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 44

“King Éomer,” Faramir acknowledged solemnly, dipping his head slightly as protocol dictated.

“Lord Steward,” Éomer responded, equally solemnly but with a formidable frown.

“Did no one ever tell you, my friend, that if you keep scowling so fiercely you will end up looking like that permanently? And will that not be a frightful sight for your subjects,” Faramir said in his normal, quiet, well modulated, conversational tone, before continuing on his way to the Great Hall accompanied by three smirking wood-elves and a giant spider, cradling a slumbering kitten.

“Claws in, miel neth (kitten),” Boromir chuckled, having arrived just in time to hear his little brother’s comment to the King of Rohan.

“Oh pipe down you!” he replied. “Ouch! Brom!” Faramir growled as he felt a mighty whack to his still sore rear end.

Éomer’s frown turned to one of bemusement for a moment, not knowing whether he was being made fun of or not. Aragorn had the utmost trouble keeping his face impassive. Prince Imrahil looked at his departing nephew with tolerant affection, ever impressed with his foxling’s ability to keep an opponent off balance.

“The elves seem exceedingly… protective of Lord Faramir,” Éomer noted eventually, his expression still bemused.

“Aye, they are. I feel I would be remiss in my duty to you if I did not offer some advice, my friend; advice which you can choose to think upon or discard, the choice is yours” Aragorn began, putting an arm around the young King’s shoulders guiding him towards the Great Hall. “Do not fall victim to the assumption that all elves are alike in temperament to the ones you fought beside during the war. With the exception of Legolas, all the elves you met during the battles were from Rivendell or Lothlorien…”

“And they are different from the elves of Mirkwood?” Éomer discerned. “How so?”

“They are wood elves…” Aragorn replied.

“But I thought all elves lived in woods,” Éomer interjected, eyebrows lowering in consternation.

“Wood elf is more a state of… being than an indication of location of residence,” Aragorn responded, the corner of his mouth twitching. “What I am trying to convey is that wood elves are somewhat more… wild…”

“Wild as in… feral?” Éomer questioned, eyebrows rising in surprise.

“Aye, that is indeed what I mean,” Argaorn replied in a matter-of-fact manner. “Do not let their grace and beauty blind you to the fact that they are, by nature, extremely protective of loved ones and have but the thinnest patina of domesticity. I do admit that there are elves of my acquaintance, not of Mirkwood, who I would apportion closer to wood-elf in state of being than not,” he added, thinking of the twins in particular, evoking knowing looks from Elrond and Arwen who both knew exactly what he was thinking. “But even they would not incite truly the wild spirit of a wood elf, knowingly.”

“Surely you jest with me. Prince Legolas…” Éomer began, his expression suspicious.

“Nay I do not. I grant that Prince Legolas is exceedingly tolerant of the behaviour of men; however, few wood elves are. I would advise you most strongly not to incite them and in particular I advise that you not cross swords with Maglor,” Aragorn advised.

“Maglor, not King Thranduil? Why so?” asked, intrigued.

“Maglor is ancient even by elven standards. He knew both Thranduil and my ada, Lord Elrond as eflings and is still known to refer to them as such from time to time. We all have the utmost respect for him, not to mention sincere respect for the strength of his right arm; the strength of which I, Legolas and Faramir can attest to personally,” Aragorn said, causing Éomer’s expression to turn to one of stunned shock. “Whilst he would not cause you severe harm, for that is not the elven way, wood-elf or other, he would not hesitate in registering his displeasure upon your posterior most forcefully.”

“He could not… he would not dare strike… a… a King…” Éomer spluttered indignantly.

“He could, he would, and I can assure you he most certainly has,” Aragorn replied to the stunned Rohirrim.

“You mean… you… Legolas… and Faramir…?” Éomer asked, not able to find the appropriate word to continue so great was his shock.

“Aye, amongst others, my friend,” Aragorn acknowledged, trying not to smile at the King of Rohan’s expression of stunned horror. “Only a few months ago he felled his King with but a single chop to the neck when Thranduil was in full fighting fury and in the middle of a fight with Orcs and the Haradrim because he felt Thranduil endangered himself unnecessarily. So, my friend, he is more than capable of dealing with a young man, King or no.”

Further conversation on the matter was arrested by their arrival at the entrance of the Great Hall. They entered the hall to be met by the grandeur, splendour and colour of representatives of Gondor, Dol Amroth and Rohan in formal attire.

Three rows of tables, consisting of several smaller tables, were arranged around three sides of the room, leaving ample room in the centre for dancing and entertainment. At the table at the head of the room, arranged in a large curve, sat Gandalf to the right of the empty chair awaiting the King. Next to the Gandalf sat Prince Imrahil thence Thranduil, Faramir, Gimli and Legolas. At the other end of the table sat Elladan and Elrohir. Aragorn sat down next to Gimli. Arwen sat beside Aragorn then Éomer and Lord Elrond next to Elladan.

At the table that ran perpendicular to the main table near Legolas, sat Maglor, Finrod, Amrothos, representatives of the Knights of Dol Amroth and several noblewomen and men of Gondor. At the table opposite sat representatives of the Rohirrim and other Gondorian noblewomen and men. Musicians, located in the far left corner at the end of the Great Hall, were playing music designed to entice a festive mood.

The evening meal was served shortly after the arrival of the King and Queen. Whilst engaged in conversation with Arwen and Elrond, Éomer watched Faramir surreptitiously, or so he thought. Elven father and daughter exchanged knowing looks occasionally. Although Éomer could not discern what was being said, Faramir was talking animatedly with those around him and breaking out into musical laughter occasionally, much to the Rohirrim’s surprise as he had always thought the Steward an exceedingly reserved and serious man.

At the conclusion of the meal and welcome speeches and on a signal from the King, the musicians stopped what they were playing and switched to lively dance music. Aragorn rose and held out his hand to Arwen and escorted his Queen out onto the dance floor that the long tables surrounded. It was not long before Faramir was approached by a veritable gaggle of beautiful, if somewhat giggly, young maidens which again surprised Éomer as he had always thought the noblewomen of Gondor to be demure and reserved. They appeared to be as forward as the women of Rohan.

Éomer watched Legolas and Amrothos ask two of the ladies to dance. The young ladies seemed pleased enough with the Princes, judging by their broad smiles. Five young noblewomen were left standing in front of the Steward. Éomer noted that Faramir looked decidedly uncomfortable, he supposed at having to decline four young ladies. Faramir was saved from embarrassment by the arrival of two Swan Knights and two of his own Rohirrim who each escorted a visibly disappointed young lady onto the dance floor. The Steward escorted the remaining young noblewoman, who had long black hair that reached her waist, onto the dance floor. Éomer felt a spike of anger at the look of triumph on the woman’s face as Faramir took her by the hand and waist and flowed elegantly into the dance.

The King of Rohan continued to watch the Steward of Gondor dance with several women. At the end of each dance Faramir was surrounded by young women all vying for his attention.

“Is something amiss, pen-neth?” Thranduil asked innocently as he sat down beside the frowning young King, but not before sharing a smirk with Elrond who still sat on the other side of the Rohirrim.

“They are all but clambering over each other to gain his attention,” Éomer said, disgusted by the behaviour of the women even though their behaviour was no different to that of the Rohirrim women. “I did not know that the women of Gondor were so forward.”

“They are not usually so but have learned to be so in their attempts to gain my son’s attention,” Thranduil replied, eyes twinkling with amusement at the young man’s look of disgust. “The Steward of Gondor is considered by the ladies to be an excellent catch.”

“Is he truly as oblivious to their wiles as he appears?” Éomer asked, frowning.

“Completely,” Elrond began.

“Undeniably,” Gandalf chuckled.

“Categorically,” Imrahil interjected, eyes alight with humour.

“Utterly,” Gimli concluded.

“He is a bit… thick, meaning no disrespect,” Éomer mused distractedly.

“He does have his moments,” Thranduil chuckled. “Although to be fair to him, I am given to understand that he has eyes for one lady only and that lady is not here,” Thranudil said pointedly.

Éomer’s response was stayed by a commotion in the middle of the dance floor. Imrahil rolled his eyes at the sight of his son getting up from where he had fallen on the floor and making a beeline for a smirking Lord Dragor.

“Speaking of thick, I swear that man is as far from a typical Knight of Dol Amroth as it is possible to achieve without actually leaving Middle Earth,” Imrahil said, indicating Lord Dragor, shaking his head as he rose to feet to head off his son’s fiery temper if possible. He sat back down when he saw Faramir restrain his cousin with the use of his wizarding skills.

Éomer could not discern what the smirking Lord Dragor was saying but saw Amrothos’ face turn bright red as he struggled anew against what seemed to be invisible restraints. Éomer saw a look of exasperation cross Faramir’s features and then Prince Amrothos rise aloft towards the ceiling and onto a rafter to which he clung to immediately, squawking a protest down at Faramir. Éomer held his breath on seeing the thunderous look on Faramir’s face as he turned towards the Swan Knight, who no longer smirked but had paled considerably.

Whatever the Steward was about to do, which Éomer was certain would have proved very painful for the Swan Knight, was halted by the door of the Great Hall opening to admit yet another Swan Knight, attired in travelling clothes.

“Erchirion!” Faramir exclaimed, smiling broadly and embracing the approaching Knight in a fierce hug.

“Faramir! It is so good to see you again,” the Swan Knight laughed, returning the hug and lifting the Steward off his feet momentarily. His smile turned into a frown and holding onto Faramir’s shoulders, he pushed the Steward gently away from him so that he could look him up and down. “You have never been weighty, Fara, but you are stick thin even by your meagre standards. I have seen skeletons with more meat to their bones than you have presently. Do they have no food in the White City? Do they not feed you?” he chided, only partly in jest.

“I have seen vast quantities of food disappear regularly into my Steward with little effect it seems,” Aragorn replied with amusement.

Faramir rolled his eyes and groaned quietly.

“I would like to present…” Faramir began in way of introducing the Swan Knight.

“Erchirion, second son of Prince Imrahil I would hazard a guess. You have the look of your sire,” Aragorn interjected, looking at the tall Prince of Dol Amroth.

“Your Majesties,” Erchirion said, going down upon one knee and then rising at a signal from Aragorn and to a warm smile from Arwen.

“Greetings, father,” Erchirion smiled as his father approached and enveloped his son in an embrace.

“Where is sprog, father?” the Prince asked, looking around for his brother. “Whatever are you doing up there, little brother?” he asked as his gaze was directed ever upwards by both his father and King.

“What do you think I am doing …inspecting the rafters,” Amrothos replied sarcastically as he let go of the support, walked along the rafter and then jumped up and down on the spot as if testing its sturdiness, eliciting gasps from the ladies standing below and some of the men, including the King and dislodging not a little dust.

Imrahil, Erchirion and Faramir did not so much as raise an eyebrow, for each had seen the young Prince scurry like a squirrel along the mast rigging of the tallest of the ships of the famous fleet of Dol Amroth.

“And how fare they, little brother?” Erchirion asked dubiously.

“Sturdy enough I suppose,” he said jumping up and down on the spot again, eliciting more gasps from the audience below. “Though I regret to inform the King that I think I may have discovered signs of woodworm,” he added in such a dry tone that it set the women giggling and the men chuckling.

“I warned Elphir that there would be severe consequences from dropping the poor mite on his head so often as a child,” Erchirion said in a similar dry tone to his brother, eliciting more laugher from those within hearing distance of the comment. “Going somewhere Lord Dragor?” he asked when he spied the Knight backing up towards the entrance of the hall, knowing instinctively that his brother’s current predicament had something to do with the man.

Lord Dragor froze, looking like a rabbit caught in a very bright light as the gazes of many centred on him.

“Will you get me down from here, Fara?” Amrothos asked plaintively.

“Sweet Eru!” Erchirion exclaimed as he saw the biggest spider that he had ever seen in his life scuttling towards his brother. “You and I will need to discuss your disconcerting habit of understating a situation, little brother. Our cousin’s familiar is vastly larger than you described in your last letter.”

“I beg to differ, brother. He was the size I described at the time. It is not my fault that he is growing so quickly,” Amrothos replied as Faramir raised his hand and lowered his cousin back onto the floor.

Erchirion’s eyes, not to mention several of those present who had not seen the Steward’s wizarding powers, were as wide as saucers at the formidable wizarding display. When Amrothos had both feet on the floor, Erchirion swept his younger brother off his feet into a brotherly bear hug.

Amrothos spied Lord Dragor over his brother’s shoulder. Scowling, he made as if to move towards the man but was stopped immediately when both Erchirion and Faramir moved in front of him, blocking his access. The cousin’s just looked at each other rolling their eyes both thinking that some things never change. Erchirion and Faramir, both of an age, had invariably been the ones that saved Amrothos from his own temper, and repercussions thereof, when they were younger – although Erchirion also remembered he and Elphir doing the same for Faramir.

“What are you doing here, child?” Imrahil asked as he drank in the sight of his normally sea faring second born. “The last word I received of you, you were chasing down Corsair pirates in the Bay of Belfalas.”

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