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 40

“Ooops,” squeaked Amrothos, wincing when he saw a Rohirrim, who he suspected to be the King of Rohan, his cousin’s future brother by law. Although by the look of horror on the King’s face, he was not so sure about that.

Faramir turned back around towards his cousin.

“Well, as our grandsire was wont to say on such occasions, sprog,” said Faramir, in the deathly calm conversational tone and with the maniacal glint to his eyes that never failed to cause a shiver to run up and down the recipient of that tone and look’s spine, “In for a penny, in for a pound.”

Faramir made a mental push at the glass doors that led onto the balcony that overlooked the main garden and pond, whilst still maintaining a hold on his cousin and Lord Dragor who was just coming around from his faint. The wizardling, however, misjudged the force necessary, almost causing the glass to crack and the doors to fly off their hinges.

“Now, now, Fara. Whatever it is you are thinking…” Amrothos gulped in reply, hands raised in front of him attempting to placate his angry cousin upon realising the trouble he was in, which given his position hovering several feet of the ground, was quite amusing, or so thought Boromir who was standing not far from his cousin, bent over double, hooting and wheezing still.

“Will you cease that abominable wheezy honking, Boromir and help me out here. You sound like a goose with ‘black lung’!” Amrothos admonished.

Faramir snorted.

“Boromir?” Éomer frowned, looking at the spot upon which the young man’s eyes were focussed and seeing nothing.

Aragorn winced thinking that Boromir was something else that would need to be explained to the young King.

“Father?” Amrothos pleaded, finding absolutely no help from his ghostly cousin.

“He may not be the heir or the spare, foxling,” Imrahil replied in a calm well-modulated tone and with a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth, alluding to a running family jest, “but he does have some sentimental value.”

“Father!” the Swan Knight responded indignantly, sparing a glare at his ghostly cousin who whooped with laughter at his father’s jest, before his gaze returned to his living cousin.

Faramir smirked evilly causing Amrothos to shudder again. Thranduil and Maglor exchanged amused looks at the antics of all the descendents of Adrahil present.

Under his cousin’s wizarding control, Amrothos hovered out of the room through the glassed doorway and over the balcony. The young Prince dropped out of sight with a startled and indignant “Oi, Fara!” which was followed almost immediately by a splashing sound and the tinkling of elvish laughter and the familiar deep rumbling laughter of a certain dwarf.

‘As for you, weasel. If I so much as get wind of you goading my cousin like that again, there will not be enough of you left to return to Dol Amroth by carrier pigeon!’ As if the threat was not enough, Lord Dragor paled even further as the Stewards lips did not move but heard the Steward’s voice sounding clearly in his head.

“Do… you… understand… me?” Faramir snarled aloud, enunciating each word as if talking to a simpleton.

It was Éomer’s turn to pale as he realised, from the man’s terrified reaction, that Faramir had spoken directly into the distressed man’s mind.

The Steward released the terrified Swan Knight who turned and ran from the room; assisted by a blue bolt of lightning zap to his retreating posterior, causing the man to yelp in both pain and fear and exit the room that much faster. Faramir took a deep breath before turning to face the King of Rohan.

“I take it that Éowyn is in Edoras still?” Faramir said in a deceptively calm tone; more statement than question, as he looked Éomer squarely in the eyes. “It also appears that my lady got you good before you took your leave of her,” he added, examining the faded bruise around the young King of Rohan’s right eye, eliciting a blush from the Rohirrim and a look of guilt. “Good!” he snarled, causing Aragorn, Imrahil and Arwen to wince and Thranduil’s eyes to twinkle brightly, before storming out of the room. Elrond and Maglor just shook their heads.

“Where are you going, Faramir?” Aragorn called out after his retreating Steward.

“Down to the quarry!” he growled back.

“Well that should supply the stone masons with enough split rocks for quite some time, I should imagine,” Maglor observed dryly, which earned him a look from his King that said distinctly ‘you are not helping’; the unspoken admonishment sabotaged somewhat by the still twinkling eyes.

“Ohhhhh, mama annoyed,” Misto hissed as he scuttled, purring kitten in hand… er… leg so to speak, after his mama.

“Mama?” Éomer asked perplexed as he continued to look at the spider as it disappeared around the corner. “And you can explain?” he questioned, turning to Aragorn, eyebrow raised.

Aragorn sighed, letting out a whoosh of breath. Maglor snorted.

“So that is how he became a ring bearer and a wizard-in-training with a Mirkwood spider as a familiar,” Aragorn summarised, trying to sound more positive than he felt; given the frown that dominated the young King of Rohan’s face.

Éomer, having bathed and partaken of a meal; for Aragorn had not wished to tell the tale whilst the Rohirrim was travel stained and hungry, had retained the same frown during the entirety of the tale’s telling.

“The question remains, do I want an unstable wizard’s pupil, marrying my sister?” Éomer asked, frown deepening.

“Oh, I can see how it could be considered an undesirable match,” Thranduil began, garnering expressions of surprise from Aragorn and Imrahil and knowing smirks from Elrond, Arwen and Maglor. “She will be the revered wife of the most powerful wizard left in Middle Earth, who also happens to be the second most powerful man in Arda; Steward of Gondor, Prince of Ithilien,” he continued, indicating by omission where he thought the King of Rohan was, or more precisely was not, in the Middle Earth power stakes. “Rohan, through this one marriage would be allied to Gondor, Dol Amroth and Mirkwood. Aye, I can see why it may be considered an unfortunate match.”

The elven King watched for the meaning of his words to be comprehended finally by the young man. Éomer flushed with anger, his posture stiffening only to deflate when he saw the elf’s eyes twinkling with humour.

“I can understand that you want what is best for your sister and do not wish to see her hurt, Éomer,” Arwen crooned in her lilting tone. “But Faramir loves Éowyn dearly and would never do anything to hurt her. And I am very sure that if you attempt to keep them apart, Éowyn will find a thousand ways of making your life a misery,” she concluded not mentioning what she thought Faramir would do to him.

A smile tugged at the corners of her mouth when Éomer, unconsciously, fingered the fading bruise around his right eye. The Rohirrim’s expression turned sheepish when he realised his unconscious gesture and the Queen of Gondor’s amused regard.

“I am yet to be convinced that this would be a suitable match for my sister,” Éomer maintained obstinately. “But I will not rule the match out… for the moment.”

And if Éowyn is even half as obstinate as her brother, Thranduil thought facetiously, the offspring of a union between the White Lady and his much loved but very stubborn human son should prove quite the handful, but in all probability highly entertaining. He was looking forward to the future possibilities.

“Why is my wizardling blasting rocks? He has the citizenry all a flutter thinking he will destroy the very foundations of the city and if he keeps at it he may very well do so!” Gandalf spluttered as he entered the room, startled momentarily on seeing the King of Rohan and then wondering briefly if the man ever smiled or if his expression was always dyspeptic.

Aragorn groaned.

After expending almost all of his energy trying to diminish his still considerable anger, much to the delight of the stonemasons and quarry labourers who had watched in awe as weeks worth of back-breaking labour was accomplished in but a little over two hours, Faramir decided that he could do with an ale… or twelve. He decided to forgo his usual drinking establishment for a more disreputable one located on the second level, one that he and sprog used to frequent in their younger days and that boasted a gargantuan of a pig for a mascot, which had been used so successfully in a recent prank against the twins, so that anyone who came looking for him, would find the task hopefully more difficult or impossible.

Swaying with exhaustion, Faramir shooed Misto off back to the palace telling his familiar that the spider needed to see to the needs of his kitten, which was being entertained currently by a piece of string that Misto was dangling in front of it; utilising one of his eight legs. The kitten kept jumping for the string only to have it pulled out of the way. Misto looked up at his mama suspiciously before complying with the instruction, reluctantly, hissing as he made his way back to the palace.

Entering the pub, Faramir made his way to an unoccupied darkened corner at the very end of the establishment and ordered a large tankard of ale from an old and haggard looking barmaid. He was onto his third tankard of ale when he was joined by Boromir, who sat down beside his brother and looked at him intently.

“Do not shhtart on me,” Faramir slurred. “I have had a very baaad day.”

“Alright, little brother. I will let you wallow alone,” Boromir said, before he left the pub through the wall, surprising Faramir who had expected more argument from his brother. He picked up his tankard of ale and took another mighty swig.

Faramir was on his sixth tankard of ale when Boromir returned in the company of Amrothos.

“Tattle… tattlet… taddlet… rat fink!” Faramir admonished his ghostly brother.

Boromir smirked.

“You are pickled, cousin!” Amrothos chided as he pulled the unfinished tankard of ale out of his cousin’s hand.

“Ammmm not!” Faramir retorted as he made to grab the tankard back but missed as he had grabbed for the wrong one of the two tankards he could see in his cousin’s two right hands.

He closed one eye in the hopes of reducing the number of tankards he could see to one, which seemed to work, but missed the tankard again as with one eye closed he could not judge the depth.

“There you are, muindor tithen! You have half the palace out looking for you and the other half trying to entertain Éomer,” Legolas admonished as he arrived upon the scene after seeing Amrothos make his way to the second level with determination and seemingly talking to himself. “You are very lucky that the feast for Éomer is to be held tomorrow evening!”

“Éomer!” Faramir snarled.

“I am thankful you have arrived, cousin,” Amrothos said in genuine relief. “I was just wondering how I was going to get his pickledship back to the palace by myself,” he added ruefully.

Before Faramir could even utter a protest, Legolas grabbed one of his brother’s arms pulling it over his shoulder and Amrothos grabbed the other and they hauled the soused Steward to his feet. The Swan Knight grabbed a few coins from his purse and threw them onto the table as they left the establishment. It was not long before Faramir’s face developed a certain green tinge, evident even in the fading light of sunset and so familiar to Legolas, Amrothos and Boromir. Both Legolas and Amrothos let go of Faramir, who stumbled over to a small rose garden, fell to his knees and was violently sick. The elf held his brother’s hair back with one hand and held his forehead with the other.

“This is a distressingly familiar scene, ion-nin,” Thranduil sighed as he approached, his keen elven sight having detected his sons from a higher vantage point in the city and his swift elven feet carried him to his sons.

Faramir groaned from where he knelt still, hoping that the dry heaves had truly stopped and wishing fervently that the city would stop spinning.

“S-s-sorry, ada,” Faramir stuttered in a hushed whisper.

“You will be ion-nin,” Thranduil chided softy as he scooped his inebriated son into his arms and Faramir’s head rested on his ada’s shoulder. “Why do you do this to yourself? You do not have a head for ale and what little numbing takes place is soon overcome by the ill effects that must outweigh the benefits. I will cure you of this unfortunate habit of not voicing the depth of your distress and of attempting to find solace at the bottom of a tankard of ale, ion-nin.”

“Several tankards actually,” Amrothos murmured under his breath and then blushed when he realised that both Legolas and Thranduil had heard his comment evidenced by the identical expressions of amusement. Damned elven hearing he thought as they made their way back to the palace.

Faramir moaned at his ada’s words before passing out.

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