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 46

“I do not understand. What has he done wrong?” Éomer asked; his expression perplexed making his seemingly ever-present frown deepen. “His plan succeeded.”

“My brother is not just the captain of a ship but commander of a fleet of ships,” Amrothos replied to the bemused Rohirrim. “And as such, had no business being on a decoy ship,” he said in what Faramir recognised as an accurate rendition of his uncle’s ‘stern’ tone. “Regardless of the temptation,” he added with a sideways glance and smirk at his cousin. It would have been tempting indeed, both fox cubs thought.

“That… ‘thing’ looked lethal,” Éomer vocalised unconsciously, eliciting chuckles from those present who had felt its sting or that of the human version, as not one of them could bring themselves to call it by the name ‘paddle’.

“Oh, aye! I can attest to that laddie, as can certain younger elves here as well,” Gimli answered in his forthright manner, causing the elves concerned to blush. “Although, I think young Faramir there is the resident expert on the topic, having felt the sting of both versions many times; if rumours be true.”

Faramir blushed spectacularly, ducking his head in acute embarrassment.

“I think this may be one time when the rumours fall well short of the actual count,” Amrothos teased his blushing cousin.

“Both versions!” Éomer exclaimed.

“Oh, do we… “ Elladan began.

“… have a story,” Elrohir continued.

“… to tell you!” Elladan concluded, both twins smirking at the glare they received from Faramir.

Imrahil led his second born back to his apartments located near his nephew’s apartments. He opened the door to the drawing room and gestured for Erchirion to precede him, which, with a fatalistic sigh, the seafaring Prince so did.

“Although very like it, that is not the one of my memory,” Erchirion stated, eyeing the red demon with distaste.

“Nay, this is the elvish version fashioned from the original, which has also seen much use recently, by an elf in Mirkwood on instructions from Elessar,” Imrahil replied humour at his son’s stunned expression evident. “I must admit the workmanship is exquisite.”

“I shall have a talk with Fara, later. My cousin’s hunting skills have deteriorated alarmingly not to found and disposed of the detestable… ‘thing’ by now,” the young Prince grumbled. “How fares he, really, father? Although he appears happier than I have seen him in many years, he is so thin,” he added seriously, as mercurial as his cousin on occasion.

“I thank the Valar daily that they guided foxling to the elves of Mirkwood. Thranduil has proven to be more of a father to Faramir in the short time he has fostered him, than Denethor had ever been and Legolas as true a brother as Boromir. As for Maglor, although positively evil at times, I wish I had had his assistance on the occasions when all of my children and nephews were under my roof at the same time,” Imrahil chuckled. “And as to foxling’s lack of weight, we are all well aware of the causes and are trying to overcome them. Now child, back to you.”

“I am sorry that I sank the Black Swan,” Erchirion said softly, genuinely contrite.

“Nay, child. Be easy on that subject. I should have insisted that the old scow be decommissioned some time ago,” Imrahil admitted. The elder Prince of Dol Amroth embraced his son when he saw the younger prince’s shoulders slump in relief. “However,” he added, feeling his son tense again. “On the matter of you being on a decoy ship when there was one of several captains present who could have been given the responsibility, we needs must address.”

“If I had known that it was a condition of becoming a commander, I would have remained a captain,” Erchirion retorted, somewhat petulantly, into his father’s shoulder.

“A conversation I remember having with your grandfather, Adrahil, and he in turn had with your great grandfather, Angelimar,” Imrahil chuckled, hugging his son more tightly to him before releasing him to face the consequences of his actions. “Your grandfather, bless him, accepted the necessity eventually with ill grace indeed, apparently. But come to accept it he did and so must you, child. Leggings down and over whatever looks most comfortable.”

Erchirion snorted. It did not matter how comfortable the support was, his father never stinted when chastising any of his children, with the exception of Lothiriel at times, and he feared that he was going to be very uncomfortable very quickly. The seafaring prince walked over to a high-backed lounge chair, loosened the ties of his leggings, pushed them down to his knees and bent over the back of the chair; holding on tightly to the well padded arms of the chair. He knew that he was in for an intense session as this was his third infraction of the rule about commanders not putting themselves in the firing line unless absolutely necessary. Upon reflecting for a moment, he realised that it was indeed his fifth infraction. He had managed to keep two instances quiet. Physical intimidation; the fact that he was as tall as his father and broader of shoulder, did have its uses he thought. He was often able to settle a situation without violence due to his imposing physique. All oth! er thoughts, except for the pain in his posterior, fled when his father let loose with a mighty whack to his exposed buttocks.

“What is this punishment for, child?” Imrahil asked as he continued to apply heavy swats of Faramir’s Bane to his sons posterior.

“For… putting myself… in danger… commander… should not…,” Erchirion grunted between gasps for breath.

“And how many times is this?” Imrahil asked.

“Third, Owwwwww!!” the prince replied and then yelped as a particularly blistering swat landed on his burning behind.

“My count is five, child,” Imrahil countered, shaking his head at the virulent muffled curse that escaped his son’s normally watertight control and letting loose with another almighty whack with the paddle.

“Owwww! Sorry… father,” Erchirion yelped when the expected heavier swat landed, chastising himself silently and at length for being caught out by his father, yet again! Would he ever learn not to underestimate his father’s intelligence networks and deviousness?

Imrahil continued to paddle his son over every inch of the hapless commander’s buttocks and thighs, turning them as red as the paddle. He stopped eventually when he heard the change in tenor of the soft muffled sobs that indicated that his son had capitulated and accepted the punishment and the reasoning behind the chastisement. Knowing the punishment had come to an end and sobbing quietly still, Erchirion pulled up his leggings, hissing as they scrapped over his much abused buttocks, and leaned against the back of the chair. Taking his son gently by the shoulders, Imrahil turned the young man around and into a tight embrace, crooning words of love and forgiveness as he ran his hand over his son’s back in soothing circles.

“I know that it is a hard lesson, child. As bad as it is for a ship to lose its captain, it is much worse for a fleet to lose its commander, especially one that is as gifted as you are,” Imrahil said as he continued to soothe his son through the aftershocks of the punishment.

“Elphir may not agree with you on that point, father. I have never seen him as vexed as when I had to tell him that I sank the Black Swan,” Erchirion groaned, shuddering anew at the memory of the murderous look on his brother’s face and the throbbing vein at his temple.

“I do admit that he had great fondness for the old bucket. He will come to terms with its loss… eventually, although I suspect he will never let you live it down,” Imrahil smiled.

Erchirion moaned and not just from the pain flaring like the noonday sun from his hindquarters.

“He has the memory of an Oliphant and the temperament of a one on a rampage when vexed, just as frightening as Boromir,” the seafaring prince whined. “OWWWW! Boromir?” he yelped, paling, when he felt what he remembered to be a very ‘Boromirian’ whack as only his cousin could deliver, which he knew could not have been imparted by his father who still had his arms around him.

“Ah, aye. I did write to about that, did I not?” Imrahil asked.

“Aye, but ghosts are not supposed to be that… physical. Are they?” Erchirion asked as he looked around nervously after his father released him, keeping his posterior against the back of the lounge chair and hopefully out of his ghostly cousin’s reach.

“Amrothos does not think so and he has had more experience with ghosts. We all owe your brother an apology,” Imrahil replied.

“He really could see grandfather, I know,” Erchirion winced.

“Aye, he could. Now, I think you have had enough shocks for the day and recommend that you go to your bed. Tomorrow I will introduce you formally to all, something I was remiss in doing today given all that transpired,” Imrahil said.

The young prince groaned again and blushed furiously, knowing that everyone who had retired to the King’s drawing room would know what transpired subsequently, including the King and Queen of Gondor and the King of Rohan.

“I do apologise for that, Chiri,” Imrahil said, knowing the reason for his son’s groan and blush. “They feel so much like family that I forgot momentarily that they are all but strangers to you. Be comforted by the fact that more than foxling has felt the bite of ‘Faramir’s Bane’, you are in good company,” he added, chuckling at the sour expression on his second-born child’s face.

Erchirion retired to the sleeping chamber in his father’s apartments that he always used on his infrequent visits to the White City. He washed, changed into a nightshirt and robe and was about to take off the robe and get into bed when he heard a knock on the door.

“Enter,” he said as the pulled the robe tight again.

“Are you up for a little company?” Faramir enquired, poking his head around the door.

“As long as you do not mind if I remain standing,” he winced as another flare of pain emanated from his burning hindquarters, eliciting an empathetic wince from Faramir.

“I bear a gift,” Faramir said, throwing a jar of numbing salve to his cousin who caught it deftly.

“Thank you, cousin,” Erchirion replied with relief, recognising the jar’s contents. “Come in, come in. I have a bone to pick with you. From where, pray tell, did you get that wine you fed me? It went straight to my head and loosened my tongue most alarmingly. And me a sailor!” he chided.

“Sorry about that,” Faramir replied sheepishly. “I was unaware that it was wine from Mirkwood, wine well known for its great potency. The elves of Mirkwood are not as affected by wine as humans and thus make their wine much stronger,” he explained. “I bring others as well,” he added shyly, still looking from around the door. “In all that happened this evening I realised that had I failed to introduce you to my family.

“And they are standing out there now! Oh, bring them in you dunderhead!” the seafaring prince admonished in a hushed whisper, eliciting a shy smile from his cousin and the tinkling laughter of elves from beyond the door.

Faramir entered the room fully, followed by Thranduil, Legolas, Maglor and Amrothos.

“Mae govannen, Prince Erchirion,” Thranduil greeted.

“Chiri,” Erchirion corrected with a smile as he held out an arm to the elf, who in turn held the arm in a warrior’s greeting. “And you are King Thranduil of Mirkwood. My father and brother have described in detail the three elves that have taken my cousin into their care and into their hearts,” he added at the questioning look in the elf’s eyes. “You are Legolas. You also have the look of your father,” he said holding out an arm to Legolas and remembering the King’s comment about his own resemblance to his father, Imrahil. Legolas returned the gesture. “And you are Maglor, …the nanny,” he teased, holding out his arm to the smirking elf and looking askance at his blushing cousin and sniggering younger brother. “Something of which my wayward cousin has ever been in need.”

“Indeed,” Legolas agreed, smiling broadly.

“I am not sorry I gave you that wine now, Chiri,” Faramir chided gently, eliciting chuckles and smiles from the others.

“My Seneschal was becoming far too complacent with life in Mirkwood,” Thranduil teased, his eyes twinkling with mirth. “Faramir has proved to be an entertaining challenge for him.”

“As are my elflings still, on occasions,” Maglor countered, looking intently first at Legolas and then at Thranduil, both of who displayed identical smirks, causing Erchirion’s eyes to widen wondering just how old Maglor was.

“We will leave you to your bed, pen-neth,” Thranduil said smiling, taking his leave of the young man who he realised was in pain and too polite to take his leave for a few moments necessary to apply the numbing salve Faramir had provided. Maglor followed the elven King.

“Get into bed so that I can apply the salve,” Faramir ordered.

Although a little shy with Legolas present, Erchirion did as he was bid sighing with relief when the salve applied by Faramir took effect.

“I do not think I would like to be paddled by your ada,” Legolas let slip when he saw the bright red buttocks and then blushed. “I would not have thought him that angry.”

“Unfortunately for my rear, it was my third… fifth… infraction of the ‘commanders are not to place themselves in the line of fire unless absolutely necessary’ rule,” Erchirion replied in a mocking tone. “Which brings me to the question, cousin, as to why there are now two red… ‘things’ that bear your name and how you came never to find nor dispose of the original thus preventing access to the template from which its mate was created? And you the Sionnach of Ithilien, no less!” he scolded, twisting around to glare at his cousin, causing Faramir to blush spectacularly.

Much to Faramir’s embarrassment, Legolas launched into a very amusing account of the highlights of the previous year; from their visit to Mirkwood, skirmishes with orcs, bitter elves and humans, Faramir’s brushes with death and with ‘Faramir’s Bane. He recounted right up to the pranks including the incident involving his brother with a long bow at night, perched upon a small ornamental platform that protruded from the very edge of the topmost part of the steep palace roof and the consequences thereof. By the end of the tale, Erchirion was laughing heartily at his cousin’s antics and felt much more at ease about his own embarrassment.

NB: Please do not distribute (by any means, including email) or repost this story (including translations) without the author's prior permission. [ more ]

Enjoyed this story? Then be sure to let the author know by posting a comment at https://www.faramirfiction.com/fiction/war-of-the-wizards. Positive feedback is what keeps authors writing more stories!