“Born of stone he came to death in distant woods. Beech leaves, gold and brown, cushioned his fall and a rough grey trunk, strong with growth, was beneath his hand. He died far from the White Tower and walled city that held his heart, dreaming always of their safety and of the one he left behind. He walked in darkness to his death but found his way to the light in dying. And he who would rule died breathing fealty to his king.”

Aefre paused to tie a knot and bite off the thread. The children pressed closer to her knees, eyes wide.

“More,” whispered the youngest.

Aefre smiled down at him as she picked up another torn tunic. One day he would be king, but for this summer he was simply her ‘dearest of all’.

“A mortal born he was given an Elven-made bier of silvery wood; he sailed farewelled by Elven song. The river of his life – our river of stars – cradled him in death and took him home. Your father, my prince,” – she nodded at the raven haired boy – “saw him pass. Glory trailed him and peace bathed him as he farewelled his beloved land. Starlight lit his way to the Great Ocean… and Gondor was left to mourn bold, fair Boromir.”

The light through the window was fading as a fire-red sunset spread behind the mountain and Aefre laid down her sewing. The four children – blond, raven and the soft brown of the woods – were silent, seeing still the picture she had painted for them. For a rare moment Aefre let her hands lie idle as she thought about the tall lord she had never met and the legend she had woven. His memory would live now in her words, as was the way of Rohan.