Title:  The Steward’s House: Cold Pressing 5/5
Author:  Alex Quine
e-mail:  makar.quine@tiscali.co.uk
Pairing:  Aragorn/Boromir
Rating:  PG13 - NC-17
Disclaimer: These characters belong to their copyright holders.  
I borrow them for entertainment, not profit. 
Warnings:  AU, OOCs, Mpreg.
Feedback:  Received with thanks.
Words: 4,816 
Summary:  Boromir returns, seven years late and a scarred man.
Author’s Notes: This story and others appeared first in 
‘Rugbytackle’ where ‘Cold Pressing’ had two possible endings. 
Subsequent stories arising out of Pathway 1 are collected here 
in an AU arc entitled ‘The Steward’s House.’

For a long moment the chamber was silent but for the crackle of 
the fire.  Faramir wondered if Aragorn might faint, he looked 
so pale, stood clutching the edge of the table.
“How could this be?  We lay together a handful of times in 
Lothlorien.”
Faramir took pity on the stunned man.
“It is a place of enchantment.”
“For a man to carry a child!  I have heard in legend of Elven 
lovers…” 
Faramir had wondered this many hours and stroked his brother’s 
sleeping face, offering Aragorn the only explanation he had 
been able to conjure up. 
“When Arin was conceived you had no heir and were set on a 
quest given small chance of succeeding.  Perhaps Isildur’s 
blood took what chance was offered to it…and our Mother, 
Finduilas, was of the true Dunedain…blood on both sides.”

Aragorn looked into the eyes of the man opposite, seemed to see 
him for the first time as his lover’s brother and an expression 
of guilt swept over his face.
“I cast him into the river.  I was almost the death of him…of 
them.” 
This time he did sway and Faramir caught him, sat him down on 
the stone floor and slumped beside him.
“Aragorn,” said Faramir, as the shadows lengthened around them, 
“ask him when he wakes.”  
He shook his head lightly at Aragorn’s keen glance. 
“It is not my tale to tell.” 
Faramir arose to fetch oil lamps for the darkening room and 
Aragorn sat still by his love’s side, waiting to hear his fate.

The next day, although Celond remained pleased with his 
progress, contained long hours of discomfort for Boromir, and 
Aragorn judged it not the time to speak.  Instead, with 
Faramir, he helped care for the man.  Celond had them untie him 
and support him as he stood and walked slowly to a garderobe to 
make water into a bowl so that the Healer could check it for 
blood.  Satisfied with what he saw, Celond stood by as his 
assistant stripped off all the dressings except the one on his 
sex, cleaned the wounds of dried blood, laid on soothing 
salves, re-bandaged and re-laid fresh cold compresses.  He was 
bound to support the weight of the healing sack, but his cock 
lay free above the linens and through the aches Boromir felt 
some renewed freedom, no longer tied down by his own ruined 
flesh.  

He ate sparingly, mostly broth, but Celond allowed him small 
ale and warm mead to contain the drugs that kept him dozing 
most of the day.  Aragorn had packed some of his lightest silk 
robes and his brother helped him dress. They sat for a while in 
the garden and after the evening meal gathered by a lit fire in 
his room, to talk and listen to Aragorn read to them.  He had 
had a crate of volumes brought from Boromir’s library and told 
them an old tale of lovers torn asunder by war who finally re-
unite.  
“How did you know what to bring, amongst so many books?” asked 
Faramir later.  
“I sat in his chair and stretched out my hands and took 
everything within simple reach,” replied Aragorn, turning over 
a history of Gondor, rich with hand-coloured maps.

Over the next few days, Boromir’s strength grew, although he 
was still cautious in his movements and Celond remained pleased 
with how the flesh was knitting.  His body was less swollen; 
all his bandages were now changed daily, and he would walk in 
the garden, sometimes sitting on a sheltered bench that offered 
a view across the plain towards Minas Tirith.  

It was there that Aragorn found him one afternoon and sat down 
beside him.  The chasteberry potion, whilst it sated his 
desires, did not dull the love Boromir felt for the man beside 
him and as they sat and looked out over the countryside in the 
late afternoon sun, he felt Aragorn lay a roughened, but 
gentle, hand over his and Boromir moved his fingers slightly so 
that they could inter-twine.  Although they were oft times able 
to sit together content in silence, after some minutes Boromir 
knew that his love was holding back words and squeezed his 
hand, granting him permission to speak.

“The first night, when you lay on the table, do you remember my 
tending the weals on your chest with the healing oil?”
“Barely, love.  Celond’s potions are strong and I will admit to 
weariness that had turned my bones to water.”
Aragorn hesitated and then he said quietly, “I asked you about 
the great scar across your belly and you told me.”  

As Boromir’s fingers stiffened under his, Aragorn kept hold of 
his hand, but slipped to his knees to gaze up into Boromir’s 
face.  Boromir’s expression was a mixture of fear and love and 
confusion that tore at Aragorn’s resolve and he brought 
Boromir’s fingers to his lips and then to his forehead, 
silently pledging himself to keep this man and their son, in 
whatever way he might.

“His eyes are your eyes,” whispered Boromir, taking an 
uncertain step into the gulf that had opened up before him, but 
one where the kingly man holding his hand offered himself as 
the only strength that Boromir thought he would ever need.

“Faramir would not tell me what happened to you after Amon 
Hen.”
Boromir leaned forward and stroked Aragorn’s hair.
“The River would not take me, love.” 

He thought for a moment. 
“Or mayhap it would have claimed me as dead to this world, but 
it would not carry away the child, the spark of Isildur’s flame 
that flickered in me.” 
He smiled reassuringly to Aragorn.  
“I do not remember you putting me into the boat,” and Aragorn 
looked down to hide the tears that came unbidden. 

“I remember the sound of Rauros.  There was a rainbow mist of 
water and a roaring like a great beast and then a great beast 
came, and lifted me from the boat.  A great black bear with 
sopping fur lifted me up as though I was a child myself…a 
Beorning.   I had only heard of Beorn in song and this Beorning 
had ranged South, but it carried me for days together until we 
came to a home-place, a hall surrounded by a meadow, thick with 
flowers and the bees, Aragorn!  Great black and gold jewels 
that flew.  They fed me on cream and soft bread and honey and 
some golden dust that they would blow over my tongue.  It 
tasted like honey and I breathed it in.  And I grew fat.  They 
had great skill as Healers, although no skills alone could dull 
the pain when our son was born, but their closing of me was 
neat.  When later I needed healing again, I bethought to the 
Beorning and tried what the honey could do.” 

He paused and drew a trembling breath as though the long-held 
tale had pulled at his insides in its passing.  
“Celond would enjoy that tale, but he must not hear it.  
Aragorn, we cannot call Arin ours to the general eyes of men.  
I would not have him marked by those who will never know 
enchantment and so fear it.”
Aragorn dropped his head to his chest, was still a moment and 
then said sadly,  “He is a child of the blood of Isildur’s 
line.  It should be enough…  How many know of his making?”
“Frodo knows.  I told him and the wise hobbit said I should 
tell you.  And Arwen.”  
Aragorn’s face was blank.  
“Your Queen saw you in him the first day we came home.  I could 
not dissemble before her, but I have come to believe that the 
long lives of Elves have made some of them wise and some of 
them compassionate.  She has never treated either of us with 
less than kindness and courtesy…and perhaps she gives her 
blessing.” 
Boromir drew from within his shirt the wine-dark slip of silk 
and unwrapped it.  
“When I stopped here on the first night of my journey, this was 
in my bedroll.  It has been my help-meet.” 
He took the knot and placed it in Aragorn’s outstretched palm.
The King gazed at the tiny thing and then looked up at Boromir. 
“This is Elven work.”  
As he handed the knot back to Boromir, Aragorn rose from his 
knees and sat beside him once again and they looked out across 
the valley. 
“You have cared for Arin all his life.  I will be guided by 
you, but I will not be less to him than his uncle.”
This time it was Boromir who brought Aragorn’s fingers to his 
lips.
“We will find a way through the years.  And I will be your 
Steward.”

Another two weeks passed, Faramir went back to Ithilien, 
promising to return later and to bring Arin with him, and 
Celond proclaimed himself well pleased.  To Aragorn’s eyes, 
Boromir seemed younger, as though weight had lifted from his 
shoulders and his love’s eyes sparkled, his step became 
lighter.  The bandaging was gradually done away with, although 
the daily ritual of oils remained, the tiny stitches had gone 
and now the chasteberry liquor was lessened. 

Celond had gone back to the Houses of Healing, leaving his 
assistant to watch over him, but had returned this day to 
oversee the final steps. Boromir was laid naked on the long 
table.  This time he was alone with the Healer.  Celond pinched 
some skin on the inside of the top of his right thigh, and 
nodded in satisfaction when the sack beside it twitched.  
“We need to tempt your body to try out its full compass, my 
lord.  Tonight you will have a small amount of the drug and for 
the next few days and we will see what sleep can do.”

It was on the morning of the third day that Boromir awoke, with 
a familiar ache in his groin, moved gently in his bed and 
gasped as the still tender head scraped across the bedcover.  
He was giddy for a moment, but his breathing gradually calmed 
and after a few moments he drew back the sheet.  He did not 
dare yet touch, fearful that to touch would be to come, and 
that might be too much for the newly healed skin, but he saw 
himself strong again.

Over the next few days, appetite returned and then hunger, but 
still he would not bring himself to completion and now, each 
time he hardened, there was a heavy aching in his sack.  Then 
one night he awoke, body spasming, drowning in pleasure and 
sudden agony too and found his sheets spattered with a thick 
and blood-spotted nightfall.   He could not tell the assistant, 
and was bewildered at his newly-found shyness, but confided in 
Aragorn as they walked, who smiled warmly at him. 
“Boromir, your body wishes to return to its old, good, ways and 
must clear the stale seed.”  
Aragorn saw heat come to his cheeks and Boromir felt himself a 
callow youth again, learning his body in confusion and shame, 
but his love would not let him brood on it, saying, “I will 
prepare a syrup of poppies to blunt the pain.”

It was as he sat with Aragorn over the noon meal the following 
day that a servant entered and whispered low in the King’s ear, 
who cast down his knife and rose from the table, catching at 
Boromir’s sleeve, saying, “We have guests,” and dragging him to 
his feet.  They walked out into the yard and Aragorn led him to 
the gate, from where he could see the greenway to the lodge.  
Some half-league distant three riders approached.  Faramir’s 
big roan was well-known to him and Legolas’ grey stepped as 
daintily as ever, but between them, sitting very upright on a 
sturdy chestnut pony with a flaxen mane that swept to its 
knees, was a small boy, managing the reins of his first mount 
with pride and concentration.

Boromir began to run towards them and saw the boy catch sight 
of him, heard him exclaim to Legolas, who waved him on, and saw 
Arin urge his pony into a brisk trot.  Boromir met him at the 
top of a small rise and caught at the pony’s rein as Arin 
brought it to a halt. 
“Adar!” 
Arin’s arms opened wide and Boromir dragged him from the pony’s 
back and hugged him fiercely.  
“I have missed you boy!” 
Arin wrapped his arms around his father’s neck and kissed him, 
hardly drawing breath through a tumbling monologue in which his 
joy at seeing his father again was entwined with news about Nan 
and Rullo and the pony, which was ‘only a loan and I have to 
give it back.’   

The others of the party had arrived and Aragorn had caught up 
the wandering pony.  As Boromir went to greet Legolas and to 
thank him, he saw in the corner of his eye, Aragorn gently lay 
his hand on Arin’s head, whilst the child, uncaring of his 
presence, chattered to Faramir.  Then Arin turned to the King 
and said “Can I get up now please?” and the man nodded, dumbly, 
lifted him onto the pony and helped him find his stirrups and 
gather up his reins. Arin thanked him politely, meeting his 
gaze a little shyly and then turned his mount away to go 
upsides Arod again.  

As the riders went ahead to the lodge, Boromir and Aragorn 
followed slowly.  Boromir slipped an arm around Aragorn’s 
waist.  “He will come to know you as more than his King, I 
promise you this, on my life.”

The riding party stayed one night before returning, Arin and 
Legolas to the mill for a few more days of liberty and Faramir 
to Ithilien.  As night came on, Boromir took Aragorn by the 
hand and drew him to the boy’s bedside, where Boromir and Arin 
lay, propped up by pillows.  Aragorn told them a tale of 
adventure in Gondor long ago. Arin’s eyes grew round and if 
Boromir knew it to be one of Thorongil’s exploits, he said 
nothing.  

Boromir and Aragorn left the lodge two days later, riding into 
Minas Tirith in mid-afternoon, Aragorn bare-headed, so that the 
first recognition by the guard at the main gate had trumpets 
pealing all the way up before them.  Boromir rode into the 
palace courtyard with Aragorn, where he jumped down to take his 
King’s stirrup and help him dismount before the grooms could 
reach them.  
“That was a Steward’s courtesy,” murmured Aragorn for his ears 
only, “and you do the King honour, but I would re-shape the 
title for this Fourth Age… no-more the servant’s role.” 

So saying, the King entered into his palace and Boromir strode 
down to the Sixth Level, where he went briefly to Celond, and 
thence to open up the house, although in truth all was ready 
ahead of his arrival.  Aragorn spent time in speech with Arwen 
and playing with Eldarion.  The King and the Queen strolled, 
arm-in-arm, in her garden and at the last she kissed his lips 
and sent him to his Steward.  

Sunset found the men walking together in Boromir’s garden, arms 
entwined.  They had not been lovers since before Amon Hen, but 
Aragorn thought he could remember the very feel of Boromir’s 
weight in his arms, the way that Boromir had laved at throat 
and hip, made him gasp and beg, and now the man’s touch made 
his body thrum once again. He stopped on the path and caught 
Boromir to him firmly.  

Aragorn bent his head into Boromir’s neck, drawing in his 
scent, then he stroked the hair curled around the back of an 
ear and asked 
“Will you lie with me tonight, Boromir of Gondor?” 
“That I will,” replied Boromir, meeting his gaze, “although…” 
and laughter bubbled in his throat. Aragorn tilted his head 
sideways in query and his smile matched Boromir’s answering 
grin.  
“Although…?”he asked. 
“It will seem strange to lie together in a bed…”  
“We could sleep on the floor, or out here…” 
“I am a delicate soul in need of tender care.”
“Indeed,” Aragorn said dryly, but he caught Boromir’s mouth in 
the softest of kisses, that barely brushed his lips with 
warmth.

In his chamber, Boromir had opened up the long shutters leading 
onto the balcony, and the last of a harvest breeze blew warm 
into the room to send the oil lamps flickering.  Warm water 
scented with spiced oils had been poured into the tub before 
the fire and Aragorn lay soaking as Boromir massaged his 
shoulders, his fingers sweeping over taut muscle.  Boromir had 
watched him undress earlier for the first time in many years 
and wondered anew at the dark beauty of the man.  Perhaps there 
was the lightest dusting of silver in the hair on his chest, to 
match the streaks in his hair, but he was muscled and lithe 
still and to Boromir’s eyes the ideal of a warrior.

Boromir had made his own preparations earlier, quickly and as 
unobtrusively as possible, whilst Aragorn stood on the balcony 
with a glass of sweet wine. It was one matter to display his 
shattered beauty to Aragorn in the presence of healers, but now 
he would stand before him as a lover and Boromir found himself 
draping his damp frame loosely in a silk robe, uncertain anew 
of how his body and his love would respond.  

As the water cooled Boromir held out a towel which had been 
warming before the fire and let Aragorn step into his arms, 
whilst he dried him.  As he worked down his body he came to his 
cock, stood stiff before him, laid a brief kiss to the rosy tip 
and quickly skimmed past it to dry down his long legs.  

When Boromir stood up again before him, Aragorn captured him 
very gently by his erection, laying it besides his own in his 
large palm.  For a moment the two men looked at the now very 
visible differences between them.  
“You look very sleek and strong, like Arod,” said Aragorn.  
Boromir’s lip trembled with laughter, 
“If you are comparing me to a horse, my lord…” 
Then Aragorn took the breath from him completely, by moving him 
back slightly with both hands on his shoulders, lining up the 
heads of their cocks to touch tip to tip and sliding the skin 
on his own erection out and over the head of Boromir’s cock.  
Boromir gasped and laid his forehead on Aragorn’s shoulder, 
smelling the spiced oil that reminded him of the pinks in 
Frodo’s garden, whilst the older man gently worked them 
together, sliding the edge of his foreskin around the rim of 
Boromir’s head, who groaned and rolled his hips, causing 
Aragorn to gasp in his turn. 

Sparks of pleasure were jumping in his body and behind his 
eyes, so that he did not object when Aragorn broke their hold 
and enveloped him in warm arms, sliding the robe off his 
shoulders so that they pressed together all along their bodies.  
Aragorn’s hands were more insistent now, caressing his 
shoulderblades, tracing long muscles, kneading at firm 
buttocks.  His King was breathing hard and as their eyes met, 
long years fell away in a shared hunger.  Aragorn would have 
pressed him back onto the bed, but Boromir resisted, turned his 
back on him and bent to take hold of one of the massive posts 
of the bed.  Aragorn stilled for a moment, a hand laid on his 
flank and gazed at the golden back.  There was not a scar, nor 
a blemish, anywhere, only supple muscle and velvet skin and he 
understood what it was that Boromir sought to offer to him.  

Very gently Aragorn reached up, unclasped Boromir’s hands from 
the carved wood and turned him into his embrace again, saying 
“Love, I could not wish for the man I knew back here with me 
again. I love the man before me, shaped by time and trial,” and 
one hand pressed to Arin’s scar, he took Boromir’s mouth in a 
deep kiss.  

As they emerged breathless, Boromir said gruffly, “Please, do 
this for me.” A long moment Aragorn gazed at him, then he bowed 
his head and carefully replaced Boromir’s hands where they had 
been on the post. As Boromir shifted his stance wider, he 
fetched a flagon of sweet almond oil from beside the tub.  

Boromir knew that no amount of preparation would make this 
first time in an age, anything other than painful, but he had 
almost forgotten the aching pleasure that went along with it.  
He was sweating freely, rocking back against deep thrusts, when 
he felt Aragorn reach for his cock, swinging free.  Boromir 
batted his hand away and behind him Aragorn groaned, wrapped an 
arm around his waist and laid his cheek to Boromir’s hair. His 
rhythm was becoming ragged, a low stream of Elvish sounded in 
Boromir’s ear and then he could feel his climax sweep over 
Aragorn in five or six great swooping thrusts that took him up 
on the balls of his feet.

When they untangled themselves and Boromir went to find a towel 
to dry them off, his erection still half-hard, Aragorn watched 
him closely, leaning back against the post, catching his 
breath.  He stooped to pick up Boromir’s silk robe and as he 
passed it to him, receiving back the towel, said, 
“Love, let me take care of you.  I promise I will not hurt 
you.”  
Boromir looked at him, smiled briefly and wrapped the robe 
around himself.  
“Later, I would lie quiet with you now.”

As Boromir emerged out of sleep, he was lying on his back 
between Aragorn’s legs, body cradled in the other man’s arms.  
The moon was up, a true harvest moon, bathing them both in 
silver light.  Aragorn was whispering words of love into his 
ear and when he saw Boromir was awake, curled sideways to kiss 
him, biting softly along the edge of Boromir’s lips, probing 
gently with his tongue.

Boromir sighed and drew the tip into his mouth, and now they 
were able to taste one-another, Boromir finding the bitter tang 
of smoke on his love’s breath amidst the sweetness of the wine 
and the taste of Aragorn himself.

Their love-making was unhurried, each content at the first to 
trace the planes of the other’s form; to shower kisses over 
eyelids, temples, jaw-lines, run a tongue along the curved line 
of an ear.  Then Aragorn caught Boromir’s earlobe between his 
teeth and nipped hard and Boromir felt the sharp jag of 
pleasure travel all the way to his groin.  He moaned deep in 
his chest, which Aragorn took for encouragement and half-turned 
him in his arms to lavish wet kisses down the length of his 
throat until he reached the rise of his collarbone, where he 
took in a mouthful of flesh and sucked hard to raise a purple 
blush brand on his love’s skin.  Boromir writhed in his grasp, 
his hips lifting fractionally and straining to offer his prone 
body, to present more of his flesh to Aragorn, who began to 
open the front of his robe, his fingers seeking, and finding, 
the swollen nubs which connected most immediately to his 
lover’s sex.

Urgent now, Aragorn shifted their positions, levering himself 
out from under Boromir to lie beside him, spreading the tunic 
wide and burrowing with his face into the man’s chest.  Boromir 
was dizzy, the heat of Aragorn’s breath, the scratch of his 
beard on his breast was causing feeling to rush to his groin 
and a familiar and a good ache began to spread outward from his 
member, already grown half-hard. As Aragorn’s tongue circled 
his nipples, suckling and laving, nipping and pulling, the soft 
sounds in his throat became a mewling needy thread.  

He was breathing shallow, the fear of pain being overwhelmed by 
the sensation of being swept along in this man’s hunger…and yet 
it was not an unthinking, savage, need to feed, for Aragorn 
took in a ragged breath and raised his head, his eyes drugged 
with sensation but a soft smile on his lips, wet and swollen .  
He brushed damp locks back from Boromir’s eyes and asked. 
“Is it well with you, lover?” to which Boromir could only reply 
with a nod and a ravenous kiss to his mouth, that left the 
Ranger breathless.  Aragorn gasped as they broke apart and laid 
his forehead on Boromir’s breast, saying “Let me do this for 
you.”  
Boromir stroked down his sweat-covered back and whispered “Aye” 
before he lay back and sank willingly into the moment.  His 
nipples and his groin were aching, and as Aragorn swept down 
his body with soft kisses and bites, weaving his way amongst 
the tracery of silver scars, a throbbing began in his cock, now 
erect and purpling.  Boromir could feel the pull on the skin of 
the sack, but there was no pain, only sharp pleasure and for 
the last time, slow tears began to run on his face. 

Aragorn’s mouth had reached his navel, where the tip of his 
tongue teased and dipped and then marked a broad wet trail down 
the join between leg and groin until his nose rested snug into 
the curls at the base of Boromir’s cock, damp with sweat.  
Boromir watched as Aragorn leant slowly forward and blew gently 
on the head, which twitched in greeting, tearing a groan from 
Boromir’s throat.  The tip of Aragorn’s tongue came out and 
softly nuzzled at the slit, catching up the clear drops at its 
edge and spreading them over the head, before his mouth opened 
further to take it in. Boromir cried out in pleasure and 
Aragorn sucked greedily at his prize, working around the rim 
with his tongue whilst one hand held the shaft loosely, moving 
his hand slowly in time with his sucking.

There was an old tightness pooling in Boromir’s groin that 
could have been his climax beginning to build, but for a moment 
the fear returned to him, so that he clutched at Aragorn’s 
shoulder, whispering “Wait!  Aragorn, please.”  
Aragorn closed his eyes and let him go, rolled over onto his 
back panting, allowing his own erection to spring free and as 
Boromir’s breathing calmed beside him, he stroked himself 
lazily.  Then he raised himself on his elbows and stretched 
over to catch up the jug of oil.  Boromir took the oil from him 
and poured some into Aragorn’s palms, the men exchanged words 
unspoken and Aragorn pressed his hands together, before bending 
to kiss Boromir, letting him taste himself faintly, sweet and 
salt, in his mouth. 

Boromir took Aragorn’s hand in his and guided it to his 
straining cock and as Aragorn closed his oiled fist on him, a 
hot mouth with flickering tongue suckling at his breast, he lay 
back on the bed.  Aragorn was working him slowly but firmly 
this time, so that Boromir could feel the waves of sensation 
spreading and building through every fibre and when more slick 
fingers swept below and behind his cock, not seeking entrance 
to his body, but stroking and pressing against hardening flesh, 
he could barely suck in the air to stay conscious.

He was keening and the tightening feeling had begun again in 
his groin, but now he dared to breathe into it and when the 
climax came pouring over him, he choked out his love’s name, 
feeling thick cream spatter on his stomach and chest. Aragorn 
leaned across him, trying to hold him down, to ensure that 
there was no unlucky pull on fragile skin and then bathed him 
slowly with his tongue, until Boromir could reach for him, to 
stroke Aragorn to completion and finally they slept.  This time 
Aragorn lay between his legs, cradled in Boromir’s arms and 
their sleep was calm and deep, as though they knew that they 
had come home.

After that time they had explored the edges of the possible in 
their love-making with more freedom.  Aragorn had relished the 
return to the close heat of his lover’s body, nevertheless 
there had been some small reticence until the day, months 
later, when Boromir, returned from a round of frustrating 
diplomacy, found his King waiting in his library, bent him over 
a sturdy table and took him; loved him with deep, urgent, 
strokes that drove Aragorn to the edge of delirium, and a 
savage grip on his hair, pulling his head back so that Boromir 
could whisper dark desires into his ear.  And as they lay 
slumped on the floor regaining their breath, Boromir reached 
over to his pack, cast aside in the struggle, and brought out 
thin gold bracelets of Harad design to clasp around his love’s 
wrists and ankles.

But the true mystery of it was that a few days later, one of 
the Harlond gardeners, crossing the orchard early, swore that 
he saw the Master through the morning mist, walking amidst the 
bee skips and talking to the bees.

Finis