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 18

Thranduil sat, silent, still holding Faramir’s hand as he watched his son’s chest rise and fall and his breathing becoming ever more laboured. Earlier, Elrohir had applied a warm poultice, soaked in herbs and oils, to Faramir’s chest to assist his breathing. The elf was worried that the young human was developing an infection of the lungs. The twins sat on chairs near the fireplace, Maglor sat on the end of the bed in which Legolas lay, deep in reverie, and Misto slept in his web above Faramir.

“Lord Elrond is resting comfortably. Arwen is with him,” Imrahil said softly as he entered the room and sat down upon the chair that stood beside the bed in which Faramir lay. “I have never seen him so wearied. The healing has taken much from him. Foxling’s breathing worsens,” he added on hearing Faramir’s breathing. “I do hope he is not developing pneumonia.”

“Please help me raise him to a better position, mellon-nin,” Thranduil requested as he pulled Faramir gently to a semi-sitting position, assisted by Imrahil.

With elven agility and grace, Thranduil moved behind his son and sat with his back braced against the wooden bed-head and a leg on either side of Faramir. Imrahil lowered his nephew gently so that Faramir’s back rested against his ada’s chest. The elven King wrapped his arms around his son and crooned softly in Elvish as Faramir stirred slightly and snuffled in his sleep.

“He breathes easier,” Imrahil sighed in relief, after several long moments. “Though I suspect that has more to do with being held safe in the arms of his precious ada, my friend,” he added, eyes a-twinkle. “He has always been a tactile little creature, has my foxling.”

“This one has so much capacity to love. He loves whole-heartedly and unconditionally but demands, no, expects, nothing in return, which tells of a lifetime spent without love,” Thranduil said softly.

“Not without love, my friend. Many loved him although he did not realise it,” Imrahil corrected gently. “But he did grow up without love from the one person from whom it should have been expected, unconditionally.”

“Was Denethor so blind to this treasure he sired?” Thranduil asked sadly, without malice, resting his chin lightly on the red-gold locks atop his son’s head.

“Blinded by grief but alas, no less blind,” Imrahil replied, a sad smile tugging at the corner of his mouth as he watched Faramir.

Thranduil and Imrahil spoke quietly and at great length about Faramir’s childhood as they watched him sleeping. Imrahil related many of the more mischievous antics of his nephews. Twice, Elrohir changed the poultice, tut-tutting as he did so, concerned over his friend’s fever and his continued difficulty with breathing. It was late afternoon when Legolas returned from his reverie.

“How fares Faramir, ada?” Legolas asked as he sat up and swung his legs over the edge of the bed, narrowly avoiding Maglor as he did so, until he was sitting upright with his feet resting on the floor. “He is not breathing right.”

“Nay, elfling. He is still fevered and his breathing, though eased somewhat, is still laboured,” Thranduil replied as he looked intently at Legolas. “You are looking better, though.”

The twins approached Legolas to redress his shoulder wound. They had just finished when all the elves present heard Aragorn’s approach, hearing him ask to be taken to his Steward’s room. It was not long before a flushed and exhausted looking King entered the room. It was obvious that he had come straight from the palace without bothering to change, as he was still in his travel-stained riding clothes.

Aragorn saw Legolas sitting on the bed opposite the window. He smiled brightly and sighed in relief that his friend looked well. Legolas returned his smile. His smile faltered, though, when he looked upon Faramir propped up against Thranduil, in a deep sleep. To Aragorn’s unaccustomed eyes, his Steward looked terrible. Faramir was flushed with fever, which only highlighted the underlying pallidness of his skin.

“Arwen explained that ada was able to counteract the poison but at great cost to Faramir and himself,” Aragorn said as he approached his Steward, resting a palm on his friend’s fevered brow. “By the way, Arwen sends news that ada is feeling better and should be here soon.”

After assuring himself that Faramir was not in imminent danger of dying, Aragorn fussed around his Steward, changing the poultice and fetching a bowl in which he poured boiling water and added athelas leaves. Aragorn, pleased to hear Faramir’s breathing ease a little, left to bathe and change into more suitable clothing. It was not long though, before he returned and joined the twins in front of the fireplace.

Elrond came later that evening but could do little more for Faramir than the twins and Aragorn had already done. Faramir’s fever receded and spiked a number of times over the next three days but did not break. Thranduil sat vigil beside his human son refusing to move despite Elrond’s urgings that he eat and rest and Maglor’s more direct threats.

“You are digging yourself ever deeper, mellon-nin,” Elrond cautioned, as he watched Maglor glaring at his friend from his seated position near Legolas, after refusing yet again to rest. “You do realise that your hide will pay the price eventually for both the recent tantrum that so vexed Maglor and your refusals to rest.”

“I know,” Thranduil replied, screwing his nose in distaste; the same gesture that Elrond had seen gracing Legolas’ face on occasion. “I can see his hand twitching,” he added, trying not to look in Maglor’s direction. “I just wish this damned fever would break.”

It was several hours later, in the early hours of the morning, that the fever did break finally but many hours later Faramir seemed no closer to awakening. Elrond attempted to enter Faramir’s mind to coax him back but found that the Steward was too far away.

“Estel, you will need to go after Faramir and fetch him back to us for I do not have the energy to reach him,” Elrond said to Aragorn who was seated with the twins in front of the fireplace.

“Aye, ada,” Aragorn replied.

He moved to sit on the bed beside Faramir and placed a palm over his Steward’s brow. Aragorn went in search of Faramir. Having done so before, he found it easier to follow Faramir’s trail. He walked for what seemed an eternity, calling out to Faramir constantly but receiving no reply. Just when he was beginning to truly worry, he heard someone singing a lullaby softly. Following the sound he came into a forest clearing and gasped in shock, tears welling in his eyes, at the sight of the two figures before him, one sitting on the ground with his back braced against a large rock and the other lying down with his head resting on the other’s thigh.

Boromir saw Aragorn’s approach. He waved and then put a finger to his lips, gesturing for his friend to approach quietly. Aragorn walked to where Boromir sat, knelt down beside him, placed a hand either side of the Gondorian’s head, bent it towards him, leaned forward and kissed Boromir on the forehead.

“What are you still doing in this place, my friend?” Aragorn asked in a hushed voice as he drank in the sight of the warrior who was gently massaging his slumbering brother’s ear. “I thought you had moved on.”

“There is something, I know not what, brewing. Something in which I have yet a part to play,” Boromir replied with a far away look in his eye. “And besides which, I have had far too much enjoyment watching my little brother run rings around the lot of you,” he added, breaking out into a huge grin as his gaze shifted from the distance and back to Aragorn.

“He is a handful, my friend,” Aragorn replied a little sheepishly. “His fever has broken and he needs to return to us,” the King added gently.

“The poor little mite has had a rough trot over the last year,” Boromir sighed sadly, the love for his brother showing in his eyes, as he looked down upon his sleeping form. “Rouse, miel-neth,” he said quietly. Faramir mumbled something that neither Boromir nor Aragorn could catch but each knew was probably something that should not be repeated in mixed company, or within Maglor’s very acute hearing range, and promptly went back to sleep. “He does not wake well,” he added with a rueful smile.

Aragorn snorted.

“Aye, we have noted, my friend,” Aragorn replied, chuckling at Boromir’s gift for understatement.

“Quick, quick, the library is burning,” Boromir said in a very quiet voice as he leaned over his sibling.

Faramir sat bolt upright, clipping his brother under the chin as he did so, causing both of them to howl in pain and Aragorn to wince in empathy.

“Owwww!!!” Faramir exclaimed as he rubbed the top of his head vigorously. “Are you trying to give me heart failure, you hard-headed oaf?”

“You are not exactly soft-of-head, if soft-headed, yourself, little brother!” Boromir responded as he rubbed his chin.

Aragorn laughed as he watched the interplay between the brothers, gaining a glimpse into what life must have been like when they were together, in life.

Faramir swung around at the sound of the laughter and was surprised to see Aragorn standing there.

“It is time to go back, my Steward,” Aragorn said.

“Aye, little brother. If you do not go back now I fear your elven nanny will do something drastic to your ada. Your ada has been by your side constantly and is most grieved about you,” Boromir added as he stood, assisting his brother to do so as well. Faramir blushed spectacularly at the mention of his elven nanny. Chuckling Boromir embraced his brother. “I love you, little brother,” Boromir said as he held his brother tightly.

“And I you, brother,” Faramir replied, tears welling in his eyes.

Boromir let go of Faramir finally and then pulled Aragorn into a mighty hug.

“I will still be here, little brother,” Boromir assured as Aragorn took Faramir by the elbow and guided him back to those waiting anxiously for him back in the Houses of Healing.

Aragorn came back to himself and could feel the tears streaming down his face and his ada asking him repeatedly what was wrong.

“Boromir was there, still watching over Faramir, sheltering him until the fever broke,” Aragorn said when he had regained some composure.

“What? He has not moved on to the halls of our ancestors?” Imrahil asked, eyebrows aloft.

“Nay, he said there is something brewing and he has yet a part to play…” Aragorn began but his attention was diverted by moans coming from Faramir.

“Open your eyes, ion-nin,” Thranduil coaxed, his relief evident in his eyes.

Faramir moaned again but after a few moments opened his eyes, to be greeted by the relieved expressions of his ada, uncle and Elessar looking down at him. Imrahil raised his nephew to a sitting position as Thranduil held a cup of water that Elrond had given him, to Faramir’s lips.

“Are you in much pain?” Elrond asked.

“Oh, aye!” Faramir exclaimed in a whoosh of breath and a hacking cough in response.

“What hurts, tithen pen?”

“In order of… magnitude?” Faramir asked in return when he finally stopped coughing.

“Yes.”

“Every-damned-thing!” Faramir complained, having difficulty isolating all the sources of pain.

Smiling at the resilience of the human spirit, which never ceased to amaze him, Elrond reached for a vial containing essence of poppy and laced a cup of water with but a few drops, knowing that Faramir was susceptible to even small amounts. He coaxed the Steward in to drinking the potion. It was not long before Faramir was drifting off into a more natural sleep.

“Ada?” Faramir asked as he felt the pain ease and himself start to drift.

“Yes, ion-nin?” Thranduil asked softly.

“Go rest. You do not want Maglor on… your… tail…” Faramir began but drifted off into sleep before he could finish the sentence.

Maglor snorted, Legolas sniggered from his bed and Thranduil blushed furiously.

Faramir slept solidly for twelve hours. When awareness returned, it did so very slowly. He was aware vaguely that someone was singing. He even recognised the tune as one that came from Dol Amroth; a round in which one by one, drunken sailors fall overboard, until there is not one left on board. Each stanza ended with a very high note. The singer kept searching for the note, up and down the register but obviously found it elusive. Faramir also thought to himself that the ship must have contained a whole host of sailors as the singer was down to eight hundred and twenty three, having disposed of one hundred and seventy seven, if the ship had originally had one thousand sailors on board. The voice was familiar to the Steward but, as is the perverse nature of the universe at times, all Faramir’s logic faculties had yet to don gear, let alone muster.

“I suggest you try an octave lower,” Faramir mumbled, eyes still closed.

The singing stopped abruptly. It was at that precise moment that several more of Faramir’s faculties had mustered finally and he knew, without doubt, to whom the voice belonged. Faramir’s eyes flew open, wide.

“What was that, ion-nin?” Thranduil asked above him.

“You hear me?” the voice said.

“What is wrong, ion-nin?” the elven King asked, concerned by his son’s stricken pallor and rapid breathing.

“And you can see me?” the voice said as Faramir’s eyes, widened in panic, tracked the movements of the owner of the voice.

“Faramir! Speak to me,” Thranduil urged.

“I am fine, ada,” Faramir squeaked unsteadily, although his eyes were fixed upon another in the room.

“Oh, he is going to believe that, Fara,” the apparition chided sarcastically. “I had more colour to my cheeks after I had died than you have at the moment, little brother.”

Faramir whimpered.

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