Tom stood shakily, scattering cushions. ‘I... I sorry,’ he said to the girl he had spilt wine over. ‘I feel not well.’ He tripped over the chair leg and stumbled from the room.
‘Tolmos! Wait!’ Tom pretended not to hear and kept going, but there was a patter of feet, and Catos appeared by his side. Tom kept his head down and made no comment; he just wanted to be left alone. He lent against the door frame of their room, breathing hard. His hobbit instincts wanted a hole, somewhere private he could crawl into and curl up in a tight ball. His bed stood, man-sized, in the middle of the large room, and he shunned it. The far corner was in the deepest shadow, and he staggered over to it, to lean his back into the angle where the walls met. Slowly, he slid down until his forehead met his knees. He wrapped his arms around his legs and rocked his body to the rhythm of his grief.
He was only dimly aware of Catos touching his shoulder, and of the young voice - so hobbit-like to Tom’s ear - calling for Faros. There was nothing Tom could do except drop like a stone into the dark confusion of loss. He had no idea how long the fit held him in pain as real as a brand seared into his flesh. A bitter taste on his tongue was his first awareness outside of his prison, his next that he was held tightly cradled in someone’s arms with his head resting against their shoulder. Whoever held him was quietly weeping.
He opened his eyes. ‘Faros?’ The man had not moved Tom from his chosen corner, but had simply lifted him into his lap, and taken his place with his back to the wall; the arms that encircled Tom’s chest were shaking. Tom pushed away until he could see the man’s face. Faros looked as bad as Tom felt: his features were slack, and his eyes were bright with the tears that overspilled to run down his cheeks. Tom reached up to wipe the wet trail away from the brown skin, and Faros gave him a shaky smile.
‘Look at me,‘ he said. ‘I came to offer you comfort...’
‘Grief together, not on own, can be comfort,’ said Tom, disentangling himself and standing up. He gave Faros his hand to at least start the process of pulling him to his feet. ‘You want tell me? About your lost one?’
‘There isn’t much to tell,’ said Faros. He got his feet under himself with Tom’s help, and then straightened to stand tall. ‘He died.’ He looked over Tom’s head, out towards the doorway and the garden beyond. ‘He died, and I loved him.’
‘He was your lover.’
‘Yes,’ agreed Faros. ‘He was my lover.’ He looked down at Tom, and Tom could see by the set of his face that he was barely controlling his grief.
‘How long? How long he died?’
Faros didn’t hesitate a moment. ‘Seven months, two weeks and three days. They all tell me I should be getting over it, and sometimes I think I am, but... but I’m not really. Not really.’
‘Faros, I so sorry. I feel... not know word. Like I bad to make grief when my love may still live.’
Faros tipped Tom’s chin up. ‘Ashamed? Don’t be! I don’t know which is worse. At least I know what happened to Patros. Even if... even if I wasn’t with him when he died. I thought that was bad enough, but I can’t imagine how I would feel if I didn’t know if he were alive or dead, or if he suffered and was in fear, and I had no way of comforting him. I’ve been amazed at how you have taken everything in your stride, but it seemed to me as though something had to give sooner or later. You have been very withdrawn, like a dog that creeps into a corner to lick its wounds. A little howling was well overdue, if you ask me.’ He smiled rather ruefully. ‘For me, as well as for you.’
There was a sniff from the middle of the room, and they both turned their heads. Catos sat hunched up on his bed, looking miserable and a little frightened. ‘Oh, Catos,’ said Tom. ‘I sorry.’
‘I know,’ said Catos, rubbing his nose. He looked more childlike than at any time since Tom had met him. ‘I thought I would die when my mother died. I do know. It’s just I thought Faros would help you, and... and he just picked you up and started crying himself. He folded up like you’d done.’ He looked from Tom to Faros. ‘I didn’t know what to do.’
Faros sat down on the bed next to the boy, and put his arm around him. ‘It’s hard, Catos. All you can really do is wait for the other person to be ready to talk.’
Tom came to stand in front of them. He took Catos’s hand. ‘Hugging good,’ he said, then corrected himself. ‘Hugging is good.’ He smiled at Faros. ‘Thank you.’
‘So,’ said Faros. ‘Are you ready? To talk? What was it that we said?’
‘This...’ he hunted the word down in his memory. ‘This professee of bar-Ard. I not understand. It is known by all? I mean, the men who come from your high king to Minas Tirith? They know it?’
’Probably not,’ said Faros. ‘It’s well known in the south where Catos comes from. Where I come from.’ He smiled down at Catos as the boy looked up with sudden interest. ‘I know it well.’
‘You do?’
‘Yes. I am of the House of the Sun, if it can still be called a House, but it does not do to say that openly.’ He turned back to Tom. ‘Why do you ask?’
‘They ask us both, but I not there. I go to brother who is dying. Come back when he is dead. Barard gone. Barard already prisner.’
‘Bar-Ard!’ Both Catos and Faros jolted upright.
‘No. Not bar-Ard. Barard. His name. So why they want him come? So they can put him in prisn?’ Tom was shaking. Had they intended to trump-up spy charges from the beginning? But then why not just refuse to allow them into the country if they thought Barard - dear Lady, Barard! - was in some way linked to this stupid prophecy?
‘It’s very likely they don’t know,’ said Faros thoughtfully. ‘The House of the Eye is a house of oppression; they don’t listen. Now, less than ever.’ He stopped at Tom’s frown of incomprehension. ‘Oppression is...’ he thought about it, ‘making people do things out of fear, not having any regard for the law, taking what they want - by force, if necessary. They are becoming further and further removed from their people. In the old days, the King was not above the law, but now Daros believes he is. He is very unpopular, but his closest advisers tell him what he wants to hear. That is what the rumours in the market say.’ His eyes shone. ‘Maybe the time is right; maybe the prophecy will come true!’
‘No!’ It must be a coincidence, and Tom didn’t have the words to say how angry he was at the idea that Barard might be some playing piece in the politics of Harad. In any case, the prophecy seemed to say nothing about the Son of Justice living to see the restoration of the House, so there was no comfort to be had from it.
Faros held up his hands in a placating gesture, and Tom relaxed. There was no point in getting angry with these two who had shown him so much kindness. It was not their fault if this prophecy existed. ‘What other is professee say?’ he asked.
Faros’s mouth quirked up into a smile. ‘What else does the prophecy say.’
Tom shrugged. ‘What else does the professee say?’ he asked carefully.
‘First comes the Son of Justice. The Sun will rise after a long night, and an eagle will fly on the north wind to put out thine enemy’s Eye.’
Catos nodded, and then giggled. ‘Maybe our little bird is an eagle. He comes from the north.’
Tom rolled his eyes. He understood the slave girl’s comment now about being able to twist the seers’ words to fit any circumstance. His head was beginning to ache with the effort of finding the words he wanted, and of trying to get the sense of what he was being told. He still didn’t understand every word, but he understood enough. He looked at Faros. ‘And you? You ready to talk of your love?’
‘Are you ready,’ Faros corrected him.
Tom thought the man was stalling, but he was also grateful for the help. ‘Are you ready to talk of your love? How long you lovers?’
‘How long were you lovers.’
Tom sighed. It was the verbs that gave him the most trouble, but he was obviously going to have to learn fast; otherwise, conversation would crawl at a snail’s pace. He dutifully repeated the question.
‘Twelve years,’ said Faros. He bowed his head, and Catos scooted in close, reminding Tom of a puppy.
‘Here?’ Tom looked around the room. ‘You love here?’
Faros shook his head. ‘He was in a different household; we always had to meet out. There was nowhere here, and it would have been dangerous - if the master had found out.’
Tom vented his feelings in Westron, pacing back and forth and gesticulating as he did so. ‘Morgoth’s balls! You never got to share a bed, go to sleep together, wake up together. Fucking pit of fucking Angband!’
Catos giggled nervously. ‘He sounds funny.’
‘He sounds angry. Why are you angry, Tolm?’
Tom fetched up in front of them again, feeling as though he needed to lie down. ‘Because you not...’ He glanced at Catos. ‘You not... You lovers, but you...’ He gave up and threw his hands in the air, and stalked to his bed to lie down before his head exploded. He flopped back. He knew the word “piss”, so maybe the answer was to make up his own swear words. ‘I like piss in Eye,’ he muttered. ‘Be a slave is bad.’
‘Being a slave is bad,’ corrected Faros, his lips quirking in amusement again. ‘And I advise you not to use such, hmm, colourful language openly; you will get into trouble. It’s only fair to say that the House of the Sun did its share of slave dealing in the past, but our last high king was in favour of abolition.’
‘That mean stopping it?’ asked Tom, understanding that Faros meant the last high king from the House of the Sun, and the man nodded.
‘And he wanted to make peace with Gondor, but the House of the Eye put a stop to that, for all the founder was a lesser lord of the Sun. He had help from Sauron the Deceiver, and at his bidding took war into the north.’
‘In Great War?’
‘No, long before that - a hundred years or more before - but just as disastrous.’
‘Disastrous?’
‘Many Haradrim were killed.’
‘Oh.’
‘You said your father saw a Haradrim soldier killed.’
‘Yes, leader, gold collar, but not killed by him.’
Faros suddenly looked as though he were trying not to laugh; Catos was not even trying. ‘No, I didn’t imagine he was,’ said Faros, smoothing his hand down over his mouth.
Tom sat up. ‘My father a hero. He kill orcs. You know word?’
‘Yes, I know the word,’ said Faros, all trace of laughter wiped from his face. ‘Sauron sent orcs to help the Usurper root out my House. They came at night, always at night, to set fire to crops and houses. I have heard the tales.’
‘How old you were? When you first a slave?’
‘I was born a slave, Tolm, born of a long line of slaves. Now, I think you should rest.’
‘You mean, no more want to talk.’
Faros disentangled himself from Catos and stood over Tom. ‘You see very clearly, little bird.’
Tom thought, Yes, it’s what I’m good at. Barard’s good at understanding facts and figures, and I’m good at people. ‘Little bird, bright eye.’
Faros nodded. ‘You speak truly, but rest now. Later I will take you to the baths, and soak the dressing from your shoulder. Come with me, Catos. You have work to do.’
Left to himself, Tom curled up on his side. Sweet Lady, never to wake with his love in his arms! What memories did Faros have? Fumbles in dark alleys? Even before he and Barard had gone into partnership together, when they were still living at home, they had often slept through the night in each other’s arms, and thought themselves hard done by to be crowded into a single bed. Not only that: years later they had realised how their love had been furthered by their families. He let his thoughts follow his earlier memory. Barard had ending up staying at Bag End for several weeks, and Da had shown him how to massage Tom to help his healing. He had hunted through his study, muttering to himself, before he found a richly tooled leather-bound book.
‘You may find this useful,’ he said, running his fingers over the intricate pattern that twined over the cover. He stood for a moment, seeming as though his thoughts were far away.
‘Thank you, sir,’ said Barard. Da smiled at him and flipped through the pages.
‘I’m afraid you won’t be able to read it since it’s in Elvish, but the pictures are very clear. Here’s the chapter on back massage, and look, this is good on hand massage. That will help Tom’s injured hand, now the bandages are off. There’s a lot here that won’t be of interest, and I’ll thank you to make sure you don’t leave it around where Elfstan or Holfast can find it. If muscles are tight, then it helps to warm the oil. Don’t get oil on the book, and if you’ve got any questions, you’ll have to wait until Ma and I get back from South Farm, or work the answers out yourselves.’
Barard took the book to the corner chair in Tom’s room and curled up with his feet tucked under him to read it. Tom sighed. Great. Thanks, Da. His parents were going to be out of the smial, and Barard was going to read a book. He padded off to the kitchen to get a drink and a snack, and found Frodo’s wife, Rosie-May, glazing a batch of buns that were still warm from the oven. Holfast was standing on a chair licking the sweet glaze from a spoon, but he clambered down when he saw Tom and rushed over to give him a hug. He was still clutching the spoon, and Tom fended his sticky nephew off, while Rosie-May moved with practised speed to grab a damp cloth, remove the spoon and wipe her son’s fingers.
‘Careful, Holly,’ she warned. ‘Uncle Tom isn’t better yet; stop trying to clamber up him like that, you’ll hurt him.’ She hooked one arm around the child and carried him back to the chair. ‘You can put some buns on a plate for Uncle Tom and Barard. Let’s count them, shall we?’
‘Barard read me story,’ said Holfast hopefully.
‘No, dear. You’re going to play with cousin Berry while I go to market. Here you are, Tom. There’s cold ham and coleslaw in the larder, and I’m leaving you some potatoes baking in the oven. There’s plenty of hot water if you should want a bath. The fire will be fine for a while, but maybe you could check it after you’ve had some lunch?’
Tom nodded and took the proffered plate, breathing in the warm, spicy fragrance. ‘What’s Ruby doing?’ he asked with studied nonchalance.
‘She’s coming with me to market,’ said Rosie-May. ‘I’m sorry. You’ll be on your own. Frodo is away until this evening, and Bilbo and Robin have gone with Hamfast.’
Tom knew that; Robin had told him. The old Noakes farmhouse needed a lot of work doing before Hamfast could move in, and it all had to be finished before his wedding in the spring. Going back into his room, he made a lot of noise, but Barard was engrossed and didn’t even look up to smile at him.
‘There’s buns,’ said Tom, but Barard just made a small grunt of acknowledgement and kept poring over the book. Tom put another log on the fire and sat down with his back to his bed. He ate his share of the food, and studied Barard. Ruby said he wasn’t handsome, but then she liked Hildimir, and the two brothers were as chalk and cheese. Tom wasn’t sure if he would use the word handsome for Barard, either. “Beauty” came to mind, but that sounded rather girly. His face was thin, but Tom loved to trace the curve of his cheek bones, the arch of his eyebrows, the narrow nose; loved to define those lips with the slow sweep of his thumb, and to cup the sharp chin with the palm of his hand as he gazed into Barard’s eyes. He sighed again, loudly and pointedly. Barard slowly raised his head, and Tom’s breath caught. There was no doubting that Barard was aroused: his face was flushed, his lips full, and the colour of his eyes were a hardly discernible rim around dark depths. The now familiar ache for his love’s touch had Tom across the room and kneeling before the chair in a heartbeat. Barard was hard under his caressing hand, and as Tom fumbled buttons undone, Barard shifted to open his thighs and allow him easier access. That gesture of opening to him thrilled Tom; he slipped his hand around Barard’s cock, and expected the book to be forgotten. Instead, Barard held it out to him.
‘I want you... to do this,’ he said, and his words had a breathlessness to them, making them jerk like the hard heat enclosed within the nest of Tom’s palm. Tom looked from Barard’s face to the book, and his hand spasmed tight. What the...! Fuck was a favourite swear word; fucking was a lad entering a lass. Barard’s fingers curled painfully in his hair, and Tom could feel he was shaking. ‘I want you to fuck me like that, Tom.’
‘Shit!’ said Tom, staring at the graphic illustrations.
Barard laughed nervously. ‘Well, I guess that’s a consideration.’
‘No, I mean, I can’t do that to you.’ He stared at the coupling. There was no mistaking the fact that these were two males. One was buried to the hilt in a variety of poses, and the muscle that ringed his full cock was stretched thin. There was no way that wouldn’t hurt like buggery. Tom choked slightly at his choice of word. He had known buggery was something to do with the arse, but had been hazy as to the details. He looked up at Barard. ‘I can’t hurt you like that!’
Barard turned back the pages. ‘I think it needs a lot of oil, and look, it shows some stretching first. Your father said if muscles were tight to warm the oil.’
Tom stared at the pictures in silence. His Da had never meant his words to be taken in this context!
Barard cleared his throat. ‘Could we at least try? I’m serious, Tom.’
‘And so am I. I’m not hurting you.’
‘Don’t you see what this means? It means we’re not... I don’t know... the only ones. It happens enough that it’s worth putting it in a book, and I really, really want this, Tom.’ Barard ran his fingers into Tom’s hair. ‘Please. I know you’ll stop if I ask you to.’
Well, there was that. Tom swallowed, and his cock answered for him, hard at the thought of Barard tight around him. ‘I’ll get...’ He cleared his throat. ‘I’ll get some hot water to stand the oil in. We’ve got the smial to ourselves.’ Barard’s cock twitched in his hand, and he bent his head to take Barard deep. Barard’s fingers tightened in his hair as he thrust into Tom’s mouth with a whimper, and Tom moaned and pinned Barard’s hips to the chair. He drew back slowly, letting his teeth rasp a little, and swirled his tongue around the swollen crown.
‘I thought... you said you were going,’ said Barard, his voice shaking.
Tom lifted his head. ‘I think I may be coming first.’
Barard pushed him away. ‘Don’t you dare. I don’t want to think about this. I don’t want to have to wait for you to get it up again.’
‘Oh, love, why do it at all if it scares you?’
‘Kissing you scared me. I was so scared you’d not have me, not love me. We might just have got up and dusted each other down and snuck back to the smial, and the last few months might never have happened.’ He stood over Tom, letting his breeches fall to the ground before settling down to straddle Tom’s lap. ‘Fuck me,’ he murmured in Tom’s ear. ‘Just... fuck me.’ Suddenly the kitchen and hot water seemed a long way away. Tom’s hands moulded around the willing warmth of Barard’s bare skin, and their mouths sought each other with an urgency that was almost frenzied. At some point Tom must have moved one arm to support Barard’s shoulders while he turned and laid him on the floor, but all his thoughts were centred on the rhythm of the kiss, and he barely noticed he had done so. It was only as he settled over Barard that the pain from his rib made him catch his breath.
‘Get off me, idiot,’ said Barard, but his flushed face and bright eyes were hard to resist. ‘If you’re sure everyone’s out, I’ll go and get the hot water.’
‘Best if I do,’ said Tom, looking at Barard’s half-naked state.
By the time he returned, Barard was fully naked and cross-legged on the bed. Tom set the small bottle of oil into the basin and reached for his braces. His injured hand was a little clumsy, and Barard knelt up and took over. Tom watched Barard’s total absorption as he released each button; he smiled at the intensity of his love’s expression and trembled at the whisper-soft touch of palms soothing over his skin. His trousers and drawers fell around his ankles to be kicked away, and he kissed Barard with a deep hunger while their hands wandered freely. Tom’s hands were full of Barard’s very lovely arse that just begged to be squeezed and kneaded, and he gave a soft moan as Barard stroked up his thighs and cradled his balls.
‘No more,’ he whispered, teasing Barard's lip. ‘I need... I need to be able to think.’ Already it was becoming hard to do so, and he had no wish for Barard to push him to the point where he had no control over his actions, where instinct took over and there was no holding back.
‘Thinking is overrated,’ murmured Barard against Tom’s lips. His fingers curled around Tom’s cock, and his thumb teased across the opening.
‘I’ll not do this if I can’t think straight,’ said Tom seriously, and he laughed as Barard immediately sat back on his haunches, breaking all contact with him.
‘So how should we do it?’
‘You’re asking me?’
‘I don’t see anyone else to ask. Unless you want to wait for your father to come home, and ask him.’ They both snorted with laughter. ‘Kneeling seems the easiest. I can’t do that thing with my legs around your waist; I’d hurt your rib, and anyway it looked difficult.’
‘Impossible, you mean.’
‘No, I don’t think so. But I might hurt you -’
‘You’re worrying about hurting me?’ Tom rolled his eyes. ‘Just kneel on all fours. No, other way about, and then I can reach the oil on the table.’ Barard obeyed him, and Tom knelt at the head of the bed. He reached for the oil and poured some onto his palms. The book had shown some general massaging and stretching first. He smoothed over the rounded muscles, running his hands down Barard’s thighs and up again to his turgid root. Barard’s sac was tight and hard, the balls snug in his hand. He stroked Barard’s rigid cock, guessing that the more aroused Barard was, the easier this would be for him. Trembling, he spread more oil over Barard’s arse, and Barard pushed back as Tom teased at his opening. ‘That’s good,’ he murmured.
Tom leant over him to nuzzle at his neck. ‘Tell me if you want me to stop.’ He ran a finger up over the root of Barard’s cock, collecting oil as he did so, and very gently eased into him. Barard tensed, and his breathing became more ragged; Tom reached round with his free hand to stroke Barard’s cock, and murmured encouragement as Barard relaxed and rocked back against him. Another finger home, and this time, as Barard relaxed, Tom swept from side to side trying to open him further. The grip was tight, and Barard made a small whimpering noise. Tom immediately stilled, heart beating fast as he breathed in the sweet musky smell. I want you, he thought. Oh, how I want you.
‘More,’ gasped Barard.
‘You’re sure?’ Tom pushed in deeper, and Barard folded with a hoarse cry. Shit, that sounded painful. Tom started to withdraw, but Barard pushed back against him again.
‘If you stop I will personally geld you,’ he panted. ‘And use your sac as a tobacco pouch.’ He jerked as Tom pressed in, and Tom tucked his free arm round him to steady him. Barard moaned and pleaded beneath him, and reluctantly Tom added a third finger. Barard hissed, and went still. ‘Don’t... move.’
Very carefully, Tom reached for the oil, took out the stopper one handed and poured some over his fingers. He massaged it around the tight muscle, and gradually Barard moved against him with a sigh. ‘Fuck me, ‘sgood,’ he mumbled. Tom moved with him as Barard dropped onto one elbow and reached to stroke himself.
Tom was very aware of his own cock, of how hard and needy he had become. He was wound tight with excitement and apprehension. Three hands would have been good: he wanted to take over stroking Barard, stroke himself and still have this amazing tightness sliding around his fingers. He started to tremble, wanting very badly for his cock to be in Barard. Fuck! He couldn’t keep the muscle stretched and get himself well oiled. Four hands, four hands would be good. He eased out, and Barard whimpered and swore at him.
‘Shhh, shhh,’ whispered Tom hoarsely, ‘I’m going to fuck you.’ He stroked oil over himself, hardening further at the slickness and the need. “Slowly” was going to take all his willpower. In his mind, he grasped Barard’s hips and took him with one hard thrust, but he forced himself to patience and stretched with his fingers again. Barard was pleading now, and his need fed Tom’s own. There was nothing he wanted more than to give Barard what he begged for. He withdrew his fingers and teased the head of his weeping cock around the opening.
Barard clutched at the bedding. ‘F-fuck, Tom, please!’
Tom ran his free hand down Barard’s flank to grip his hip and steady him as he pressed in. They cried out together, and Tom’s control hung by a thread as the tightness slid over his crown and settled snuggly around his shaft. He tried to pause there, let them both adjust, but Barard rocked back to engulf him, hot and tight, and so good, so good. He reached for Barard’s cock, stroking down as he thrust in. Barard was sobbing, oh Eru, Barard was sobbing - was he hurting him? There was nothing he could do; he could only thrust and jerk, folding over Barard with a cry and pulsing deep within. He was answered by the spurt of Barard’s seed over his hand.
He came back to himself in the realisation that Barard was still impaled by his cock and was shaking; worse, Barard’s face was half buried against the bed, muffling sound, but the sound was of weeping. Tom eased free, ignoring the trickle of liquid except to thank Eru there was no blood, and collapsed down next to Barard. The wonder of their union was lost in a tide of remorse. Pulling Barard into his arms, he kissed the tear-stained face. ‘I’m sorry, I’m so sorry,’ he whispered. ‘Oh, Barard, I didn’t mean to hurt you.’
Barard pushed up to gaze into his eyes. ‘Don’t you ever, ever -’
‘I won’t, I swear I won’t.’
‘ - ever stop doing that.’ He ran a hand over Tom’s chest, and leant in to kiss him. ‘I’ve never imagined anything like it. It was so intense: like when you’re so full of... of love, that the only thing left to do is cry. Stop laughing at me, you pillock. It’s true. What about you? Was it good?’
‘Good? Good doesn’t begin to describe it.’ Tom reached up and cupped Barard’s face. ‘I felt part of you, I felt as though I was possessing you.’ His heart was still racing, and they were both covered in sweat and oil. He pulled Barard back down into his arms. ‘Oh, I love you, you crazy Took.’
Barard nestled into a comfortable position. ‘Admit it. I have some good ideas.’
‘You have some great ideas.’ They kissed lazily and dozed together, content to lie naked and sated in each other’s arms, but after a while the need to talk reasserted itself, followed by the need for a bath. Barard moved awkwardly, as though he were sore, but he denied this when Tom asked.
Tom groaned. He was hard thinking about it, and yes, he’d found out Barard had been lying about the soreness when he’d been the one being ridden hard for the first time. Happily, Barard loved being the one fucked, and Tom loved fucking him. He groaned again, and gave his cock a stroke. He hadn’t felt the need to come since he’d lost Barard, but he couldn’t indulge himself now. There was no way he could prevent a mess, and nothing to mop up with. He groaned again in frustration, and shifted his thoughts away from sharing a bath with Barard. Instead he remembered the conversation over supper at Bag End that evening. His brothers had been full of talk about the work they’d done on Hamfasts’s house, Da had given them the news from South Farm, and Rosie-May and Ruby had interrupted each other with gossip from the market. Through it all, Barard and Tom had sat next to each other in uncharacteristic silence, holding hands under the table whenever possible, and trying not to keep smiling at each other.
‘You two are very quiet,’ said Da.
‘Be thankful for small mercies,’ muttered Ham.
‘You both look a little flushed,’ said Ma. ‘You’re not sickening for something, are you?’
‘With the amount they’ve just eaten?’ scoffed Bilbo, with all the righteous indignation of one who had put in a hard day’s labour. ‘What on earth have you two been doing to work up such an appetite?’
‘They’re growing lads,’ said Frodo. ‘Leave them be.’
‘So how did you find that book?’ asked Da.
Barard cleared his throat. ‘Very useful, sir. Thank you.’
Da just nodded. ‘Good. Hang on to it for now, unless you’ve had enough of Tom’s company and are ready to go home.’
‘Oh, no, sir. I’d like to stay on, if I may.’
‘Stay as long as you like.’
‘They’re both looking like they’ve lost a farthing and found sixpence, if you ask me,’ said Ruby primly.
And Ma - Ma had looked at Da, and had nearly choked laughing. Years later Tom had asked his da, ‘Why didn’t you tell us you knew?’
‘Because you weren’t ready for us to know, son. In your own time, you’ve told me, though it’s taken longer than I thought.’
Why didn’t we just come out and say it? thought Tom. I suppose by the time we were old enough to take that step, we were away to Minas Tirith. He wondered what Faros had meant about getting into trouble. Was lad on lad frowned upon here? He’d learnt a lot, but his ignorance was vast. In his preoccupation he hadn’t even asked what he would be expected to do in the household, what task required small hands.
He sighed, trying to ignore the throbbing ache between his legs.
‘Have you slept well, Tolm?’
Tom rolled over. ‘I not sleep,’ he said. ‘I thinking.’ Inevitably, Faros corrected him, and Tom carefully repeated his words. He sat up, making sure his tunic hid his aroused state. ‘Tell to me of master.’
Faros looked at him warily. ‘You don’t need to say “to”. It would be better to say, “Tell me about the master.” What would you like to know?’
‘What I do. What I will do.’
‘The master is a jeweller. He makes -’ Faros appeared to be hunting for a word Tom might understand, but gave up. ‘- jewellery.’ Tom shook his head in incomprehension, and Faros held out his hand towards the door. ‘I’ll show you. We’ll go to the baths, and look into the workshop on the way.’
Faros lead Tom to the large entrance hallway, and from there into a side room. ‘This is where the master entertains customers, those coming to buy.’ He carried on towards a door at the far end, but Tom stood staring at the murals. So, man on man was not frowned upon, judging by the paintings that left nothing to the imagination. There were equally unsubtle pictures of men coupling with women. In the past, Barard had bought Tom some small love tokens of erotic art, but there was nothing erotic about this. Whatever the danger Faros had spoken of, it was evidently not disapproval of the act itself. Faros was standing at the door scowling, but he wasn’t looking at Tom. Tom followed the line of his gaze to a picture of a young man pleasuring the member of one who could only be described as old and fat. Tom wasn’t sure why something he and Barard had enjoyed so often looked indecent. Maybe it was the youthfulness of the one whose mouth was so busy, but maybe it was more the fact his companion seemed to be showing no regard for him. He’s not even looking at him, thought Tom. He’s not making any contact with him. He’d never been in a brothel, but that’s what came to mind. If he had been doing that to Barard, kneeling like that at Barard’s feet, then Barard’s fingers would be curling into his hair as he murmured endearments.
Tom tilted his head to meet Barard’s eyes, smiling around his captive, and Barard’s breath quickened as his lips parted. Slowly, his eyes darkened, and the fingers in Tom’s hair started to tremble. Tom settled back to his task, and Barard found his voice. ‘I love you. Fuck, I love you so much,’ he whispered.
Tom stumbled as he turned to follow Faros, misery welling again. Where are you, my love? How can I find you? Please - not torture...
‘Tolm?’
Tom jumped. ‘I sorry - I am sorry. I was not hearing you.’
‘I just said that this is the workshop room.’ Faros threw back shutters from barred windows, and the room was flooded with light. Weaponry adorned the walls, but it was all ceremonial or ornamental, far too adorned with precious stones to be of practical use to a fighting man. Faros guided him to a locked glass cabinet, and there was the answer to what the unknown Southron word was. There were necklaces and bracelets, earrings and headdresses. Some of the workmanship was very delicate, but overall Tom thought the display rather lacklustre, for all the precious gems that shone in settings of gold and silver.
‘I will bring you here tomorrow, if the mistress says you may start work. You must bow to the master when you meet him.’ He looked at Tom thoughtfully. ‘Do you know what I mean?’ Tom bowed, Gondorian fashion, and Faros shook his head. ‘No, no, that will not do. Who bows like that?’ He didn’t wait for an answer, but sank to his knees in front of Tom, bowing low to kiss Tom’s feet. Tom jumped back. It had never occurred to him before that men just didn’t know aboutfeet. He stood trembling as Faros straightened. The whole action had been very graceful, presumably the result of years of practice. Faros smiled down at him. ‘You do it now,’ he said.
Tom shook his head. ‘No!’ he said emphatically, and Faros’s smile faded.
‘You must. You will be whipped if you don’t show respect, and I will be as well, for buying an untrained slave.’
Tom swallowed. He had been lulled into feeling that slavery was a rather cosy world. It would be a poor way to repay Faros for his kindness to earn him a thrashing, and it was obvious that Faros had no idea what he was asking. He jolted down to his knees, and gave the most cursory touch of his lips to each sandalled foot, feeling nauseous as he did so.
‘Good. Now, this time don’t allow your bottom to stick up in the air, and you mustn’t rush the kiss. When you stand, rock back onto your heels first. Don’t scrabble up like that. Try again.’ Tom stood with head bowed, unable to obey, and Faros cupped his chin to raise his head. ‘What is it, Tolm? It’s a simple gesture, yes?’
‘No.’
‘No? Because you don’t like to show your subservience?’
Tom chewed on his lip. He didn’t understand the word, but it was unlikely to be the one he wanted. How to explain? ‘I like you, but not like that.’
‘Like what?’
‘Like I bed you.’
‘What!‘ Faros looked as shocked as Tom felt. ‘Who said anything about -!’ He suddenly laughed, but it was without humour. ‘You think that just kissing feet is bad? Dear Lady, be grateful you are not to his taste.’
‘I sorry.’ Tom stood on one foot and indicated his tough sole. ‘Here no problem, but here,’ he touched the dark fur curling over the top of his foot and between his toes, ‘here is like you say, “You fine hobbit, come to bed.”’
‘I see. Then I apologise for saying that to you by mistake, but you must kiss the master’s feet. No one will do that to you again, and we do not have the hair, so you will not be saying that to those you have to bow to.’
‘More people than the master?’
‘Yes. Any who come to buy, you will have to greet in such a way. Look, Tolm. It really means nothing.’ His mouth twitched, this time in genuine amusement. ‘I promise that I will not think you are wishing to go to bed with me, and it is maybe better to practice with a friend, yes?’
Tom sighed and nodded. It was true that by the time he had repeated the action five or six times it had become a little easier, and he was thankful that he had been forewarned. The fact his mind was elsewhere undoubtedly helped. You think that just kissing feet is bad? What had Faros said to Catos? I know the master will like you. Nienna’s tears!No!
‘Much better,’ said Faros. ‘You see? It’s not so hard.’
Tom looked up at Faros and found, if not the word he wanted, then one that would do. ‘Master use you?’
The wary look was back. ‘Abuse me, do you mean? He has had me whipped, yes.’
‘Not what I mean.’ Tom stalked out of the room, feeling as though his hackles would be rising if he had any, and stopped in front of the painting that had drawn his attention earlier. ‘Like that!’
Faros’s face was a mask, and he made no answer.
‘And Catos! He make Catos do that?’
‘I don’t wish to discuss it,’ said Faros, and his voice shook.
‘No? Well, I do!’
‘Tolm, there is nothing you can do, nothing we can do.’
‘You bought him! For this?’
‘No!’ Faros put his head in his hands. ‘No,’ he whispered. ‘I’ll try to keep him away, but there is nothing else I can do, except... except...’
‘What! Except what?’ Tom knew what he would do, and it involved the bejewelled knives hanging so tantalisingly on the wall of the workshop.
‘Tell him... I... I know what it’s like.’
Oh, Faros! ‘Since you how old?’
‘I told you, Tolm, I don’t want to talk about it.’
‘Tell me then, when you come here?’
Faros let his hands fall to his sides. His shoulders slumped, and he stared at the floor. Tom wanted to weep looking at him. ‘Since I was younger than Catos.’
‘Now you hope, no longer you? Master like Catos instead?’
Faros straightened, and his face, which had been so expressionless, contracted with anger. His hands were clenched at his side. ‘No!’ He leant his forehead against the wall. ‘If I knew some way to make the master send for me, not Catos, I swear I would do it.’
Tom laid a hand on Faros’s back. He wanted to be sure he was understanding right. ‘Because you want master to send for you?’ He didn’t think that was the case, and he had no doubt when Faros straightened and spat on the floor. ‘No. I not think so. You want to...’ He had run out of words he knew.
‘If I could protect him, I would. We’re slaves, Tolm, possessions. There is little I can do. For the Lady’s sake, come to the baths.’
He was visibly upset, and Tom forbore to ask more questions. They went in silence to the baths, and afterwards Faros redressed Tom’s shoulder. When he had finished, Tom turned to look up at him. He was still full of disquiet for Catos, but another spectre had been raised in his mind. ‘Prisners be abused?’ he asked, hardly able to get the words out; a tight knot was clenched like a fist around his heart.
‘I’m sorry, I don’t know the answer to whether prisoners are abused. I don’t know where to start looking for your friend. Tonight I’ll go to the tavern where the guards drink.’
‘Me come, too.’
‘No, Tolm. You are not allowed to leave except under my supervision to come here.’
‘Then we go baths at night, and find us in tavern.’
‘No. I’m sorry, but no.’
‘Faros, I must find him.’
‘We will find him, but not by your being disobedient, do you understand? I promise I will do what I can to find out, and it’s likely to be more than you could do, not knowing the city, and not understanding... well, not understanding very much at all, if I am to be truthful. Will you make a promise in return?’
‘What?’ asked Tom warily.
‘That you will not try to leave the house.’
Tom thought about this. He would consider a promise to Faros binding; was he prepared to wait patiently? He had intended to try and follow Faros that night, but it was true that Faros could pursue inquiries with more ease than a slave whose shaved head marked him as a truant. That was not the only consideration: it was likely that his truancy would be discovered, and while he had no care for what punishment he might receive, it was likely there would be repercussions for Faros. He sighed and nodded. ‘Yes, I promise.’
‘Thank you, Tolm. We can take a little time of freedom now. Let’s go to the coffee house.’
On the way they passed street vendors selling an array of cheap gee-gaws. They appeared to be aimed at slaves, and the men who called out their wares did not look as prosperous as those in the market place. Tom’s eye was caught by some feathers fluttering from a pole, and he stopped to reach up and finger one. It was the colour that drew him: a rich golden-red. Immediately the man started what Tom presumed to be a sales pitch, but he had some sort of accent, and spoke very fast. His voice reminded Tom of the slave traders, whom he had also struggled to understand.
‘He says he will make you up a necklace with your choice of feathers and beads,’ said Faros as Tom looked at him for help. ‘They’re not expensive; I can lend you a couple of kurus.’
‘I am allowed to wear?’
‘Yes, you’re allowed to wear them. They’re popular with slaves. The master would probably not like you to wear it when you work; he would not like a customer to see you with such cheap fripperies.’
Tom fingered the rich-coloured plumes. He needed nothing to remind him of Barard, but the colour was the colour of his love’s hair - the colour that marked him as a Took. He looked over the beads and picked out some green ones. Perfect! He let Faros bargain the price, and the street-seller deftly secured the feathers to a leather thong and threaded the beads on either side. The man produced a tiny pair of pliers and tightly wound the ends of the thong with wire, then shaped a hook and eye to secure it around Tom’s neck below his collar. It was a small thing, and yet it made Tom feel his individuality.
As Faros advised, Tom left the necklace in his room the next day. He was not looking forward to his meeting with the master. It was the first time he had seen the man clearly, and sagging seemed a good description: he was soft and flabby, with his gold belt dipping below and defining his large belly. He looked at Tom as though Tom were some noxious vermin, but it seemed that was better than being viewed with favour. Tom felt sick prostrating himself, and was grateful to Faros for a sympathetic touch to his good shoulder as he straightened. Standing in front of the master with eyes lowered, he could see the man’s beringed fingers were large and puffy; it was no surprise that he needed nimble-fingered help. Tom was relieved to find that it was Faros who would show him what he had to do. Even so, he earned a blow to the head when he did not understand something the master said to him. Faros steadied him as they were left alone.
‘Are you all right, Tolm? Your head...’
‘I think so.’ He felt a little dizzy, and the nausea was not entirely from demeaning himself to kiss the master’s feet. ‘When he talk like you, or the mistress, I understand, but when he talk like man who sell feathers, I not understand.’
‘That’s very perceptive, Tom. He thinks he hides his lowborn origins, but it’s there to hear for those who listen carefully.’
‘Mistress is not lowborn.’
‘No, you are right. The mother says he was a good-looking man who charmed the mistress with his courtship, although it is likely that it was her family connections and dowry that he was really after. Now, let me show you the different stones, and how to place them in their settings.’
He laid out an array of different coloured gems, and Tom nodded, giving them all their Westron names. ‘These good,’ he said, pointing to some pearls blushed with pink.
‘These are good. You know about gems?’
‘Dwarf is friend.’
‘Dwarves don’t...’
Tom grinned as Faros trailed off. ‘Dwarves not real? Are not real? I can tell you true story of dwarves that take hobbit on adventure with many gems.’
Faros’s eyes lit up. ‘A story? Tell it tonight in the long room. Are you the hobbit?’
‘No, but he is well known to my father.’
‘And you said your father killed orcs? I’d like to hear that story, as well.’
‘Maybe I tell, if it not mean you stay in, if you go out again as promise me. I maybe need more better talk first, yes?’ They settled into the now familiar pattern of correction and repetition, interrupted by instructions and demonstrations of Tom’s tasks. He found the work came easily to him: a hobbit’s quickness of hand combining with a familiarity that was a result of watching jewellers at work in Minas Tirith when he was placing orders.
It became even easier over the following weeks as his skill increased. The master gave grudging praise, and was happy to trade upon the fact that the customers he entertained in the anteroom looked on Tom as a novelty, and liked him to wait on them. Tom was kept busy - especially as his hair started to regrow, much to the delight of the ladies. ‘Look! It’s curly!’ ‘And soft! Feel how soft it is!’ ‘Father, we need to borrow Tolmos today, Melia is coming to take tea with us.’ He was soon able to repay Faros the small loan and give him money to ply guards with drinks. Nothing came of it. No one seemed to have ever heard of, or seen, a Halfling.
In the workshop, he was often left to work alone, which was fine by him. He knew why, from his time spent being petted by the daughters. ‘I suppose father is out gambling.’ ‘Hush, dear, not in front of the slaves.’ He made dull jewellery as asked, but unknown to the master, he made his own variations with pearls and silver beads, always dismantling them when he had finished. In his mind was the curtain of water at Henneth Annûn with moonrise behind it, and within that memory was making love to Barard amidst a pile of furs on the cave floor, while the light sparkled and glittered over his naked body. How long can I go on like this with no news? he wondered, regretting his promise to Faros.
In truth, there was little to distract his mind for long from his worry and frustration. Day after day passed, and there was still no news of Barard. His waking hours were spent wanting to claw his way through the walls of Barard’s unknown prison; nights were haunted by dreams of finding him dead - or, worse, broken irreparably in body and mind. If only he could get out of the house, he was sure that he would find where Barard was.
It was a full month after his enslavement before he was allowed some freedom. Bayos came as usual in the late afternoon to inspect his work, and Tom recognised the signs of ill-temper as soon as his master entered the room. He had learnt, by listening to both the gossip of his fellow slaves and to the chatter of his young mistresses, that his master’s mood could be tied to his success or otherwise in gambling; it was unfortunate that Bayos was a poor gambler and frequently lost. Tom expected to receive a blow to the head and angry words, but the master just scowled at him.
‘Get out,’ he said. ‘And send Faros to me.’
Tom was glad to obey. He slid off his stool, and hurried from the room. He found Faros in the kitchen, and the mother pushed a plate of honeyed cakes towards him as he entered.
‘Here you go, little bird. Help yourself. Catos is with the mistress, but I’ve kept some back for him, so eat as many as you like.’
Tom took one. ‘Thank you, Mother.’ He turned to his friend. ‘The master asks for you, Faros, in the workshop. He is in a bad mood...’ He tailed off, halted by the reaction to his words. Faros slowly placed the cake he was eating back on the plate; he looked sick. Tom was suddenly cold with apprehension, but he was uncertain what to say in front of the mother; surely Faros had implied that the master no longer abused him? ‘I tell him I not find you,’ he offered.
Faros shook his head. He pushed back his chair and left the room without a word. Tom started to follow, but was halted by the mother. ‘I don’t think you can help him, little bird. I don’t know what the master does, or asks him to do, he won’t tell me, but - ’ She fell silent, biting at her lip.
‘But?’
‘Faros is a good, kind man, as I expect you’ve found, but at the end of the day, he’s a slave, same as us. If you interfere, it won’t help him. You’ll just make trouble for the both of you.’
Tom edged towards the door. The master had not told him to stay out of the workshop. ‘But -’
‘Tolmos, sit down! I once heard the master, upstart that he is, tell Faros he’d had a handsome offer for him from one of the brothels. It was a threat. Do you understand? I’m not sure as the mistress would allow it - Faros was her slave before ever he was the master’s - but do you want to put it to the test?’
Tom sat and glowered at the table. It was intolerable. He barely responded when Catos bounced in, full of the news that they were to be allowed out if they were accompanied by Faros. He was too busy hating himself for feeling relieved that the master had sent for Faros and not Catos.
‘We can explore the city! Lyria says there’s a drum circle tonight. I love dancing to the drums, don’t you? I wish I had a drum. I want to learn. Tolm? Are you listening to a word I’m saying?’
‘What? Yes, yes, I am. Drums, dancing. I’m not sure Faros want - will want - to take us tonight.’
‘But he must! I mean, this is your chance to find your Barard! And... and it will be fun.’
‘I see Faros recently. He not look well.’
‘Bugger,’ said Catos with feeling, and Tom winced at the choice of word. It had been Lyria, with lack of any modesty, who had given him a rundown of what the common swear words actually meant. She had winked at him, ‘You know, “bugger.” You’re like Faros, so I shouldn't have to tell you what that one means.’
Catos shifted uncomfortably from one foot to the other. ‘I mean, poor Faros, but he’s not in our room, so he can’t be that bad. Maybe he’d feel better for going out - don’t you think?’ He looked at the mother to gauge her reaction.
‘If you wants my opinion, it’s that I don’t like such language in my kitchen.’
‘Sorry, Mother,’ said Catos, and he looked so woebegone that she laughed and handed him one of her cakes.
‘But I agrees with you; it might be better for Faros to go out.’ They all turned at a soft footfall and were in time to see Faros passing by outside. Catos was about to run after him, but the mother caught his hand. ‘Let our little bird go after him.’
‘But Faros looks awful. Tolm’s right. He’s not well.’
‘I need your help, Catos. You can go see Faros when you’re finished. Let Tolmos go now.’
In their room, Tom found Faros lying on his bed, curled on his side and shaking. He knelt on the bed beside the man and rested a hand on his shoulder, keeping it there even when Faros flinched. He had no idea what to say. “Are you all right?” seemed trite in the extreme. He settled for the obvious.
‘It’s me. Tom.’ He half expected to be told to go away.
‘I tried refusing him, but he threatened Catos,’ Faros whispered. ‘If I didn’t do what he wanted, he said he’d send for Catos instead.’
Tom didn’t know whether to explode with anger or weep over such manipulation. With a great effort he kept the hand resting on Faros’s shoulder relaxed.
‘Do you want to tell me?’ He was not surprised when Faros gave a shake of his head, just a small movement of negation that spoke volumes. And what if something like this happened to Barard? Would Barard tell him - if he ever found him? It was a sickening thought, amidst a host of other sickening thoughts. ‘Hugging is good,’ he suggested, and was both surprised and pleased when Faros struggled up into a sitting position and allowed Tom to hug him.
‘I... I don’t know how you can bear to touch me.’
‘What! Because master is an orc?’
‘I feel unclean, like a leper.’
‘I not know word.’
‘Leper? A leper is shunned, considered dead. He must live outside the city, live on what food the charitable send.’
‘Why?’ Faros shrugged. ‘Because his touch is cursed.’
‘You not a lep-er. You my friend - you are my friend. That not change by what master does. If you feel not clean, let us go to baths. Yes?’
‘A bath won’t make me feel any cleaner.’
‘But warm water feel good.’
They heard feet running, coming nearer, and in the instant before Catos entered, Faros’s expression changed before Tom’s eyes from distraught to his usual quiet gravity. Tom played his part, releasing Faros and rocking back onto his heels. Their act of nonchalant ease didn’t seem to fool Catos. The boy handed Faros a cup that was steaming slightly, and with one hand on Faros’s shoulder, climbed onto the bed to sit beside him and snuggle in close. Faros responded by wrapping his free arm around the boy’s shoulders, sipping at his drink in an absent-minded way as Catos laid his head against his chest. Tom smiled at them. Catos seemed to have a natural gift for giving comfort, and no words were needed.
Faros took another sip of the drink, and grimaced. ‘Ugh, this is horrid. What is it?’
‘The mother says it’ll help you feel better. She says you ought to go out.’
‘Why would I want to do that?’
‘Because -’ Catos eased free and slithered off the bed to worm his way into the narrow space beneath. His voice came back muffled. ‘- of this.’ He wriggled back out holding a drum between his hands. ‘And because you can take us; the mistress says so.’ He placed the drum in Faros’s lap. The lacings around the side were loosened over red and gold painted wood, the hide across the top was slack. A carrying strap of patterned leather hung down on one side. ‘The mother says you’re very good; she says maybe you could teach me. And anyway, the sooner Tolm goes out, the better. You said yourself that he’s like a caged animal, pacing around.’
‘Catos!’ As much as Tom wanted to get out into the city, he had no wish to put pressure on Faros by the use of guilt. Bayos had already made cruel use of that tactic. He looked uncertainly at Faros. ‘Did you say that?’
‘Sorry, yes, I did. You are. You calm a little when you’re telling us a story, but you’re on edge all the time. Catos is right, you need to go out. And you are right; a bath would be good.’ Catos leapt in the air with a whoop of delight. His happiness was infectious; both Tom and Faros smiled at him despite their cares, and Tom felt a rush of hope. Now that he could go out into Hafar, surely it would not be long before he found where Barard was held captive. He had no idea what he would do then, but finding that Barard was alive would be a start. He chose to ignore the fact that Faros had been unsuccessful. Somehow, he wouldfind Barard. He stood up.
‘Then what do we wait for?’ he asked. ‘Come and show me your city.’