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 50

Free finally of the deceptively strong webbing, Éomer, looking positively thunderous, stormed off towards his bathing chamber muttering curses to himself, in order, Faramir suspected, to answer a very urgent call of nature. After the young King had disappeared into his bathing chamber Faramir, like a fox on the scent, looked around; his eyes narrowing when his gaze rested upon a goblet that stood on the top a side-table located next to the large four-posted bed. The Steward picked up the goblet, sniffing its contents before dipping his index finger into the dregs at the bottom of the goblet feeling the texture of the liquid, his frown deepening.

“What is it, muindor tithen?” Legolas asked, perplexed by his brother’s actions and darkening expression.

“I smell a rodent,” he replied, placing the goblet back upon the side-table. “A rather large, recently passed over rodent,” he added, leaving a bemused elf and dwarf to follow in his wake as he left the Rohirrim’s chambers.

Faramir made his way back to his chambers in haste, seemingly oblivious to his bare legs and to his bare feet making flapping noises on the cold stone floor. The Steward entered his drawing room, noting as he did so that his ada, Maglor and Boromir were present. Both elves’ expressions reflected surprise and amusement at Faramir’s very ‘informal’ attire and bare feet.

“Misto Flingil! You get out here this instant!” Faramir bellowed causing both elves to wince at the painful effect the sheer volume of the bellowed command had on their sensitive pointed ears. “Nay, brother, you stay right where you are!” he growled seeing Boromir about to beat a hasty retreat.

“What is wrong, ion-nin?” Thranduil asked just as Legolas and Gimli entered the room from the antechamber, and Misto from a doorway that led to the sleeping chambers. The young spider was holding Naurfin Squee, which, as usual, was purring contentedly.

“All right, little one,” the Steward began without preamble. “Whom do you see in this room?”

Misto looked as if he wanted, very much, to be elsewhere. Faramir waited for an answer to his question, eyebrow raised.

“Mama,” Misto replied eventually, looking around the room. “Mama’s mama,” he said, meaning Thranduil. “Maagloorrrr, Giiiimliiii, baaaaad elf,” he added in a tone that caused the elf concerned to roll his eyes and the dwarf to snort.

“And…?” Faramir prompted.

“Brrrommm,” the young spider confessed in a whisper, looking at Boromir apologetically.

“I knew it to be so!” Faramir growled. “Why did you not tell me?”

“Not asssssssk,” Misto mumbled.

“Or, more likely, Boromir said not tell,” Faramir countered sarcastically, glaring at his ghostly brother who looked at the walls, the floor, the ceiling, out the window, anywhere but at his brother.

“Have you always been able to see Boromir, tithen-pen?” Thranduil asked, intrigued.

“Nooo,” Misto answered, truthfully.

“How long has he been able to see you, Boromir?” Faramir asked.

“A seven day or so,” Boromir replied, vaguely.

“Two weeks…” Faramir mused. “Do you have any idea why he is able to see you now?”

“Not a clue,” Boromir shrugged. And, if truth be known, he had not thought overmuch on the reason as he was no scholar, but, true soldier that he was, he thought long and hard about the strategic and tactical advantages to which such an occurrence could be put to use.

Faramir sighed pinching the bridge of his nose, reminiscent of Lord Elrond.

“I am not happy with either of you at the moment,” he said finally, looking at Misto and then at Boromir. “My life is distressingly complicated enough as it is, thank you very much, and I do not need my already strained relationship with Éomer, strained even further.”

“Horse’s arse…” Boromir muttered.

“That my very well be so, brother,” Faramir replied. “But that horse’s arse as you call him, stands between me and the woman I want as my wife and as the mother of my children. Both prospects are looking ever fainter, vaporous even…” he added wistfully.

“Sssooorrrry mama,” Misto apologised, body drooping and holding his kitten closer for comfort.

“Thank you, little one, but we still have that lie you told me this morning with which to deal. I do not consider cocooning and securing the King of Rohan to the rafters, nothing.” Faramir scolded, garnering wide-eyed looks of astonishment from the two elder elves, who, until this moment, had not known what exactly had transpired to cause the young human such annoyance and anxiety.

“Deserved it, the little…” Boromir grumbled.

“And slipping the King of Rohan a sleeping draught in order to allow this one,” Faramir growled indicating Misto, “to secure the poor man to the rafters, is also something I very much consider not nothing!”

It was Legolas and Gimli’s turn to look astonished, as they comprehended Faramir’s fascination with the contents of the goblet in Éomer’s sleeping chamber.

“Well, it was either that or have the little one bite him… something he was reluctant to do when I asked him to, I might add,” Boromir replied, looking at the young spider with a slightly annoyed expression.

“Y-you asked Misto to b-b-bite him!” Faramir stammered alarmed, looking down at Misto and holding a hand to his own chest. “You asked him to bite the King of Rohan whilst the King is a guest of Gondor!” he gasped, looking around him at equally stunned elves and dwarf who had the gist of the conversation just from watching Faramir’s agitation and listening to his side of the conversation. “Ever the diplomat, eh Brom? I am inordinately relieved that he proved reluctant to bite the King of Rohan. And shame on you for even suggesting it to him!” he ranted, starting to pace in front of the young spider and his ghostly brother, developing a good head-of-steam in so doing. “I am exceedingly thankful that one of you at least showed a modicum of good sense! And why am I not surprised that it was this little one and not you! You… you… you… great oaf!”

“Sticks and stones, little brother,” Boromir countered calmly, noting, with no little amusement, that his brother was about to embark upon a Faramirian rant, which usually proved highly entertaining to his brother, although he had rarely been on the receiving end of such a rant.

“I would save my breath if I were you, Fara,” came the voice of Amrothos from the direction of the entrance to the drawing room, effectively stopping Faramir’s rant cold. Amrothos was leaning against the doorjamb; an amused if somewhat exasperated expression gracing his features, having heard enough of the conversation to determine what had transpired. Erchirion, kited out in his full travelling gear, stood next to his brother with a rather bemused expression, having not been privy to Boromir’s half of the conversation and noting his cousin’s form of attire, or lack thereof. “He is, as you have pointed out before, made from the same mould as was used subsequently to produce Elphir.”

Faramir’s shoulders drooped slightly and he sighed mightily.

“I love you dearly, brother, but you are driving me into eternal bachelorhood,” Faramir whined. “There is nothing I can do with you, brother except to throw myself upon your mercy, but you, little one, are confined to your web today, except for meals,” Faramir decreed.

Hissing and muttering curses to himself, much as Éomer had done earlier and sounding very like his mama when vexed, Misto went back towards his mama’s sleeping chambers, followed by Faramir who seemed to note suddenly his very short nightshirt and bare feet, causing him to blush furiously and the others present to chuckle furthering the young man’s embarrassment.

Bathed and dressed, Faramir sought out his cousin Erchirion who he knew was ready to depart on the mission to blockade the river that the Corsair pirates were utilising to supply the Orcs, Haradrim and Easterlings gathering forces near Minas Morgul, that had been assigned to him by Aragorn. Without quite knowing why, Faramir felt uneasy about his cousin’s mission. He hoped, very much, that the feeling was not due to premonitions to which he was prone but instead to his normal bouts of paranoia when loved ones were about to embark on potentially dangerous endeavours.

The Steward found his cousin in the courtyard at the bottom of the steps that led up to the palace, saying his farewells to those gathered there. As expected, Imrahil, Amrothos and Boromir were present, as were the King and Queen, Éomer, the Mirkwood and Rivendell elves, Gandalf, Gimli and a few of the Dol Amroth Knights that would be accompanying the Prince on his mission, including a very pale looking Lord Dragor, all mounted on their horses a short distance away. Most of the Knights and troops that had accompanied Prince Erchirion to Minas Tirith would join the King’s combined army departing for Minas Morgul on the morrow.

“Take care, little brother,” Erchirion said as he embraced his brother in a bear hug of such power that it took the younger man’s breath away.

“Should they not be my words for you?” Amrothos asked when he got his breath back finally.

“Nay, little brother. On the scale of family members who attract trouble, it is our cousin there who holds the topmost position whilst you are second in line,” the sailor prince teased; causing both fox haired men to blush and the others present to chuckle.

“Watch your back, Chiri,” Faramir cautioned as he embraced his cousin. “And if Lord Weasel there gives you any trouble, throw him overboard,” he added in a whisper, causing Erchirion to snort.

“You be careful, Fara. And look after sprog, for he can get into almost as much trouble as you,” Erchirion said returning his cousin’s embrace.

“Do not worry, young sir,” Aragorn smirked. “We will look after the fox cubs.” Erchirion smiled, bowing to the King and Queen. Aragorn pulled the young man into a fierce hug and Arwen kissed him on the cheek. “Safe journey, Chiri,” Aragorn added before releasing the prince.

“Thank you for all you have done for Fara,” Erchirion said shyly, turning to Thranduil and holding out his hand to the elven King.

Thranduil took the hand and pulled the young man to him, embracing him. The sailor prince returned the embrace.

“Faramir is easy to love and I thank the Valar for guiding him to me. And rest assured that the elves of Mirkwood would do all in our power to keep both fox cubs safe, pen-neth. All I ask is that you do the same for yourself,” Thranduil said, looking at Maglor, Legolas and Finrod in turn, seeing them nod acceptance of the oath.

“Thank you,” Erchirion whispered to the elves before turning to his father. “Farewell, father,” he said as Imrahil embraced him, holding him close.

“I am ordering you to stay with your fleet. You will leave transporting the ground troops up the river to your captains. Do I make myself perfectly clear, son?” Imrahil ordered, knowing that if he did not state the order in plain, direct language, his son would, in all likelihood, break again the rule about commanders not putting themselves in the direct line-of-fire. Imrahil was not delusional enough to think that there was no possibility of his son breaking the rule again but at the very least his son would think twice about breaking the rule. Or so he hoped.

“I love you, father,” Erchirion replied after rolling his eyes and then smiling broadly at this father, the love he felt for his father showing clearly in his eyes.

“And I love you, child. Safe journey,” Imrahil said, hugging his son again.

Breaking off the embrace, Erchirion turned and walked to where the other Knights were gathered. He was passed the reins of his own riderless mount by his second in command and mounted his horse in a smooth movement that impressed even Éomer. The Knight waved to those gathered, turned his horse and cantered out of the courtyard, followed by his men and one very reluctant Lord Weas… er Dragor.

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!