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ATB: an interim update
I had hoped to get chapter 15 posted on Sunday, but as it's Monday here already, doesn't look like that's going to happen. However, this chapter splits neatly into two parts, and part 1 is corrected, so...
The Adventures of Tom and Barard
Category: slash.
Rating: NC-17 for sexual content. Contains violence, some references to non-consensual sex, and lots of hurt/comfort. I make no money from these stories, and give grateful thanks to JRR Tolkien for providing us with such a richly imagined world to play in.
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trilliah's artwork. Manip by shoesparks
The Shire, Halimath SR 1498 (FA 77)
Tom drew himself a mug of water, drank half, and poured the rest over his head. He was feeling hot and sticky, his shirt was clinging to his back, and the sun had given him a headache. Somehow the heat in Hafar had never drained his energy like this. He looked out over the part-harvested field that was half stubble and half standing corn, the ears of grain hanging over in abundant ripeness. Stooks of wheat stood dotted over the stubble, waiting to be pitched up into wagons and taken to the threshing floor. It was a beautiful sight, which somehow epitomised the Shire: blue sky and golden harvest, for all that rain in late Wedmath had delayed it into Halimath. Faramir had finally pronounced the wheat dry enough to harvest without fear of its rotting in the barns, and all hands were not just welcomed, but expected to help in any way they could before the weather turned again. Tom knew that Faramir was hoping for a run of fine days - a Halimath summer as they called it in the Shire - to get all the grain harvest in over the following week.
Tom looked to where hobbits worked with long-handled scythes, moving in staggered rows to prevent accidents from the wicked blades swung from side to side in sweeping curves. Barard had almost finished his row, and Tom smiled to himself as he watched the damp cloth of Barard’s shirt cling to the developing muscles of his upper arms and chest, the result of their daily wrestling and sword practice. Despite a wide-brimmed hat, the sun had caught Barard’s cheeks, reddening them with that Tookish tendency to burn easily. If there were any present who did not know the youngest brother of the Thain, the stray curl of red-gold plastered against his face would at least give away his connection to the family.
Tom knew better than to call out or otherwise distract that seemingly casual swing; a scythe was a dangerous thing, for all that Barard handled his like an expert. The foreman did not let novices loose in the main harvest, and each hobbit’s scythe was carefully matched to his height.
‘He looks well.’
Tom jumped and turned to find Barard’s brother - his own brother-in-law - Hildimir had joined him by the water barrel which had been set up on an old sawhorse. He nodded. Yes, Barard did look well, but it had been a long slow process, where two steps forward had been followed by one back.
‘It’s been good for him, to be back in the Shire.’
‘When you came back last Yuletide I was shocked by how thin he was, and how... well, forgive me, reclusive you both were. It’s good to see that between Goldilocks’ and Rosie-May’s fussing and feeding, and your care, he’s beginning to look his old self.’
‘I’ve never thanked you, Hil, for taking over the Thainship so that Faramir could come to Minas Tirith. Your father’s death set Barard back more than anything. It helped him to know that Pippin had Faramir with him, and it helped knowing that Pippin lived to see him safe.’
Hildimir nodded. ‘That’s what Faramir said. You know it was his opinion that Father hung on stubbornly until he did know, don’t you? He said that Father kept saying you would rescue Barard, and never mind how much anyone told him you were both feared dead, since there was no news of either of you.’ Hildimir smiled, his former grief turned to fond memories. ‘Faramir said Father had great pleasure in saying “I told you so”, but he always did like being proved right.’
‘You mean like the time you planted that new grape variety?’
‘No need to bring that up, Tom.’ Hildimir winked at him. ‘Nothing ventured, and all that. How’s your business going?’
‘We’re doing well with trade from Harad. Our partner, Hanril, is there at the moment.’
Hildimir nodded and changed the subject. Harad wasn’t a popular topic of conversation amongst their relations. ‘Will Barard come to the harvest supper? He’s been coping much better with big family gatherings recently. Do you think you can persuade him to something as public as that? After all, he’s here, and I have to admit, I doubted he’d show.’
‘He knows as well as any how important it is to get the harvest in, but you notice he’s been swinging his scythe most of the time.’
‘Keeping himself to himself, you mean? Yes, I noticed that. How are things between you two? Is everything all right?’
‘Fine. We’re fine.’
‘That’s good. I can’t tell you how grateful we are that you found Barard and brought him home. We were all in shock when your letter came last year. When you disappeared as well, Ruby was beside herself. I’ve not really had a chance to talk to you about all this, I never see you apart from Barard.’
‘And you want to spare Barard?’
‘Exactly.’
‘You’re wrong. Barard finds it hard that you all tiptoe around him. I made the same mistake myself to start with, but Barard put me right. He’d rather any problems he might have aren’t in public, though, with the likes of Hob Sandyman looking down their noses and making snide comments. It’s one reason he doesn’t like going out in public. With family, it’s different.’
‘All very well to say, Tom, but he did scare the children when that wind whipped through the Great Hall, and all the candles went out.’
‘Maybe, but I think they understood better than any of you. Were you never afraid of the dark when you were little?’
Hildimir ignored that question. ‘So what do you do at night?’ he asked.
Tom looked at the older hobbit and kept a straight face as he said, ‘Well, Barard likes me to -’
‘Tom! I don’t want to know the lurid details of what you do behind closed doors! Stop laughing, you upstart Gardner; you know that’s not what I meant!’
Tom carried on laughing. Angelica’s insult had passed into legend as a family joke, and he took no offence at what had become the Tooks’ equivalent of the Gardners’ calling them crazy. ‘I’m sorry, Hil; you were just being rather pompous. We leave an oil lamp burning. He still has occasional nightmares, and he panics if he wakes in the dark.’ That Tom could say this lightly was a reflection of how very much better Barard was getting. Tom had found it hard to talk about, even to their own families; they hadn’t seen Barard when he was first rescued, hadn’t sat alone in the dungeon cell. They had no real concept of what Barard had suffered in fear, privations and beatings, nor how he had been pushed to the edges of madness by his solitary confinement.
‘Tom! Are you all right?’
Tom jumped. ‘Ye...es,’ he said, drawing a deep breath. ‘Yes. I’m sorry.’ He tilted his face up to the sun. How to make Hildimir understand? ‘All Barard saw of the sun for a year was a little strip of light on the ground that wide.’ He held his thumb and forefinger apart to show Hildimir. ‘Mostly he was in complete darkness. Imagine being chained up in the Great Smials’ icehouse, your only contact someone to bring you food twice a day, but they don’t speak the common tongue. You have a pot to use as your toilet, but it isn’t cleaned, just emptied when it’s full. Imagine that you’ve been beaten and there’s no one to treat your wounds. They must fester or heal as they will. Imagine -’
‘Gentlemen! If you’ve finished slaking your thirst, there’s help needed raking up and stooking the corn.’
Was it his imagination, or did Hildimir look relieved at the interruption? Tom set down his mug, and flexed his fingers where he’d been gripping too tight. ‘Sorry, Melinas; we’ll get on to it.’
The old steward nodded. ‘It’s good to see you and young master Barard helping, sir, but there’s no doubt we need all the help we can get. We’ll be stopping for lunch in a couple of hours.’
Melinas had grown old in service to the Thains, and had never quite got to grips with the fact that Pippin’s children were not only of age, but getting on in years. Tom grinned inwardly at the “young master”. He wasn’t at all sure Barard should be continuing for another two hours, but he had learnt the hard way - through arguments - that he couldn’t make those decisions on Barard’s behalf. Even more than a year later, he still felt overly protective, but he was trying hard not to be so. He was reassured by the sight of Barard reaching the edge of the field, to be met by a small hobbit hung about with water skins. He watched Barard talk to the small lad, then tip back his head and drink deep. Good, at least he was drinking plenty of water; that fool Tobbold Banks was taking nips from a hip flask. Tom rolled his eyes at such foolishness. He didn’t like Tobbold at the best of times, and hoped he would succumb to the heat, the drink, or possibly both.
For now, there was plenty to do. Hildimir clapped him on the back to get his attention away from Barard, and they worked together, making up sheaves, then leaning them against each other with the ears of corn uppermost: twelve sheaves to make a stook. Hildimir pushed back his hat and rubbed a hand across his forehead; the band had left a red indented line there, but it was the sweat he was rubbing away. ‘Barard loses his temper more easily since you came back,’ he observed; he replaced the hat and tapped it on the crown to wedge it more firmly onto his head.
‘Not with me,’ answered Tom.
‘That’s good, but he snapped at Ruby yesterday when she tried to do him a kindness.’
‘Kindness is relative, Hil. Ruby may have thought she was being kind, but Barard didn’t. What she said was as good as accusing him of being too feeble to help, when you start the grape harvest.’
‘She just didn’t want him to feel he had to help, Tom. With this good weather, the grapes are sweetening fast; the harvest’s likely to go back to back with this one. It’s a tiring time of year, and you can’t tell me Barard isn’t worse when he’s tired. I know she could have phrased it better, but you know Ruby, and really, there was no excuse for Barard to storm out and slam the door behind him. It’s hard to be patient.’
‘Aye, and your patience riles him as much as anything. Don’t you realise that he’d prefer you to have this conversation with him, have you get mad at him and tell him he was way out of line.’
‘So you told him, did you?’ Hildimir tapped the loose bundle of corn he held against the ground, as much as he could encompass in his arms, until the stalks of wheat were shaken into a neat sheaf, to be expertly tied. Tom leaned on his rake.
‘No, I don’t need to. He knows without me telling him. There’s no need for me to rub it in.’
‘There you are, then.’
‘Not the same. He knows I’ll have a blazing row with him if there’s the need.’
‘You? Have a blazing row with Barard? Now that I’d like to see.’
Tom laughed. It was an exaggeration on his part. He got angry, and Barard soothed; that had always been the way of things. It was only with others that Barard’s temper had become more frayed through the year, as the well-meaning things they said and - more to the point - the way they said them, rubbed at him like fine sandpaper. ‘Look, all I’m asking is that you start treating him like you always have, like he’s normal.’
‘But he’s not normal, Tom. No, don’t get me wrong!’ Tom had halted, knuckles whitening on the rake. ‘I mean, he used to be so full of himself; a lot of the time we were just cutting him down to size, teasing him, that sort of thing. He’s different, now. Quieter, more serious. It’s hard to know what to talk to him about.’
‘If you teased him more, it would be good for him.’
Hildimir looked doubtful. ‘Well, if you’re sure, I’ll try.’
They worked on, grateful for the break when a lad or lass brought them water. They talked about the approaching grape harvest and the prospects for a good vintage, about Tom’s family and Hildimir’s grandchildren. They were more than ready to eat when Faramir came to tell them lunch was ready in the shade of the trees. They walked with him across the field to where the draught ponies stood, with nosebags in place, flicking their tails at the flies that gathered around them. Barard was already there, being talked to by Tobbold. His back was to Tom, but Tom could tell he was tense, an unwilling party to the exchange - not that surprising, since Tobbold always pressed his attentions on Barard. The gathering for lunch was a peaceful scene, with hobbits lounging in the shade, taking their ease. Food was plentiful, but apart from water, drink was scarce. All knew the Thain would do them proud come evening, and that too much drink in the middle of the day led to befuddled heads and poor work. Of course, there were a few like Tobbold, nipping from their own flasks, but fights were rare because of the general sobriety. Tom was therefore not the only one taken by surprise when violence suddenly erupted, although to call it a fight was to overstate the case. It was almost entirely one-sided, short and to the point.
Tom drained the mug of water a lass handed him, watching Barard over the rim all the time, and ready to give the support of his presence if Tobbold became too objectionable. Tobbold caught Tom’s eye over Barard’s shoulder and leaned close to make some remark. Barard’s reply was angry. Tobbold stepped in, pushing Barard back a little, and Barard retaliated so fast it was hard to see what had happened; Tobbold doubled over, crowing for breath, and was floored by a blow to the back of his shoulders.
‘What the...!’ Faramir, who was closest, slammed down his own drink and hauled Barard back. ‘What in the Fell Winter do you think you’re doing?’
Barard glared at the hobbit lying at their feet and fought against Faramir’s restraining arm. ‘Don’t you dare say such things about Tom!’ he shouted as Tobbold pushed himself up onto all fours and spat fine soil from his mouth. ‘You bloody prick! I’d like to see you risk your life for me in a strange country!’
Tom laid a hand on Barard’s arm; it was all that was needed. Faramir released his brother as soon as he stopped struggling, and with the help of one of the draymen pulled Tobbold to his feet. ‘Ugh,’ said Faramir. ‘You reek of whisky, Tobbold.’
‘What did he say?’ asked Tom quietly.
‘He had the gall to call you a waster and a loser.’ Barard was so indignant that he had trouble keeping his voice down.
Faramir burst into laughter. ‘We’ll have you as the jester at the harvest-home supper, Tobbold,’ he said. ‘You have no idea, have you?’
‘No idea about what?’ asked Tobbold sullenly. ‘That Tolman tells fine tales, but he’s never done better than that pokey little hovel in Hobbiton.’
Barard growled, but Faramir held up a hand. ‘Peace, brother.’ He was still laughing as he turned back to Tobbold. ‘I don’t know why I’m even bothering to answer you, but when I was in Minas Tirith with the mayor, we were asked to help oversee our brothers’ business interests. The trustee they’d appointed thought it only right, since we ourselves were trustees under the terms of their wills.’
Tobbold shrugged out of the drayman’s hold and yawned; the action was exaggerated, a pantomime of boredom, and any sympathy he might have had from the onlookers was lost at this rudeness to their Thain.
‘In brief, then,’ said Faramir. ‘If Barard and his good friend, Tolman Gardner, live without ostentation, it is from choice. Tom is a very wealthy hobbit. If you call his home in Hobbiton a hovel, I can only assume you have never been inside.’
‘Too right,’ muttered Barard.
‘I have no wish to hear any guest of mine insulted - especially not Tom - and I have no wish to see a drunkard let loose with a scythe. I will therefore dispense with your help this afternoon, Tobbold. If you see fit to apologise to Tom, and to myself, and leave all alcohol behind, your help tomorrow will be welcomed.’
‘Pah!’ Tobbold turned away, his response as short as it was expressive. Tom decided against calling out to recommend petticoats for flouncing better; he was fairly sure that Faramir had not finished with Barard, and levity on his part would probably bring a well-remembered tirade down upon them both: ‘You two think you’re very funny, don't you?’
He was right that Faramir had more to say to his youngest brother. The Thain watched Tobbold out of hearing, and then rounded on Barard. ‘That was a disgraceful display,’ he said angrily.
‘Nah,’ a voice with a strong Tuckborough accent piped up from somewhere in the gathering. ‘Right good, it were.’ There was a general laugh, and Tom was almost certain he saw a twitch of amusement on Faramir’s features, quickly suppressed. Tobbold was generally thought to come to the harvest only for his place at the harvest-home supper, one of the great social events of the Shire calendar, and he had never been seen to push himself hard, even when storm clouds were gathering on the horizon.
‘I mean it, Barard,’ said Faramir, when the laughter died down. ‘Just because Tobbold is an arsehole -’
Barard muttered something, making a face as though he had sucked a lemon.
‘What?’
‘Faramir, he’s always propositioning me.’ Barard was getting angry again. ‘It’s too hot, and I’d had enough, all right? Insulting Tom was just the final straw, and he had a lot more to say about Tom that I’m not going to repeat.’ He glared at his brother. ‘And is that where you think Tom’s worth lies? In his wealth?’
‘Actually, no. Although that is probably what Tobbold understands best. I think Tom’s worth lies in his loyalty and bravery, and in his putting up with you all these years.’
There was some laughter at that, and some scattered applause. ‘Mr. Tom’s a good’un,’ someone called.
Barard caught Tom’s hand and twisted it palm up to show a scar. ‘You’re not the only one who thinks so, Ted Flaxman. Tom is blood-bonded to one of the highest lords in Harad, and has been honoured by the Southron king for his bravery, before all the Haradrim.’
Tom felt his face heat in embarrassment. ‘Barard,’ he hissed: a plea to shut up.
‘Come now, Mr. Barard. Tell us the story, do.’ Tom couldn’t see who the speaker was, but Faramir held up his hand.
‘Not now, Bert. I know my brother too well. He seeks to distract from the purpose, which is that he showed violence to one of my tenants. Barard?’ He held Barard’s gaze until Barard dropped his eyes to the ground. In Tom’s opinion, Faramir was one of only a very few people, including King Elessar, who could do that, and he schooled his face to stop the smile that was trying to break out. This was Faramir treating Barard as he had always done, and Barard wasn’t liking it. Be careful what you wish for, Tom thought.
‘I’m sorry, Faramir. Please don’t make me apologise to Tobbold.’
‘No, I’ll not do that - as long as you behave from now on, eh?’
Barard nodded, and released Tom’s hand to take Faramir by surprise with a hug. They were of a height, although Faramir was much broader across the shoulders, and his return hug engulfed Barard and almost lifted him from his feet. Tom stopped trying to suppress his smile, and grinned broadly, despite the tears that prickled at his eyes. It was a poignant reminder of their exhausted arrival in Minas Tirith, to be met with crushing hugs from their brothers, and the news that Pippin was dying. Maybe the same thought had occurred to Barard, because suddenly he was sobbing in his brother’s arms, while Faramir held him tight and rubbed slow circles over his back. Tom waited patiently beside them, grateful that the hobbits around them had melted away. A grown hobbit crying was a family matter, and the Tuckborough workers obviously respected that.
Hildimir leaned close to whisper, ‘You see? That’s where treating him normally gets us.’
‘Good,’ said Tom shortly. ‘It’s what he needs.’
Barard was subdued all through lunch, but he smiled his quiet pleasure when Melinas congratulated him on his scything. His fellow workers added their ‘Ar, ar,’ of approval, a sound peculiar to Tuckborough, meaning anything from a greeting to general agreement with sentiments expressed.
‘I thought I’d have forgotten,’ said Barard.
‘Yew don’t never,’ replied one ancient in a battered straw hat. ‘It just take a few swings, and it all do come back.’
‘Ar, ar,’ agreed his companions.
They worked hard all afternoon, and well into the early evening. Supper was a good solid meal of stew and dumplings, and afterwards Barard sat leaning against Tom, drinking cider and staring into the campfire. It was late enough in the year that the sky had already darkened, a backdrop to a myriad stars. Tom tucked his arm around Barard’s waist and kissed the top of his head. Somewhere a cricket was chirping rhythmically, a sound of summer evenings.
‘Now then, a story afore yew goes off with a flash ‘n’ a bang, like that there mad Baggins,’ called a gaffer, and both Tom and Barard laughed.
‘Aye, tell us a tale from the south.’
‘Is it true they’re as brown as walnut juice?’
‘How’d yew come t’ hobnob with lords and kings, Tom?’
‘Unsanit’ry, I calls it. Mixing blood with a savage.’
Tom sighed and rubbed the scar on his palm. ‘They aren’t savages. They’re a very great people. I once told Lord Faros that he treated me like a brother, and he came to me the next day and asked me if I would make it a blood bond. I was doubtful at first. They take it very seriously. It means that his friends are my friends, but also that his enemies are mine, as well. Harad has a long, bloody history of fighting with Gondor, although they are at peace now, but who knows what the future holds? I was worried... well, about enmity with King Elessar, but he pointed out that if Elessar was my friend, then he couldn’t be an enemy to my blood brother.’ Tom smiled at the memory. ‘We made the bond in the presence of their king. I was very honoured.’
‘That’s what yew meant, were it, young Barard?’ asked another old gaffer. ‘Yew said he were honoured by that there king. Like old times, in’t it? Hobbits hobnobbing wi’ kings and such, but your dads were great ones for that.’
Barard pushed himself upright and sat cross-legged, facing the circle of Tuckborough worthies. ‘I meant at the coronation of their new king, Sûlos, when Tom was awarded for his bravery.’ He glanced at Tom and grinned. Tom rolled his eyes. ‘Tom didn’t know. They let me in on the secret, because they wanted me to make sure he was at the ceremony. He stopped the king’s enemies’ signalling for help, and was badly wounded doing so. I thought... I thought he might die.’ Barard fell silent and gazed into the fire.
Tom looked at Barard, wanting to hug him. He cleared his throat. ‘I didn’t, though.’ There was a general laugh, and the conversation around them moved on to Shire gossip. Tom would liked to have believed that their fellow hobbits were being tactful, but the truth was they probably weren’t interested in hearing about the Order of Aquilmos. For him, it had been hugely embarrassing, only made bearable by Barard’s shining eyes and the form the award had taken. Barard liked Tom to wear it on Highdays and holidays, and that was all right, since no one had commented on it. It had just been accepted as another example of Tom’s outlandish ways, like the three small gold rings that curled snugly around the edge of one ear. It was quite some time since anyone had even mentioned them, although there had been plenty said on the subject when he first returned to the Shire.
‘Do you want to go?’ asked Tom quietly. Barard was sitting with his hands clasped tightly together in his lap, a sign of anxiety. Tom set down his drink and slipped one arm around Barard’s shoulders. He laid his free hand over Barard’s hands, rubbing soothingly with his thumb. ‘The moon will be up soon, there’ll be plenty of light to walk back to Great Smials.’ Most of the assembled hobbits would ride back in the harvest carts.
The fiddler had started up with a tune, and all around them voices sang the well-known words. Barard took a deep breath. ‘No. We can stay, unless you want to go. Just a few memories I’d rather not have, that’s all, but we don’t get a lot of choice over those, do we? Some lusty singing is probably just what I need.’ Tom watched him pull himself together, and when the next song started, Barard joined in.
The moon edged above the trees in the east, large and round and golden: the harvest moon, the full moon closest to the equinox. In Minas Tirith and Hafar, they would be gazing on the same moon. Tom was silent as the fiddler moved through a repertoire of old Shire favourites. He was beginning to get edgy, a feeling that had been coming on for the past few weeks as the swallows congregated in larger and larger groups, alighting in lines strung out along barn roofs. The birds would be leaving soon, heading south to Harad. Tom had not spent so long at a stretch in the Shire since he came of age over twenty years ago. The slow pace of life had been very restful to start with, but now, faced with the repeating cycle of the year that Yule would bring, he was itching to be gone. A visit to Harad was out of the question - Barard was not ready for that - but soon Tom would broach the subject of returning to Minas Tirith. Maybe tonight, when they were alone.
There was a lull in the singing as the fiddler took a rest and downed a well-earnt pint. Tom slid his arm down to Barard’s waist again, and Barard shifted to settle comfortably against Tom. The fiddler put down his pint pot with a sigh of appreciation and took up his fiddle again. He tuned it and started idly picking out a dance tune, waiting for someone to lead in with another song. Tom smiled up at the stars and took up the challenge, his voice as deep and rich as his father’s. It wasn’t a Shire song, and the fiddler let him sing the first verse and chorus through, unaccompanied apart from shouts of laughter at the apposite words.
I’ve been a wild rover for many a year,
And I’ve spent all my money on whisky and beer,
But now I’m returning with gold in great store,
And I never will play the wild rover no more.
And it’s no, nay, never
No, nay, never, no more,
Will I play the wild rover
No, never, no more.
Barard added his voice, and the fiddler picked up the tune, pushing the pace along.
I went to an alehouse I used to frequent
And I told the landlady my money was spent.
I asked her for credit, she answered me nay
For ‘tis custom like yours can be had any day.
And it’s no, nay, never
Everyone was singing the chorus now.
No, nay, never, no more,
Will I play the wild rover
No, never, no more.
I took from my pocket ten gold coins bright
And the landlady's eyes opened wide with delight.
She said, "I have whiskey and wines of the best
And the words that I spoke, they were only in jest."
The chorus was roared out with enthusiasm. Mugs of cider and beer swung in time to the music, and were lifted high on the long “plaaaay”, to sweep back down again with much slopping of contents on “rover”.
I'll go home to my parents, confess what I've done
And I'll ask them to pardon their prodigal son.
And if they forgive me as ofttimes before
Then I never will play the wild rover no more.
Back into the chorus again, and the audience had got the hang of the four rapid beats of stamping at the end of the first line.
And it’s no, nay, never (Stamp - stamp - stamp - stamp)
No, nay, never, no more,
Will I play the wild rover
No, never, no more.
There was much applause and laughter as Tom and Barard finished. Hildimir clapped Barard on the back, and handed him another pint of cider. ‘Well sung, bro! Is it true, now?’
Barard took a deep pull at the drink. ‘I doubt whoever wrote it gave up their roving ways,’ he said thoughtfully. ‘It gets into your very bones, somehow. It’s good to be home, but the call’s getting stronger to be away.’
Tom smiled into his mug. So, Barard felt it, too. ‘Aye,’ he said quietly. 'I think we’ll be off soon.'
The Adventures of Tom and Barard
Category: slash.
Rating: NC-17 for sexual content. Contains violence, some references to non-consensual sex, and lots of hurt/comfort. I make no money from these stories, and give grateful thanks to JRR Tolkien for providing us with such a richly imagined world to play in.
The lovely icon is
trilliah's artwork. Manip by shoesparksThe Shire, Halimath SR 1498 (FA 77)
Tom drew himself a mug of water, drank half, and poured the rest over his head. He was feeling hot and sticky, his shirt was clinging to his back, and the sun had given him a headache. Somehow the heat in Hafar had never drained his energy like this. He looked out over the part-harvested field that was half stubble and half standing corn, the ears of grain hanging over in abundant ripeness. Stooks of wheat stood dotted over the stubble, waiting to be pitched up into wagons and taken to the threshing floor. It was a beautiful sight, which somehow epitomised the Shire: blue sky and golden harvest, for all that rain in late Wedmath had delayed it into Halimath. Faramir had finally pronounced the wheat dry enough to harvest without fear of its rotting in the barns, and all hands were not just welcomed, but expected to help in any way they could before the weather turned again. Tom knew that Faramir was hoping for a run of fine days - a Halimath summer as they called it in the Shire - to get all the grain harvest in over the following week.
Tom looked to where hobbits worked with long-handled scythes, moving in staggered rows to prevent accidents from the wicked blades swung from side to side in sweeping curves. Barard had almost finished his row, and Tom smiled to himself as he watched the damp cloth of Barard’s shirt cling to the developing muscles of his upper arms and chest, the result of their daily wrestling and sword practice. Despite a wide-brimmed hat, the sun had caught Barard’s cheeks, reddening them with that Tookish tendency to burn easily. If there were any present who did not know the youngest brother of the Thain, the stray curl of red-gold plastered against his face would at least give away his connection to the family.
Tom knew better than to call out or otherwise distract that seemingly casual swing; a scythe was a dangerous thing, for all that Barard handled his like an expert. The foreman did not let novices loose in the main harvest, and each hobbit’s scythe was carefully matched to his height.
‘He looks well.’
Tom jumped and turned to find Barard’s brother - his own brother-in-law - Hildimir had joined him by the water barrel which had been set up on an old sawhorse. He nodded. Yes, Barard did look well, but it had been a long slow process, where two steps forward had been followed by one back.
‘It’s been good for him, to be back in the Shire.’
‘When you came back last Yuletide I was shocked by how thin he was, and how... well, forgive me, reclusive you both were. It’s good to see that between Goldilocks’ and Rosie-May’s fussing and feeding, and your care, he’s beginning to look his old self.’
‘I’ve never thanked you, Hil, for taking over the Thainship so that Faramir could come to Minas Tirith. Your father’s death set Barard back more than anything. It helped him to know that Pippin had Faramir with him, and it helped knowing that Pippin lived to see him safe.’
Hildimir nodded. ‘That’s what Faramir said. You know it was his opinion that Father hung on stubbornly until he did know, don’t you? He said that Father kept saying you would rescue Barard, and never mind how much anyone told him you were both feared dead, since there was no news of either of you.’ Hildimir smiled, his former grief turned to fond memories. ‘Faramir said Father had great pleasure in saying “I told you so”, but he always did like being proved right.’
‘You mean like the time you planted that new grape variety?’
‘No need to bring that up, Tom.’ Hildimir winked at him. ‘Nothing ventured, and all that. How’s your business going?’
‘We’re doing well with trade from Harad. Our partner, Hanril, is there at the moment.’
Hildimir nodded and changed the subject. Harad wasn’t a popular topic of conversation amongst their relations. ‘Will Barard come to the harvest supper? He’s been coping much better with big family gatherings recently. Do you think you can persuade him to something as public as that? After all, he’s here, and I have to admit, I doubted he’d show.’
‘He knows as well as any how important it is to get the harvest in, but you notice he’s been swinging his scythe most of the time.’
‘Keeping himself to himself, you mean? Yes, I noticed that. How are things between you two? Is everything all right?’
‘Fine. We’re fine.’
‘That’s good. I can’t tell you how grateful we are that you found Barard and brought him home. We were all in shock when your letter came last year. When you disappeared as well, Ruby was beside herself. I’ve not really had a chance to talk to you about all this, I never see you apart from Barard.’
‘And you want to spare Barard?’
‘Exactly.’
‘You’re wrong. Barard finds it hard that you all tiptoe around him. I made the same mistake myself to start with, but Barard put me right. He’d rather any problems he might have aren’t in public, though, with the likes of Hob Sandyman looking down their noses and making snide comments. It’s one reason he doesn’t like going out in public. With family, it’s different.’
‘All very well to say, Tom, but he did scare the children when that wind whipped through the Great Hall, and all the candles went out.’
‘Maybe, but I think they understood better than any of you. Were you never afraid of the dark when you were little?’
Hildimir ignored that question. ‘So what do you do at night?’ he asked.
Tom looked at the older hobbit and kept a straight face as he said, ‘Well, Barard likes me to -’
‘Tom! I don’t want to know the lurid details of what you do behind closed doors! Stop laughing, you upstart Gardner; you know that’s not what I meant!’
Tom carried on laughing. Angelica’s insult had passed into legend as a family joke, and he took no offence at what had become the Tooks’ equivalent of the Gardners’ calling them crazy. ‘I’m sorry, Hil; you were just being rather pompous. We leave an oil lamp burning. He still has occasional nightmares, and he panics if he wakes in the dark.’ That Tom could say this lightly was a reflection of how very much better Barard was getting. Tom had found it hard to talk about, even to their own families; they hadn’t seen Barard when he was first rescued, hadn’t sat alone in the dungeon cell. They had no real concept of what Barard had suffered in fear, privations and beatings, nor how he had been pushed to the edges of madness by his solitary confinement.
‘Tom! Are you all right?’
Tom jumped. ‘Ye...es,’ he said, drawing a deep breath. ‘Yes. I’m sorry.’ He tilted his face up to the sun. How to make Hildimir understand? ‘All Barard saw of the sun for a year was a little strip of light on the ground that wide.’ He held his thumb and forefinger apart to show Hildimir. ‘Mostly he was in complete darkness. Imagine being chained up in the Great Smials’ icehouse, your only contact someone to bring you food twice a day, but they don’t speak the common tongue. You have a pot to use as your toilet, but it isn’t cleaned, just emptied when it’s full. Imagine that you’ve been beaten and there’s no one to treat your wounds. They must fester or heal as they will. Imagine -’
‘Gentlemen! If you’ve finished slaking your thirst, there’s help needed raking up and stooking the corn.’
Was it his imagination, or did Hildimir look relieved at the interruption? Tom set down his mug, and flexed his fingers where he’d been gripping too tight. ‘Sorry, Melinas; we’ll get on to it.’
The old steward nodded. ‘It’s good to see you and young master Barard helping, sir, but there’s no doubt we need all the help we can get. We’ll be stopping for lunch in a couple of hours.’
Melinas had grown old in service to the Thains, and had never quite got to grips with the fact that Pippin’s children were not only of age, but getting on in years. Tom grinned inwardly at the “young master”. He wasn’t at all sure Barard should be continuing for another two hours, but he had learnt the hard way - through arguments - that he couldn’t make those decisions on Barard’s behalf. Even more than a year later, he still felt overly protective, but he was trying hard not to be so. He was reassured by the sight of Barard reaching the edge of the field, to be met by a small hobbit hung about with water skins. He watched Barard talk to the small lad, then tip back his head and drink deep. Good, at least he was drinking plenty of water; that fool Tobbold Banks was taking nips from a hip flask. Tom rolled his eyes at such foolishness. He didn’t like Tobbold at the best of times, and hoped he would succumb to the heat, the drink, or possibly both.
For now, there was plenty to do. Hildimir clapped him on the back to get his attention away from Barard, and they worked together, making up sheaves, then leaning them against each other with the ears of corn uppermost: twelve sheaves to make a stook. Hildimir pushed back his hat and rubbed a hand across his forehead; the band had left a red indented line there, but it was the sweat he was rubbing away. ‘Barard loses his temper more easily since you came back,’ he observed; he replaced the hat and tapped it on the crown to wedge it more firmly onto his head.
‘Not with me,’ answered Tom.
‘That’s good, but he snapped at Ruby yesterday when she tried to do him a kindness.’
‘Kindness is relative, Hil. Ruby may have thought she was being kind, but Barard didn’t. What she said was as good as accusing him of being too feeble to help, when you start the grape harvest.’
‘She just didn’t want him to feel he had to help, Tom. With this good weather, the grapes are sweetening fast; the harvest’s likely to go back to back with this one. It’s a tiring time of year, and you can’t tell me Barard isn’t worse when he’s tired. I know she could have phrased it better, but you know Ruby, and really, there was no excuse for Barard to storm out and slam the door behind him. It’s hard to be patient.’
‘Aye, and your patience riles him as much as anything. Don’t you realise that he’d prefer you to have this conversation with him, have you get mad at him and tell him he was way out of line.’
‘So you told him, did you?’ Hildimir tapped the loose bundle of corn he held against the ground, as much as he could encompass in his arms, until the stalks of wheat were shaken into a neat sheaf, to be expertly tied. Tom leaned on his rake.
‘No, I don’t need to. He knows without me telling him. There’s no need for me to rub it in.’
‘There you are, then.’
‘Not the same. He knows I’ll have a blazing row with him if there’s the need.’
‘You? Have a blazing row with Barard? Now that I’d like to see.’
Tom laughed. It was an exaggeration on his part. He got angry, and Barard soothed; that had always been the way of things. It was only with others that Barard’s temper had become more frayed through the year, as the well-meaning things they said and - more to the point - the way they said them, rubbed at him like fine sandpaper. ‘Look, all I’m asking is that you start treating him like you always have, like he’s normal.’
‘But he’s not normal, Tom. No, don’t get me wrong!’ Tom had halted, knuckles whitening on the rake. ‘I mean, he used to be so full of himself; a lot of the time we were just cutting him down to size, teasing him, that sort of thing. He’s different, now. Quieter, more serious. It’s hard to know what to talk to him about.’
‘If you teased him more, it would be good for him.’
Hildimir looked doubtful. ‘Well, if you’re sure, I’ll try.’
They worked on, grateful for the break when a lad or lass brought them water. They talked about the approaching grape harvest and the prospects for a good vintage, about Tom’s family and Hildimir’s grandchildren. They were more than ready to eat when Faramir came to tell them lunch was ready in the shade of the trees. They walked with him across the field to where the draught ponies stood, with nosebags in place, flicking their tails at the flies that gathered around them. Barard was already there, being talked to by Tobbold. His back was to Tom, but Tom could tell he was tense, an unwilling party to the exchange - not that surprising, since Tobbold always pressed his attentions on Barard. The gathering for lunch was a peaceful scene, with hobbits lounging in the shade, taking their ease. Food was plentiful, but apart from water, drink was scarce. All knew the Thain would do them proud come evening, and that too much drink in the middle of the day led to befuddled heads and poor work. Of course, there were a few like Tobbold, nipping from their own flasks, but fights were rare because of the general sobriety. Tom was therefore not the only one taken by surprise when violence suddenly erupted, although to call it a fight was to overstate the case. It was almost entirely one-sided, short and to the point.
Tom drained the mug of water a lass handed him, watching Barard over the rim all the time, and ready to give the support of his presence if Tobbold became too objectionable. Tobbold caught Tom’s eye over Barard’s shoulder and leaned close to make some remark. Barard’s reply was angry. Tobbold stepped in, pushing Barard back a little, and Barard retaliated so fast it was hard to see what had happened; Tobbold doubled over, crowing for breath, and was floored by a blow to the back of his shoulders.
‘What the...!’ Faramir, who was closest, slammed down his own drink and hauled Barard back. ‘What in the Fell Winter do you think you’re doing?’
Barard glared at the hobbit lying at their feet and fought against Faramir’s restraining arm. ‘Don’t you dare say such things about Tom!’ he shouted as Tobbold pushed himself up onto all fours and spat fine soil from his mouth. ‘You bloody prick! I’d like to see you risk your life for me in a strange country!’
Tom laid a hand on Barard’s arm; it was all that was needed. Faramir released his brother as soon as he stopped struggling, and with the help of one of the draymen pulled Tobbold to his feet. ‘Ugh,’ said Faramir. ‘You reek of whisky, Tobbold.’
‘What did he say?’ asked Tom quietly.
‘He had the gall to call you a waster and a loser.’ Barard was so indignant that he had trouble keeping his voice down.
Faramir burst into laughter. ‘We’ll have you as the jester at the harvest-home supper, Tobbold,’ he said. ‘You have no idea, have you?’
‘No idea about what?’ asked Tobbold sullenly. ‘That Tolman tells fine tales, but he’s never done better than that pokey little hovel in Hobbiton.’
Barard growled, but Faramir held up a hand. ‘Peace, brother.’ He was still laughing as he turned back to Tobbold. ‘I don’t know why I’m even bothering to answer you, but when I was in Minas Tirith with the mayor, we were asked to help oversee our brothers’ business interests. The trustee they’d appointed thought it only right, since we ourselves were trustees under the terms of their wills.’
Tobbold shrugged out of the drayman’s hold and yawned; the action was exaggerated, a pantomime of boredom, and any sympathy he might have had from the onlookers was lost at this rudeness to their Thain.
‘In brief, then,’ said Faramir. ‘If Barard and his good friend, Tolman Gardner, live without ostentation, it is from choice. Tom is a very wealthy hobbit. If you call his home in Hobbiton a hovel, I can only assume you have never been inside.’
‘Too right,’ muttered Barard.
‘I have no wish to hear any guest of mine insulted - especially not Tom - and I have no wish to see a drunkard let loose with a scythe. I will therefore dispense with your help this afternoon, Tobbold. If you see fit to apologise to Tom, and to myself, and leave all alcohol behind, your help tomorrow will be welcomed.’
‘Pah!’ Tobbold turned away, his response as short as it was expressive. Tom decided against calling out to recommend petticoats for flouncing better; he was fairly sure that Faramir had not finished with Barard, and levity on his part would probably bring a well-remembered tirade down upon them both: ‘You two think you’re very funny, don't you?’
He was right that Faramir had more to say to his youngest brother. The Thain watched Tobbold out of hearing, and then rounded on Barard. ‘That was a disgraceful display,’ he said angrily.
‘Nah,’ a voice with a strong Tuckborough accent piped up from somewhere in the gathering. ‘Right good, it were.’ There was a general laugh, and Tom was almost certain he saw a twitch of amusement on Faramir’s features, quickly suppressed. Tobbold was generally thought to come to the harvest only for his place at the harvest-home supper, one of the great social events of the Shire calendar, and he had never been seen to push himself hard, even when storm clouds were gathering on the horizon.
‘I mean it, Barard,’ said Faramir, when the laughter died down. ‘Just because Tobbold is an arsehole -’
Barard muttered something, making a face as though he had sucked a lemon.
‘What?’
‘Faramir, he’s always propositioning me.’ Barard was getting angry again. ‘It’s too hot, and I’d had enough, all right? Insulting Tom was just the final straw, and he had a lot more to say about Tom that I’m not going to repeat.’ He glared at his brother. ‘And is that where you think Tom’s worth lies? In his wealth?’
‘Actually, no. Although that is probably what Tobbold understands best. I think Tom’s worth lies in his loyalty and bravery, and in his putting up with you all these years.’
There was some laughter at that, and some scattered applause. ‘Mr. Tom’s a good’un,’ someone called.
Barard caught Tom’s hand and twisted it palm up to show a scar. ‘You’re not the only one who thinks so, Ted Flaxman. Tom is blood-bonded to one of the highest lords in Harad, and has been honoured by the Southron king for his bravery, before all the Haradrim.’
Tom felt his face heat in embarrassment. ‘Barard,’ he hissed: a plea to shut up.
‘Come now, Mr. Barard. Tell us the story, do.’ Tom couldn’t see who the speaker was, but Faramir held up his hand.
‘Not now, Bert. I know my brother too well. He seeks to distract from the purpose, which is that he showed violence to one of my tenants. Barard?’ He held Barard’s gaze until Barard dropped his eyes to the ground. In Tom’s opinion, Faramir was one of only a very few people, including King Elessar, who could do that, and he schooled his face to stop the smile that was trying to break out. This was Faramir treating Barard as he had always done, and Barard wasn’t liking it. Be careful what you wish for, Tom thought.
‘I’m sorry, Faramir. Please don’t make me apologise to Tobbold.’
‘No, I’ll not do that - as long as you behave from now on, eh?’
Barard nodded, and released Tom’s hand to take Faramir by surprise with a hug. They were of a height, although Faramir was much broader across the shoulders, and his return hug engulfed Barard and almost lifted him from his feet. Tom stopped trying to suppress his smile, and grinned broadly, despite the tears that prickled at his eyes. It was a poignant reminder of their exhausted arrival in Minas Tirith, to be met with crushing hugs from their brothers, and the news that Pippin was dying. Maybe the same thought had occurred to Barard, because suddenly he was sobbing in his brother’s arms, while Faramir held him tight and rubbed slow circles over his back. Tom waited patiently beside them, grateful that the hobbits around them had melted away. A grown hobbit crying was a family matter, and the Tuckborough workers obviously respected that.
Hildimir leaned close to whisper, ‘You see? That’s where treating him normally gets us.’
‘Good,’ said Tom shortly. ‘It’s what he needs.’
Barard was subdued all through lunch, but he smiled his quiet pleasure when Melinas congratulated him on his scything. His fellow workers added their ‘Ar, ar,’ of approval, a sound peculiar to Tuckborough, meaning anything from a greeting to general agreement with sentiments expressed.
‘I thought I’d have forgotten,’ said Barard.
‘Yew don’t never,’ replied one ancient in a battered straw hat. ‘It just take a few swings, and it all do come back.’
‘Ar, ar,’ agreed his companions.
They worked hard all afternoon, and well into the early evening. Supper was a good solid meal of stew and dumplings, and afterwards Barard sat leaning against Tom, drinking cider and staring into the campfire. It was late enough in the year that the sky had already darkened, a backdrop to a myriad stars. Tom tucked his arm around Barard’s waist and kissed the top of his head. Somewhere a cricket was chirping rhythmically, a sound of summer evenings.
‘Now then, a story afore yew goes off with a flash ‘n’ a bang, like that there mad Baggins,’ called a gaffer, and both Tom and Barard laughed.
‘Aye, tell us a tale from the south.’
‘Is it true they’re as brown as walnut juice?’
‘How’d yew come t’ hobnob with lords and kings, Tom?’
‘Unsanit’ry, I calls it. Mixing blood with a savage.’
Tom sighed and rubbed the scar on his palm. ‘They aren’t savages. They’re a very great people. I once told Lord Faros that he treated me like a brother, and he came to me the next day and asked me if I would make it a blood bond. I was doubtful at first. They take it very seriously. It means that his friends are my friends, but also that his enemies are mine, as well. Harad has a long, bloody history of fighting with Gondor, although they are at peace now, but who knows what the future holds? I was worried... well, about enmity with King Elessar, but he pointed out that if Elessar was my friend, then he couldn’t be an enemy to my blood brother.’ Tom smiled at the memory. ‘We made the bond in the presence of their king. I was very honoured.’
‘That’s what yew meant, were it, young Barard?’ asked another old gaffer. ‘Yew said he were honoured by that there king. Like old times, in’t it? Hobbits hobnobbing wi’ kings and such, but your dads were great ones for that.’
Barard pushed himself upright and sat cross-legged, facing the circle of Tuckborough worthies. ‘I meant at the coronation of their new king, Sûlos, when Tom was awarded for his bravery.’ He glanced at Tom and grinned. Tom rolled his eyes. ‘Tom didn’t know. They let me in on the secret, because they wanted me to make sure he was at the ceremony. He stopped the king’s enemies’ signalling for help, and was badly wounded doing so. I thought... I thought he might die.’ Barard fell silent and gazed into the fire.
Tom looked at Barard, wanting to hug him. He cleared his throat. ‘I didn’t, though.’ There was a general laugh, and the conversation around them moved on to Shire gossip. Tom would liked to have believed that their fellow hobbits were being tactful, but the truth was they probably weren’t interested in hearing about the Order of Aquilmos. For him, it had been hugely embarrassing, only made bearable by Barard’s shining eyes and the form the award had taken. Barard liked Tom to wear it on Highdays and holidays, and that was all right, since no one had commented on it. It had just been accepted as another example of Tom’s outlandish ways, like the three small gold rings that curled snugly around the edge of one ear. It was quite some time since anyone had even mentioned them, although there had been plenty said on the subject when he first returned to the Shire.
‘Do you want to go?’ asked Tom quietly. Barard was sitting with his hands clasped tightly together in his lap, a sign of anxiety. Tom set down his drink and slipped one arm around Barard’s shoulders. He laid his free hand over Barard’s hands, rubbing soothingly with his thumb. ‘The moon will be up soon, there’ll be plenty of light to walk back to Great Smials.’ Most of the assembled hobbits would ride back in the harvest carts.
The fiddler had started up with a tune, and all around them voices sang the well-known words. Barard took a deep breath. ‘No. We can stay, unless you want to go. Just a few memories I’d rather not have, that’s all, but we don’t get a lot of choice over those, do we? Some lusty singing is probably just what I need.’ Tom watched him pull himself together, and when the next song started, Barard joined in.
The moon edged above the trees in the east, large and round and golden: the harvest moon, the full moon closest to the equinox. In Minas Tirith and Hafar, they would be gazing on the same moon. Tom was silent as the fiddler moved through a repertoire of old Shire favourites. He was beginning to get edgy, a feeling that had been coming on for the past few weeks as the swallows congregated in larger and larger groups, alighting in lines strung out along barn roofs. The birds would be leaving soon, heading south to Harad. Tom had not spent so long at a stretch in the Shire since he came of age over twenty years ago. The slow pace of life had been very restful to start with, but now, faced with the repeating cycle of the year that Yule would bring, he was itching to be gone. A visit to Harad was out of the question - Barard was not ready for that - but soon Tom would broach the subject of returning to Minas Tirith. Maybe tonight, when they were alone.
There was a lull in the singing as the fiddler took a rest and downed a well-earnt pint. Tom slid his arm down to Barard’s waist again, and Barard shifted to settle comfortably against Tom. The fiddler put down his pint pot with a sigh of appreciation and took up his fiddle again. He tuned it and started idly picking out a dance tune, waiting for someone to lead in with another song. Tom smiled up at the stars and took up the challenge, his voice as deep and rich as his father’s. It wasn’t a Shire song, and the fiddler let him sing the first verse and chorus through, unaccompanied apart from shouts of laughter at the apposite words.
I’ve been a wild rover for many a year,
And I’ve spent all my money on whisky and beer,
But now I’m returning with gold in great store,
And I never will play the wild rover no more.
And it’s no, nay, never
No, nay, never, no more,
Will I play the wild rover
No, never, no more.
Barard added his voice, and the fiddler picked up the tune, pushing the pace along.
I went to an alehouse I used to frequent
And I told the landlady my money was spent.
I asked her for credit, she answered me nay
For ‘tis custom like yours can be had any day.
And it’s no, nay, never
Everyone was singing the chorus now.
No, nay, never, no more,
Will I play the wild rover
No, never, no more.
I took from my pocket ten gold coins bright
And the landlady's eyes opened wide with delight.
She said, "I have whiskey and wines of the best
And the words that I spoke, they were only in jest."
The chorus was roared out with enthusiasm. Mugs of cider and beer swung in time to the music, and were lifted high on the long “plaaaay”, to sweep back down again with much slopping of contents on “rover”.
I'll go home to my parents, confess what I've done
And I'll ask them to pardon their prodigal son.
And if they forgive me as ofttimes before
Then I never will play the wild rover no more.
Back into the chorus again, and the audience had got the hang of the four rapid beats of stamping at the end of the first line.
And it’s no, nay, never (Stamp - stamp - stamp - stamp)
No, nay, never, no more,
Will I play the wild rover
No, never, no more.
There was much applause and laughter as Tom and Barard finished. Hildimir clapped Barard on the back, and handed him another pint of cider. ‘Well sung, bro! Is it true, now?’
Barard took a deep pull at the drink. ‘I doubt whoever wrote it gave up their roving ways,’ he said thoughtfully. ‘It gets into your very bones, somehow. It’s good to be home, but the call’s getting stronger to be away.’
Tom smiled into his mug. So, Barard felt it, too. ‘Aye,’ he said quietly. 'I think we’ll be off soon.'