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 49

Producing, from Éomer knew not where, the paddle of a most alarming shade of red that he had seen before, Éomer watched as the elf patted his knee meaningfully. It took all of Maglor’s considerable restraint not to chuckle at the look of abject horror he was receiving from the young Rohirrim King.

“Nay… nay!” Éomer protested vehemently, face turning almost as red as the paddle and very much in danger of stamping his foot in frustration. “I will not be treated as if I am an errant child!”

Maglor simply raised an elven eyebrow at the outburst and looked at the young King calmly. After the passing of several moments, Éomer seemed to deflate in light of the elf’s calm but intent gaze.

“We can go and see Elessar if you prefer, however I must warn you that Estel was raised by Lord Elrond,” Maglor began calmly, emphasising Aragorn’s elven name. “In addition to a chastisement utilising this implement’s original version, I fear you would also receive a severe tongue-lashing, a skill passed on to Estel by Lord Elrond who has been credited, when vexed, with raising verbal flaying to an art form.”

Éomer appeared to contemplate the elf’s words before seemingly to deflate even further as he accepted finally what he thought to be the lesser of two evils for he knew that Elessar held the Steward of Gondor in high esteem and did not want to experience a tongue-lashing from the elder King in addition to what he was certain would be an extremely painful and embarrassing physical chastisement. Scowling fiercely, the young King without being told, an action that spoke volumes of past experience, loosened the ties of his leggings, pushed them down to his knees and draped himself over the elf’s lap.

“What is this punishment for, roch-neth (colt)?” Maglor asked; ‘Faramir’s Bane’ poised above the exposed buttocks.

“For allowing my personal feelings towards that… unnat… ouuuuch! owwwwwww!” Éomer yelped as he felt the elf land two mighty whacks to his posterior in quick succession.

Éomer thought fleetingly that he made yet another error in judgement in not choosing to face Aragorn.

“Is your sister, perchance, as obstinate as you?” Maglor asked as he peppered the young King’s buttocks with stinging whacks of the paddle.

“Much, much more!” Éomer ground out immediately. “Why?” he had enough presence of mind to ask, turning his head to look up at the elf.

“Because, roch-neth, I predict with certainty that your future nephews and nieces will be a force to be reckoned with and I would like to ensure that Middle Earth is as prepared as it can be under the circumstances,” Maglor replied as he continued to pepper the exposed buttocks with stinging whacks.

“The Steward… is also… obstinate?” Éomer could not help from enquiring, even as the pain in his hindquarters reached an unbearable level.

“Oh aye, roch-neth. Obstinate, stubborn, cunning; an immovable rock that one is at times but one that loves your sister dearly,” Maglor responded, not letting up on the stinging whacks.

“And a wizard!” Éomer spat out. “Owwwww! Owwww!” he yelped as Maglor landed another two almighty whacks.

“Something he did not choose and would not have if he had been afforded the choice,” Maglor growled. “And just because your sister will reside in Ithilien does not mean that she will be lost to you.”

“What… how?” Éomer managed to say between gasps for breath.

“How do I know what you are thinking, roch-neth? Because I am a very old elf and you are about as subtle as a mamak with a sore tusk and in a temper,” Maglor replied, maintaining a steady tattoo on the exposed, ever reddening bottom. “Do you think Faramir would try to cage her as you wish to?” the Mirkwood Seneschal asked.

“Nay, I do not… wish to …cage her!” Éomer responded indignantly, tears welling in his eyes for he knew that captivity was his sister’s greatest fear.

“Do you not, roch-neth? You wish her to do your bidding, deny her heart and stay with you,” the elf replied.

“Nay, nay, I do not!” Éomer wailed in denial.

“Aye, you do and it is only natural given the many losses you also have suffered,” Maglor replied, ceasing the chastisement. “Familial love is a wonderful thing, roch-neth, but it can also be devastating in its consequences when used to force another into an oath that goes against what lay within their heart. Heed me, roch-neth as I speak from one who was once forced into such an oath and suffered greatly because of it and saw those I loved dearly suffer as well,” he added softly, continuing to rub the young King’s back as Éomer slipped from his lap onto his knees and pulled up his leggings.

“My sister has endured so much in her life. I do not wish to see her hurt again,” Éomer sobbed quietly.

“I know and so does Faramir. He will protect her from harm as fearlessly as you,” Maglor responded.

“And I do not wish to be alone,” Éomer admitted finally, in a hushed whisper his breath hitching.

“You will not be, roch-neth. Well, not for long anyway. You will gain elven and human brothers, uncles and cousins and judging by what I have heard of Imrahil’s brood and seen with my own eyes, family gatherings will be endlessly entertaining if a little hazardous to one’s dignity, if not sanity, Maglor chuckled, eliciting a faint smile from Éomer.

“They do appear… high-spirited,” Éomer replied, sheepishly.

“Aye, that they do indeed,” Maglor chuckled. “I expect you will marry eventually, taking some poor young woman away from her family.”

“Eventually,” Éomer responded shyly.

“I am given to understand that Imrahil’s youngest is a great beauty of uncommon wit,” Maglor prompted slyly, having already been advised by Arwen of the young man’s reaction to a likeness of the young princess of Dol Amroth held by Prince Imrahil.

“Aye, she is beautiful,” Éomer replied, wistfully, picturing again in his mind’s eye the long wavy black hair and intelligent blue eyes.

“And free from commitment, I am given to understand.”

“But she is a princess,” Éomer responded in shock, discerning the intent behind the elf’s words.

“And you are a King, you silly child,” Maglor admonished with a chuckle. And given that she has been able to control three older brothers and two high-ranking older male cousins, not to mention her father, Maglor thought facetiously, she should be able to keep a close rein on one unsuspecting Rohirrim; King or no.

“Oh,” was all that Éomer said before a sheepish smile broke out over his countenance, turning into a full smile making him look like the very young man that he was. “Do you think she would be amenable to meeting me?”

“You will never know unless you make the first advance.”

“Aye, you are right,” Éomer replied.

“All right, child,” Maglor began as he stood and held his hand out to Éomer, pulling the young King to his feet. “I think it is time we made our way to the palace.”

“That… ‘thing’ is evil,” Éomer hissed as Maglor bent down to pick up ‘Faramir’s Bane’.

“But highly effective – on men, elves and dwarf,” the Seneschal countered, his eyes alight with mirth.

Man and elf made their way back to the palace and to their respective apartments, with Éomer’s gait that of a man who had spent an excessive amount of time astride a horse. At the entrance to his apartment the young King was met by Legolas and the twins. Éomer frowned and then sighed thinking that he was about to get a tongue-lashing anyway. He entered his apartments, followed by the elven trio.

“I suppose you have come to berate me as well?” he grumbled

“Nay, we come bearing a gift,” Legolas said, showing Éomer a large jar. “An excellent lavender-scented numbing salve from Dol Amroth,” Legolas added in answer to Éomer’s questioning look.

The Rohirrim King blushed furiously.

“Who told you?” Éomer demanded to know.

“No one had to tell us, mellon-nin. We have known Maglor all our lives. He practically raised me from a baby and has often dealt with the twins’ follies.”

“Besides which…” Ellandan began.

“… your inelegant gait…” Elrohir continued.

“… speaks volumes,” both twins finished, causing Éomer to shudder.

“I find your mode of speech… eerie if not downright bloodcurdling,” Éomer complained with a shudder.

“You will get used to them, in time,” Legolas smiled, indicating the twins with a nod of his head. “Now, leggings down and on the couch. No false modesty, please,” he added when he saw Éomer was about to protest. “As a Rohirrim warrior, you must have bared your buttocks often to be treated for saddle sores.”

Accepting the logic, Éomer did as bid, exposing his much-abused posterior.

“Either your hide…” Elrohir began as he examined the exposed buttocks.

“… is thicker than your head,” Elladan continued.

“… or Maglor was…”

“… not as angry as he looked,” both finished as Legolas smoothed the soothing salve over the not-as-red as expected buttocks.

“He seemed angry enough to me,” Éomer muttered, sighing in relief as the pain in his rear-end ebbed to a dull throb. “He was merciless with that… thing!”

“Which is why, Estel…” Elladan said.

“… warned you not…”

“… to cross swords…”

“… with him…” Elrohir concluded.

“Why are you being so nice to me, given that I insulted the Steward and his family?” Éomer asked, perplexed.

“Not to mention…” Elladan chided gently.

“Misto,” Elrohir concluded, causing Éomer to screw his nose up in distaste.

“The twins are very protective of their sister as I am of Faramir, so we can understand the emotion behind your… unwise words,” Legolas replied diplomatically.

“Faramir is fortunate to have such a caring family,” Éomer said.

“After the life he has led, it is only fair,” Legolas said, his expression turning a little melancholy. “We will leave you in peace and see you upon the morrow,” Legolas added, leaving the jar of salve on a side-table, before he and the twins exited the room.

Faramir awoke the next morning to the very unnatural sound of Misto cackling to himself quietly. For some reason the Steward was unable to pinpoint at the moment, the sound made the hair on the back of his neck stand on end and a shiver run up and down his spine.

“What have you done, Misto?” he demanded in a harsh whisper of the spider playing who was with his kitten beside the bed.

“Noooothinnnnnng,” the young spider replied, sheepishly.

“Misto Flingil! Shame on you! That is an outright lie and you know so!” Faramir responded before his eyes opened wide in panic and he bolted from his sleeping chamber dressed only in his short nightshirt and his bare feet making flapping noises on the floor. “Éomer!”

Faramir ran all the way to the young King’s room passing Legolas and Gimli on the way.

“What is wrong, muindor tithen?” Legolas called out as he turned around and followed Faramir who he heard whimpering as he ran.

Without knocking, Faramir entered the Rohirrim’s apartment calling out as he did so.

“Éomer! Éomer, where are you!” he called, voice rising in panic.

Hearing a muffled sound from the direction of the sleeping chamber he burst into the room followed by Legolas and Gimli and came to an abrupt halt, for wrapped from neck to toe in a cacoon of webbing and hanging from the rafter above his bed by three pieces of webbing at foot, waist and shoulder, was a struggling, cursing, angry, Rohirrim.

“Oh crap!” Faramir moaned.

Legolas leapt onto the bed-head and then up onto the rafter, before pulling his boot knife from its sheath. Ring hand raised, Faramir levitated the young King whilst Legolas cut the three pieces of webbing that were securing the man to the rafter. The Steward lowered the King gently onto the bed. Legolas jumped down to the floor and assisted Gimli in cutting Éomer from his cacoon.

“I will kill that beast!” Éomer roared as struggled to get free of the webbing.

“Nay ye will not laddie!” Gimli growled in response as he continued to cut the webbing with angry cutting motions, causing Éomer to cease his struggles in surprise and a little alarm due to the slashing movements of the knife Gimli was wielding. Both Legolas and Faramir stood stunned as well. “Ye insulted the wee beastie first. He could have killed ye and if he were the monster ye accused him of being he would have done so!”

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