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 15

“Aieeeeeee!” Faramir yelped as he scrambled furiously away from the apparition, upon which his head had been resting, ending up several feet away and on his knees. “You are… you are…”

“Dead? Deceased? Carked it?” the apparition supplied helpfully, eyes twinkling as he sat on the ground with his back braced against a large rock.

“This is no jesting matter you… you bastard!” Faramir mewled, disoriented and trying desperately to understand what was happening to him.

“Shame on you, little brother. That is a falsehood and you know so. I do believe the record books show our parents were married at the time I was conceived,” Boromir chided gently, amusement tugging at the corners of his mouth. “Oh, miel-neth nin (my kitten), it is good to speak to you,” he added, softly, quietly, his expression turning melancholy.

Faramir put a trembling hand to his mouth and tears sprang to his eyes at the endearment miel-neth, Boromir’s childhood name for him. It was something Faramir thought never to hear again.

“If I touch you,” Faramir began tentatively, “you will not disappear in a puff of smoke will you?”

“No, miel-neth, not here,” Boromir assured, rising to his feet and opening his arms wide in invitation.

“Promise?” Faramir whimpered, tears overflowing and streaming down his face.

“Promise, little one,” Boromir assured Faramir as he waved the fingers of his outstretched hands, coaxing his skittish brother.

In but a moment, the Gondorian Warrior’s arms were filled with his sobbing, mewling brother. Faramir placed his arms around Boromir’s neck and if not for the fact that his brother was already to be counted amongst those deceased, would have squeezed the life from him. Faramir breathed in deeply, taking in the familiar scent of his brother and knew that it was indeed Boromir for none other had that particular scent, one he had known from his first memories. Boromir held his brother tightly also, savouring the feel of his little brother.

“I have missed you… so… much,” Faramir sobbed as Boromir held him tightly. Both brothers stayed like that for a long time, each savouring the nearness and solidity of the other. “Am I dead?” Faramir mewled eventually into his brother’s shoulder, when his sobbing had abated enough for his thought processes to resume.

“I have missed being able to hold you and no, little brother, you are not dead but I fear you would wish it from the sounds of your screaming before you lost consciousness,” Boromir said in a whisper, hoarse with emotion.

“What is happening to me? Where is here?” Faramir asked, gaining slightly more control over his thoughts if not his emotions.

“What is the last thing that you remember,” Boromir asked as he guided his brother to the rocked and bade him sit down.

“I was in a stable grappling with three men when they pinned me to the ground and poured a foul potion down my throat, forcing me to swallow. Oh, how it burned!” Faramir replied, shuddering at the dark memory.

“The three men have adducted you and are taking you down river by boat. The potion they gave you is to keep your thoughts disjointed so that you cannot employ your wizarding powers but I fear they have given you too much of the evil brew,” Boromir said, tightening his embrace to temper his brother’s trembling.

“How do you know this?”

“Where ever you have been, little brother, so have I, watching over you” Boromir replied, chuckling as the ramifications of his statement began to settle on Faramir.

“Where is here?” Faramir asked.

“Betwixt and between,” Boromir replied vaguely.

“Betwixt and between what, buffoon?” Faramir asked, his temper taking control of his mouth – yet again.

“Between the living world and the halls of our ancestors, a staging area so to speak,” Boromir answered, amused at his brother’s display of temper.

“Why are you here? I thought you deserted me, that time in Mirkwood,” Faramir asked a little petulantly.

“Only after I saw you placed safely in the hands of an elven ada and brother who have grown to love you dearly, Fara,” Boromir corrected, causing Faramir to blush, contrite. “And I told you, I have been watching you. The bond between you and I is indeed strong, little one, for not even death has been able to break it and I admit that something else has been holding me here but I have not thought overmuch on its cause for I have been far too entertained watching your antics,” Boromir admonished, chuckling as he did so. “I have laughed heartily and been ever so delightfully amused as I have borne witness to Gondor’s King, a wizard, a whole cast of elves including King, Lord, Prince and nanny and our dear, dear uncle, run ragged attempting to keep you out of trouble.”

“It is not my fault, circumstances just keep getting a little ahead of me,” Faramir whined, pouting.

Boromir threw back his head and fair howled with laughter as he pulled his brother more tightly to him, praising the Valar for giving him the opportunity to do so.

“Ahoy there,” Aragorn hailed from the shore as his party came across a small ship of Dol Amroth and a second ship, abandoned and run aground.

The company dismounted.

“The vessel was ran aground deliberately, sire, when realised that it could not outrun my ship,” the breathless young Swan Knight Captain said from behind Aragorn, causing the King to turn quickly about. “My sailors and I gave chase but were prevented from securing the Steward by the largest orcs I have ever had the misfortune to fight. Whilst we fought the abductors escaped with the Steward in that direction,” the knight said looking inland. “I am sorry, sire.”

Legolas ran off in the direction the knight indicated with Misto scuttling along in hot pursuit.

“Uruk-hai,” Aragorn spat. “This reeks of Saruman.”

“But they are heading towards Umbar,” Thranduil mused.

“I do not like where that thought leads us, mellon-nin,” Aragorn responded, shaking his head in consternation.

“Neither do I. An alliance between Saruman and the Haradrim is indeed a sobering thought,” the elven King agreed.

“Return to Minas Tirith, advise Prince Imrahil of what has transpired and tell him that we follow on land,” Aragorn instructed the Swan Knight.

“Legolas has picked up on the trail,” Thranduil explained on hearing the elven whistle.

The company remounted, met up with Legolas and continued in pursuit.

“It is not yet your time, Fara. You have to go back,” Boromir said at last, breaking the embrace reluctantly.

“My heart is torn,” Faramir moaned softly. “I want to stay with you but I do not want to leave ada and Legolas.”

“I know, little brother,” Boromir whispered, again taking Faramir into his bear-like embrace. “But you have much life yet to live and great deeds yet to achieve.”

“Will you remain betwixt and between much longer?” Faramir asked hopefully.

“Aye, little brother. I will be here for quite a while yet, I think,” Boromir replied.

Pain… scream… Boromir!… fire… pain… scream… “silence him!” … blackness.

“Well, that did not go well,” Boromir said, slightly exasperated as he gently stroked his brother’s hair.

“That hurt,” Faramir growled as he felt his head again resting on his brother’s lap.

“Can you hear the ring in this place?” Boromir asked.

“Aye, faintly,” Faramir replied bemusedly after several moments, wondering what Boromir was planning.

“Concentrate on the voice of the ring and try going back again,” Boromir suggested.

Faramir swore mightily, much to the amusement of Boromir, but did as he was bid.

Faramir regained consciousness and wished promptly that he had not. The pain, burning its way through his body, was excruciating, robbing him of breath. Despite the pain he realised that he was aware, no longer were his thoughts fragmented. Faramir could hear the voice of the ring drawing him ever deeper into himself and conversely, further away from the pain. He felt as if he had become detached, ever so slightly, from his body. With awareness came the realisation that it was night, his hands were tied behind his back, his feet were also bound and he was slung over someone or something’s shoulder. By the stench that assailed his nostrils, very strong despite the detached state in which he found himself, an orc carried him – a very large orc.

Faramir continued to feign unconsciousness whilst he formulated a plan for escape, a very difficult task considering the pain he was in and the blood rushing to his head, as he was virtually upside-down. The Steward thought the fell creatures would never stop. From the snippets of conversation, which was conducted mostly in grunts, he discovered that the orcs were being pursued, in all likelihood he thought, by Elessar and his ada. Faramir also ascertained that the orcs were hoping to meet with a much larger group of orcs, who were coming from Ithilien, at a predetermined point on the Harad Road. From the sippets of information he deduced that Saruman had allied with the Haradrim, although for what ultimate purpose he did not know; just that it did not bode well for Gondor.

The orcs did not stop until they had reached the Harad Road and hid, off road in the forest, to rest and wait for the other party of orcs to arrive. Faramir felt himself being lowered, none too gently, to the ground.

Feeling nausea and the strange detachment, Faramir felt his left leather wrist and forearm protector and was relieved to find that the abductors had missed the small dagger that was secured near his wrist. After what seemed like an eternity to the nauseous Steward, he managed to free the dagger and cut through the rope that secured his hands. Soon after he managed to cut the rope holding his feet. Utilising his ranger-trained stealth, he slipped quietly into the darkness. Unfortunately his escape was witnessed by an orc who was returning from relieving itself and the alarm was raised. Faramir ran as fast as he could, almost doubling over at times due to the burning pain that still assaulted his body, despite the detachment. It was not long before the ranger found himself propelled forward and crashing to the ground, tacked by an orc. The wind was knocked out of him and pain exploding in his head and body, Faramir raised himself to his knees and began retching, which turned into a series of dry heaves as he had had no food or water for some time.

“Attempt to escape again, little rabbit, and I will have you skinned alive,” the largest human hissed in his ear. “Punish but do not kill him,” he ordered, comfortable in the knowledge that the Wizard was unable to access his powers, for if he could he would already have done so.

Faramir was pulled to his knees by two orcs and his leather over-tunic and shirt ripped from his body. The two orcs held him in place whilst a third orc, the one who had carried him, produced a large, lethal looking whip with many tails; each with a jagged piece of metal tied at the end. Smiling, the orc circled Faramir letting the human see the whip. Too exhausted to fight, Faramir closed his eyes. He felt every stroke, felt his flesh part and blood trickle down his back but although there was pain enough to make him cry out, he still felt the strange detachment and heard the voice of the ring, lamenting, drawing him further away from the pain. The orc kept up a steady pace growing more and more annoyed at the human’s lack of response but finally ceased the punishment. Faramir was released and promptly fell forward in a dead faint.

Not wanting to risk injury to the horses by travelling in the dark, for there was not even moonlight to guide them, the companions made camp for the night.

“Oh, my elfling,” Thranduil moaned as he sat with his back braced against the trunk of a tree, near a small fire that had been set alight. “I have such a feeling.”

“We will find him and bring him home,” Legolas whispered, adamant, as he put an arm around his father’s shoulders and pulled him close.

Aragorn, Gandalf, Gimli and Maglor looked upon the elven King with sadness in their hearts for each felt the same darkness as the elf. Misto scuttled over to the elven King and sat down upon his lap, silent.

On first light the next morning the company mounted and rode until they were within elven sight of the Harad Road. They stopped briefly allowing Legolas to dismount and climb the tallest tree.

“I can see them just on the other side of the Harad Road. There are three men and fifteen orcs that I can see,” Legolas called down to his companions and then he gasped.

“What is it, mellon nin?” Aragorn asked, alarmed.

“There is a second group of orcs further up the road. There must be at least three hundred heading towards the smaller group,” Legolas replied as he climbed down the tree quickly, as only a wood-elf could, and jumped lightly onto his horse in front of Gimli who was holding the hatchling.

Wheeling his horse, much to Gimli’s distress, Legolas galloped off towards the orcs with Gimli holding onto the elf for grim death and Misto attached, with all eight legs, to the Dwarf. Thus the race was on – to reach Faramir before the two groups of orcs met and combined forces.

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