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 48

Amrothos and Erchirion felt keenly the sting of the looks being directed towards their cousin by the Rohirrim King. Faramir; however, was not so afflicted as he was fast reaching the conclusion that his future brother-by-law was being a right royal git. So what if Éomer thought he was not the perfect man for his sister? He was of equal standing to the King of Rohan, a prince in his own right and Steward of Gondor; a suitable match for any princess. Besides which, he loved Éowyn with all his heart and she loved him still… well judging by the fading bruise around Éomer’s right eye she did, Faramir thought with a smirk.

Faramir’s musings were interrupted by the sight of Boromir who was apparently carrying a tankard of ale, ‘apparently’ because the ghostly hands did not appear to be actually touching the tankard. Transfixed by the unnatural sight, Faramir was a little slow in interpreting his ghostly brother’s expression. It was the same expression that had often graced his brother’s features in life when he was most protective of his ‘little brother’, a look that had been aimed at Denethor more than once and one which their sire heeded even if he did manage to make Faramir pay for it at a later time in Boromir’s absence.

“Nay, Brom!” squeaked Faramir as he used his wizarding powers to wrest control of the tankard’s movement from his brother.

“For shame, Boromir! He is the King of Rohan and at a tactical disadvantage for he cannot see you!” Amrothos hissed quietly at his ghostly cousin, immediately gaining the attention of Éomer, who even with wits befuddled by ale, did not take long to discern what almost occurred.

“He is a trumped up horse’s arse!” retorted Boromir as he tried to wrest control of the tankard back from Faramir.

“You are mincing your metaphors, cousin. He is young and overly protective of his sibling… like someone else I know,” Amrothos added in a mutter.

‘Someones’ else Erchirion thought, thinking of his own family’s protectiveness towards siblings and cousins.

“Oh, so says the age-ed one!” Boromir replied, voice dripping with sarcasm. “And last I saw, Lothiriel was well and truly capable of looking after herself,” he added causing Amrothos to blush and Faramir to snort as he wrestled still with his brother for control over the tankard, which was threatening to spill it’s contents over Finrod in the tussle.

“I do not want my sister anywhere near such… unnaturalness,” Éomer snarled, glaring at Faramir.

“Correct me if I am in error, but this is the same sister that, whilst pretending to be male, donned amour and weapons, rode all the way from Rhohan to Gondor and with the assistance of an oversized, through means most unnatural, hobbit, slew the Witch King?” Erchirion asked, wading into the argument.

Gimli snorted, ale spraying from his mouth and nose and the elves tried unsuccessfully to hide their amusement. Éomer’s expression was caught between belligerent and sheepish.

“_He_ is a wizard!” Éomer growled, belligerence winning out.

“_He_ has a name and it would behoove you to use it!” Erchirion admonished, his voice taking on a quietly dangerous tone that Amrothos, Faramir and Boromir recognised immediately.

“I have heard much of the Hurins,” Éomer said, either not recognising or ignoring the seafaring Prince’s tone. “Two succumbed to madness and the third; a wizard’s pupil.”

Stunned, Faramir paled and stilled – no longer struggling with Boromir over the tankard. Boromir also ceased his struggles, resulting in the tankard of ale dropping like a stone onto the stone floor of the tavern with a resounding metallic clanging sound that reverberated in the sudden silence and spilling its contents near Finrod. The others gathered looked equally stunned. It was Legolas who found voice first coming to the defence of his brothers, for that is how he looked upon Boromir as well, ghost or not, visible or not.

“That is unfair,” Legolas protested, a scowl gracing his elven features. “Denethor and Boromir were affected for the same reason as your uncle; evil magic.”

“Aye, the laddie is right, many a good man was affected by the evil dealings of Sauron and his minions,” Gimli added his deep voice in protest.

“I do not trust wizards,” Éomer snarled.

“Nay, Boromir!” Faramir called out in a plaintive whisper as he saw his brother readying to attack Éomer.

“Enough!” came a familiar voice from the shadows not far from the group, staying Erchirion’s equally terse response to the Rohirrim’s charges and Boromir’s attack.

The twins, Legolas and even Finrod, who was older than the ‘trio horribus’, all looked like elflings – all eyes, noting the Mirkwood seneschal’s expression, a dark look that neither Legolas, Finrod nor the twins had seen for centuries. Legolas gulped past the sudden lump that had lodged in his throat, relieved that Maglor’s expression was not aimed at him. Even the dwarf, spider and humans, with the exception of the intoxicated blond ox of a Rohirrim King, at which the expression was aimed at well and truly, recognised the danger before them. All remained absolutely immobile and silent although Faramir did wonder fleetingly how the elf kept managing to keep his presence unknown, even from the younger elves. It did nothing for one’s nerves, he thought.

“I do not want my sister associating with wizards, ghosts nor monsters,” Éomer reiterated, oblivious to his increasing peril, looking up at Misto in the rafters.

“That is quite enough out of you, pen neth,” Maglor replied in such a tone that even Éomer realised finally that he was in trouble. Aragorn’s warning came back to him, all too late unfortunately.

“Éomer has not said anything that I have not already thought… well except about Misto being a monster and Boromir…” Faramir began quietly, attempting to diffuse the situation, but his voice fading out when Maglor’s expression of intense anger turned on him briefly, at which moment Faramir also resembled an elfling.

“I suggest you all move on from this… establishment,” Maglor advised in a tone that would brook no argument, looking around him and then down with obvious distaste at the enormous pig, which was snuffling around and slurping the ale that had spilled onto the stone floor near Finrod. Taking heed of the Seneschal’s demeanour, those sitting at the table rose from their seats and began to move towards the door leading outside.

Misto dropped down in front of Éomer, giving the Rohirrim a fright.

“Not monssssterrrrr,” he hissed, glaring at the Rohirrim with all eyes.

“Nay, tithen pen, you are no monster,” Maglor confirmed as Misto scurried off after the others.

“Nay, pen neth, you and I are going for a walk,” he added, indicating Éomer, as the Rhohirrim went to follow the others.

“I will not be ordered around like some…” Éomer blustered, straitening to his full height.

“Do not dig yourself in any deeper, pen neth. I am vexed enough with you as it is. I have lived and fought beside high ranking elves and humans over many, many, millennia and will not be gainsaid by an arrogant young pup of a human,” Maglor responded in such a dangerous tone that the hair on the back of Éomer’s neck rose and a shiver went down his spine, feeling the restrained power of the elf.

Maglor turned on his heel and left the tavern fully expecting Éomer to follow, which the Rohirrim did – albeit reluctantly. Éomer followed the elf in silence as they walked up through the levels of the city. On the fifth level, they were met by three Rohirrm warriors who greeted their King jovially.

“Do you require assistance,” one of the more astute warriors asked tentatively, noting his King’s sombre expression and the elf’s demeanour.

Maglor turned around to look at Éomer, his gaze intent and appraising.

“Nay… nay,” Éomer responded eventually, nervously, the silent walk up through the levels of the city weighing upon him heavily.

Silent, Maglor turned on his heels and continued on towards the uppermost level of the city. When he reached the seventh level with Éomer still walking behind him, he moved towards the tower and not the palace. By the time the pair had climbed up the tower steps, through the trapdoor and onto the courtyard that constituted the roof of the tower, Éomer was about ready to scream, his nerves taut. Maglor motioned for Éomer to sit down upon a stone bench near the far wall.

“I can understand that you are very protective of your sister and why you are wary of wizards, given what Saruman did to your uncle and how it must have hurt you and your sister, but we are about to embark on war involving twenty four enemy wizards and you seem bent on nobbling emotionally one of only three wizards on our side,” Maglor came to the crux of the matter with his usual forthrightness, as he paced in front of the seated Rohirrim. “Of all of us, Faramir, whether you like him or not, will be in the most danger. The enemy have already tried to abduct him, almost at the cost of his life. Why, you might ask?” seeing the question in Éomer’s expression. “Because they see him as a threat, and believe me, he is a threat for he is the most powerful human wizard in all of middle earth, and they want to negate that threat permanently.”

“I… I ah…” Éomer stuttered as realisation of his culpability came to him, finally.

“A King, be he elf, human or dwarf, cannot allow personal feelings to cloud his judgement. I ask you, does Éowyn love Faramir?” the Seneschal asked, stopping in front of the young King and looking down upon him intently.

“Aye… she does,” Éomer admitted eventually, not meeting the elf’s eyes.

“Many in the War of the Ring lost much. You lost a beloved cousin, uncle and friends but you still have your sister. Your uncle loved you did he not? You have fond memories of your childhood? He showed you and Éowyn equal affection to that of his son Théodred, did he not?” Maglor asked, sitting down beside the young human.

“Aye!” Éomer responded immediately if somewhat puzzled by the turn of the conversation.

“From the time Denethor’s wife Finduilas died, when Faramir was but five years old, every day in every way Denethor showed distain for his youngest son whilst at the same time showering his beloved heir with displays of love, affection and respect. It is testament to the depth of Faramir’s capacity to love that Denethor was unable to drive a wedge between the brothers and that the love between the brothers did not diminish, but indeed, strengthened. Denethor showed his distain of Faramir until near the end when he realised that he did indeed love his son. And how did he choose to display that love? By attempting to immolate his youngest when he lay sorely wounded and under the pall of the Black Breath, and that because he sent his son knowingly on doomed, pointless mission. Granted, Denethor was brought to madness by his use of the Palantir but Boromir proved more a father to him than the old Steward had ever been during his life,” Maglor explained.

“So when Boromir died…” Éomer began in renewed understanding.

“Aye, Faramir lost father, mother and brother,” the Seneschal sighed. “Do not begrudge him the comfort of his brother, in whatever form or for however long Boromir chooses to stay.”

“I must admit that I find it very… disquieting. Are spirits supposed to be so physical?” Éomer asked in a tone that showed the depth of his disquiet.

“Not from what other humans have indicated,” Maglor chuckled at Éomer’s rather dyspeptic expression. “You will get used to him… in time… after a fashion,” he added laughing outright when Éomer’s expression turned even more sour. “Now, pen-neth, we still have your behaviour to address.”

“What do you mean address?” Éomer asked, expression turning very wary.

“Exactly what you think it means, pen-neth,” Maglor replied seriously.

“Nay. Nay! You cannot! I will not…!” Éomer began to bluster as he jumped up from his seated position, fast developing a decent head of steam.

“Cease and desist!” Maglor responded in his most authoritarian tone, a tone that had worked well on both human and elven lord and kings over the millennia. It worked equally well on the young King of Rohan. “Even Kings must be brought to account for their actions when those actions err. You have a choice, pen-neth, I can explain everything that has transpired this day to Elessar and let him deal with you or we can settle this between us and keep it in the family.”

“Family?” Éomer asked, feeling off centre and very much out of kilter.

“I consider Thranduil and his sons, elven and human, family. Faramir is to marry Éowyn and Éowyn will therefore be family. You are her brother and by extension…” Maglor almost laughed at the confused expression of the human’s face as he attempted to work through the logic.

“I do not wish you to tell Aragorn,” Éomer admitted finally, releasing a whoosh of breath.

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