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 19

“What is it? What do you see, foxling?” Imrahil asked as he leaned towards Faramir, still seated in the chair located beside the bed in which his nephew lay. “You look as if you are seeing a ghost…” Faramir began coughing. “You can see Boromir!” Imrahil exclaimed, knowing it to be the truth.

His suspicion was confirmed immediately when Faramir, not trusting his voice even though his coughing fit had ceased, simply nodded in that distracted way one does when given a severe shock and the cause of that shock is still standing there, bold as brass, smirking.

“What is he doing?” Imrahil asked.

“Smirking,” Faramir replied but then groaned in pain, paling even further as he attempted to curl into a tight ball on the bed.

“What hurts, tithen-pen?” Elrond asked from where he stood with Aragorn near the side of the bed, having approached Faramir as soon as the Steward had awoken.

“Cramps… legs… back,” Faramir replied in gasped breaths as looked up at his ada who was sitting on the bed beside him and groped for his hand.

Thranduil saw the gesture and took hold of his son’s hand, offering what comfort he could. Faramir squeezed the elven King’s hand fiercely as the muscle spasms continued, unrelenting.

“I think something to help your muscles to relax and then a warm bath is in order, pen-neth,” Elrond said as he pulled back the blankets covering Faramir to examine the extent of the spasms. “Elladan, can you please attend to the bath, ion-nin?” Elladan nodded and exited the room quickly. “Elrohir, please prepare a muscle relaxant.” Elrohir also nodded and went about the task. “Estel, help me relieve the muscle spasms.”

Aragorn assisted his father in massaging Faramir’s legs until Elladan returned to advise that the bath was ready. Elrond gently raised Faramir to a sitting position and fed him the muscle relaxant Elrohir had placed in his hand.

“Mellon-nin,” the Rivendell lord said gently gaining Thranduil’s attention, which was riveted on the son he was trying to comfort, “allow him to soak in the bath until the spasms cease completely. I need to prepare a few potions. And Maglor, look after your elfling,” Elrond added with a smile.

Maglor stood at the end of Faramir’s bed bemused for a moment until he realised to which ‘elfling’ Elrond referred.

“Come, elfling,” Maglor said to Thranduil, eliciting sniggers from both Legolas and Aragorn that were involuntary and therefore could not be contained.

Thranduil gathered Faramir into his arms and exited the room following Maglor, but not before he graced Elrond with a look that promised pain filled retribution for reminding his Seneschal of the unfinished business that lay between them. Elrond simply smiled in reply at the dark look from his friend.

Not long after Thranduil and Maglor entered the corridor that led to the bathing chambers, Misto came scurrying out into the corridor muttering and hissing ‘not ssstttaaayyy’, ‘mama hurt’ and ‘baaaddd elf’. The elder elves had heard Legolas try to reason with the hatchling, requesting he not to follow, as he would only be in the way. Needless to say, the suggestion did not go down well with the baby spider.

“I foresee they are going to have a troubled relationship, those two,” Thranduil said with small chuckle.

“I believe our little hatchling is jealous of Legolas,” Maglor replied, looking down upon the spider, which was still muttering. At the mention of the ‘baaaddd’ elf, Misto muttered a word that he had heard said in anger, of which he liked the sound. “Misto! Bad word! Bad!” Maglor admonished. Misto looked up at the elf somewhat shamefacedly and a little sheepishly, which was quite remarkable for a spider and made Maglor smile inwardly, although he kept his expression stern. “Where did you hear that word?”

“Not me,” Faramir was quick to point out between gritted teeth as the spasms continued, although not as intense as they had been for the muscle relaxant he had been given seemed to be working.

“Baaaddd elf,” Misto replied.

“Now is that jealously, or did he really hear that from our elfling?” the Seneschal mused with a smirk, as he stared down at the little creature sceptically.

They reached the bathing chambers finally and entered. Thranduil lay Faramir down upon the padded wooden bench that stood, about waist high, beside the large copper bath. Faramir did not have enough strength at present or for some time to come, Thranduil suspected, to sit unassisted. The copper bath also stood waist high, on solid metal, legs. Both the padded wooden bench and copper bath were designed to allow patients under the care of healers, to be bathed easily by those healers. The scents of healing herbs and oils that had been added to the bath water wafted towards them.

Faramir’s concentration began to drift as the muscle relaxant he had been given worked its magic. Misto scurried up the vertical wall and onto the rafter that spaned the breadth of the room above Faramir’s head, hissing ‘not in waaayyy’. Although his mind was well and truly clouded by the effects of the relaxant, Faramir recognised Misto’s annoyance and smiled up at his familiar. Thranduil and Maglor removed the bandages that covered Faramir’s back and also removed his leggings. Thranduil’s anger and temper flared again on seeing the angry looking weals and welts that covered his precious son’s back and the weight that Faramir had lost during his ordeal.

“You are in enough trouble, elfling,” Maglor warned, recognising the flash of temper in addition to the anger.

Thranduil winced and then sighed, nodding once in acknowledgement.

The two elves lifted Faramir with great care and placed him gently into the warm water. Although almost asleep, he groaned as the water stung the open wounds on his back. Thranduil crooned softly in elvish and Faramir settled, lulled by words and by the warmth and soft buoyancy of the water. Thranduil supported Faramir’s neck with one hand, keeping his son’s head above water and washed his hair with the other, whilst Maglor gently washed Faramir’s body and then massaged his legs. The young Steward drifted off to sleep.

After allowing Faramir to soak until the muscle spasms had ceased, the elves removed him from the water and placed him on the padded bench upon which towels had been laid out and began towelling dry the slumbering human. Whilst the two elves went about drying their young charge, Elrond entered the chamber bearing healing salve, clean bandages and fresh, loose fitting leggings.

“I have seen scarecrows with more meat to their bones than this child. He is dangerously thin yet again,” Elrond clucked as he rolled Faramir gently onto his side and applied salve to his back.

“I am open to any suggestions you may have on how we put meat on his bones,” Maglor huffed indignantly, holding Faramir in a sitting position so that Elrond could rebind the wounds. “All the food that I have foisted on the poor child did not see him gain the weight he had lost during the War of the Ring. If he were not so tall I would swear he was a hobbit. He certainly has their capacity for consuming food with no apparent effect on his weight.”

“Part of the problem is his proclivity towards running headlong into trouble without thought to his own safety and then losing his temper when forced to use his wizarding powers; with the result that he expends too much energy, thus depleting his reserves,” Elrond said.

“You are not telling us what we do not already know, mellon-nin,” Thranduil replied testily. “So, we continue to work on his sense, or lack thereof, of self preservation, his temper and his wizarding skills, whilst stuffing him full of food. I can see how my son will be enamoured by the constant, unrelenting attention to his behaviour and his eating habits,” he added, exasperation evident and temper very close to the surface.

“There are some potions that I can try which will reduce the need to feed him quite so often,” Elrond replied, ignoring, for the moment his friend’s sarcasm as he slipped the fresh leggings onto Faramir and wrapped him in a large dry towel. “As to the rest, we will simply have to take it one step at a time.” Much to Thranduil’s surprise, Elrond gathered Faramir, who was still deep in sleep, into his arms. “I am taking this one back to his bed and see if I cannot relieve his breathing which is still too laboured for my liking. I would suggest, Maglor, that this would be an opportune time to conclude the unfinished business you have with his ada.”

Elrond exited the room with his patient in his arms, a spider scuttling in his wake and unbeknownst to Thranduil, a wicked smile on his face.

“Traitor!” Thranduil muttered as he glared at the retreating back of the Lord of Rivendell.

“He is right, elfling,” Maglor said. “Your mood and temper will ever sour until the business between us is concluded. Come, elfling,” he added as he turned and exited the chamber, into the corridor.

Thranduil, looking very much like his elven son in similar circumstances, followed his Seneschal as Maglor led him outside and into a secluded private garden attached to the Houses of Healing. The elf sat down upon a stone bench and produced Faramir’s bane.

“Where do you hide that thing?” Thranduil asked as he eyed the red paddle, warily. Maglor did not reply but patted his knee in a silent command. “You are jesting…. You cannot mean to…. I have not been over your knee in centuries!” Thranduil exclaimed indignantly.

“You have not lost your temper so spectacularly in centuries,” Maglor retorted.

“I had just cause, think you not?” Thranduil asked.

“We will deal with that in a moment, elfling. Leggings down. Now!” Maglor barked, causing Thranduil to start. He could see that his Seneschal was still very angry.

“You can keep a grudge longer than any elf I know,” Thranduil muttered as he approached Maglor, loosened the ties on his leggings and pulled them down to his knees before lowering himself over the other elf’s lap.

“Alright, elfling. It has indeed been a long time since we have been in this position. What is this chastisement for?” Maglor asked, paddle at the ready.

“For losing my temper,” Thranduil grumbled. “I saw one son felled by an arrow and I thought the other dead. I think I had a right to be angry!” he exclaimed, temper taking control of his mouth as it often did when faced with a child’s chastisement, well, if truth be known, any chastisement.

“To be angry? Yes, you had every right. To launch into a rage so intense that you lost sight of your fallen sons and put your life at risk, no, you had no right to do that,” Maglor said adamantly, as he landed the first of a flurry of powerful stinging whacks to the King of Mirkwood’s posterior. “What say you, elfling?” Thranduil began to squirm but still remained stubbornly silent. “You are as stubborn as your son!”

“Which one?” Thranduil barked, the pain in his hindquarters quickly becoming unbearable.

“The fox-furred, spit-fire of a human one, pen-neth. Now answer me!” Maglor growled as he continued the unrelenting pace as he landed whack after stinging whack to his King’s buttocks. “Did you have the right to launch into a rage so intense that you lost sight of your sons and which could so easily have claimed your life?”

“No… I did not,” the elven King, snarled.

“Explaining your death to Legolas would have been devastating enough, pen-neth, but how could I have explained to that poor orphaned man-child that he had lost his precious ada to a fit of temper! As is his wont to do, he would have blamed himself and it would have destroyed him! Something that living a life as the unwanted second son of the Steward of Gondor and losing the foundation stone he called Boromir to that accursed ring, was unable to do,” Maglor continued to admonish, as he beat out an unrelenting tatoo on the elven King’s buttocks and thighs.

“I thought… he… was… dead! I felt… no… heartbeat ” Thranduil howled in anguish and pain at the memory of thinking his son dead.

“But he survived, mellon-nin,” Maglor soothed as he ceased the chastisement, pulled up the distressed elf’s leggings and allowed him to sob silently, as was his wont, as he rubbed his back in soothing circles. “And for us to keep him that way, you need to control your temper and stay alive.”

Still sobbing silently, Thranduil slipped from Maglor’s lap and rested his head upon the elder elf’s thigh. Maglor continued to croon softly to his King, stroking his long golden hair.

“I am sorry, mellon-nin, but I love them both so much,” Thranduil sighed as he gained control over his emotions.

“As they do you, mellon-nin,” Maglor replied, smiling down upon his repentant elfling. “As they do you.”

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