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Through the white corridors of Minas Tirith, still echoing with the hush of morning, rushed a four-year-old whirlwind — a sturdy boy for his age, with unruly chestnut curls bouncing as he ran. In his arms he clutched a book that seemed older than Gondor itself: a massive tome slipping from his grasp, threatening to wrench his small wrists, but the child only held it tighter, as if pressing it to his heart. Golden letters shimmered across the cover: ATLAS of the Flora and Fauna of Middle-earth. The first letter had already been shyly covered by a feather bookmark.
Finduilas stood by the open window, where the sweet scent of blooming honeysuckle drifted into the room, filling the air with the freshness of spring. Just half a year ago, she had devoted nearly every free moment between his lessons and training to her son — reading to him with passion the ancient tales of brave heroes, sharing stories of the first kings of Gondor, patiently teaching him to find and name strange constellations in the velvet night sky and to recognize healing herbs in the lush palace gardens.
Now, as she saw her little boy tilt his head back and look at her with those wide eyes — so clear, like morning dew — she felt something shift in her chest. Where worry had made its home in recent months, gentle wings of motherly love slowly and cautiously began to unfurl.
Boromir, breath held, silently extended the towering book toward her.
“May I?”
His dark lashes quivered, and in that gaze was everything: the thirst for discovery, a spark of awe, and a boyish fear of rejection.
“Just bring it back before supper, my love,” she whispered, brushing a hand through his unruly curls.
Oh, how sweetly those words tickled his pride! Father would never have allowed it — but Mother did. She saw the hunger in his eyes as they devoured the letters on the cover, and she couldn’t say no. A flame of heroic purpose lit up inside him — he had been entrusted with a treasure.
And, of course, he didn’t return the book by supper.
That night, he sat by an old chest, the warm glow of candlelight washing slowly across the pages. He moved his lips, forming letters into words, and in his mind entire kingdoms came alive. Somewhere between lines about tiny desert creatures, his eyelids grew heavy — the boy fell asleep with the book clutched tightly to his chest, as if afraid the letters might spill out and scatter across the stone floor.
By the third hour of deep night, sleep had wrapped him in a soft shroud. The book had slid down onto his lap, and he now leaned against the old toy chest, arms still wrapped protectively around the tome. One hand had fallen open on a page where a skilled naturalist had sketched a curious beast:
“Sometimes, on narrow ledges clinging to near-vertical walls, one might spot small groups of furry creatures known as hyracs. These small animals, no bigger than a housecat, could climb almost sheer rock faces with ease. In their mouths grew large bony protrusions resembling fangs — though some ancient scrolls hypothesized they were actually tiny tusks, linking them to the legendary oliphaunts.”*
In his half-sleep, the creatures stirred to life: one cheeky hyracs poked out a pink tongue, wiggled it up and down, and winked at him. Boromir giggled in his dreams, and a soft echo of laughter rippled through the vaulted bedroom.
By the time the sun climbed high enough to mark the midday meal, Boromir slowly opened his eyes, confused to find himself not in his soft bed, but curled on the cool stone floor beside the old oak chest. In days past, if he ever fell asleep while reading, someone would always carry him to bed — usually Mother, tucking him in with care until even the gentlest efforts began to tire her. After that, the attentive servants had taken over the ritual.
But today something was different. No one had moved him. He’d been left there on the floor, which could only mean one thing: everyone in the citadel was busy with something urgent. Even his ever-present nursemaid had merely peeked into the room without her usual fuss.
With a wisdom far beyond his years, Boromir decided not to ask. If they had left him here, then there must be a reason. He looked down with fondness at the worn book still pressed to his chest and sniffed quietly as the familiar, slightly spicy scent of old parchment wrapped around him like a blanket.
“Have breakfast in the dining hall, alright?” the nurse said, already turning to the door.
“Alright… Has Mama woken up yet?”
“Yes, she has. But… don’t go to her just yet, alright?”
His brow furrowed with worry, but he nodded. The nurse disappeared behind the door, and silence fell — trembling, uncertain silence, beneath which something stirred.
Boromir blinked the sleep from his eyes, rubbed his face with one hand, and looked back at the open atlas. The creature on the page stared right back — fluffy, tusked, and sticking out its pink tongue in the exact same way as in his dream.
Beneath the drawing — rendered in the hand of a master naturalist — ran a caption. Usually, the letters were larger than the main body of the text, as if heralding something of great importance. Every such note Boromir had encountered in the atlas before held precious information: not only population numbers and dimensions, but curious details about habits, habitats, and even legends surrounding these wondrous creatures.
But this time was different — the line stood out in an unusually small, almost hesitant script, as if the naturalist himself had been unsure whether these troubling observations should ever be committed to parchment:
“Due to the exponential rise in orc numbers, the gorge-dwelling hyracs…”
Boromir frowned deeper and leaned closer to the page, trying to decipher the next word — a word he had never seen before. He traced the letters with his finger, reading the line again and again, but the strange term remained unreadable. No matter, he consoled himself. Father will be at breakfast. He’ll know for sure — he always does.
But as he approached the elaborately carved doors of the dining hall, a sharp pang of unease struck him. Mother had only allowed the atlas until supper, and not only had he forgotten to return the book — he had dragged the hefty volume nearly all the way to the table. There would be no one to shield him — Finduilas hadn’t left her chambers in weeks.
Those rooms now lay wrapped in muffled silence. Heavy curtains softened the noise from the halls, and she spent long hours in bed, as though strength returned to her reluctantly. Once, they had run laughing through the halls together, her voice ringing like silver bells. Now, Boromir only caught rare hours beside her bed, listening to her soft, sleepy voice while her hand idly traced the folds of her gown. The servants whispered that Lady Finduilas was simply tired, and gently led him away — back to his toys, his maps, and the wondrous tales of distant lands.
His heart dropped like a stone into a deep, dark well — but it was too late to turn back. Voices were already drifting from behind the door. Clutching the atlas tightly to his chest, Boromir squared his shoulders. If he were to be caught, he would at least hold fast to his treasure.
He could neither step forward nor bring himself to flee. The boy froze on the threshold, staring at the carved stone beneath his feet, as if it might shield him from the stern gaze of the guards. One look up, and he was certain iron gauntlets would clamp down on his small shoulders — the little lord, caught red-handed.
“Your father awaits you, young master,” came a surprisingly gentle voice.
“Y-yes…” Boromir squeaked.
“Shall I hold your tome here, while you take your meal?” The guard held out his strong hands.
Boromir gratefully passed the heavy atlas to him. The book was precious — but the smell of fresh pastries and the hope of an answer from his father called even louder.
“Do you… do you know what a extirpationem is?” he asked, turning slightly.
The guard shifted his weight, but his posture remained firm.
“I’m afraid not, my lord. Never heard the word.”
At breakfast, his father was as composed — and as distant — as he had been in recent months. Each day his gaze grew heavier, the lines on his brow deeper. He ate in silence, running his finger slowly along the rim of his silver goblet, as if weighing something important he wasn’t yet ready to speak aloud.
“Father,” Boromir ventured at last, pushing aside his barely-touched plate of bread, “do you know what extirpationem means?”
Denethor looked up, meeting his son’s curious eyes — but there was no warmth in his gaze.
“Extirpationem?” he repeated slowly, as if tasting the word. “No, son. I’ve never heard of it. Perhaps it’s an old word from the northern lands…”
He seemed about to add more, but a sudden noise from the hallway cut him off. The doors burst open, and a breathless servant rushed in, halting in panic on the threshold.
“My lord! You’re needed at once — it’s the Lady—”
Denethor’s face changed in an instant. Without a word, he rose and strode from the room, leaving Boromir alone at the table — alone with his unanswered questions, his uneaten breakfast, and a rising knot of fear in his chest.
Boromir stood still at his mother’s bedside, clutching the very same book he had expected to be scolded for — and yet, to his surprise, no one had said a word. His father seemed to have entirely forgotten his presence; all Denethor’s attention was fixed on Finduilas — and someone else Boromir could not yet see.
The boy rose up on tiptoe, stretching his neck to catch a glimpse of the precious bundle that his mother held so carefully against her chest.
In her pale, gaunt face — strangely brightened now — shone something new, something he had never seen before: a profound, all-consuming joy, mingled with tender exhaustion and quiet peace. Then, from the snowy-white swaddling in her arms, came a faint, kitten-like sound — a soft, mewling squeak — and Boromir’s heart fluttered in astonishment.
It was clear now: he had a brother.
“Faramir.” The name slipped from Denethor’s lips with a strange, unfamiliar gentleness, as though he were handling something fragile and unspeakably precious.
Boromir, staring at the tiny creature wrapped in soft white cloth, was suddenly filled with a curious mix of pride… and unease. Everything would be different now. And he had yet to learn what it truly meant — to be a brother.
“What do you wish for, my light?” Denethor asked softly, leaning close to his wife.
“Only one thing,” Finduilas replied, smiling tiredly — yet with a glint of mischief. “Do not scold our eldest”—she emphasized the new title with mock ceremony—“for devouring books faster than bread… And perhaps… a bite of something sweet, for me.”
The guard by the bed gave a barely noticeable, kindly smirk. Boromir, still holding the heavy atlas to his chest, took a careful step forward. He reached out and touched a tiny fingertip poking out from the swaddling, and in that moment, the strange word extirpation flew from his mind: the whole world had narrowed to the warmth of a baby’s hand.
“How could I be angry, when on the way here he kept pelting me with questions about some mysterious word?” Denethor chuckled. With a small nod, he beckoned his son forward and lifted the newborn into his arms.
“What word, dearest? Show me, Boromir,” Finduilas whispered.
“You’re tired,” Denethor cautioned, yet he still settled Faramir gently into the crook of his elbow, cradling him as if he were the most precious thing in all the world.
Boromir eagerly flipped open the atlas to the page with the hyracs. His mother leaned in, a curtain of fair hair falling across the parchment, and her eyes lit with warm amusement.
“Oh, that’s what it was! Not extirpation — it saysextinction. See? The ink has bled, the letter is nearly illegible.”
Boromir’s cheeks flamed with embarrassment. How could I not have guessed? Such a simple word — and he had built an entire mystery around it.
“So… the hyracs is nearing extinction?” he asked quietly, looking up at his father.
Denethor nodded, his gaze fixed on the infant still gently murmuring in his sleep.
“There is much in this world on the edge of vanishing, my son,” he said hoarsely. “But as long as we remember them — as long as we read, and learn — they live on. In our hearts. On parchment. And in those who come after us.”
“Let’s not speak of sad things, my light,” Finduilas whispered, resting her head wearily on the pillows. “Tell me instead… what’s for dessert?”
Still flushed from his mistake, Boromir suddenly perked up.
“There are hyracs living in it!” he declared, in all seriousness, vividly imagining furry creatures climbing over creamy dunes of pudding and cake.
Finduilas let out a soft, silvery laugh — the kind of laugh he hadn’t heard in what felt like forever. It rang like windchimes through the quiet chamber, warming the cold stone walls.
“In the desert, sweet one — not the dessert,” she said with a smile, smoothing back his hair with a warm hand. “But if you eat more porridge and less dessert, you’ll grow strong, and tall… and one day you may see the hyracs for yourself, wherever they may be hiding.”
Boromir nodded so vigorously that a lock of hair sprang free from its clasp. And in that moment, his entire world narrowed again — to her smile, to her voice, promising adventures, if only he could be brave and patient enough.
His mother’s laughter lingered in his ears long after — gently drowning out thoughts of endangered beasts, of his father’s heavy days, and of the book that still needed returning. None of it seemed to matter, really, while she was here — alive, smiling, and warm, like a shaft of sunlight through the White City’s high windows.