chairs and knelt before him to take his hands. ‘Tom, I am your friend. Please believe me. No one here wishes you harm.’
‘You speak in riddles, my friend,’ said Tom with bitterness.
‘I know. I’m sorry. The king will be here as soon as he can. In the meantime, servants will bring you a bath, some clean clothes, and food. Hanril is with the king; he will be distressed to learn that you returned and he was not free to serve you, but he is of more use where he is.’
Tom shook his head. Mabdil might have been speaking in a foreign language for all the sense he was making. ‘What has happened to Barard?’ he asked quietly. ‘Will you not tell me?’
‘I am sorry, Tom. I have my orders, but all your questions will be answered soon.’
There was a knock on the door, and one of the guards, the one whose teeth he had made to rattle in his head, opened it. Servants carried a tub into an adjoining room, and others brought buckets of hot water. Mabdil took towels, soap and a pile of pressed clothes - Tom’s clothes - from them, and sent the other guards out. ‘May I stay here with you?’ he asked. ‘To keep you company? Or would you prefer it if I left?’
‘Mabdil, is he alive?’ If the answer were no, then Mabdil could leave, and the warmth of the bath would make his own blood flow freely. He could feel the sheath of his smallest knife, snug inside his waistband, offering this simple release.
‘Yes. He is alive.’
Tom closed his eyes, and tilted his head back against the upholstery; his tears came, flowing freely at the relief of it.
‘Tom, go and wash. You’ll feel better for it, and smell better as well. No doubt the king smelt as bad when he was a ranger, but that’s no excuse for you to be in his presence with a smell about you that would tarnish silver at a hundred paces. You’d make a tannery smell sweet. Go!’
Tom went. It was easier to obey than to argue, and the hot water was welcome; less welcome was the thought that had Barard been at home, his head would have been cradled by his love’s arm while their lips touched and opened and sealed together to speak of love and longing. Barard’s free hand would slide, soapy smooth, down over his chest and under the water, and Tom would curl a hand at Barard's nape to hold him close as he whimpered into the kiss and arched his back at the sure touch.
Tom shook his head to clear this image and washed in the quickest time possible. Even though the time was short until he joined Mabdil again, food and drink had been set out for him. He drank thirstily, but his throat closed when he tried to swallow food, and he found that he could not get it down. He paced the room, tense and unhappy.
The familiar sounds of guards coming to attention heralded the arrival of the king, and Tom was standing facing the door when it was flung open and the king was announced. Elessar strode into the room, his robes of state sweeping out behind him; he nodded to Tom, and stood beside the door waiting. A moment later Pippin came hobbling through, followed by two servants carrying chairs fit for Halflings. They set the chairs down and bowed to the king, and the door closed behind them. Tom thought the old hobbit looked even older, if that were possible, and as though he hadn’t slept much.
Tom made his obeisance, hand on breast, bowing low, and when he straightened, it was to find Elessar had knelt on one knee before him. The grave face before him was lined with the years he carried, the hair and beard heavily flecked with grey.
‘My dear Tom. Please accept my apologies.’
‘I don’t want apologies. I want to know where Barard is.’
The king nodded and stood. ‘Mabdil, help my knight, Peregrin, tobe seated.’
‘No, let me,’ said Tom quickly. He hurried to Pippin, and they hugged. Pippin clung to Tom as though he were drowning.
‘Oh, Tom, I’m glad you’re home.’
‘Come. Come and be sit down,’ said Tom, disentangling himself and helping the old hobbit to a chair. He wasn’t sure which was worse: having to clamber into a big chair, to be as dwarfed as a child, or sit on a proper-sized seat and be looked down upon from a great height. He took Pippin’s sticks while he settled the old hobbit down, and then stood until the king was seated. As Tom sat, Pippin reached out and took his hand. Tom hadn’t realised he was shaking until then.
Elessar sighed. ‘I had hoped that I might have some good news to take the sting from the bad, Tom, but negotiations in public and private have so far proved fruitless. Barard is held as a spy in Hafar.’
Tom gripped the arm of the chair with his free hand and stared at the king in horror. He was lost in a muffling silence; the only sound was a great thrumming in his ears that threatened to rise up and engulf him. Pippin’s hand tightened on his, and Tom found some semblance of his voice.
‘But he will be released? They will realise their mistake?’
‘Believe me when I say we are trying every avenue of negotiation over this.’
‘Gold! They covet gold. I have gold. They can -’
‘I have more, Tom, and they will not be bought. There is more to this than meets the eye, I think.’
‘Why have they come, if not to bargain?’
‘To judge his importance, perhaps. To offer provocation to Gondor? It is hard to say. They are certainly being provocative. It isn’t as though they don’t have many spies themselves in Umbar. I have offered to exchange two whom we hold awaiting trial.’
‘What will happen to Barard?’ whispered Tom.
‘I do not know, but I will not lie to you. It is not beyond possibility that they will execute him.’
Tom wanted to curl up into a little ball, curl around the pain, but Barard was alive now, and he fought to stay calm. He closed his eyes for a moment and took a deep breath, feeling how cold Pippin’s hand was around his. When he opened his eyes, Elessar was observing him closely.
‘Tom, I want you to promise me that you will not try to follow Barard.’
Tom stared at him. ‘And I will be a prisoner if I refuse?’
‘No, you are free to go.’
‘So why have me waylaid?’
‘Two reasons. I knew that if you returned and heard any rumour of this before your friends could see you, you would not hold back your anger. The populace is seething over this, Tom. I’m not sure whether you know how well-regarded you both are. Feelings are running high, and you could be as a light to touch-paper. Trust me, violence against the Haradrim ambassadors would not help Barard. I cannot base a war on one prisoner, and in any case, that would probably seal his fate. We must keep them talking. Eventually it is to be hoped that some agreement can be reached.’
Tom tasted bile in the back of his throat. Eventually! Barard might rot in jail before they came to eventually. He tried to keep his voice calm. ‘And the second reason?’
‘Do you promise not to go?’
Anger flared, a welcome relief from grief. ‘Of course not!’
‘No, I did not think you would. You are Sam’s son. Tell me, will you be in more danger if you can go without the Haradrim having knowledge of you - or if they have seen you stand forth as Barard’s true friend to denounce them?’
Tom relaxed back into his chair a little. Well, that made sense.
‘You will be in great danger, whatever you do,’ continued Elessar. ‘And if I could in all conscience prevent you, I would. My heart will grieve to see you go, and I will have little hope of ever seeing you again. Halflings are largely unheard of in the south; another one cannot be viewed with anything but suspicion. If you will take my advice on this, I would say go in the guise of a servant.’
‘Hanril will come with me,’ said Tom with certainty. ‘He will look the part.’
‘Look it, yes, but not act it. He speaks the language, but that is not sufficient to blend into a foreign country. In any case, he is known to the Haradrim. I did not trust their interpreter to convey the nuances of what I had to say, and Hanril stood in to listen to the translation.’
‘So how can I go as a servant, with no one to serve?’
‘I have a contact...’ Elessar cleared his throat, ‘who gives me information.’
‘A spy, you mean?’
‘Thank you; yes, a spy. I must warn you that his loyalty to me is doubtful, although he misses no opportunity to tell me that he considers the present ruler in Harad a usurper.’
‘So, if caught in such company, I would immediately be imprisoned as well.’
‘Have you a better suggestion? I do not think you can simply arrive in Hafar. You could try to enter clandestinely, but it is surely better to have some role to fill. Let me say again, I would much rather you did not go at all, but,’ he looked at Pippin, ‘I am aware I would have to lock you in prison or tie you up in a sack to prevent you.’
Pippin gave a bark of laughter. ‘Well remembered, Strider,’ he said, and the king smiled for the first time.
‘My heart misgives me this time, as well, but I will remember Gandalf’s counsel: to trust in friendship rather than great wisdom.’
Pippin squeezed Tom’s hand. ‘And I will trust in Sam’s son,’ he said. ‘You may not be the son who looks most like your father, Tom, but you are the one who reminds me of him, for all that. If anyone can bring Barard home, you can.’
Tom was grateful to Pippin for his confidence, but he knew it was a fool’s errand. The only thing to do was to take each day as it came, and at least he would be doing something. ‘How can I meet this... contact?’ he asked.
‘Mabdil will bring him here this evening.’
‘And in the meantime?’
‘You are free to do whatever you wish.’
‘I wish to go home.’
‘I will send Hanril to you. You look tired. Pippin is my guest here at the moment, and you are welcome to stay with him if you would like the company.’
Pippin nodded his concurrence. ‘I would like that, Tom.’
Elessar stood, and Tom followed him to his feet, helping Pippin to stand as he did so. It was a rote: the king stood, everyone stood; Tom didn’t have to think about it. It gave an appearance of control, and he was grateful for that, because control was as thin as a veil of gossamer. Elessar looked down at him, pity in his grey eyes. ‘I’m truly sorry that this has happened, Tom, and I take some of the blame. I will talk to you again later.’
After the king had left, Tom stood with bowed head, not able to get himself together enough to move. Pippin touched his arm.
‘I wouldn’t ask you to go, my dear,’ he said, ‘but I’m glad you are, even though I fear I’ll lose two sons. Will you come and stay with me tonight? Old Strider has given me the rooms that your father and mother occupied, where you were born.’
Tom nodded, not trusting himself to speak.
‘Good. You can give me news from the Shire later. No need to help me back. No steps. You go on, do what you need to do. Scream or punch the wall, or have a good cry. I know how I felt when I thought dear Frodo had been captured and tortured in Mordor. I was so full of fury; it’s not surprising I managed to fell a troll.’ He picked up his sticks, and all Tom could do was stare after him as he hobbled out. Tortured! Nienna’s tears! He hadn’t even thought Barard might be tortured! He felt as though he were going to be sick.
‘Steady, Tom,’ said Mabdil, laying a hand on his shoulder. Tom had forgotten the captain was still present, and he jumped. He looked up and was met with kindly eyes, and a face that carried a large bruise spreading across one cheek. He stretched up a hand, and Mabdil knelt in front of him.
Tom touched the purple discolouration lightly. ‘Did I do that?’ he croaked. His throat felt tight and dry, and his voice didn’t sound like his own.
‘Don’t worry,’ said Mabdil. ‘You have a hard head, and you kick like a mule, but I’m just hoping you forgive me.’
‘Oh, my friend. Of course I do.’
‘Good. Don’t forget we have a punchbag at the training ground. It’ll do you good. Come back here at sunset, and I’ll bring the Haradrim spy to see you. I’ve been fighting those scum for most of my life, and I’m beginning to think I like them even less in peace than in war. Would you like me to come with you now?’
Tom shook his head. ‘No. No, thank you.’
He walked back to the sixth circle, finding the trick was to put one foot in front of the other. When he reached the stables, he nodded to himself. At least he was functioning on some hidden level: he needed to check Legend had been taken care of, although he had been unaware that was where he’d been heading. He slipped in and found that Legend needed no further attention. The pony was bedded on deep straw, with fresh water in a bucket and a manger full of hay. His coat gleamed. All the mud had been combed from his fetlocks, and his tail was tangle-free. Tom patted him on the neck, and leant his forehead against the pony’s shoulder. A whinny from the next stall made him look up, and there was Barard’s pony. Sharp and clear, the image of Barard on his birthday came to Tom, as he leant on the rail, looking the ponies over. My fault! This is all my fault! And I was so happy and pleased with myself. If I could go back and change one moment, that would be it.
Tom gave Legend a last pat and stumbled out, his sight blurred by tears. Somehow - one foot in front of the other - he found his way to the statue of his father and Frodo of the Ring, and sat on the plinth at their feet with head bowed. His mind had settled into a state of disbelieving shock; he felt numb, and the task ahead was impossible. One small hobbit, in a foreign country with a smattering of the language, to somehow engineer Barard’s rescue! Please, not torture! My fault!
He wasn’t sure how long he had sat there in despair when a shadow fell across his feet, making him look up.
‘I’m glad I’ve found you,’ said Legolas, seating himself beside Tom. ‘I was worried about you. Hanril’s worried about you.’
‘It’s my fault,’ said Tom dully.
‘How do you cast the links in that chain, my friend?’
‘If I hadn’t bought him the pony, he wouldn’t have broken his arm, and he’d have come with me to the Shire.’
‘That is an exercise that will lead only to a sapping of the spirit. Take your eye from the arrow as you loose it, and it will fly wide. But if you wish to take that road, then there are other futures where he came to the Shire with you, and met with some fatal accident. There are many perils in this world, and the paths that lead to them are a tangle of choices.’
Tom looked up at the statue above him. ‘Dada thought he had made the wrong choices.’
‘In Cirith Ungol, you mean? And yet that was the only way, perhaps, that he and Frodo could have both come into Mordor. We may be here today only because Sam made what he perceived to be the wrong choice.’
‘How did Dada do it, Legolas? How did he rescue Frodo of the Ring from a stronghold of orcs?’
‘He put on the Ring and -’
‘I don’t mean that. I know that. The orcs had all fought amongst themselves and he sang a song on the stairs. I mean how did he pick himself up and just do it?’
‘Well, as to that, there were many forces at work - call them chance, if you will - but I believe his love for Frodo wouldn’t allow for him not to do it.’
‘I’m not a hero like my father.’
‘And yet Elessar tells me you are going to Harad, because of your love for Barard. You are your father’s son. It is what he would have done, even had he felt it was all hopeless.’
‘How did you know I feel it’s hopeless?’
‘Ah, this is where I look inscrutably Elvish, is it not? But the truth is we would not be having this conversation if you felt otherwise. You despair of ever seeing Barard again.’
‘One foot in front of the other,’ muttered Tom, despondently.
‘I beg your pardon?’
‘I don’t really know how I got here. I just put one foot in front of the other.’
‘And you’re going to keep putting one foot in front of the other? Yes, that is your father.’
Tom looked up; the statue stood over him, looking unfamiliar from this angle. ‘I wish Dada was here, but then he’d be grieving over Robin and worrying over me, so maybe best that he’s not.’ He sighed. ‘I told the king I was going home, but I’ve been putting it off. The house felt so empty earlier.’
‘Hanril is there. He didn’t want to leave, in case you came back. May I walk with you now?’
Tom nodded and stood, and they walked in silence. Legolas left him at the door, and Tom suspected he was going to tell Elessar that he’d seen Tom safely home. He felt as though he had been handed over from one keeper to another. It was good to know that Hanril was in the house, but Tom refused his offers of food and trailed slowly to his bedroom. All within was neat and tidy, no doubt a far cry from how Barard had left it when he packed. Tom could picture the chaos that would ensue from that, having seen it with his own eyes so many times. He lay down wearily on the bed, and drew Barard’s pillow close, in the vain hope that he would catch some hint of his presence, but the cover smelt only of the rose-water used by the laundry. Memories crowded in, but his mind turned back to that first day in the Shire, when he had discovered the beauty of loving Barard.
They slipped back from the dell and into Great Smials by a little-used side door. Laughing and shushing each other, they made their way to Barard’s room. Barard locked the door behind them and leant against it, flushed and panting. Tom was suddenly filled with shyness. He held out his hand to Barard, and Barard took it and pulled him close. They shifted their feet, discovering the best fit, and kissed again with greater sureness. Tom’s heart was beating fast, and he whimpered as he ground up against Barard. Slowly it dawned on his cock-befuddled brain that he was thrusting against the cold, wet cloth of his soiled breeches. He pulled back, opening his eyes, and the sight of Barard - eyes closed, lips apart, blindly reaching for the lost warmth of his mouth - made him melt. No other word described the warm feeling that pooled at the centre of his being.
There was no way he could refuse that entreaty, but even as his eyes fluttered closed and he leaned in again, he was reaching for the buttons on Barard’s breeches, flipping them free as his other hand cupped around Barard’s jaw. The last button came undone, and Barard thrust up against Tom’s hand. It was tempting to reach deeper, to feel Barard’s heat within the palm of his hand, but Tom wanted to see. Both hands, then, to cradle Barard’s hips and slip inside the loosened band. He pushed down, and as breeches and drawers fell around Barard’s feet, Tom slid down to his knees. Soft shirt-tails framed Barard's cock and caressed Tom’s face as he nuzzled in. With a soft sigh, Tom laid his head against Barard’s thigh and traced his fingers along the proud shaft, so hard and rigid, and yet the skin was soft beneath his exploring touch. The cock jerked as he reached the swollen tip, and he could feel Barard trembling. He had never thought of his own cock as a thing of beauty, but this was lovely. The scent of their earlier coupling, and the sound of Barard’s heavy breathing, added to Tom’s excitement; all that was needed was the taste of him. Tom took his time, savouring the moment, tracing his fingers back down with feather light touch, dipping between Barard’s thighs to cradle the tight sac. Barard whimpered, spreading his legs and tangling his fingers into Tom’s hair.
‘Tom...’
Tom knelt up, his other hand wrapping around the eager cock, and gently kissed the swollen tip.
‘Oh, Tom.’
His tongue lapped at leaking fluid, and without thought he engulfed Barard’s cock and took him deep. He pulled back to suckle, lost in the sensation of tongue swirling over silken smoothness, and Barard’s fingers tightened in Tom’s hair. His breathing was ragged, out of control.
‘I’m going to... Tom!’
Just for a moment, Tom smiled around his captive. He took Barard deep again, and almost choked, in his inexperience, but eased back and swallowed rhythmically, glad that this was Barard’s second release that day.
Barard was shaking uncontrollably, and Tom pushed up to fold him in his arms. His own need was so full and urgent that he was surprised he hadn’t come himself at the moment of Barard’s orgasm. He gazed into eyes that were greener than he had ever realised and was horrified to see a tear gather on Barard’s lower lid, overspill, and trail down his face. All his own cock-driven need drained away into feelings of protection and tenderness.
‘Barard? What is it?’
Barard shook his head, worrying at his lip, and lowered his eyes to avoid Tom’s gaze. It was like cold ice down Tom’s back, and that had been Barard’s doing as well, just a few months ago at Hamfast’s coming of age party.
‘Please, love, tell me.’ Tom felt close to tears himself. If Barard had made the smallest sign that he hadn’t wanted this, Tom would have stopped in an instant. It had been... so good. Felt... so good. And now another tear was following the trail to the corner of Barard’s mouth. Tom didn’t know what to do. He’d never realised that loving another could be so complicated. He cupped Barard’s chin and brushed his lips where the tear trail ended.
Suddenly Barard was clinging to him, head buried against his hair, voice muffled. ‘I love you, I love you, I’ve loved you forever. I just... I just wish I were your first.’
Tom prised him loose to stare at him in confusion. ‘My first?’
‘I know, I’m sorry. It was wonderful, you were wonderful. I’m being stupid. I just -’
‘I don’t understand.’
Barard’s eyes flared into anger at that. ‘I’m jealous, all right!’ he shouted and tried to pull away.
‘But... but...’ Tom swallowed as he held on tight and tried again for coherence. ‘Who are you jealous of?’
‘Whoever you learnt to do that with!’ Barard collapsed into Tom’s arms; his anger was gone and his tears were back. ‘Did you call him love? Who was it? Why didn’t you tell me?’
Tom felt laughter bubbling within. He tried to keep it damped down, but it was no use. He choked and shook, hiccupping in his effort to speak. Barard’s furious reaction in no way abated his mirth; if anything, it added to it. He collapsed onto Barard’s bed. ‘You... you... oh, I love you. You... Took!’
Barard stood over him, glaring, the result very loveable as he bristled in his shirt-tails. ‘I don’t see what’s so funny. I know it’s stupid of me, but -’
‘But there is no one else. There’s never been anyone else. You are my first.’
‘I am?’
‘I swear.’
‘You’ve never done that before?’
‘Never.’
‘Oh.’
‘Barard?’ Tom stretched out his hand, and Barard took it, interlacing their fingers. ‘Will you be my last? Will you be mine and love me always? Until death part us?’
‘Oh, Tom! I’ll love you always. Don’t let death part us.’ Barard knelt between Tom’s knees and Tom leaned down to seal the bargain.
As they parted, Barard smiled his Tookish smile. ‘Tell me I’m a pillock.’
Tom gently wiped away the tear trail with his thumb. ‘You’re a pillock, and I love you.’
‘Mmm, you say the nicest things.’ Barard worked Tom’s breeches and drawers off together and stood to unbutton his own shirt, his gaze on Tom’s stiff cock. ‘I can’t promise I’ll be as good as you,’ he whispered.
‘Just looking at me like that is fucking amazing,’ said Tom with heartfelt truth, and he held out his arms. He was wound tight with the wonder of it all, and took refuge in their familiar banter. ‘Have I ever told you, you look like a stoat?’ He lay back and Barard came and knelt over him, his balls brushing against Tom’s thigh as he leaned forward to run his hands up Tom’s chest. He grasped Tom’s nipples between forefingers and thumbs, and nipped them hard.
Tom gasped and pushed up under Barard’s hands, begging for more.
‘Ah,’ said Barard. ‘That was supposed to be a punishment.’
‘Oh, it was, it was, do it again!’
‘Tell me why I’m likened to a stoat, and I might.’
‘Stoats are a lovely reddish-brown above, and white below.’
Barard looked down at his pale skin. ‘Hmm.’
‘And... and they’re lithe and graceful.’
‘Better.’
‘And they’ve got pointy faces -’
‘I think you should have stopped on lithe and graceful.’
‘And they’re beautiful.’
‘They bite.’
‘Aaaah! Yes!’ Tom stretched his neck. More of that would be good, too. Who’d have thought there were so many places that sent the blood rushing to his cock and made his back arc in his need for release?
‘They’re insatiable killers.’
‘You’re... oh!... killing me!’
‘Hmm. Point taken, and I may turn out to be insatiable.’ Barard leant forward and gazed into Tom’s eyes. ‘Do you mind if I don’t try that mouth thing this time? I’ve wanted this so long, wanted to watch you come. I didn’t dare tell you before.’
For answer, Tom took Barard’s hand, pushing it down between them, and with a whimper of relief gave himself up into Barard’s keeping, now and forever.
Tom wrapped his arms tight around the pillow and gave himself up to his grief, sobbing until he was retching on the tightness in his throat. Rocking his body, he twisted his hands into the pillow while the darkness in his mind gave welcome relief from the images of Barard tortured and broken. He had no idea how long he had lain there, when arms lifted him and turned him, and he clung to he knew not which friend.
‘Hush, little master. Enough, enough. You cannot keep this up. Shhh. Shhh. Enough. This will not help Barard.’
‘Hanril,’ he whispered, ‘I’m sorry.’
‘Don’t be. You needed that, I think. But now you need to get up and eat something for Barard’s sake, and see the Southron for Barard’s sake. Here, drink this.’
Tom obediently took the proffered glass, although his hand shook. ‘Ugh, that’s vile. What is it?’
‘A concoction of my grandmother’s. A calmative and restorative. There’s water to wash your face, and food is ready for you. Don’t even think you’re going anywhere without eating something. And I’m going to come with you, to make sure there are no mistakes from misinterpretation.’
‘Prince Faramir once told my father that he was a pert servant,’ said Tom.
‘Meaning I am? I didn’t know your father was a servant. I thought he was rich, an important burgher in your home Shire.’
Tom pulled himself to his feet without explaining; explaining was too much effort. He looked in the mirror, and his reflection stared back through dark brown eyes that were red-rimmed. It was not a good sight. The darkness of his unruly hair contrasted against the paleness of his face; all his normal colour seemed to have drained away. ‘Barard says I look like a gypsy,’ he said.
‘The way your skin takes the sun makes you look a little like a Southron,’ said Hanril. ‘Or you do normally, when you aren’t so pale. That may help you now. Make you less conspicuous. You could pass as a child, until someone looks into your face - or at your feet.’
‘The servants before you treated us as though we were children.’
‘They must have been blind; although, to be fair, your voices are childlike to our ears.’
‘When I come back from the Shire, it takes me a while to get used to the voices of men around me, they are so deep.’
‘I like the sound of your voices, and I wonder sometimes what hobbit children must sound like. Like birds in the branches of the trees, maybe.’
‘You should have been a hobbit, Hanril.’
‘I am honoured. Why?’
‘The art of inconsequential chat in the face of great upheavals. “Sitting on the edge of ruin and discussing the pleasures of the table.”’
‘Speaking of which, little master, food is ready.’
‘I don’t think I can eat anything.’
‘Little master, you will eat something.’
Tom washed his face. He felt drained. It had been an indulgence to give way when so much needed to be done, As he reached for the towel, he suddenly realised he had started to plan ahead. Legolas would be a good choice to take charge of their wills - two for each of them, in Gondorian and Shire forms - since the Elf could travel to the Shire and give them to Frodo and Faramir. He came to a halt as he pondered whether to send letters now, or to just leave them with the wills. The latter was tempting, but the Mayor and Thain deserved to know how matters stood, and so be forewarned before news of the worst sort reached them. He would ask Elessar to appoint a trustee with control of their money in the meantime, and make sure Hanril continued to receive his salary. He was glad they’d had the foresight to leave their servant a handsome legacy; it would not diminish the large fortune they had left for their families, and it was one thing less to worry about now.
He ate under Hanril’s gaze, his mind on other matters. ‘Will you look after Pippin?’
‘Yes, of course. That didn’t need asking.’
Tom nodded and moved onto the next problem. ‘I need to make arrangements for Legend and the chestnut mare.’
‘Melyanna.’
‘What?’ But he had understood; he just needed a moment to try to put it to one side.
‘Melyanna. Her name is Melyanna, and Legolas is planning to take them both under his care.’
‘Good.’ Love-gift! Oh, Barard! He pushed his plate aside and rubbed his palm over his face. Think of something else! ‘Do you know anything about this man we are to see, Hanril?’
‘No, little master.’
‘It is time we went, maybe.’
They walked in silence up to the seventh level, Hanril slowing his step so that he didn’t outpace Tom. One of Mabdil’s men was standing outside the room, and as Hanril opened the door, Tom waved his servant to go in ahead of him. He himself paused and tilted his head up to meet the guard’s eye.
‘I’m sorry I kicked you earlier,’ he said.
The man rubbed his jaw. ‘I’m sorry we had to do it, but orders is orders.’ Tom nodded and followed Hanril in time to hear a voice speaking the common tongue, but heavily accented.
‘I was told you was small, so small. I see they joke with me.’
For a moment Tom could not see the speaker, but then Hanril stepped aside and bowed to Tom. Tom just had time to register eyes widening, whites showing brightly against skin darker than Hanril’s, and then the Southron put back his head and laughed. Tom waited patiently; it was a reaction not altogether unfamiliar. The man was much shorter than Hanril or Mabdil, more the height of the men of Bree, but still very tall to a hobbit. His hair was black, longer than worn in any of the northern lands except Dunland, and plaited into two braids. Gold thread was wound into the plaits, and gold rings adorned his ears - piercing through his flesh in the way of women - but there was no paint on him. The last rather disappointed Tom after Mabdil’s description of painted heathen. The man was dressed Gondorian style, and Tom guessed the hooded cloak the man wore had been drawn close as he moved around the city. Presumably he had no wish to be seen by his countrymen.
The Southron had his laugh out, and Tom waited for him to finish before bowing, hand on breast. ‘Tolman Gardner at your service,‘ he said.
‘Oh, the joke is on me? Yes?’ said the Southron, looking at Mabdil. ‘What is this? An imp?’
Tom straightened, and despite his anger, almost laughed at Hanril and Mabdil’s reaction. They were as close as men could get to stiff-legged dogs with their hackles raised. He was surprised they weren’t growling.
‘I am a hobbit, a Halfling,’ he said into the silence that was almost palpable. ‘King Elessar has suggested you might be able to help me travel to Hafar and find my way around once there. If you are not prepared to do this, say so now, and I can stop wasting my time here.’
‘Such haste! Do I say I not helping you? No! I think not. My name is Mehos. From the goodness of my heart, I help you.’
‘And a large purse from the King!’ growled Mabdil. ‘And do not forget that far more will be paid to you if you help him home again.’
Tom looked at Mabdil. It did not seem prudent to say but I will not return, if the returning is alone. If Mehos was motivated by money, then telling him part of his fee was almost certainly unattainable might be a dangerous thing to do. ‘Leave us, my friend. You too, Hanril,’ he said. ‘I will speak with Mehos alone.’
Mabdil and Hanril started to protest, but Tom held up his hand. ‘Leave us!’
Grumbling, the men left, and Tom turned his attention back to Mehos who was eyeing him thoughtfully. ‘Please, be seated,’ said Tom, indicating the pair of large, comfortable armchairs. He himself sat on the arm of the second chair, with his feet on the seat, so that he was on eye level with the Southron.
Mehos met his gaze, a hint of amusement back in the quirk of his mouth. He scratched the back of his head, picking at something that annoyed him, rather than the thoughtful head scratching that Barard went in for. Tom hoped the man didn’t carry lice, if they were to travel together.
‘So. Men obey you. This you wish for me to see?’
‘Yes, partly,’ said Tom. ‘But I also think you will not now be tempted to speak to my friends rather than to me, as adults do over a child’s head.’
‘You are no child.’
‘I am older than you, I judge, but you still find it hard to take me seriously.’
The man shrugged. ‘Is there need? I take you. Act your master. Dangerous for me, if you are known to be...’ He searched for a word.
‘... look for friend, look for spy,’ said Tom in the man’s own language.
Mehos roared with laughter. ‘Well, well,’ he said, speaking slowly in his native tongue. ‘That is something. It would not do for me to be speaking to you in the words of the northern lands, once we are home.’
Tom followed enough to understand the man’s meaning, and could make a good guess at the unknown words. ‘When you leave?’ he asked, but the answer was quicker, and the words flowed into each other so that he lost the sense. ‘I’m sorry. I can only understand you if you speak more slowly.’
The man nodded and followed Tom back into Westron. ‘Tomorrow. Yes?’
‘Good. What should I wear?’
‘No matter, yet. In Umbar you can buy at market, then travel on. Meet me at the - what you say? - Harlond at the sun’s rising. If you are not there, I go without.’
Tom nodded. The sooner the better. ‘Thank you, Mehos. I will be there.’
The man had hardly stepped out of the room before Hanril was back, carefully closing the door behind him. ‘I do not trust him, little master.’
Tom ran his hands through his hair. ‘Neither do I, but I don’t have a better plan. Will you pack for me? Not much, just bare essentials, and a money pouch I can wear close. My knives, of course, but not my sword; I can’t hide that. I’ll be with Pippin when you’ve finished.’
Pippin was pleased to see him, hugging him close. They both had tears in their eyes as they parted, but spoke only of practical matters. They dined together, and talked quietly of the Shire.
‘Robin was a good hobbit,’ said Pippin.
Tom nodded and wondered what they would say of himself. ‘Have you a writing case here?’ he asked. ‘I forgot to ask Hanril to bring me mine, and I need to write to Frodo and Faramir.’
He wrote late into the evening, wishing he were a quicker scribe and that words behaved better for him. He stopped only to trim the candles on the desk where he worked, until Pippin laid a hand on his shoulder.
‘Hanril is going to help me to take a bath, my lad,’ he said. ‘You’re worn out. Go to bed, but be sure to wake me in the morning.’
Tom shook his head. ‘I need to finish these. They’re hard letters to write.’
‘It’s a hard way to say goodbye.’
Tom bowed his head. ‘Yes. Yes, it is. I wish there was time to write to them all, Elanor and Rosie, and all of them. I’m glad I saw them a few weeks ago.’ He rubbed his face. The last thing he needed was for his tears to make the ink run so that he had to start again. They both looked up at a soft knock on the door, expecting Hanril saying Pippin’s bath was ready, but it was Elessar who entered, followed by Legolas. Tom jumped to his feet, ready to bow, but the king waved his hand.
‘Be at ease, Tom, Pippin,’ he said. ‘Let us be friends together. Legolas has been keeping me company as I fret at the constraints of state.’
‘It is hard to delight in entertaining such as the Haradrim,’ said Legolas. ‘They are cruel men, I deem.’
‘And yet there are men of honour in the kingdoms of Harad,’ said Elessar, pulling off his sword of state and laying it aside. He sat with a sigh. ‘Or there were. When I was there, long years ago, the remnants of the House of the Sun, and those loyal to them, were persecuted and driven south.’ He looked up at Legolas. ‘Are you going to cradle that wine until the stars fall from the sky?’
Legolas unfolded his arms from his cloak, and produced a dark bottle of wine from Lebennin. The cork had already been pulled, and then forced partly back in again. ‘Have you glasses, Pippin? Our good friend has touched only water all evening, and is a little testy as a result. I’m not sure if it was a wish to avoid drinking with our visitors, or because he knew what inferior wine was being served.’
‘There is no inferior wine at my table.’
‘Well, it was not your best. This is your best. Thank you, Tom.’ Legolas poured wine into the glasses Tom set out. He handed them round and raised his own. ‘May the Valar guide you and guard you, Tom, and may you find Barard, and return to gladden our hearts.’
‘And may you be blessed with your fair share of Gamgee luck,’ added Pippin, his voice quavering more than usual.
‘Sit down, Father,’ said Tom, taking his elbow.
Pippin shook his head and patted Tom’s hand. ‘Here’s Hanril. I’ll see you later. My Lord, Legolas.’
Tom kissed the old hobbit and watched him leave. If the impossible happened, and he returned with Barard, what chance was there that Pippin would still be alive to rejoice in it? He forced his mind away from thoughts of Barard, and turned to the king. ‘What is the House of the Sun?’ he asked.
Elessar settled back into his chair and sipped his wine. ‘Harad used to be a confederation of small kingdoms, but the head of the House of the Sun was the high king. How successful it was always depended on the strength of the high king to hold them together, but the lesser kings always acted as his council. I sometimes wonder if all the wars against Gondor were not more about keeping peace at home, diverting the lesser kings away from internal squabbling.’
‘And now?’ asked Tom, accepting more wine from Legolas.
‘Now? Sauron threw his weight behind another house that arose to challenge the order of things. The kingdoms have gone, along with their kings, and the high king takes counsel from no man. By the time Sauron was unmade, the grip on the country was so tight that no change was possible. The king then was Cyros, but it is his son now, Daros. He is a weaker man, and unpopular, by all accounts, but he has been full of conciliatory overtures to Gondor. He wants to trade, but cannot do so easily without the friendship of Gondor and our port of Umbar.’
Tom nodded. The last he knew well; it had formed the basis for their decision to travel to Harad. He drained his second glass, the deep red wine warm and spicy on his tongue. It carried the promise of oblivion, of griefs drowned deep. He pushed his glass towards Legolas.
‘Nay, my friend,’ said Legolas. ‘We brought but the one bottle. That is not the way to face the night, more so since you have an early start tomorrow.’
‘Will you not change your mind, Tom?’ asked Elessar, but not as though he expected anything other than the vehement shake of the head Tom gave him. ‘No, I thought not, but I promised Arwen I would ask one more time. She sends her love to you, and asks you to take heart from words of her father: “This quest may be attempted by the weak with as much hope as the strong. Yet such is oft the course of deeds that move the wheels of the world: small hands do them because they must.’”
‘I don’t want to move the wheels of the world.’
‘Maybe not, but you have as much chance as anyone of finding some way to rescue Barard.’
Tom kept his own counsel. As much chance, yes, and that was so small that the end seemed clear to him. Be that as it may, he was determined to continue putting one foot in front of the other until that small chance became no chance.
‘I see you take little comfort from Arwen’s words,’ said Elessar into the silence. ‘And it seems we interrupted you. We will keep you company while you finish your letters, and make sure they are delivered.’
Pippin returned just as Tom finished sealing the last letter. He was in time to see Tom hand over the wills to Legolas, and the letters to the king. Elessar knelt to hug Tom, and there were tears in his eyes as he said goodbye. Legolas bent down and kissed him on the brow. ‘Namárië,’ he said softly, a hand on Tom’s shoulder, and then there was just Pippin left. The old hobbit laid aside his walking sticks to hold out his arms unencumbered, and Tom stepped into the hug with a sob. This all seemed so final, so very final.
‘You are like a son to me,’ murmured Pippin, and suddenly Tom could hold back no more. He wept on Pippin’s shoulder, trying desperately not to lean his weight against the frail form, trying to comfort as well as to be comforted. By the time the fit passed, Tom was exhausted and glad to be chivvied to bed by Pippin. Sleep did not come easily, though. He was tormented by dreams of Barard, dreams in which Barard was tortured and abused, and cried out Tom’s name. Normally, Barard would speak his name in bantering lightness or husky desire; cried out - yes, that frequently, pleading and begging,to pitch Tom into a frenzy of need - but never like this, never in anguish and despair. His Barard, of the quicksilver movement and laughing eyes, caged, confined, broken...
He did not even realise he was standing until Pippin’s touch brought him to himself.
‘Tom?’ The voice sounded hesitant, and Tom blinked in the candlelight that dazzled him. His throat felt tight and sore, and his jaw ached. Dimly, he remembered he had been screaming his anger and grief. Slowly, he released his clenched hands, feeling the smart in his palms where his nails had dug in, and looked into Pippin’s worried face. It took Pippin a long time to get moving from his bed, his joints at their worst after a period of rest. Gradually Tom’s gaze was drawn to the wreckage of the room around him: hangings pulled down, pottery smashed. Somewhere a door slammed, and Hanril’s voice could be heard calling.
‘In here!’ answered Pippin.
‘You rang for me... oh.’ Hanril’s eyes widened, but he didn’t ask what had happened. ‘Don’t move! I’ll get a broom.’ He disappeared at a run, and Tom looked down at Pippin’s feet. The Took must have crossed the broken shards to reach him, but the only blood appeared to be his own.
‘Tom?’ said Pippin again, and Tom looked up to meet eyes that were old and full of sadness. ‘Oh, Tom. No, don’t move, you’ll cut yourself again. Hanril’s here; just let him sweep up, and then we can have a look at that foot.’
Tom blinked again; he hadn’t heard Hanril come back. He realised he must have missed something else, because Pippin was talking.
‘ - thought he was having a nightmare until I opened the door and a vase smashed into the frame by my head.’
Hanril swept the debris into a corner out of the way, and wrapped a blanket around Tom. ‘I’ll get some warm water; the fires should be lit in the kitchens by now. I’ll ask for some breakfast to be prepared for you both. There’s no point his going back to bed now, assuming he’s fit to travel.’
‘Tom, come and sit down. Hanril, can you get him to move?’
Tom allowed himself to be steered to a chair. Pippin sat next to him and took his hand. ‘Tom, look at me. Good lad. Now, for Eru’s sake, say something.’
Tom struggled out of his dazed state. It was tempting not to bother - pain of loss was waiting for him outside this little cocoon of nothingness - but he knew it was somehow important. He could feel Pippin’s hands, cold around his.
‘Your hands are cold,’ he said, and the tightness of Pippin’s grip relaxed a little.
‘So are yours. You’re shivering.’
Tom looked around the wreck of the room. ‘I... I’m sorry.’
‘Oh, I don’t think there was anything here of sentimental value to anyone.’
‘I meant, sorry to... to disturb you. Sorry I dragged you from your bed.’
‘I wasn’t asleep. You’ve made me feel quite sprightly; I didn’t know I could put on such a turn of speed, and I’ve learnt some colourful new swear words. Do you want to tell me about it?’
‘I don’t remember anything. I had a nightmare, and then... then you were here. Did I do all this?’
‘No one else. You were shouting and swearing. Angry doesn’t begin to describe it.’
Hanril came back then with warm water to wash the blood from Tom’s foot. ‘A small cut,’ he said, looking up at Tom as he knelt at his feet. ‘It will heal quickly, but is it wise to travel so soon?’
It was Pippin who answered. ‘And do you think that he will be better served by having nothing to do except think of Barard? For my part, I would like to keep him by my side, but that is no more than selfishness. The Southron will not delay his return, and Tom should go with him.’
‘But yesterday was exhausting for my master; it is no wonder he -’
Tom cleared his throat. ‘When you two have finished talking about me as though I’m not here, you might like to know there is no question hanging over this journey. I am going, so I hope you have everything ready, Hanril.’
‘But little master -’
‘Hanril!’
‘Yes, sir, everything is ready.’
The “sir” meant Hanril was not happy, and Tom slipped from his seat to hug him as he still knelt. ‘Thank you, Hanril. For all your kindnesses, past and present. You have been a devoted servant.’
‘That is not hard, when the masters are of the best.’ Hanril stood up. ‘If you are determined to go now, come and eat while I saddle Legend.’
Tom and Pippin said little as they broke fast together. Their parting embrace was long and tearful. Pippin kissed him, and Tom wiped the tears away from the face that reminded him so sharply of his Barard. The parting from Hanril was no less emotional, and Tom was glad when it was over and he could ride from the city in the faint light of dawn. The guards called a greeting to him as he wound his way down through each level, but they did not try to stop him, and he just waved a hand as he passed.
It was short ride to the Harlond, no more than a league, and he left Legend at the inn by the city wall. The pony was not impressed at finding he was being left. ‘You behave,’ said Tom, patting his neck. ‘If I don’t come home, Legolas will take you to the Shire.’ He shrugged on his pack, slung the leather strap of his water-skin over his shoulder, and made his way through the gate and down onto the quayside. Here the wall cut off all view of the city behind, and across the river were the heights of the Emyn Arnen. The hills, towering above the river, looked like a lonely outpost of the white mountains, and the overall effect was to make him feel very small as he looked around. There was a bustle of activity around two boats, but one was a barge, and he walked on past to the second. By the lines of her, she was a fast craft, and that pleased him. Some soldiers were boarding, no doubt destined for the garrison at Umbar, and that pleased him as well. He didn’t recognise any of them, but they would still be familiar company on the journey. He couldn’t see Mehos at first, until a shadow separated from the warehouses along the base of the wall, and became a hooded and cloaked figure.
‘Good. Let us board. Carry my bag.’
‘I’m not your servant yet, Mehos.’
The man shrugged and picked up his belongings. Together they boarded, and Mehos went straight to their shared berth and stayed there, out of sight until they were well on their way. Tom, however, stayed on deck, taking care not to be a nuisance as he watched the final preparations to sail. The wind was from the north, and the sails were being raised with no need for oars. The soldiers were laughing, and Tom guessed that they would have been expected to help row the boat down the great river, had it proved necessary. He didn’t understand much about sailing, but enough to know that it was not the sunrise that was important in the timing of their leaving, but the turning of the tide. The sails filled, and moorings were cast free. Slowly at first, they started to move, and the strong breeze whipped Tom’s hair about his face. A sail flapped and was quietened by a sailor tightening a rope, and then a rhythmical lap lap started beneath the bow. Tom watched the wake widening behind them, and from there he raised his eyes to watch Minas Tirith gradually appear beyond the wall. The light increased around him, and the high tiers of the city and the fair Tower of Ecthelion were touched with a pink glow. Faintly, carried on the breeze, came the sounds of silver trumpets, and Tom knew the flags would be unfurling along the wall of the seventh level.
Tears came to his eyes at the thought that this was very likely the last time he would look upon the city he loved. He turned resolutely and walked to the prow. Fertile flood plains spread out to either side, and gulls called above. He tilted his head up to watch them flying free, and felt the sun warm his face.
‘I am going to find you, my love,’ he thought. ‘Even if it’s the last thing I do.’