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 28

Faramir pulled his cousin into a private meeting room not far from the Great Hall. He pushed the pale young knight into one of the lounge chairs dotted around the room in groups of three or four.

“Sir! Will you cease your bellowing?!” Faramir bellowed in turn, his face turning an interesting shade of magenta and startling his cousin who did not know that his normally soft-spoken cousin was capable of bellowing, yet alone that loudly.

This had an immediate effect upon Boromir who did indeed cease bellowing and was currently imitating a fish out of water, eyes wide in shock and mouth opening and closing. No less shocked at the volume of the sound emanating from Faramir, were the three elder elves and Imrahil as they entered the room.

“Thank you, Fara,” Amrothos whispered gratefully to his cousin.

“Shame on you Boromir!” Faramir admonished as he reached for a decanter of brandy on a side-table that was kept well stocked for guests, poured a goodly amount into a glass and passed it to Amrothos who accepted the glass with a shaking hand. “That was a terrible thing to do to him! The boy is still shaking!”

Amrothos felt some indignation at being called a boy since there was but five years between him and Faramir but upon reflection realised that his cousin had been forced into manhood at a much earlier age, his uncle the Steward being the way he was towards his second born; cold and disdainful.

“Well, sprog? What do you have to say for yourself?” Imrahil asked quietly as he knelt down beside his son.

Aragorn arrived at that moment and stood with the elves next to Elrond. He waved Amrothos to remain seated, when the very pale young knight made as if to rise to his feet. He had got away after the first dance leaving an annoyed wife in the hands of Legolas. Arwen wanted to come as well but Aragorn felt that at least one of them should remain and as he wanted to hear the explanation of what had occurred first hand, he had pulled rank.

“Uncle? Will you please tell Boromir to stop growling and snarling?” Faramir asked, glaring at his brother who seemed about to gain a second wind now that the initial shock seemed to have dissipated.

“Boromir, cease your tantrum now or I will tell everyone here of one of your more nefarious escapades. I could start with the summer of ninety-eight,” Imrahil said in a calm, quiet tone.

Boromir, forehead furrowed in concentration, counted back the years trying to recall where he had been in summer of ninety-eight. When he remembered, his eyes widened, his ghostly pallor turned slightly pink and he ceased his growling and snarling immediately.

“Thank you, uncle,” Faramir sighed with a not very well hidden smirk, wondering briefly how he could wheedle the story out of his uncle.

“Well, sprog. You can obviously see Boromir. Why did you not say anything?” Imrahil asked, frowning in consternation.

“Do you not remember what happened the last time I said I could see a ghost?” Amrothos replied petulantly.

“Oh, sprog! You really could see your grandfather,” Imrahil comprehended, feeling both shame and chagrin. “I am so sorry, son. We thought it a manifestation of your grief for the loss of your beloved grandfather,” he soothed.

“And of seeking attention,” he muttered, looking down at the glass he held with both hands resting on his knees. “People alternately dismissed me or acted as if they were walking on eggshells, not wanting to be accused of pushing the poor mad thing over the edge into insanity. You did not have any such thoughts about Faramir seeking attention, I am sure,” he added, feeling very much aggrieved at the moment for both the past and present.

“That is because, unlike you my gregarious son, Faramir would walk ten miles out of his way through burning lava simply not to bring attention to himself,” Imrahil retorted quietly, evincing a small smile from Amrothos, for he realised the truth of the statement, smirks and smiles from the elves and Aragorn and a flush of scarlet from Faramir who shook his head in denial. “Now back to the issue of concern. Why did you not say anything to Faramir?”

“I was not absolutely certain that he could see Boromir and you never mentioned in your letters home that Faramir was seeing ghosts. I was almost certain. Anyway, what opportunity have I had since entering the city? Things have been a little hectic,” Amrothos refuted as he took another gulp from the glass of brandy.

“Alright, sprog. I can understand why you did not tell Faramir but why did you not acknowledge the truth to Boromir?” Imrahil questioned gently.

“He was one of the ones who dismissed me for he did not believe in ghosts,” Amrothos replied, sarcasm fair dripping from the latter part of the statement.

Faramir turned to his brother, eyebrow almost touching his hairline. Boromir winced, remembering his not so delicate handling of his young cousin at the time. In truth, his judgement had been blurred by his still fresh grief over the loss of Adrahil, whom he had loved dearly.

“Sorry, sprog,” he apologised sincerely.

“Apology accepted,” Amrothos sighed.

“Which begs the obvious question as to why you can both see Boromir,” Thranduil interjected, his curiosity piqued.

“If I remember correctly,” Faramir mused as he refilled the glass held by Amrothos, for his young cousin was still too pale, “you almost died of a fever not long after our grandsire passed on.”

“Aye,” Amrothos acknowledged.

“Did you perchance dream of him?” Faramir asked gently.

“Aye, only t’was no dream. Grandfather sheltered me through the worst of the fever. He would not allow me to move on towards the light. He told me that I had to go back, that there were still adventures awaiting me,” Amrothos replied distantly, detached from the here and now and drifting upon the currents of past memories.

Imrahil gasped, tears welling in his eyes.

“It seems both of us had one foot firmly planted in the next realm and both of us were sheltered by those we love who had recently passed over. It is as if a door has been opened…,” Faramir mused.

“You were so ill, sprog. I am ever thankful to Adrahil for sending you back. My heart and the heart of your mother would have been broken to lose you. I am so sorry that you we did not believe, sprog,” Imrahil professed, leaning forward and cupping his son’s cheek. Amrothos, as always, leaned into his father’s caress.

“Nay father, it was not your fault. I suspect that I would have had the same reaction had it been one of the others and not me who could see ghosts,” he replied rather ruefully, returning the look of love he saw in his father’s eyes. Faramir looked on with haunted eyes.

“Faramir raised with love,” Thranduil gasped so softly that only Elrond and Maglor heard the words, heart aching for his human son as he felt the love between Imrahil and Amrothos.

Both elves agreed with the meaning of their friend’s words. The young Swan Knight was indeed alike to Faramir but Faramir raised with love; intelligent, witty, impish, loving but above all, cognisant of his value, confident of his place in the world and in the affections of those around him.

Thranduil walked over to his son, held out a hand, which Faramir grasped, pulled him to his feet and into his strong arms. The Steward buried his face into his beloved ada’s shoulder and sighed a quiet sob.

“Do not ever doubt that you are loved as dearly by all of us, ion-nin,” Thranduil whispered into his son’s ear, tears welling in his eyes, cursing the old Steward’s legacy, knowing that the hurt, abandoned child that resided also in Faramir sought still the love of the man who had sired him.

Faramir nodded, acknowledging the words, burrowing deeper into his ada’s embrace to hide his tears. Thranduil responded by tightening his embrace. Moved by the scene, Aragorn moved unconsciously closer to his ada. Boromir looked on, aching to hold his little brother but thankful for the elven King’s strong arms and compassionate heart.

Explanation received, Aragorn took his leave of the others, sharing a look of affection with his ada, and left to search for his still, he felt certain, annoyed wife; whom he was sure would require delicate handling if he was to avoid sleeping on the couch this night.

Thranduil held his son until he was sure that Faramir had regained his composure. Just as they parted, Misto, who had been up in the rafters the entire time, descended upon a silken thread to dangle just in front of Faramir.

“Hungry, mama,” the hatchling said adamantly.

Faramir sighed.

“Would you prefer him to go in search of his own food, ion-nin,” Thranduil teased.

Faramir’s eyes widened in horror and he shook his head vehemently, visualising having to explain the sudden disappearances of cats, dogs and undersized servants. Thranduil laughed. Calling Misto to him, the Steward turned and was walking towards the door when he was stopped by his ada calling out his name. He turned back just in time to catch something thrown to him by the elven King. To his utmost mortification it was the jar of numbing salve he had smuggled into the twins’ room.

“I…,” he began, eyes widened in panic and swallowing hard.

“I know that you did not lie to me, technically, ion-nin but it was a very fine line. And never underestimate the eyesight or hearing abilities of an elf, especially one as old as Maglor,” he teased, looking askance at his Seneschal who returned a mock indignant glare. “Now be off with you.”

Faramir turned bright scarlet, ducking his head and smiling a little ruefully, before turning and walking from the room with the hatchling scuttling beside him, leaving his cousin to enjoy some quiet time with his uncle.

Aragorn returned to the Great Hall just as a dance was reaching its conclusion. He found his wife and Legolas easily amongst the lords and ladies of Gondor and the Swan Knights. Legolas released Arwen’s hand to Aragorn, who was looking at Arwen rather sheepishly and apologetically in the face of his wife’s raised eyebrow eerily reminiscent of their ada. Legolas walked over to the main table where he was met by the dwarf who was looking formidable, for what he lacked in height he more than made up for in breadth. Legolas gulped and attempted a tentative smile that looked more like a grimace.

“Mae govannen, Gimli,” Legolas squeaked.

“Well met indeed, Laddie,” Gimli replied menacingly. “We hae unfinished business to talk aboot, hae we no?”

“I am sorry for deceiving you, Gimli. Lord Elrond has already… dealt with my errors… most forcefully,” Legolas whined.

“Aye, I know. I hae spoken to Elrond and your ada,” Gimli said, almost chuckling at the look of indignation on his elfling’s face. “You were brought to account for aiding in the prank but you hae no been for deception, Laddie. Come, me bairn,” he added, turning towards the exit from the Great Hall

“What about the twins?” Legolas asked, wincing at his own cowardice.

Gimli stopped and turned back to his elf, eying him intently. Legolas, feeling ashamed, averted his gaze.

“From what your ada told me, they hae paid dearly for their errors and wi’ red backsides to prove it,” Gimli replied, turning again and walking towards the exit.

Gimli did not look back at the elf and Legolas was tempted to bolt but thought better of it, knowing how much worse it would be when the dwarf caught him. And catch him he would, as he could not stay out of sight indefinitely. Muttering curses he had learned from Faramir, Legolas followed the dwarf. Gimli led his elven friend to a quiet room in the opposite direction to that taken by Faramir. He found a comfortable lounge that was of a height suitable for a dwarf; which is why he had chosen the room and sat down in the middle, leaving enough room on both sides for an elf.

“All right, laddie,” Gimli said, patting his knee.

Legolas huffed as he walked over to the dwarf, fumbled with the ties of his leggings, so annoyed was he at the situation, pushed his leggings down to his knees and lowered himself over the dwarf’s knees. Gimli wasted no time in landing the first of a flurry of blows to Legolas’ buttocks, which he had to admit had been thoroughly spanked already. On the advice of Lord Elrond he was careful not to cover ground that Elrond had already covered, for fear of Legolas’ feelings of guilt deepening. It was not long before Legolas’ whimpers turned to yelps and his yelps to howls.

“I… am… s-sorry… I… will… never… d-deceive… again,” the distressed elf gasped out between sobs and howls of pain.

Taking pity on his elfling, Gimli ceased the chastisement, pulling up his elfling’s leggings. Legolas knelt on the floor, placed his head on the dwarf’s lap and his arms around his friend’s waist. Gimli smiled at the request for comfort and rubbed Legolas’ back in soothing motions.

“I am s-sorry, G-Gimli,” he said repeatedly, his breath hitching.

“I know, Laddie. All is forgiven,” he soothed the distressed elfling.

Elf and Dwarf stayed that way for a long time before making for their respective beds.

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