Faramir Fiction Archive

War of the Wizards (PG)

15 July 2010 | 120215 words | Work in Progress

Title: War of the Wizards
Author: KC
Rating: PG
Pairing(s): Faramir
Warnings: Spanking
Disclaimer: The characters are not mine. They belong to Tolkien.<br>,Please let me know what you think of this story by leaving a comment.

This is number seven in the series that started with Grief, Elf, Wasps and an Angry Wizard and Stubborn Stewards and Bright Red Paddles, Human King, Elven King & One Stubborn Steward, Sweet Revenge or Let Licking Dogs Lie and Elves, Orcs and the Road to Recovery.
Added: Chapter 52

Part 10

“As it is supposed to, pen-neth, which is why it is called chas… tise… ment,” Finrod replied as he continued to paddle the Rivendell elf’s buttocks using harder swats when enunciating pivotal points such as chastisement. Whilst relieved that Finrod did not hit as hard as Maglor, the implement of torture still hurt abysmally, Elladan thought dejectedly. “I suppose that I should be thankful that you and that doppelganger you call brother were able to stay out of trouble for two… whole… weeks!” the Mirkwood elf growled, emphasising the last three words with particularly hard strokes of the paddle made Elladan howl in pain, realising that Finrod could hit every bit as hard as Maglor.

The aforementioned doppelganger was sitting a short distance away under the watchful eye of the Gondorian Lieutenant, wincing with every stroke of the paddle his brother received. Heat and pain in his hindquarters reaching an alarming level, Elladan began to plead and apologise in the hopes of ending the torture.

“I am… sorry,” he sobbed out in gasped breaths. “We should… not have… left without…telling you… where we were… going.”

“What is this ‘we’ brother,” Elrohir sniped from his seated position. “I distinctly remember counselling that you should let them know where we were going but oh, no, not you!”

“Why you traitorous little yrch!” Elladan snarled in reply, twisting his head around to glare at his twin, the pain in his posterior forgotten momentarily. That is until Finrod landed an absolutely blistering slap to the exposed buttocks to regain the young elf’s attention. “Owwwww! Aieeeeee! Finrod!”

“Now that I have your undivided attention, pen-neth, I reiterate, you and your doppelganger will not go off orc hunting without advising myself or the Lieutenant. Do… I… make… myself… clear?” Finrod asked, emphasising each word with a blistering whack with the paddle.

“Nay… I mean aye… clear!” Elladan howled in reply.”

Finrod ceased the punishment and rubbed the distressed twin’s back in soothing circles. Pulling up Elladan’s leggings, he turned the younger elf over and into an embrace.

“I do not want to be in the position of having to tell your ada that you have been hurt or worse, killed, pen-neth, because we were not there to defend your back. He has lost enough,” Finrod admonished quietly.

“I am… sorry, Finrod,” Elladan said breathlessly.

The Mirkwood elf continued to sooth Elladan until the younger elf was calm enough to stand.

“Alright Elrohir. Your turn,” Finrod instructed, looking at the younger twin sternly.

Elrohir whimpered quietly as he rose to his feet and walked over to Finrod reluctantly, passing his still distressed and annoyed brother as he did so. The younger twin earned a clip over the ear when he came within range of his brother. A typical Elrondion brawl would have ensued had it not been for the Mirkwood elf’s veritable bark at Elladan to leave his brother alone. Elladan spared another dark look at his brother before moving over to where Elrohir had sat previously, and lowered himself onto his stomach.

Rubbing his ear to temper the sting, Elrohir stopped in front of Finrod, loosened his leggings pushing them down to his knees and lowered himself over the wood-elf’s lap. If anything, Finrod was harder on the younger twin for possessing more sense than his brother but not acting upon it appropriately. It was not long before the younger twin was howling as loudly as had his brother.

“I… am… sorry… sorry,” Elrohir said over and over again.

“I expect you to temper… your… brother’s… enthusiasm with wise counsel, pen-neth,” Finrod said, emphasising the key words of his message by blistering whacks.

“Owwww! Aye! I will! I will!” Elrohir howled.

Finrod stopped the punishment and comforted the younger twin as he had the older. When the younger twin had calmed enough, the Mirkwood elf pulled up the younger elf’s leggings and assisted him to his feet. Elrohir glared at his brother feeling the unfairness of being more thoroughly punished for not being able to keep the obstinate, opinionated oaf in line.

“On the morrow we will track the orc signs that you found and see if they lead to Saruman. Now I suggest the two of you rest for we have a long, hard ride ahead of us,” Finrod instructed, almost smiling at the twin looks of dismay that greeted his words.

In Minas Tirith the days following the disastrous council meeting and the unexpected claiming of the young Steward two days later by both the Ring of Power and the oldest tree in the White City in his mother’s garden, proved to be much easier for Faramir from a workload perspective if not from a personal freedom perspective. Elrond had indeed had a long talk with Aragorn about his son’s expectations of his still very young, by Númenorian standards, Steward. The elven Lord reminded Aragorn of what he had been like at Faramir’s age and that he should think himself lucky that Faramir, temper and self-preservation skills being notable exceptions, showed far more sense and intelligence than he had displayed on many; indeed most, occasions at the same age.

Thranduil and Imrahil approached Beregond to discuss how he, with their assistance and the assistance of his aides-in-training, could help to reduce Faramir’s workload for foreseeable future until, that was, the Steward had gained control over his burgeoning wizarding powers. So as the days progressed the Steward’s workload decreased significantly. Although Faramir was relived that much of the administrative burden had been eased, he was not so pleased with the state of his personal freedom. It seemed that everyone was keeping a close eye on him, scrutinising how much he ate, how much he slept and the tenure of his moods. The young Steward still found himself overwhelmed at times by all the attention. At these times he felt exposed and vulnerable.

The next of the regular fortnightly council meetings, minus the four councillors who had taunted Faramir so thoroughly in the previous meeting, was a subdued affair. After ‘dressing-down’ the Councillors Malagar, Ulrahad, Heriond and Aldahir, Aragorn suspended them for three full moons – a very serious sanction. Needless to say the four councillors did not take the news well. Although each managed to maintain fairly impassive expressions, each was furious and that anger was not directed towards the King but at the Steward; the one each thought was the cause of their current disgrace in the eyes of the King. The remaining councillors, with the exception of Imrahil, were now wary of both the Steward and the King’s tempers. Faramir was also subdued, embarrassed at having lost control of his temper so easily and so publicly. Both Aragorn and Imrahil noted Faramir’s sombre mood. When the King closed the meeting and the councillors were departing, Aragorn, unbeknownst to Faramir, looked at Imrahil to catch his gaze and then at his Steward with an unspoken question. Imrahil nodded in understanding and gave an unspoken reply that he would see to Faramir.

“Faramir?” Imrahil asked as his nephew made to follow the King. Faramir stopped, turned and looked at his uncle. “What ails you foxling?”

“Nothing, uncle” Faramir replied immediately and somewhat defensively.

“Foxling,” the Prince sighed, looking heavenward for a moment before returning his gaze to his sister’s child and shaking his head. “Come here, young one,” he added holding out his arms inviting Faramir into a hug, an offer the Steward could never refuse. “I would hazard a guess that you are feeling overwhelmed again and maybe a little exposed. Am I wrong?”

“Nay, uncle,” Faramir mumbled into Imrahil’s shoulder as the Swan Prince held him tightly. “I know I should be grateful for all that you, ada and the others have done and I am grateful but a part of me is feeling trapped and bereaved. I cannot seem to divest myself of this accursed feeling.”

“It is a natural feeling, foxling. I myself, Elessar and I would hazard a guess Lord Elrond and your ada have all felt this way on occasions. Ever it is with those who have had such public roles and responsibilities placed on them. And you were not expecting to become the Steward of Gondor, my foxling,” Imrahil soothed quietly as he held his nephew.

“Never in my wildest dreams or most fevered imaginings. I am certain that they were not in Denethor’s either – only Boromir and I would have wished it no other way,” Faramir replied adamantly. “I miss him so much!” the Steward said with a hushed sob.

“Shhhh, my foxling, I miss Boromir too,” Imrahil replied in a whisper as he looked over Faramir’s shoulder and saw Thranduil, Elrond and Maglor walking towards them, sympathy evident in their expressions.

“I wish I was not such a burden to you and ada. Owwwww!!!!!” Faramir yelped at the stinging swat to his posterior and turned to identify his assailant only to wince when he discovered it was his ada.

“Let that be a lesson to you, foxling,” Imrahil chuckled as he released Faramir into the waiting arms of Thranduil but not before landing a swat of his own to his nephew’s rear, prompting an indignant yelp from the Steward.

“I am sorry, ada,” Faramir whispered, snuggling into Thranduil’s embrace.

“It is alright, ion-nin. You cannot help the way you feel. Boromir loved you dearly and so do I,” the elven King replied, wishing that he could ease his son’s sense of loss but knew only time would dull the pain.

“I love you too, ada,” Faramir sighed.

“Lord Elrond, Maglor and I have sought you out to begin working on that imposing temper of yours, ion-nin,” Thranduil said, looking upon his suddenly wary son. “They both assisted me in gaining control over my fairly impressive temper.” Maglor snorted and Elrond’s eyebrow almost touched his extremely high hairline, causing Faramir’s eyes to begin twinkling with suppressed mirth. “Oh alright! My very impressive temper.”

“_Very_ impressive? The words that come to my mind are alarming, fearsome, stupefying, frightening, astonishing, terrifying, awe inspiring…” Maglor began.

“Yes, yes Maglor. Do not belabour the point,” Thranduil sniped staring intently at his Seneschal, who returned a mild, if slightly smug look.

“I find it very difficult to believe that you have such a temper, ada,” Faramir said looking puzzled.

“Believe,” Elrond replied without hesitation, much to Imrahil and Maglor’s amusement and Thranduil’s chagrin.

“What does this assistance entail?” Faramir asked, wariness returning to his features.

“We will continue our meditation sessions which will be modified slightly to help you keep your calm during stressful situations,” Elrond replied.

“And Maglor?” Faramir asked tentatively, knowing already that he was not going to like the answer.

“I will be there, pen-neth, whenever you do lose your temper to reinforce why you should be devoting more time to your meditation sessions with Elrond,” Maglor stated in a conversational tone that made the underlying threat all the more frightening to the young Steward.

“And you, ada?” Faramir asked, or more to the point squeaked, not taking his wary eyes off Maglor.

“I will assist with your meditation sessions and be there to comfort you whenever you do lose your temper and Maglor has reinforced why you should be devoting more time to your mediation sessions with Elrond,” Thranduil replied, the almost ever present twinkle in his eyes very evident.

“Oh my foxling!” Imrahil chuckled. “You look more like a startled rabbit! All will be well. We will take this one step at a time, one day at a time. And I am ever thankful that it was your mother who inherited Adrahil’s temper and not I.”

Faramir graced his uncle with a less than gracious scowl causing chuckles all around.

Meanwhile in a grimy, sleazy back room of a less than reputable alehouse in the commercial district in the second level, three men, cloaked and hooded, plotted.

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