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 9

The days that followed fell into a pattern for the young Steward of Gondor. After awaking upon the morn, bathing and dressing, Faramir would partake of the morning meal with either his elven family or with others in the palace such as the King and Queen or his uncle. Although the company with whom he ate varied, the one thing that did not was the sheer volume of food that was placed before the Steward every morning. The generally lengthy morning meal, for all who ate with Faramir ensured that he consumed enough to keep Maglor happy or risk unpleasant consequences if they did not, was followed by tutelage under Lord Elrond in the garden that Faramir’s mother had created. These sessions always began with meditation and moved on to developing and enhancing the Steward’s growing mental abilities.

It was discovered very quickly, much to Aragorn’s chagrin and the Queen’s delighted amusement when the King found himself one morning clinging to a rafter in the high ceiling of his office adjacent to the throne room, having simply asked in passing if Faramir had read the one hundred page treaty that he had given his Steward the evening before, that administrative matters were not his Steward’s favoured way of beginning the day. So it was decided by the King, after Gandalf had retrieved him from the high rafter, for Faramir had stormed out of the room in a right royal strop, that administrative matters would follow the Steward’s morning meditation sessions with Elrond.

Faramir spent early afternoons in the company of Gandalf who continued his pupil’s wizard training. Late afternoons were devoted to the myriad of other duties performed by the Steward. The seventh day of every week was determined by Thranduil to be his son’s day of rest. And woe betides anyone foolish enough to approach the Steward with anything but a dire emergency for they were set upon by two formidable elves in the form of the elven King and his Seneschal.

Except for the minor, in the Steward’s considered opinion if not that of others, incident involving the King and the rafter, Faramir had managed to maintain his temper for two entire weeks, though it had been sorely tested. No physical chastisement for the rafter incident eventuated much to Faramir’s surprise, although the King’s yells and curses in Elvish had followed the young Steward out into the hallway as he stormed out of the King’s study. Unbeknownst to the Steward the Queen insisted that he had been much provoked, an assertion that whilst the Steward would have agreed; Aragorn denied strenuously, that was, until he saw a look from his beloved that would have made their ada proud and the twins run for the hills.

As the days went by Faramir felt his control over his temper slipping. First there was the ‘schedule’ that he hated with a passion. Between training with both Lord Elrond and Mithrandir and his Steward duties Faramir found that there were not enough hours in the day. Even with the continued assistance of Beregond and the two additional assistants that Beregond was training, the Steward invariably found himself squirreled away in his bedchamber attempting to complete outstanding memoranda and other tasks well after the twelfth hour, by the light of a small candle. He dared not use a larger one for he knew it would attract the attention of a certain nosey Mirkwood elf, which in turn would lead to rather disagreeable and painful consequences. Faramir suspected that much of the work that crossed his desk was generated deliberately by four councillors who had been favoured by Denethor and had treated his second son with the same disdain as had the old Steward, for the express purpose of discrediting him in the eyes of the King. Faramir thought fleetingly of reading the councillor’s minds to confirm his suspicion but could not bring himself to go against his own conscience in regards to people’s right to privacy and the fleeting thoughts from the men that had penetrated his defences were so hateful towards him that he did not want to uncover their true extent.

Exactly two weeks after the new schedule was implemented, Faramir began the morning with Thranduil and Legolas in his private dining room. Both elves exchanged concerned glances at seeing how weary Faramir looked.

“You look fatigued, ion-nin,” Thranduil ventured gently, his concern evident.

“I had difficulty sleeping last night, ada. That is all. Nothing to worry about,” Faramir replied trying unsuccessfully to stifle a yawn.

Unseen by Faramir, who sat with his elbow on the table and his hand supporting his head as he listlessly moved food around his plate, Legolas shook his head and looked at Thranduil with an expression that was equal parts scepticism and consternation. Both elves knew that Faramir’s condition had been deteriorating day by day but neither wished to push the matter at the moment although both were determined to uncover the real reason for Faramir’s declining state. Despite their gentle attempts to get the human to eat, Faramir ate very little before making his apologies and leaving to meet with Elrond for their daily meditation/training session.

Lord Elrond also noted Faramir’s declining state and considered reading his mind, for he did not share the Steward’s reluctance to impinge upon a person’s privacy when that person was obviously fraught. But he found that he had taught the human too well as he could not penetrate the young one’s defences without risking the Steward realising what he was doing. At the conclusion of the session and feeling slightly more relaxed, if still very tired, Faramir made his way to the council meeting that had been scheduled for the morning.

It did not take long for Faramir’s relaxed feeling to dissipate in the face of continued opposition by the four councillors to a reform that the Steward wanted to implement that offered assistance and relief to the orphaned children of Gondor. As the debate raged it became clear to the King and the other councillors, including Imrahil, that the four councillors were not opposed to the reform so much as the person who instigated the reform, namely the Steward of Gondor. Aragorn, angered by the words and actions of the four men, was just about to use his right of veto to pass the reform when Faramir, exhausted to the point where his mental defences dropped allowing the angry thoughts of those present to bombard him, began to crackle and his hair to stand on end.

“Foxling!” growled Imrahil in warning from where he sat beside his nephew.

Seeing the signs of a spectacular temper tantrum in the offing, Imrahil rose quickly and hauled Faramir to his feet, frog marched him to a door that led to an antechamber, opened the door and pushed his nephew into the chamber; closing the door after him. It was not long before loud explosions could be heard from the antechamber, causing most of the councillors to wince and cringe. The explosions though, were almost drowned out by Aragorn who bellowed at the four councillors for causing the debacle in the first place with their ‘sheer bloody-mindedness’, in the King’s words. The smirks on the faces of the four councillors for succeeding in their objective of angering and thus humiliating the Steward turned quickly to fear when they realised just how much they had managed to anger the King. Aragorn continued to bellow and rant at the councillors until the door to the antechamber opened revealing the Steward, who looked as if he was in extreme pain and was still smoking and crackling. Bowing to the King, Faramir all but stumbled over to the door that led to a hallway that serviced the King and Steward’s wing of the palace.

“Go see to him,” Aragorn said quietly to Imrahil whom he realised wanted desperately to follow his nephew.

“Thank you, Elessar” Imrahil sighed in relief as he followed the path Faramir had taken.

Aragorn declared the meeting closed. As the councillors were leaving, the King instructed the four recalcitrants to remain behind. The feral glint in the King’s eyes made those councillors blanch and the others to depart very quickly, very quickly indeed.

Prince Imrahil entered the hallway that Faramir had entered before him but his nephew was not to be seen. Stopping for a moment to gather his thoughts, the Prince mentally ran through the list of his foxling’s boltholes before concluding that he had most likely headed for the tower.

“What has happened, mellon-nin?” Thranduil asked as he and Maglor emerged from the entrance to the Steward’s rooms, taken aback by Imrahil’s panicked expression.

“Faramir and his temper but something else is amiss, I fear. He was much distressed and seemed to be in pain. I have a bad feeling about this,” Imrahil replied as he hurried towards the exit leading to the tower with the two Mirkwood elves in tow.

The trio made their way up the winding stairs quickly, through the trap door and onto the roof of the tower. What they saw made their hearts leap into their throats. Faramir was on the outer wall that was not three feet in width, pacing up and down in an agitated manner, the heels of his hands pressed to either side of his head, one misstep away from the abyss on the other side of the wall and certain death.

With a speed that amazed Imrahil, the elven King and his Seneschal ran across the intervening space, jumped up lightly onto the parapet that ran around the entire circular wall and then jumped again onto the outer wall. They grabbed Faramir between them and jumped back down onto the parapet and onto the roof of the tower. Faramir fell to his knees, still holding his head. Imrahil ran over to his nephew, crouching down in front of him.

“Hurts,” Faramir moaned.

“What hurts, foxling?” Imrahil asked but was then startled when Lord Elrond, who seemed to appear out of thin air, crouched down beside him.

Elrond placed a hand on either side of Faramir’s head, replacing the human’s hands and looked him deeply in the eyes, muttering an elvish healing chant as he did so. After a few long moments, Faramir began to relax slightly as the pain in his head left him.

“Now pen-neth, will you tell me what happened?” Elrond asked quietly. Faramir shook his head, wincing as he did so as the pain flared again.

“I suggest that you tell Lord Elrond, foxling,” Imrahil said in a tone that if Faramir had not been quite so distracted would have set off warning bells in his head.

Faramir shook his head again although this time not as vigorously, still remaining stubbornly silent. This, as it turned out, was a tactical error on the part of the young Steward. Knowing what Boromir’s reaction would have been, Imrahil hauled his nephew to his feet for the second time that day, pulled him over to one of the stone benches that were dotted about the courtyard that was the top of the tower, pulled his foxling onto his lap managing to pull down the young man’s leggings as he did so and began waling into the exposed buttocks before Faramir knew what was happening.

“Will you answer Lord Elrond’s question?” Imrahil asked again in a deceptively quiet voice as he continued to land blistering slap after blistering slap to his nephew’s posterior. Howling, growling and yelping in indignation and pain, Faramir remained silent on the subject. But it was clear to all present that the normally quietly spoken Prince of Dol Amroth was as stubborn as his nephew. “I would give in if I were you, foxling. You know that I can and will keep this up as long as I need to!”

“They think I am… a… bad… Steward,” Faramir sobbed out in defeat. “That Denethor… was… right… to… revile me. That I… am… weak… useless. That Boromir… would have made… a better Steward”

“Oh, my foxling,” Imrahil intoned sadly as he stopped the chastisement, pulled up Faramir’s leggings and drew the sobbing young man into a hug. “Do not let those old, boot licking farts get to you, foxling. Denethor did love you although my idiot brother-by-law was incapable of showing it. Boromir would have hated being Steward, as you well know and much of the administration and all of the diplomacy would have fallen to you anyway.”

“Did you just call the councillors old farts?” Faramir asked with a chuckle, though his eyes were still teary.

Imrahil smiled deprecatingly at his nephew.

“We have another issue to address, ion-nin,” Thranduil said, crouching down beside his son. “Why are you so tired? And do not tell me you had difficulty sleeping,” the elven King added almost seeing the cogs moving around in his son’s mind as he attempted to formulate a diplomatic, if not quite truthful, reply.

“You have been working in your sleeping chamber, have you not, pen-neth? Maglor prompted, guessing what his young charge had been doing.

“I do not wish to answer that on the grounds that it may incriminate me,” the Steward replied wearily.

“In other words; yes,” Elrond admonished. “That will stop, pen-neth. I will be having a long talk with Estel.”

“Where is Estel?” Thranduil asked, surprised that Aragorn had not sought out his Steward.

“With the way he was waxing lyrical, loudly at that, earlier, I suspect that he is still tearing strips off the councillors who caused this kafuffle,” Imrahil replied with a certain amount of glee.

“Alright, ion-nin,” Thranduil said as he pulled Faramir to his feet and into a tight embrace, smiling at Imrahil for his assistance in getting to the bottom of his son’s distress. “You need to be fed, watered and put abed.”

“You make me sound like a horse, ada,” the young Steward’s muffled complaint could be heard, his head buried in his ada’s shoulder.

“Would that you were pen-neth. For a horse is much easier to care for,” Maglor sighed eliciting chuckles from all except Faramir who huffed indignantly.

Two days later, for that is how long it took the young Steward to recover from his latest display of temper, Faramir sat on the ground cross-legged, his eyes closed, under the tallest tree in the garden his mother had created. He breathed deeply and let his mind wander pleasantly, or as pleasantly as it could given the faint ache in his posterior from the blistering his uncle had given him on the tower. The Steward enjoyed his morning sessions with Lord Elrond, who at the moment was sitting in the same cross-legged position on the ground a few feet to the right of his pupil. Elrond had proved to be an apt and patient teacher. Thranduil, Legolas and Maglor were also enjoying the peace of the garden just far enough away from Faramir so as not to disturb his meditation.

“Mine!” the shouted exclamation sounding in his head, that Faramir recognised as the voice of the ring, startled him.

“No! Elfling mine!” came the annoyed reply of an unfamiliar voice, also sounding also in his head.

“Mine!”

“No! Mine!”

Faramir could hear chuckles that soon turned to laughter from his ada, brother and Maglor.

“Oh, for Arda’s sake! Will you two stop arguing!” the Steward snapped out vocally, exasperated.

Faramir looked to his right only to see Lord Elrond struggling to keep his features impassive.

“What is going on!” he demanded, his annoyance increasing by the moment.

“I suspect the Ring is arguing with the tree,” Elrond surmised, looking to the wood elves for confirmation. Smiling broadly, Thranduil nodded. “As to which you belong. Both appear adamant in their beliefs.”

“She is very adamant that you are her elfling, muindor-tithen,” Legolas giggled in merriment, still with the far away look that all Mirkwood elves assumed when listening to trees, “and is annoyed that you are being claimed by another.”

“As the ring is equally adamant that you belong to it, pen-neth,” Elrond smiled.

Legolas’ and Elrond’s explanations caused Faramir to blush as brightly as ‘Faramir’s Bane’. The Steward’s embarrassed expression turned to awe upon realising to whom, or more accurately to what the second voice in his head had belonged.

“It is the tree that I can hear,” Faramir said in hushed awe, his eyes wide and his expressive face showing child-like wonder as he rose to his feet and looked up at the tree.

“Aye, it is,” Thranduil replied with pride and tears in his voice as he too rose and walked over to his human son, embracing him tightly.

“Oh, ada! I can hear the tree!” Faramir exclaimed in a whisper hoarse with emotion.

“Ours,” Faramir heard the two voices in his head as they reached agreement.

The joint declaration caused the elves to laugh again. Strangely moved by the exchange, Faramir buried his face in his ada’s shoulder. Understanding his son’s emotion, as Faramir had spent all of his life harbouring the notion that he was unwanted by anyone save Boromir, Thranduil tightened his arms around his precious son.

At the precise moment that Thranduil hugged his human son, far away on the road to Emyn Muil, a very different scene was being played out.

“Ouch! Owwwwwww!!! That… that thing is evil! It hurts!” Elladan yelled, bare arsed and upended over Finrod’s lap as the elf, who was sitting on a conveniently shaped rock, applied the red paddle to the hapless twin’s bottom with gusto.

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