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 38

“Where? When?” Legolas began firing off questions.

“It appears your journey has been an arduous one,” Aragorn interrupted, looking around furtively and deciding to move the conversation to a more secure location. Besides which, Aragorn thought, the elf looked tired and travel worn; for an elf that is. “Come, come,” Aragorn said, guiding the Mirkwood elf towards the palace. “We will gather in the red drawing room in an hour,” he said, turning back to the others gathered before turning back towards the palace.

Faramir, still dripping wet, and Amrothos began the walk to the palace. Misto was in the distance still, paying close attention to something that was on the ground.

“I think sprog…” Boromir’s voice came from behind the cousins as they arrived in the main courtyard of the palace, startling Amrothos who had not realised that his ghostly cousin had arrived upon the scene, “that Elphir is still somewhat vexed with you,” he said, smirking, nodding towards the Swan Knight officers who had just arrived and were in the process of dismounting and being greeted by Prince Imrahil and Arwen. The rest of the detachment was being billeted in various locations around the city.

Amrothos groaned, muttering some very choice words under his breath. Faramir blushed realising that some of the words were ones that often came from his own mouth when angered and his cousin had probably been learned them from him. Boromir smirked at his little brother’s discomposure guessing the source.

“Oh, now, really! That is a low blow even for Elphir,” he complained, his face scrunching in the same way, as did Faramir’s when vexed, as he looked upon the dark haired knight who had just removed his helmet.

Faramir recognised the knight as his cousin’s equivalent to his own nemesis Lord Atiel, but whereas Atiel was a congenital idiot, the consequence of too much inbreeding within the family over successive generations or so Faramir thought, and a bully, Lord Dragor possessed an unhealthy measure of unadulterated rat cunning and was anything but the characteristic chivalrous, if sometimes a little vacant, Swan Knight.

“Surely you expected retaliation when you delivered Elphir’s message to uncle in such a public forum?” Faramir queried, alluding to the night when Amrothos delivered his brother’s plea for the return of their father to Dol Amroth in front of not only their father but the King, Queen, various noble men and women of Gondor and knights of Dol Amroth present. The same night that Faramir found out that Amrothos could see Boromir, much to Boromir’s annoyance at the time for Amrothos had not acknowledged to anyone that he could see his ghostly cousin.

“Aye, but this reaction is a little excessive,” Amrothos whined, turning his back on his nemesis, lest his feelings be seen clearly in his face.

“Speaking of weasels…” Boromir said maliciously, looking at the Knight approaching.

“Aye, but you are right Brom, he does resemble a weasel. That long face with the long pointed nose and tiny eyes and all that fur,” Faramir said in a conversational tone as if discussing the weather, commenting on the Knight’s abundance of facial hair.

Resigning himself to the inevitable, Amrothos assumed an innocuous, or so he hoped, expression before turning around to face the weasel-faced knight.

“’Prince’ Faramir, ‘Prince’ Amrothos,” the man acknowledged emphasising the word ‘prince’ in such a way that it teetered on the brink of an insult but not enough to be called upon, noting Faramir’s soaked condition with a lingering look up and down the Steward’s body.

“It seems you are in the weasel’s bad books as well, Fara. Whatever have you done to the man?” Boromir asked.

Faramir and Amrothos smirked evilly at Boromir’s comment, both remembering a time or two when Amrothos was younger and Faramir’s superior wit and mental prowess had gained the upper hand over Dragor, much to the man’s embarrassment and Amrothos’ amusement at the time. The twin smirks took the man aback, momentarily.

“Lord Weas… Dragor,” Amrothos corrected, trying not to blush at the slip of his tongue.

“Well saved, sprog,” Boromir snorted sarcastically, rolling his eyes.

“May I enquire as to why you are in Minas Tirith?” Faramir ventured.

“I am here for the joint manoeuvrers to be held next week. Elphir thought it would be in Dol Amroth’s favour if a more experienced commander was present,” the Knight replied with a smile that bordered on a sneer as he looked meaningfully at Amrothos and back to Faramir.

“Experienced!” Boromir snorted. “Elphir would not have let the greasy git anywhere near a real battle for fear of those under his command.”

Amrothos, flushing all the way to the tips of his ears matching the colour of his hair, was just about to make an impolitic reply to the weasel when Prince Imrahil who was still standing with Arwen and the other knights, saw the danger signs in his youngest, sighed and called for Lord Dragor to attend him thus stopping the conversation short. He would have much to convey to his oldest son in the next missive he sent to Dol Amroth he thought. Whatever possessed his heir in sending the pretentious twerp he could not fathom.

“Let me go! I want to strangle the weasel,” Amrothos growled struggling fiercely and trying to lung at the departing Knight but unable to move a muscle.

“Mama, mama, look!” Misto said excitedly, as he scuttled up to Faramir holding onto something that was small and wriggling.

“I hope you are not planning on eating it?” Faramir asked as he looked down upon what turned out to be a small ginger kitten that seemed not at all distressed about being held by a giant spider and was indeed – purring.

Amrothos, struggling still against Faramir’s wizard hold, turned very pale and stopped his struggles.

“Not… eat!” the young spider replied indignantly looking up at Faramir. “Friend!”

“Well, I think you should return your little friend to his mama,” Faramir told his familiar. “Go on,” he shooed, seeing that Misto was about to argue.

Reluctantly and muttering to himself, very much like his mama did when annoyed Boromir noted with a smile, the young spider scuttled back to where he had found the kitten.

“That is one strange little creature, Fara,” Boromir said, his gaze following the annoyed spider and shaking his head.

“Will you_ please_let me go!” growled, glaring at his cousin.

“Sorry, sprog,” Faramir apologised. “But it would have pleased Elphir to no end knowing that his plan worked on the very first day of the weasel’s arrival.”

“And what plan would that be,” Amrothos huffed, anger still evident.

“You ending up over uncle’s knee being well and truly chastised for trying to wring the obnoxious weaselly git’s neck,” Faramir replied exasperatedly.

“How do you know that?” Amrothos muttered mutinously but realised that his anger had once again pushed all of his reasoning faculties aside and that his cousin had, in all likelihood, surmised correctly.

“Because it is what Boromir would have done and Elphir is in the same mould,” Faramir explained.

“You wound me, little brother,” the ghostly Gondorian countered putting his hand to his heart and assuming a dramatic pose. Faramir snorted. Amrothos sniggered, garnering a ‘mock’ glare from the ghostly Gondorian.

“Come, the dampness of these clothes is seeping into my very bones,” Faramir said as he made for the palace.

Freshly bathed and dressed in blessedly dry clothing, Faramir arrived at the King’s red drawing room. Entering, he found that Aragorn, Gimli and the elves, including Maglor and Finrod, were present already. He just sat down next to Legolas on one of the four large sofas arranged invitingly in front of the fireplace, when his uncle, cousin and Gandalf arrived.

“So where is he?” Legolas asked the question in the forefront of the minds of all present.

“In Mordor, not far from the pass that leads to Minas Morgul,” Finrod replied the feral glint back in his eye.

“What!!” several voices exclaimed at once.

“We have had reports of Haradrim gathering in Southern Gondor and of increased Corsair activity in the Bay of Belfalas,” Faramir replied perplexed. “Why would he be so far from the gathering troops and so close to Minas Tirith with the increased risk of being detected?”

“Because the Haradrim and Orcs have found a way through the Ephel Duath (Mts of Shadow) in Southern Gondor and into Mordor, where they are gathering in large numbers and readying to strike at Minas Tirith from Minas Morgul,” Finrod replied.

“How many wizards are being trained and how close are they to being deployed?” Faramir asked.

“There are twenty four wizards of varying abilities and Radagast believes that they are about two months away from completion of their training,” the Mirkwood elf responded.

“Which means we strike in four weeks,” Aragorn stated decisively.

“You are in a position to do so?” Finrod asked, surprised, knowing that they all thought originally that Saruman would take longer to train wizards and gather troops.

“Aye, mellon-nin,” Aragorn smiled. “There are manoeuvres planned for next week. We have several detachments of troops on their way from Dol Amroth and Rohan. In addition, we have freshly trained Gondorian detachments.”

“That is indeed good news,” Finrod smiled.

Later that evening after the completion of the evening meal and whilst the men, wizards, elves and dwarf discussed military tactics, Arwen retreated to her private drawing room to contemplate on what was about to occur and what preparations would need to be made for and by the civilians; women, children and men, left behind when the troops departed. She had not long settled when her keen elven senses detected movement up in the rafters and she heard faint mewling. The Queen looked up to see Misto descending on a silken thread and land on the carpet in front of her.

“Hello, tithen pen. What do you have there?” she asked.

“Not know what eat,” Misto replied as he showed her the small ginger kitten, which was mewling piteously. “Not eat mice,” he added plaintively, holding the mewling kitten out to the Queen with his two front legs.

Arwen put her hand to her mouth to hide her smile as she visualised the hapless young spider trying unsuccessfully to get the kitten to eat live mice, not much smaller than the kitten itself, in the dungeons.

“He is a bit young to eat mice, tithen-pen. He will though, when he is older,” Arwen soothed. “Does your mama know that you have the kitten?” she asked knowingly.

“No,” Misto replied, abashed. “Not find mama cat.”

“How about we take him to the kitchens and get him some warm milk and meat,” Arwen suggested wondering just how ‘thoroughly’ the young spider had looked for the kitten’s mother. Misto looked up at Arwen adoringly before following her to the kitchens holding the kitten, which was still mewling piteously in hunger.

Late into the evening, after having fleshed out a military strategy with his friends and relatives for dealing with the impending threat from Saruman, Faramir retired to his sleeping chambers finally. Thinking back over the discussions and planning, the Steward realised the combined formidable military prowess and ability his friends and relatives represented. Even Boromir, through him and Amrothos, was able to impart his considerable military experience and knowledge during the discussions. It was strange Faramir thought that Boromir almost seemed to gain substance during the discourse.

Distracted as he was by the discussion of the evening, Faramir did not at first notice Misto who was ensconced in his web above the four-poster bed. With a start, the Steward realised that his familiar had been absent from his side, or from above, for most of the evening. Looking up at the spider suspiciously, he noticed a telltale bulge in the webbing just below where the spider was sleeping. On closer inspection he saw that it was the kitten, curled up asleep, in a small basket that his familiar had secured to his webbing.

Misto stirred, awoke and looked down upon his mama.

“I thought I told you to return the kitten to its mother,” Faramir admonished mildly.

“Not find mama cat,” Misto replied. “Can keep?” he asked tentatively.

“It is a big responsibility, little one,” Faramir said as he looked at the sleeping kitten. “You will have to look after him and feed him,” he added, berating himself silently for his own soft spot for cats. It was something Boromir had oft teased him about, telling him about birds of a feather, or in this case, felines of a fur, alluding to his little brother’s notable feline tendencies such as seeking his brother’s body heat on many a cold winter night when he was a child.

“Yessss, will,” Misto promised sincerely.

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