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 4

“Take a deep breath, little brother,” Legolas called out quietly in Elvish from his perch on the windowsill, looking with concern at his brother’s pale complexion and eyes widened in panic. “Alright… If you cannot take a deep breath; a small one will do,” the elf continued soothingly after several long moments as he jumped down lightly from the windowsill, over Gimli and hurried to Faramir. “Just breathe, Faramir!” Legolas implored as his brother’s lips started taking on a bluish tinge.

“Are you unwell, my Lord?” the Sheriff asked, alarmed at seeing the Steward’s face white as a sheet.

One of the Rohirrim, still very intoxicated, chose that particular moment to voice his objection to being incarcerated, his doubts about the legitimacy of the Steward and the unnatural sexual practices of the Steward’s ancestors. With speed worthy of an elf, Faramir took in a gasped breath as he turned smartly on his heel, raised the hand on which the ring of power was situated and sent a blue bolt of energy towards the wooden bench, outside the cell housing the soldiers of Rohan, reducing it in quick order to a smouldering pile of blackened splinters. As one, the Rohirrim jumped back in panic – their eyes wide with unrestrained fear. The dwarves in their cell also shuffled backwards. The Gondorian soldiers knew better than to risk inciting their captain’s wrath further, standing stock still and barely daring to breathe as they did so.

“I said be quiet” the Steward said in a dangerously soft voice, his hair beginning to stand on end and the faint blue crackling around his body intensifying. Taking a few deep breaths to try to regain a measure of control over his emotions, Faramir turned back to the cell containing the elves.

“Will he be looking for you yet?” Faramir whispered in Elvish, so low that only the elves could hear, as he looked at Arwen. The Queen shook her head. Not bothering to even try to figure out why that would be the case, the Steward turned to the Sheriff.

“Can you please go to Beregond’s house, tell him to find Gothric, my servant, and bring the lad here. I will spend that time getting to the bottom of what has occurred this evening,” Faramir instructed the Sheriff.

“As you wish, my Lord,” the Sheriff said with obvious puzzlement but he knew better than to question the Steward’s orders, especially in his current mood. The Sheriff turned and walked towards the entrance.

“Is the innkeeper about?” Faramir asked suddenly.

“Yes, he is in my office at the moment,” the Sheriff replied as he stopped and turned to the Steward.

“Please ask him to stay until I have spoken to him,” Faramir ordered quietly.

“Yes, my Lord,” the Sheriff said before turning again and leaving with more alacrity than was strictly polite.

The occupants of the various cells could not blame him as they turned wary eyes upon the still faintly crackling Steward.

“Alright gentle men, dwarves and elves. I want to know what has occurred this evening from the beginning. And no one will be leaving this establishment until I do know,” Faramir said in his normal well modulated tone that was all the more eerie given the still smouldering pile of wood splinters, evidence of the Steward’s recent anger. “Who wishes to begin? How about you my vociferous friend,” Faramir asked of the Rohirrim who had made the rather disparaging remarks earlier, in the same deceptively mild tone, causing the Gondorian soldiers to wince or cringe or wince and cringe. The Rohirrim soldier concerned paled under the Steward’s intense gaze and remained mute. “No? Well! This could prove to be a very long night.”

“I did not know that she was a he!” the tallest of the blond Rohirrim said indignantly in a rush. “I would not have made a pass at her… er… him, if I had known.”

The Steward’s eyebrows went skywards at the panicked confession of the tall Rohirrim.

“You made a pass at an elf?” Faramir repeated in alarm as he turned his head abruptly to look at Arwen. Still cloaked by the hood the Queen shook her head slightly, advising the Steward mutely that it was not she at whom the Rohirrim had made a pass. Faramir sighed in relief. “Then who?” he asked quietly as if to himself, looking bewildered. Understanding dawned suddenly. “You made a pass at my brother?” Faramir guessed. Eyes twinkling with amusement as he sought out Legolas, who had moved back to his perch on the windowsill, for confirmation.

Legolas returned a very dark look that promised long and pain filled retribution against his little brother.

“Your brother? No! The blond elf over there,” the tall Rohirrim replied looking as bewildered as the Steward had a moment before.

“Yes. The blond elf who is my brother,” Faramir reiterated.

“I… I did not know!” the warrior exclaimed in shock not believing the nightmare this evening had become. “Well, how was I to know he was not a she? The alehouse was darkened. There was much smoke. And he is pretty enough to be a she,” he argued inadvisably.

“I would, if I were you, stay any further words on that subject for my brother, pretty though he may be, is deadly with both elven knives and bow,” the Steward advised, smiling broadly at his darkly glaring brother. The Elrondion twins were trying their hardest not to laugh. Gimli, strangely, was looking like a thundercloud still, Faramir noted. “So you made a pass. I assume my brother rebuffed your… uh… advances. What happened then?

“Well… he is very pretty and it was an alehouse… and… well… I tried again,” the tall warrior confessed truthfully, his voice fading away with the sentence.

A deep continuous sound was coming from the back of the cell containing the elves. For several moments Faramir could not quite discern its origin but realised, with much amusement, that his brother was actually growling, sounding like a very annoyed hunting cat.

“So, after you tried again, what happened then?” Faramir asked as he turned from Legolas to look at the Rohirrim again.

“Well…” the warrior said as he tried to remember exactly what had happened as the events of earlier were a little hazy. “He grabbed me by the front of my tunic. Threw me across the bar over to the other side of the room and into a nest of dwarves. He is deceptively strong for such a dainty looking little thing,” the tall blond Rohirrim added with something akin to admiration.

Indignant rumblings could be heard from the dwarves’ cell and sniggers from the Gondorian’s cell both quelled quickly by a glare from the Steward. The now almost constant growling from Legolas grew in intensity.

“So that explains how the dwarves became involved,” Faramir said as he glared at the dwarves who shifted from feet to feet, looking down at the ground thus avoiding the Steward’s glare.

“They moved like a swarm of wasps and started bellowing and throwing punches at the elves and us for disturbing their drinking,” another Rohirrim said in disgust.

“Ahhh,” Faramir said nodding his head as he began to put the pieces of the puzzle together with his usual astuteness, suspecting the reason Gimli had not been placed with the other dwarves. “I begin to see the pattern. I assume Master Gimli, that you came to the defence of my brother, your friend, and had a falling out with your fellow brethren?” the Steward asked the glowering thundercloud.

“Aye. That is so, laddie. They… they accused me… and him… of…” was all that Gimli could manage to splutter, so great was the dwarf’s indignation and anger.

Faramir, discerning Gimli’s meaning, wheeled around and stalked towards the dwarves, eyes ablaze, hair standing on end and fair crackling with blue energy. The dwarves, not to mention the Rohirrim and Gondorians, moved as far back in their cells as possible, looking at the Steward with wide, panicked expressions.

“Excuse me a moment,” Faramir managed to growl before exiting to the next room.

Legolas jumped down from the windowsill again as the twins and Gimli jumped to their feet and all four ran to the front of their cell, looks of concern intensifying when a series of loud explosions, causing the occupants of the other cells to startle badly, was heard in the next room. It seemed like forever to the elves and Gimli before the door opened again and Faramir entered the room. Smoke-like vapour was rising from the Steward and he was still crackling faintly with blue energy.

Tired, Faramir walked to the cell containing Gimli and leaned against the iron bars.

“Master Gimli,” the young Steward said gently. “Please do not allow the ill considered and ill natured ramblings of your brethren malign your friendship with my brother. Together you and Legolas have faced greater trials than all of the men and dwarves gathered here and triumphed. During those trials you forged a friendship that transcends the petty bickerings between either of your races. As the elves count you a friend of elves, Elessar and I count you a friend of Gondor.”

“Thank you, laddie,” Gimli said with what looked suspiciously like tears in his eyes. Legolas smiled down at his friend, placing his hand on the dwarf’s shoulder. “Now, now, laddie. Do not be getting all maudlin on me,” Gimli grumbled at Legolas, causing the elf’s smile to broaden, as he surreptitiously wiped tears from his eyes.

“I am sure that your fellow dwarves are very sorry,” Faramir began as he glared at the dwarves, “for their ill advised remarks. Am I not right, sirs?” the Steward added in a slightly raised voice.

The dwarves had the grace to look abashed and all muttered something that sounded like an apology. Satisfied, the Steward continued.

“So, we have the dwarves, elves and Rohirrim throwing insults and punches. This I can at least understand now, if not condone, but this leaves my Gondorian soldiers. How did they become part of this squabble? Hmmmm?” Faramir asked as he turned his intense gaze on his own soldiers.

The soldiers of Gondor to a man were attempting to look as inconspicuous as possible, which if not for the seriousness of the situation would have been cause for laughter for each was built like a battlement.

“That would be my fault, sir,” came a small voice from the back of the cell.

“Come forward, man. Explain,” the Steward beckoned with his hand, perfunctorily.

The other Gondorians moved aside to let the owner of the voice through. The voice belonged to a rather young, if somewhat heavily built, soldier with curly black hair and grey eyes. Faramir recognised the young man by sight but had not seen the lad for many months.

“Well, sir…” the young man said before having to clear his throat which had tightened considerably under the Steward’s intense gaze. “I have been stationed at Osgiliath for some months, sir… I do not know much about the elves, sir… I… um…uh…”

“Just spit it out, soldier,” Faramir barked, losing patience.

“I saw the Rohirrim accosting the elf and then the dwarves swarming, sir. I thought I was coming to the aid of a she-elf,” the soldier let out in a rush, cringing as he did so. “And the others came to mine.”

Faramir coughed to disguise the involuntary chuckle that escaped his control. He could see from the corner of his eye that Gimli and the twins’ shoulders were shaking with suppressed mirth and from the low rumbling he could discern; Legolas had begun growling again.

The sounds of shuffling feet and swords being drawn could be heard coming from the next room. The Sheriff and Beregond burst forth through the doorway ready to do battle and stopped abruptly, though still looking around wildly. Gothric with his cloak and hood covering him like a shield, followed tentatively.

“What in Arda’s name has happened?” the Sheriff asked in alarm. “Every piece of furniture next door has been reduced to cinders.”

“You have lost your temper again. Have you not?” Beregond accused Faramir in a slightly scolding tone.

The Sheriff’s eyes widened and he looked at the Steward as he took in the meaning of Beregond’s words.

Faramir looked at Beregond for a long moment.

“I do not like the look of my brother’s elven friend. Can you and Gothric please see to him?” the Steward asked quietly. “If you will open door please, Sheriff?”

The Sheriff pulled the large keys from the pocket of his coat and unlocked the door. Beregond and Gothric entered the cell and walked over to Arwen who had remained seated the entire time.

“Sheriff,” Faramir said as he walked over to the cell containing the dwarves who were watching the Steward warily. “Please fetch the Innkeeper. I think the poor man has been kept waiting long enough.”

“Yes, my Lord,” the Sheriff replied as he turned smartly on his heel and went in search of the Innkeeper.

After a short time the Sheriff ushered in the burly, dark-haired Innkeeper. Faramir turned to Beregond who was still seeing to the elf.

“Is my brother’s friend alright, Beregond?” Faramir asked quietly as he walked over to the cell.

“He does seem to be a little dazed, my Lord but nothing serious I think,” Beregond replied.

“Gothric. Go and prepare one of the spare guest quarters near the healers. I would like them to watch over him tonight,” Faramir instructed his young servant. Gothric, still cloaked and hooded, nodded and left the room. “Beregond. Please go to the Inn and assess the damage done,” the Steward instructed as he leaned heavily against the door of the cell that Beregond had vacated and the Sheriff had relocked.

“Yes, my Lord,” Beregond replied as he too, left.

“Now sir. What damage has been done to your establishment?” Faramir asked all but holding himself up by the bars on the cell door, wishing that he could sit down but unfortunately the benches were not cushioned and his arse still throbbed after his session with ‘Faramir’s Bane’ and the King’s very heavy hand.

“Some furniture, my Lord. A few barrels of ale, some goblets and two glass windows,” the Innkeeper replied as he thought back on the scene of devastation that became apparent after the combatants had been removed.

“After Beregond confirms the damage I will ensure that you receive adequate recompense in addition to elven, dwarven and human labour to return your establishment to rights,” the Steward said as he glared at the occupants of each cell. “If you are in agreement to the terms, I would set this lot free so that I can get them out of the Sheriff’s hair and I can get back to my bed.”

“Yes, my Lord. Thank you, my Lord,” the Inkeeper said excitedly as he had not seen such prompt action taken before.

“If you will do the honours, Sheriff,” Faramir said indicating the cell lock. “This one last, I think,” the Steward corrected when the Sheriff went to unlock the cell door that was the only thing holding him up at the moment. Faramir wanted to give the Rohirrim, dwarves and Gondorian who upset his brother the opportunity to escape before he let Legolas loose. If they were in any way intelligent they would all leave quickly and hide from Legolas for the next century or two, Faramir thought irreverently. When Legolas saw his brother’s intent, darting glares at Faramir, he growled and rattled the cell door in frustration, causing the occupants of the other cells to leave all the more quickly.

Only after all the other cells had been opened and their occupants given ample opportunity to escape, did Faramir allow the door of the last cell to be unlocked.

“Thank you, Sheriff. You may go now,” the Steward said wearily. “Alright. Shall we go back to the palace where I will want a full accounting of night’s deeds,” Faramir growled as he swung the heavy cell door open.

“Yes,” said a softy dangerous and very familiar voice from doorway. “I am extraordinarily interested in what you all have to say.”

The twins, Legolas and Gimli all started badly as they had not heard Aragorn’s approach. Whilst too tired to flinch, for he had also not heard Aragorn’s voice nor thoughts, Faramir whimpered softly and banged his forehead, repeatedly, against the iron bar of the door that he was still using for support.

Gimli, the twins and Legolas filed past Aragorn. The next cloaked and hooded figure drew the King’s attention immediately.

“What, for Arda’s sake, are you doing here!” the King exclaimed.

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