Faramir Fiction Archive

War of the Wizards (PG)

Written by KC

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

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Part 1

“Faramir Thranduilion!” the King of Gondor’s voice could be heard bellowing from inside his apartments. “You are dead meat! Do you hear me! Dead meat! I know you are hiding somewhere close, you sneaky, conniving little pizzle of a wizard!”

Prince Imrahil of Dol Amroth, King Thranduil of Mirkwood and the elven King’s Seneschal, Maglor, stopped their approach to the King of Gondor’s quarters, stunned momentarily by the King’s bellowed threats. Elven laughter, which Thranduil recognised as being that of his son Legolas and the Elrondion twins and the deeper laughter of a dwarf, which could only be Gimli, the elven King surmised, was heard coming from within the King’s apartments.

“Whatever has that boy done now?” Imrahil intoned as he looked at Thranduil and Maglor as if the elves may be able to shed some light on the situation.

“Knowing my son, it could be anything,” Thranduil sighed as his Seneschal shrugged. “I know that he was not pleased with Estel yesterday although he would not tell me why. There is only one way to find out, mellon-nin,” the elf added after a moment as he gestured towards the handle of the closed door.

Taking a deep breath, Imrahil pushed the handle down tentatively and opened the door. The scene that greeted the trio was chaotic to say the least; nothing was how or where it should have been. The giant bookcases that lined the walls of king’s private reading room were denuded of all books, which were stacked neatly in rows along the rafters in the high ceiling above them, and were standing on their heads. Lounge chairs that normally sat around the fireplace were balancing precariously one on top of the other in the middle of the room. The old and extremely heavy wooden desk that usually sat near the window which looked out onto the King and Steward’s private garden was standing on its side with the draws, which had been removed, laid very neatly around the upturned desk.

Legolas and Gimli were near the fireplace howling with laughter, barely able to keep their feet they were laughing so hard. The twins were in a similar condition leaning back against the frames on either side of the large glassed doors that led out onto the balcony that overlooked the garden. Aragorn was pacing around the room, spluttering and fuming, his hair and upper-body dripping wet. Imrahil, Thranduil and Maglor stared in stunned astonishment as they realised the source of the water dripping down the King’s face. Three large glass tumblers, one filled with water and two empty, floated above Aragorn’s head, following him wherever he went. As they watched, the third glass tipped spilling its contents over the fuming King.

“I will kill him!” Aragorn bellowed for at least the third time, water spraying from his mouth as all three now empty glasses flew over to the fireplace before resting gently on the top of the mantelpiece.

This, unfortunately, proved too much for the younger elves and dwarf for the twins slid down the door frames landing on their rear ends with very unelven thumps and howling with laughter, whilst Legolas fell to the floor rolling around holding his sides, tears of mirth streaming down his face as he too laughed. Gimli fell backwards and into the fireplace, which fortunately was not being used at the time, causing soot to fan out around him and into the air.

“Oh, my!” Imrahil exclaimed quietly his eyes as wide as saucers; a look that Thranduil thought highlighted the resemblance between the Prince of Dol Amroth and Faramir.

Only millennia of sitting court in Mirkwood allowed the elven King to maintain a straight face, although the twinkle in his eyes spoke volumes. Maglor’s eyes narrowed in suspicion, he turned and ran from the room like a hound scenting the hunt. Aragorn was just about to let loose another round of threats when Gandalf entered the room. The wizard froze mid-step though his eyes swept slowly around the room taking in the chaotic scene.

“Redecorating?” Gandalf asked in a mildly interested way. This again was too much for Legolas who had just managed to get his laughter under control. Rolling over onto his stomach the elf slapped the floor with his hand as he cackled with renewed laughter, garnering a glare from Aragorn. The twins sitting on the floor on either side of the balcony doors and Gimli, still sitting in the fireplace, were likewise afflicted. “You are dripping,” the wizard noted, waving a hand vaguely in the direction of the King’s head and upper body.

“I thought I would take a bath,” the King retorted in a quietly dangerous tone.

“It is generally accepted behaviour, son of Elrond, to remove ones clothing before bathing,” Gandalf replied in the wickedly obtuse manner he sometimes assumed usually to the annoyance of anyone so subjected.

“Duly noted. I will take your suggestion on board,” Aragorn snarled, exasperation increasing by the moment.

“What have you done to my wizardling this time?” Gandalf asked in a slightly amused voice.

“W-What I have done?” the King spluttered staring at the wizard in astonishment. “Cast your eyes about Gandalf, this was not my doing!”

“I have told you before Aragorn, it is not good policy to upset a wizard,” Gandalf scolded the King, further inciting Aragorn’s annoyance with his Steward.

“Oh far be it from me to attempt to protect the little pizzle,” Aragorn replied indignantly as he grabbed the towel that Imrahil had retrieved from his bathing chamber and set about drying his hair.

“Protect him – how?” Thranduil asked.

“He sought permission to ride to Osgiliath to check on the troops stationed there, which I refused on the grounds of his safety.” Both Imrahil and Thranduil winced, knowing what Faramir’s reaction was likely to have been, confirmed by the King’s next words. “He sought to wheedle and argue with me until I threatened to blister his arse with ‘Faramir’s Bane’ upon which he muttered some very choice words that would have had him over Maglor’s lap instantly, turned on his heels and stormed out. Not long after I came here to this…” Aragorn said waving his hand vaguely at the chaos around him.

“Please understand Elessar, I know that foxling can be stubborn and quick of temper,” Imrahil began, eliciting a very loud snort from the King at the Prince’s knack for understatement. “But he is feeling caged and is unused to residing in Minas Tirith for lengthy periods let alone without the freedom to come and go as he pleases. More often than not Denethor banished his youngest after only a few days in residence unless he was recovering at the houses of healing or if Boromir was also in residence. The forests of Ithilien were more home to Faramir than Minas Tirith ever was.”

Aragorn sighed as he considered the Prince’s words.

“I do understand and… “ Aragorn replied, the next words halted by the sound of silver trumpets heralding the Steward of Gondor. “I will kill him,” the King bellowed as he turned to retrieve his recalcitrant Steward.

“Nay, Elessar,” Imrahil’s somewhat perplexed words halted the King momentarily. “They are signalling the return of the Steward.

“Return?” Aragorn exclaimed in puzzlement as he made his way to the steps at the entrance to the palace.

“Oh, ion-nin,” Thranduil groaned in a long sigh as he shook his head in exasperation at what he could see in the distance.

“What, mellon-nin? What do your elf eyes see?” the King asked as he strained to see.

“My son on foot being escorted by my Seneschal and a human soldier, both on horseback,” the King groaned again softly at his son’s dark expression as the human trudged up to the highest level of the city.

It seemed forever to those standing at the top of the stairs that led down to the palace courtyard before the Steward appeared through its entrance. Faramir, looking like a very dark thundercloud, was followed by Maglor and the Lieutenant whom Aragorn recognised as the one who had accompanied Finrod in search of signs of Saruman.

Aragorn, Imrahil and Thranduil descended the steps whilst Legolas, the twins, Gimli and Gandalf remained at the top, all the better to watch what was likely to be a very entertaining confrontation.

“That is quite enough out of you, pen-neth,” Maglor admonished his young charge who had been muttering curses all the way from the city gates. “You are in enough trouble as it is and do not want to be facing me after Estel has finished with you.”

“Maglor, Lieutenant,” Aragorn greeted each in turn and then turned his full attention to his Steward. “How came you by my Steward and where did you find him?” the King asked of the two still astride their horses but with eyes only for Faramir who glared at a point just over Aragorn’s right shoulder.

“When I saw the condition of your reading chamber,” Maglor paused staring intently at the back of his young charge’s head as he dismounted, “I suspected that it might have been a diversionary tactic on the part of my young charge, so I went down to the city gates to lay in wait and would be there still if I had not chanced upon the Lieutenant here. As an Ithilien Ranger the Lieutenant is well versed in the covert tactics employed by one Faramir, Steward of Gondor,” the elf continued.

Faramir’s eyes narrowed as he contemplated what he would like to do to the overzealous soldier.

“Foxling,” Imrahil warned recognising his nephew’s expression.

“When I explained what I was about the Lieutenant suggested that, in all likelihood, the ‘Captain’ had already made his escape,” Maglor resumed the tale. “We found him a short while later with a company of soldiers, headed for Osgiliath.”

“Afoot?” Aragorn asked aghast.

“Nay, he was mounted but we thought is best to divest him of his horse before proceeding here. He stubbornly refused to ride double with either of us,” Maglor said as he looked askance at the young Steward who continued to glare fixedly over the King’s shoulder.

Aragorn moved closer to his Steward so that his next words would be audible only to Imrahil and the elves closest.

“You my young Steward can remove yourself to my reading chamber, put it to rights and await my return,” the King commanded in a low growl.

Stiffly and with annoyance showing in every step, the Steward did as he was bid. Thranduil looked upon his son with sympathy, knowing how it felt to be caged by one’s responsibilities. The elven King did not follow his son, judging that Faramir needed the space and time to regain his composure. Thranduil also noted with approval that Legolas and the others did the same when Faramir had reached the top of the stairs.

Shaking his head at the retreating form of his Steward, Aragorn turned his attention to the mounted soldier.

“You have our gratitude Lieutenant,” the King said smiling up at the soldier.

“I am pleased to be of assistance, sire. The Captain there is the most gifted commander I have ever served with. There was many a time that we would have perished, outnumbered and ill equipped as we were, but for the Captain’s cunning. He always managed to turn that sure loss into a victory, until Osgiliath that is – not even the Captain could save us from that one. But a challenge and trial that one is also I am afraid, sire. Always conscious of and vigilant towards the safety of others but absolutely oblivious to his own. Damrod and Anborn shouted and cursed themselves hoarse, despairing of ever getting the young Captain to think of his own safety. And Mablung… well let me just say that the man had a more effective way of dealing the Captain’s stubbornness,” the Lieutenant finished obliquely.

“I thank you again, Lieutenant and ask that you continue to look out for my Steward,” Aragorn said in way of a dismissal.

“That I will, sire. Have no fear,” the soldier said as he turned his mount around and made his way out of the courtyard and down to the Garrison, chuckling to himself at the continued antics of the Captain. Good luck to them all in keeping that one in line, he thought as he continued down the levels of the city.

Turning back to the palace Aragorn took a deep calming breath that did not work.

“Now, I must needs attend to my Steward!” the King growled as he began ascending the stairs.

Part 2

“Estel?” Thranduil called out to Aragorn as the human climbed the stairs. Aragorn stopped and turned back towards the elf. “Be nice,” the elven King said in a tone that although mild, held an underlying threat that was anything but mild.

Aragorn nodded once in understanding, turned back and resumed his ascent.

“I will be nice, after I have killed the little pizzle and hidden the body,” the King muttered, feeling the uncomfortable dampness of his clothes soaking into his very bones.

“I heard that Estel,” Thranduil said, amusement tugging at the corners of his mouth.

“Bloody elves,” Aragorn muttered shaking his head in disgust.

“We all heard that one, pen-neth,” Maglor called out after the retreating King, eliciting smirks and chuckles from the other elves.

The King arrived at the door that led to his reading chamber. Taking several deep breaths to try to regain a measure of calm, he opened the door and entered his chambers. Aragorn was astonished to see that the room had already been restored to its state prior to his Steward’s fit of pique. Said Steward was standing by the window, looking out at the garden below. Aragorn caught a glimpse of Faramir’s expression before it became the impassive expression that the King knew to be a facade his Steward assumed to keep people at a distance. The expression he glimpsed was one of great longing and sadness.

“What am I going to do with you, my Steward?” the King sighed as he looked at Faramir intently. The fond exasperation in Aragorn’s voice caused Faramir’s impassive mask to falter for a moment. “Feeling trapped I can understand, for I have been feeling a fair amount of that myself recently. But blatantly disobeying a direct order I cannot condone,” Aragorn said. Faramir winced, knowing that the King was in the right and he conversely, was in the wrong. “Tell me, my young Steward. What would Boromir have done if he were in my position at his moment, hmmm?” Aragorn asked.

“Exactly what you are contemplating now,” Faramir responded, paling and wincing at the very clear visual image he was receiving from his King of Elessar using ‘Faramir’s Bane’ on his Steward vigorously.

Aragorn started as he comprehended his Steward’s words and their ramifications.

“You perceived my thoughts?” Aragorn asked, his eyes narrowing.

“It is very hard not to when you are all but shouting them at me,” Faramir replied peevishly, looking at the floor and then blanched on realising to what he has just admitted.

“How long have you been able to do thusly, my Steward?” Aragorn asked sharply his eyes narrowing even more.

“Some would say for a very long time but it is really only since I have been able to hear the ring that I have heard the thoughts of others clearly in my mind and not just the vague shadow of other’s thoughts, as I have perceived in the past,” the Steward replied truthfully.

“Does Gandalf know about this ability?” Aragorn asked already suspecting the answer.

“Aye. He does. Mithrandir has been guiding me in blocking the thoughts of others for I can assure you that I have no desire to know such thoughts, especially when those thoughts involve images of physical harm to my person,” Faramir responded churlishness returning to his voice.

“And just when did you and Gandalf plan on telling me of this newly developed ability?” Aragorn queried caustically.

The Steward paled even more as he desperately sought the most diplomatic way to tell his King but failed miserably in his anxiety.

“Mithrandir wanted to tell you as soon as he found out but I asked him to wait until I had gained control over this Arda-be-damned ability and it had ceased to cause me such pain,” Faramir blurted out wishing immediately as he did so that he could recapture the words, for he did not want to show such weakness to his King.

Taken aback by Faramir’s inadvertent admission, Aragorn was struck dumb for several long moments as he stared at his now blushing Steward.

“I am going to blister your arse until you are wailing, Faramir,” Aragorn growled when he finally found voice enough to do so, causing the Steward to cringe at his King’s tone. “I take it that your wish to visit Osgiliath had less to do with the need to inspect the troops as it had to do with getting away from the White City where you are feeling trapped and away from the thoughts of so many. And I would hazard a guess to escape the negative thoughts of those in the council. Yes?”

Faramir, feeling exposed and embarrassed beyond measure could only nod as he kept his head lowered and his eyes downcast.

“Do not expect to be sitting comfortably any time soon, my stubborn young fool of a Steward,” the King admonished his now pale and wincing Steward. “If you had but come to me, trusted me, we could have worked out a solution together.”

Tears welled in Faramir’s eyes as the young man read disappointment and hurt in both Aragorn’s expression and thoughts.

“I-I am s-sorry, Elessar,” Faramir stammered. “I did not want to expose how weak…”

“Weak!” Aragorn bellowed making Faramir take an involuntary step backward. “Aieeeeeee! You are one of the strongest, if somewhat softheaded, men I know. You young fool!” the King exclaimed as walked over to his desk and retrieved ‘Faramir’s Bane’ from the bottom drawer.

Aragorn grabbed the chair that sat behind the desk, moved it to the middle of the room and sat down on its cushioned seat. Faramir winced anew at the King’s angry movements. Taking a tremulous breath that ended in a small whimper the young man approached at Aragorn’s unspoken command. Loosening the ties to his leggings and pushing them to his knees, the Steward lowered himself over his King’s lap.

“What is this punishment for, my young Steward?” Aragorn asked as he brandished ‘Faramir’s Bane’.

“For disobeying a direct order,” Faramir replied in a small voice.

“And?” the King prompted.

“For not telling you about my being able to hear the thoughts of others,” the Steward responded in the same small voice.

“No,” Aragorn contradicted. “Not for not telling me but for not trusting me enough…”

“But I do trust you, Elessar. With my life…” Faramir countered vehemently.

“With your life yes, but not with your heart,” the King said his voice quavering on the last word as he landed the first of many punishing whacks to his Steward’s exposed buttocks.

Faramir gasped at the intensity of the sting from ‘Faramir’s Bane’ as Aragorn landed whack after whack to first one buttock and then the other. But the Steward felt an even greater pain that Elessar thought he did not trust him with his heart. It was not true, Faramir thought. He did trust the King with his heart. It was not long before the Steward was squirming fiercely as Aragorn continued the punishing pace he had set.

“I… do… trust you… with… my heart!” the Steward cried out between blows and gasps for breath. “I… do… I do… trust… you… with my heart!

“Then why, Faramir? Why?” Aragorn asked in anguish.

“Because I… want… so… much… your g-good… o-opinion… of me. But… I… know… I… am w-weak… e-emotional… not fit…to be… Steward,” the Steward sobbed.

“Aieeeeeeee! Faramir!” Aragorn bellowed as he threw down ‘Faramir’s Bane’ for fear of doing his Steward a real injury in his anger and continued the chastisement with his bare hand. “You… are… not… weak,” the King emphasised each word with a resounding slap to his Steward’s posterior. “Soft-headed, SOMETIMES, reckless with your life, quick tempered, contrary, sneaky, conniving, stubborn, YES but weak, NO! And you have and have always had my good opinion, you idiot!”

“Please… stop! I-It hurts… too… much,” Faramir cried out, distressed.

“What hurts, Faramir? The chastisement or the words?” Aragorn asked gently, knowing the answer already.

“B-Both… words… ” the Steward replied, as his sobbing grew more intense.

After a few blistering slaps to Faramir’s thighs, Aragorn ceased the chastisement and rubbed his Steward’s back in gentle circles. Still sobbing, Faramir slipped from Aragorn’s lap, pulling up his leggings as he did so, went down onto his knees and rested his head on his King’s thigh. After a few moments, Aragorn went down on his knees also and gathered Faramir into an embrace, holding him tightly and crooning words of love and forgiveness as the young Steward collapsed against him and cried out his pain.

“Oh, my Faramir! We find ourselves back in this place after all this time. What has caused this?” the King crooned softly as he continued to rub his Steward’s back as Faramir sobbed. “I did not refuse you permission to go to Osgiliath because I thought you weak but because you are vulnerable at the moment,” Aragorn said in understanding, as he continued to sooth his young Steward. “You are precious to me Faramir and important to Middle Earth but your wizarding powers are not yet fully realised and until they are you need protection. That does not make you weak. Aieeeee!” Aragorn exclaimed softly in exasperation. “ If Denethor were here right this moment I would be kicking his backside from one end of Middle Earth to the other for making you believe that you are weak, and have so little worth. And if I am not much mistaken, Boromir is doing just that in the halls of your ancestors,” Aragorn said passionately, eliciting a teary smile from Faramir. “It is time to move on tithen-pen. You are loved by your family and your family most assuredly includes me.”

The King continued to hold his Steward as the young man’s sobs calmed to hitched breaths.

“I am sorry, Elessar, for losing my temper and dousing you,” Faramir apologised.

“Whilst I am very sure that you are very sorry for losing your temper, I do not truly believe you are sorry for dousing me. There is far too much of the imp about you, my Steward” Aragorn chuckled. “You can come in now,” Aragorn called out causing Faramir to start slightly. “I swear those two are like hens around a chick,” the King muttered as Thranduil and Maglor entered the room as if they had not been caught snooping, followed by Imrahil who looked sheepish. “Make that three,” Aragorn added in quiet exasperation, eliciting a shy smile from Faramir.

“Well this hen has very sharp talons, mellon-nin,” Thranduil said sternly but with the ever present twinkle in the eyes as he walked to where Aragorn and Faramir were still kneeling. “Come chick,” the elven King continued as he held out his hand to Faramir.

The young Steward took hold of his father’s hand and was pulled to his feet and into a tight, comforting embrace.

“I love you, ada,” Faramir whispered shyly into the elven King’s shoulder.

“As do I you, ion-nin. As do I,” Thranduil replied, tightening the embrace.

“As do we all, foxling,” Imrahil said softly as he stroked Faramir’s hair and shared a smile with Thranduil.

“My arse is afire, ada,” Faramir moaned softly, his face still buried in the elven King’s shoulder.

“I doubt it not, ion-nin. You could try the patience of the Valar and certainly do Estel’s,” Thranduil chuckled as he broke the embrace and held his son at arm’s length so that he could look at him. “I am sorry to have to tell you that you and the ‘trio horribus’,” the ‘trio horribus’ being the Elrondion twins and Legolas, “have exhausted Maglor’s entire supply of numbing salve.”

Faramir groaned softly, eliciting a smirk from Aragorn.

“Then it is fortuitous for you little fox that I had replenished Boromir’s supply of specially prepared numbing salve from Dol Amroth some months ago,” Imrahil smiled at Faramir who was blushing furiously and looking chagrined.

“We will take our leave of you Estel,” Thranduil said nodding to Aragorn before turning Faramir towards the door and departing, followed by Imrahil and Maglor who also took their leave of the King.

When they were half way down the corridor a familiar voice bellowed from within the King’s apartments.

“Ahhhhhhhh! FARAMIR THRANDUILION!!!”

“Oops,” Faramir said, wide eyed and in a quiet voice, as he looked first at his father then Imrahil and finally Maglor before launching into a panicked sprint further down the corridor to be followed soon after by an angry, dripping Aragorn.

“Children,” the elven King shook his head and chuckled, as he continued to walk down the corridor with Maglor and Imrahil.

Part 3

Faramir continued to sprint down corridors and through rooms, managing to stay ahead of Aragorn who, much to the Steward’s dismay, seemed determined to catch him and make him pay for the additional dousing he had received. Faramir thought fleetingly, as he ran as fast as his Ranger legs would carry him, that he would like to explain to Elessar that it was an accident, that he forgot about the barrel filled with water that he had rigged to tip, spilling its contents on the one unfortunate enough to open the glassed doors that led from the King’s study out onto the balcony that overlooked the King and Steward’s private garden but did not think that Elessar would be amenable to any explanation whilst ever the King continued to leave puddles wherever he stood still for but a moment.

Turning yet another corner and passing a partially opened door, the young Steward felt himself yanked by a pair of very strong grips into the room of the door he was passing. Yelping or more accurately squeaking in surprise, Faramir turned to establish the identity of those who had pulled him into the room only to be shushed by the Queen and Legolas, as they tilted their heads listening he assumed for Aragorn. Further into the room he could see the twins and Gimli sitting in chairs by the fireplace. Arwen pointed to the corner of the room where large, heavy curtains had been pulled back from the windows and into the corner to allow the afternoon sun to fill the room. Panting for breath and not needing to be told twice, Faramir ran over to the corner and hid behind the drapes. Arwen and Legolas had just settled in their chairs again when the door flew open and Aragorn burst into the room wet from head to toe and came to an abrupt halt, dripping and panting for breath, an ever-growing puddle of water spread beneath him, as he looked at those gathered.

“You are dripping, Estel,” Arwen stated in her quiet lyrical voice as she looked from her husband’s face to the growing puddle of water at his feet and then to his face again.

Legolas coughed to disguise the giggle that erupted from him at the small whimper he heard coming from behind the curtains on Arwen’s amused observation. The twins and Gimli all managed to maintain expressions of polite interest. Aragorn’s eyes narrowed in suspicion as he glared at each of them in turn. Finally, growling in sheer frustration, the King wheeled around and stormed out of the room, slamming the massive door behind him as he went. As soon as the door closed the room erupted into the tinkling laughter of elves and the deep rumbling laughter of a dwarf.

“The way is clear, muindor tithen,” Legolas chuckled after ascertaining first that Aragorn was not doubling back, as he pulled the curtain aside revealing a panting Faramir; all but collapsed against the wall. “Whatever have you done now?”

“It was an accident!” Faramir whined as he grasped the curtain for support and locked his knees for fear that he would otherwise collapse and knowing his luck at the moment onto his throbbing hindquarters.

“What was an accident?” Legolas asked, his eyes twinkling and looking very much like his sire.

“The barrel of water over the balcony doorway,” Faramir answered truthfully.

“You set a barrel of water over the doorway but you did not mean to imbathe Aragorn?” Legolas queried in a slow manner as if trying to make sense of his brother’s words as the twins and Gimli laughed and Arwen put a hand to her mouth to stop the giggle that wanted to escape.

“No. That part was deliberate but I can assure you that after a session with that… that… ‘thing’ and a very heavy hand, it would have been suicidal to incite further Elessar’s wrath with me,” Faramir replied passionately if somewhat breathlessly. The twins winced in empathy at the reminder of ‘Faramir’s Bane’. Arwen and Gimli looked puzzled for a moment until both guessed as to what the young Steward was referring. “I forgot about the damned barrel,” the Steward added indignantly on seeing Legolas’ raised eyebrow and sceptical look, as the elf was well aware of what little in the way of self-preservation skills his brother displayed when in a temper.

“We are sorry…” Elrohir said, smiling broadly at Faramir who was still clinging to the curtain although his breathing had settled somewhat.

“…To have missed seeing Estel’s drenching,” Elladan finished as in the way of very close tied twins.

“I suggest leaving Estel alone for the moment,” Arwen cautioned as she looked from Elladan to Elrohir. “I daresay you are both walking on very thin ice at the moment as far as Estel is concerned. You are already driving him insane and you have only just returned.”

“To be fair thel tithen (sister little). I think our young friend here…” Elladan replied, looking again at the Steward.

“…Is ahead of us in the unhinging of Estel stakes,” Elrohir concluded.

Faramir blushed furiously as he stood in the corner still clinging to the heavy curtain; whether for support or as a shield if Aragorn were to return to the room, Legolas was not sure.

“Come sit, laddie before you fall down,” Gimli said as he pointed to the empty chair that Legolas had vacated.

“I have a preference for standing at the moment, master Gimli,” Faramir replied, glaring at the son of Gloin as he walked stiffly over to the chair and leaned heavily against its back, darting nervous glances towards the door as if expecting Aragorn to burst into the room at any moment, eliciting a deep bark of laughter from Gimli and tinkling laughter from Legolas. “I am ever so pleased that you find enjoyment in my uncomfortable situation,” Faramir responded tartly before rolling his eyes and groaning at his inadvertent emphasis on the ‘sit’ part of the word. All, with the exception of Arwen, laughed. The Queen looked upon the blushing Steward with great fondness, a smile tugging at the corners of her mouth.

“We were just discussing what to do for entertainment this evening…” Elladan said as he looked at Faramir.

“…Before you joined us so abruptly…” Elrohir added with a smile.

“…And have decided to taste the delights of a drinking establishment on the second level that Legolas recommends…”

“…You are welcome to join us,” Elrohir said hoping that Faramir would agree as they always found enjoyment in the young human’s company.

“Please accept my apologies but however willing the spirit may be, I fear that no amount of spirits, liquid or otherwise, will temper the ache in my…” Faramir sighed, blushing spectacularly again not able to bring himself to name the part of his body so afflicted, with a lady present even if that lady was thousands of years old.

Faramir thanked Arwen and Legolas for rescuing him and bid all a pleasant evening before exiting the room and walking to his apartments to enjoy the soothing qualities of a long hot bath followed by a meal shared with his father and Maglor before retiring to bed with a good book. After a long soak and a pleasant meal the Steward retired to his bed eventually only to be awoken abruptly several hours later by an agitated young servant.

“Begging pardon Lord Faramir,” the youth said tentatively as he kept his distance from Faramir, well aware, from personal experience and the stories of others, of the Steward’s dislike of being woken and the range and accuracy of his aim, “but a soldier states that an urgent matter has arisen.”

“Send him in Gothric,” Faramir instructed as he got up from the bed and pulled on a robe.

“I am sorry to disturb you sir but the Sheriff asked me to fetch you and escort you to gaol,” the tall broad shouldered soldier said as soon as he entered the room. “There was an altercation at the pub near the carpenter’s on the second level, sir. A small army of dwarves, elves, Rohirrim and Gondorians have been arrested,” the soldier added hastily on seeing the Steward’s raised eyebrow and on realising his poor wording.

Groaning initially and then cursing fluidly as he dressed hurriedly, Faramir signalled for the soldier to make no noise as they left the Steward’s apartments and thence the palace, as Faramir did not want to alert either his father or Maglor, who were both staying in his guest’s quarters. Still muttering curses, the Steward marched angrily to the gaol that was situated on the third level.

Faramir was greeted by a harassed looking Sheriff who also looked as if he had been fetched from his bed. The Sheriff guided the Steward to the cells that contained the recently acquired inmates. Faramir entered the room and was greeted by a veritable cacophony of demands, explanations, entreaties and threats. The large room contained four cells, two on one side of the room and two on the other. Each cell was constructed of large stone blocks on three sides and iron bars and gate at the front; all cells were accessible by the wide corridor that ran down that middle of the room. A long wooden bench was placed in the corridor in front of each cell, obviously meant for those visiting the prisoners. From his position in the centre of the corridor, Faramir was able see the occupants of all four cells.

“Cease and desist this moment!” the Steward of Gondor bellowed in his most authoritative voice. The silence that followed the bellowed order was immediate and total.

In the silence that ensued, Faramir looked to see the inmates in each of the cells. The sheriff had been sensible enough to divide the inmates into their groups. The Steward recognised all five of the Gondorian soldiers, sporting a variety of cuts and bruises, in the first cell and two of the five Rohirrim, also sporting a fight injuries, in the cell opposite. The Rohirrim concerned had been left behind, initially because of wounds and then to assist with the defence of Gondor considering that the King of Rohan’s sister was to return to the city eventually. Thoughts of his separation from Éowyn evoked by the Rohirrim before him, made the Steward’s current mood all the darker. The Gondorian soldiers cowed under the glare of their Steward but the Rohirrim, not having the same experience as the Gondorians of the temper of their Captain, looked upon the Steward with arrogance. The arrogance however faded quickly on seeing the Steward begin to crackle slightly as he glared at each of them in turn. The soldiers of Rohan remembered then rumours that the Steward of Gondor was a very powerful wizard with a very nasty temper.

The cell next to the Gondorians contained the dwarves, six in all also showing signs of having been involved in a fight, none of whom Faramir recognised. This took the Steward by surprise until he turned to the cell that contained the elves and the dwarf he had been expecting to see. This should prove to be an interesting story, Faramir thought as he looked at each of the occupants of the cell. As expected he saw his brother sitting on the sill of the barred window against the back wall looking rumpled and somewhat subdued, Gimli looking like a dark thundercloud was sitting on the floor under Legolas, the Elrondion twins, also looking solemn, sat on a wooden bench that ran along the wall that separated it from the cell next door. Not expected was the dark-haired elf whose face was obscured the hood a cloak the elf was wearing, sitting between the twins.

Faramir felt as if his stomach had fallen into his boots as he took a step closer to the cell containing the elves, praying that his suspicion of whom this elf was, was just the creation of a very tired and deranged mind. But alas all colour drained from Faramir’s face and he stared in abject horror as the dark haired elf raised her head and the Queen of Gondor smiled at him in chagrin.

Part 4

“Take a deep breath, little brother,” Legolas called out quietly in Elvish from his perch on the windowsill, looking with concern at his brother’s pale complexion and eyes widened in panic. “Alright… If you cannot take a deep breath; a small one will do,” the elf continued soothingly after several long moments as he jumped down lightly from the windowsill, over Gimli and hurried to Faramir. “Just breathe, Faramir!” Legolas implored as his brother’s lips started taking on a bluish tinge.

“Are you unwell, my Lord?” the Sheriff asked, alarmed at seeing the Steward’s face white as a sheet.

One of the Rohirrim, still very intoxicated, chose that particular moment to voice his objection to being incarcerated, his doubts about the legitimacy of the Steward and the unnatural sexual practices of the Steward’s ancestors. With speed worthy of an elf, Faramir took in a gasped breath as he turned smartly on his heel, raised the hand on which the ring of power was situated and sent a blue bolt of energy towards the wooden bench, outside the cell housing the soldiers of Rohan, reducing it in quick order to a smouldering pile of blackened splinters. As one, the Rohirrim jumped back in panic – their eyes wide with unrestrained fear. The dwarves in their cell also shuffled backwards. The Gondorian soldiers knew better than to risk inciting their captain’s wrath further, standing stock still and barely daring to breathe as they did so.

“I said be quiet” the Steward said in a dangerously soft voice, his hair beginning to stand on end and the faint blue crackling around his body intensifying. Taking a few deep breaths to try to regain a measure of control over his emotions, Faramir turned back to the cell containing the elves.

“Will he be looking for you yet?” Faramir whispered in Elvish, so low that only the elves could hear, as he looked at Arwen. The Queen shook her head. Not bothering to even try to figure out why that would be the case, the Steward turned to the Sheriff.

“Can you please go to Beregond’s house, tell him to find Gothric, my servant, and bring the lad here. I will spend that time getting to the bottom of what has occurred this evening,” Faramir instructed the Sheriff.

“As you wish, my Lord,” the Sheriff said with obvious puzzlement but he knew better than to question the Steward’s orders, especially in his current mood. The Sheriff turned and walked towards the entrance.

“Is the innkeeper about?” Faramir asked suddenly.

“Yes, he is in my office at the moment,” the Sheriff replied as he stopped and turned to the Steward.

“Please ask him to stay until I have spoken to him,” Faramir ordered quietly.

“Yes, my Lord,” the Sheriff said before turning again and leaving with more alacrity than was strictly polite.

The occupants of the various cells could not blame him as they turned wary eyes upon the still faintly crackling Steward.

“Alright gentle men, dwarves and elves. I want to know what has occurred this evening from the beginning. And no one will be leaving this establishment until I do know,” Faramir said in his normal well modulated tone that was all the more eerie given the still smouldering pile of wood splinters, evidence of the Steward’s recent anger. “Who wishes to begin? How about you my vociferous friend,” Faramir asked of the Rohirrim who had made the rather disparaging remarks earlier, in the same deceptively mild tone, causing the Gondorian soldiers to wince or cringe or wince and cringe. The Rohirrim soldier concerned paled under the Steward’s intense gaze and remained mute. “No? Well! This could prove to be a very long night.”

“I did not know that she was a he!” the tallest of the blond Rohirrim said indignantly in a rush. “I would not have made a pass at her… er… him, if I had known.”

The Steward’s eyebrows went skywards at the panicked confession of the tall Rohirrim.

“You made a pass at an elf?” Faramir repeated in alarm as he turned his head abruptly to look at Arwen. Still cloaked by the hood the Queen shook her head slightly, advising the Steward mutely that it was not she at whom the Rohirrim had made a pass. Faramir sighed in relief. “Then who?” he asked quietly as if to himself, looking bewildered. Understanding dawned suddenly. “You made a pass at my brother?” Faramir guessed. Eyes twinkling with amusement as he sought out Legolas, who had moved back to his perch on the windowsill, for confirmation.

Legolas returned a very dark look that promised long and pain filled retribution against his little brother.

“Your brother? No! The blond elf over there,” the tall Rohirrim replied looking as bewildered as the Steward had a moment before.

“Yes. The blond elf who is my brother,” Faramir reiterated.

“I… I did not know!” the warrior exclaimed in shock not believing the nightmare this evening had become. “Well, how was I to know he was not a she? The alehouse was darkened. There was much smoke. And he is pretty enough to be a she,” he argued inadvisably.

“I would, if I were you, stay any further words on that subject for my brother, pretty though he may be, is deadly with both elven knives and bow,” the Steward advised, smiling broadly at his darkly glaring brother. The Elrondion twins were trying their hardest not to laugh. Gimli, strangely, was looking like a thundercloud still, Faramir noted. “So you made a pass. I assume my brother rebuffed your… uh… advances. What happened then?

“Well… he is very pretty and it was an alehouse… and… well… I tried again,” the tall warrior confessed truthfully, his voice fading away with the sentence.

A deep continuous sound was coming from the back of the cell containing the elves. For several moments Faramir could not quite discern its origin but realised, with much amusement, that his brother was actually growling, sounding like a very annoyed hunting cat.

“So, after you tried again, what happened then?” Faramir asked as he turned from Legolas to look at the Rohirrim again.

“Well…” the warrior said as he tried to remember exactly what had happened as the events of earlier were a little hazy. “He grabbed me by the front of my tunic. Threw me across the bar over to the other side of the room and into a nest of dwarves. He is deceptively strong for such a dainty looking little thing,” the tall blond Rohirrim added with something akin to admiration.

Indignant rumblings could be heard from the dwarves’ cell and sniggers from the Gondorian’s cell both quelled quickly by a glare from the Steward. The now almost constant growling from Legolas grew in intensity.

“So that explains how the dwarves became involved,” Faramir said as he glared at the dwarves who shifted from feet to feet, looking down at the ground thus avoiding the Steward’s glare.

“They moved like a swarm of wasps and started bellowing and throwing punches at the elves and us for disturbing their drinking,” another Rohirrim said in disgust.

“Ahhh,” Faramir said nodding his head as he began to put the pieces of the puzzle together with his usual astuteness, suspecting the reason Gimli had not been placed with the other dwarves. “I begin to see the pattern. I assume Master Gimli, that you came to the defence of my brother, your friend, and had a falling out with your fellow brethren?” the Steward asked the glowering thundercloud.

“Aye. That is so, laddie. They… they accused me… and him… of…” was all that Gimli could manage to splutter, so great was the dwarf’s indignation and anger.

Faramir, discerning Gimli’s meaning, wheeled around and stalked towards the dwarves, eyes ablaze, hair standing on end and fair crackling with blue energy. The dwarves, not to mention the Rohirrim and Gondorians, moved as far back in their cells as possible, looking at the Steward with wide, panicked expressions.

“Excuse me a moment,” Faramir managed to growl before exiting to the next room.

Legolas jumped down from the windowsill again as the twins and Gimli jumped to their feet and all four ran to the front of their cell, looks of concern intensifying when a series of loud explosions, causing the occupants of the other cells to startle badly, was heard in the next room. It seemed like forever to the elves and Gimli before the door opened again and Faramir entered the room. Smoke-like vapour was rising from the Steward and he was still crackling faintly with blue energy.

Tired, Faramir walked to the cell containing Gimli and leaned against the iron bars.

“Master Gimli,” the young Steward said gently. “Please do not allow the ill considered and ill natured ramblings of your brethren malign your friendship with my brother. Together you and Legolas have faced greater trials than all of the men and dwarves gathered here and triumphed. During those trials you forged a friendship that transcends the petty bickerings between either of your races. As the elves count you a friend of elves, Elessar and I count you a friend of Gondor.”

“Thank you, laddie,” Gimli said with what looked suspiciously like tears in his eyes. Legolas smiled down at his friend, placing his hand on the dwarf’s shoulder. “Now, now, laddie. Do not be getting all maudlin on me,” Gimli grumbled at Legolas, causing the elf’s smile to broaden, as he surreptitiously wiped tears from his eyes.

“I am sure that your fellow dwarves are very sorry,” Faramir began as he glared at the dwarves, “for their ill advised remarks. Am I not right, sirs?” the Steward added in a slightly raised voice.

The dwarves had the grace to look abashed and all muttered something that sounded like an apology. Satisfied, the Steward continued.

“So, we have the dwarves, elves and Rohirrim throwing insults and punches. This I can at least understand now, if not condone, but this leaves my Gondorian soldiers. How did they become part of this squabble? Hmmmm?” Faramir asked as he turned his intense gaze on his own soldiers.

The soldiers of Gondor to a man were attempting to look as inconspicuous as possible, which if not for the seriousness of the situation would have been cause for laughter for each was built like a battlement.

“That would be my fault, sir,” came a small voice from the back of the cell.

“Come forward, man. Explain,” the Steward beckoned with his hand, perfunctorily.

The other Gondorians moved aside to let the owner of the voice through. The voice belonged to a rather young, if somewhat heavily built, soldier with curly black hair and grey eyes. Faramir recognised the young man by sight but had not seen the lad for many months.

“Well, sir…” the young man said before having to clear his throat which had tightened considerably under the Steward’s intense gaze. “I have been stationed at Osgiliath for some months, sir… I do not know much about the elves, sir… I… um…uh…”

“Just spit it out, soldier,” Faramir barked, losing patience.

“I saw the Rohirrim accosting the elf and then the dwarves swarming, sir. I thought I was coming to the aid of a she-elf,” the soldier let out in a rush, cringing as he did so. “And the others came to mine.”

Faramir coughed to disguise the involuntary chuckle that escaped his control. He could see from the corner of his eye that Gimli and the twins’ shoulders were shaking with suppressed mirth and from the low rumbling he could discern; Legolas had begun growling again.

The sounds of shuffling feet and swords being drawn could be heard coming from the next room. The Sheriff and Beregond burst forth through the doorway ready to do battle and stopped abruptly, though still looking around wildly. Gothric with his cloak and hood covering him like a shield, followed tentatively.

“What in Arda’s name has happened?” the Sheriff asked in alarm. “Every piece of furniture next door has been reduced to cinders.”

“You have lost your temper again. Have you not?” Beregond accused Faramir in a slightly scolding tone.

The Sheriff’s eyes widened and he looked at the Steward as he took in the meaning of Beregond’s words.

Faramir looked at Beregond for a long moment.

“I do not like the look of my brother’s elven friend. Can you and Gothric please see to him?” the Steward asked quietly. “If you will open door please, Sheriff?”

The Sheriff pulled the large keys from the pocket of his coat and unlocked the door. Beregond and Gothric entered the cell and walked over to Arwen who had remained seated the entire time.

“Sheriff,” Faramir said as he walked over to the cell containing the dwarves who were watching the Steward warily. “Please fetch the Innkeeper. I think the poor man has been kept waiting long enough.”

“Yes, my Lord,” the Sheriff replied as he turned smartly on his heel and went in search of the Innkeeper.

After a short time the Sheriff ushered in the burly, dark-haired Innkeeper. Faramir turned to Beregond who was still seeing to the elf.

“Is my brother’s friend alright, Beregond?” Faramir asked quietly as he walked over to the cell.

“He does seem to be a little dazed, my Lord but nothing serious I think,” Beregond replied.

“Gothric. Go and prepare one of the spare guest quarters near the healers. I would like them to watch over him tonight,” Faramir instructed his young servant. Gothric, still cloaked and hooded, nodded and left the room. “Beregond. Please go to the Inn and assess the damage done,” the Steward instructed as he leaned heavily against the door of the cell that Beregond had vacated and the Sheriff had relocked.

“Yes, my Lord,” Beregond replied as he too, left.

“Now sir. What damage has been done to your establishment?” Faramir asked all but holding himself up by the bars on the cell door, wishing that he could sit down but unfortunately the benches were not cushioned and his arse still throbbed after his session with ‘Faramir’s Bane’ and the King’s very heavy hand.

“Some furniture, my Lord. A few barrels of ale, some goblets and two glass windows,” the Innkeeper replied as he thought back on the scene of devastation that became apparent after the combatants had been removed.

“After Beregond confirms the damage I will ensure that you receive adequate recompense in addition to elven, dwarven and human labour to return your establishment to rights,” the Steward said as he glared at the occupants of each cell. “If you are in agreement to the terms, I would set this lot free so that I can get them out of the Sheriff’s hair and I can get back to my bed.”

“Yes, my Lord. Thank you, my Lord,” the Inkeeper said excitedly as he had not seen such prompt action taken before.

“If you will do the honours, Sheriff,” Faramir said indicating the cell lock. “This one last, I think,” the Steward corrected when the Sheriff went to unlock the cell door that was the only thing holding him up at the moment. Faramir wanted to give the Rohirrim, dwarves and Gondorian who upset his brother the opportunity to escape before he let Legolas loose. If they were in any way intelligent they would all leave quickly and hide from Legolas for the next century or two, Faramir thought irreverently. When Legolas saw his brother’s intent, darting glares at Faramir, he growled and rattled the cell door in frustration, causing the occupants of the other cells to leave all the more quickly.

Only after all the other cells had been opened and their occupants given ample opportunity to escape, did Faramir allow the door of the last cell to be unlocked.

“Thank you, Sheriff. You may go now,” the Steward said wearily. “Alright. Shall we go back to the palace where I will want a full accounting of night’s deeds,” Faramir growled as he swung the heavy cell door open.

“Yes,” said a softy dangerous and very familiar voice from doorway. “I am extraordinarily interested in what you all have to say.”

The twins, Legolas and Gimli all started badly as they had not heard Aragorn’s approach. Whilst too tired to flinch, for he had also not heard Aragorn’s voice nor thoughts, Faramir whimpered softly and banged his forehead, repeatedly, against the iron bar of the door that he was still using for support.

Gimli, the twins and Legolas filed past Aragorn. The next cloaked and hooded figure drew the King’s attention immediately.

“What, for Arda’s sake, are you doing here!” the King exclaimed.

Part 5

“Gothric is with us,” Elrohir said from the other side of the doorway, phrasing his words very carefully so as not to tell an outright untruth.

“Is it not bad enough that I find that you have been incarcerated in my own gaol but that you have also dragged a minor into your misadventures?” Aragorn snarled.

“He is not a minor!” Elladan said adamantly as he looked at the pale human. “You are not a minor are you?” he asked on examining the human closely, realising that he did indeed look very young.

“No, he is not,” Faramir replied as calmly as he could in an effort to direct Elessar’s intense scrutiny away from the hapless youth. “But he is young and should be abed. With your permission, Elessar?”

“Yes…yes,” the King replied absent-mindedly as his thoughts were on larger concerns such as what his brothers and friends had been about and where Arwen was, as he thought her with the twins.

Faramir turned the young man towards the door and ushered him past the King and twins into the next room. Gothric almost broke into a run as he exited the next room and thence the prison, passing King Thranduil and Maglor as he did so. The two elder elves walked down the corridor into the room that bore the greater evidence of the Steward’s latest temper tantrum. Faramir blushed furiously as his father and Maglor surveyed the piles of smouldering cinders and melted metal that had so recently been pieces of furniture. His blush deepened as they turned their attention on him, both shaking their heads at the devastation.

“Alright all, back to the palace where you can explain, in intricate detail, how you came to find yourselves ensconced in this establishment,” Aragorn growled, ushering his brothers and others through the gaol’s entrance.

As they walked back to the palace Faramir thought longingly of his bed as the events of the evening and the consequences of his temper had drained him considerably. On reaching the entrance to the King and Steward’s apartments they were met by mother hen number three, so dubbed by Aragorn.

“Where have you been?” Prince Imrahil asked his nephew as he eyed the group in sleepy bewilderment. “There has been an inordinate amount of ‘tooing’ and ‘froing’ this evening. What, pray tell, is going on?”

“If you would like to join us in my study, Prince Imrahil, I am sure that my brothers and friends will be happy to explain everything,” Aragorn replied with a sardonic smile as he waved his hand inviting the Prince of Dol Amroth to precede him down the corridor and through to the study.

On reaching the entrance to the study, the twins, Legolas, Gimli and Faramir filed into the room followed by Maglor, Thranduil, Imrahil and finally Aragorn. The King pointed at his brothers and then to lounge chairs arranged around the fireplace in a mute order to sit down. He then pointed to Gimli, Legolas and Faramir to do the same. All but Faramir, who was still unable to sit comfortably, did as the King commanded. The Steward chose to stand and found himself flanked by both his uncle and Maglor, whilst Aragorn stoked the fire burning in the fireplace with rather violent movements of a poker.

Just as the King straightened, the other door that led further into the King’s apartment opened revealing Arwen; looking quite upset. The queen entered the room followed by Lord Elrond. A soft curse left Faramir’s mouth before his mind could stop it from springing forth. The soft curse was followed almost instantly by a very vocal yelp of pain from the Steward as Maglor and Imrahil both responded with the same action; a whack applied to the Steward’s posterior, protected only by the thin material of his leggings and shirt as, in his haste to dress earlier, he had not put on his leather overtunic and had removed his cloak upon entering the King’s study. Sparing a mutinous glare at both the Seneschal and his uncle, the Steward sidled over to where his father was standing by the fireside. Faramir relaxed slightly on seeing the elven King look on him with fond tolerance.

“Arwen, ada? What is the meaning of this? What has happened?” Aragorn asked as he looked at Arwen, noting that she had been crying.

“It appears, ion-nin, that my daughter, your wife, has spent the better part of this evening enjoying the delights of your gaol with the ‘trio horribus’ and Master Gimli,” Elrond replied, giving the ‘trio horribus’ and dwarf a look that Faramir thought would have had him running for the hills.

“WHAT!” Aragorn bellowed causing all four younger elves, Gimli and Faramir to wince. “How did you get out of the cell? Gothric!” the King said answering his own question almost immediately.

“Yes, Estel. If it had not been for your devious Steward and his very loyal, if somewhat disgruntled at the moment, staff,” Elrond began as he turned his unwavering gaze upon Faramir, whose eyes darted about immediately searching for boltholes garnering amused looks from his three ‘mother hens’, Thranduil, Maglor and Imrahil, “you would have found your Queen in that gaol cell.”

“YOU!” Aragorn turned to Faramir searching for a target for his considerable anger; the Steward presenting a tempting one given the very wet and cold dousing he had caused hours earlier.

The Steward took two steps back and would have taken a third if he had not backed into his father who had moved into his path and put a comforting hand on his son’s shoulder.

“Be nice, Estel” Thranduil said in a mild voice that nonetheless held a very real threat that stayed further words from Aragorn.

“You almost made that poor man’s heart stop when he heard your voice inside his head asking him to exchange Gothric for Arwen, pen-neth, not to mention dragging that poor child out of his bed and into your scheming,” Elrond admonished the Steward both verbally and mind-to-mind, causing Faramir to both flinch and blanch as he did not know that Lord Elrond could also receive and project thoughts.

“Another ‘gift’ you have failed to inform me about, hmmmmm?” Aragorn snarled as he pinned his Steward with a very kingly glare. Faramir put his fisted hand with thumb extended to his mouth and bit down on his thumbnail.

“Foxling,” Imrahil warned recognising the precursor to an ill-considered and almost certainly inappropriate retort by his nephew.

His retort thwarted by his uncle, Faramir felt like screaming but chose instead to remain silent, albeit grinding his teeth and glaring at the floor.

“None of this was Faramir’s doing, ada, Estel,” Arwen said in a tone, although as mild as Thranduil’s, held the same core of metal. “If anyone is to blame, it is you Estel.”

“Me! How so my Lady? How am I to blame?” Aragorn replied angrily.

“You were the one who insisted that I keep Elladan and Elrohir out of your hair this evening,” Arwen argued.

“But not by frequenting a drinking establishment and getting arrested for brawling, I did not!” the King growled.

“Be reasonable, Estel. We did not plan on becoming embroiled in a brawl. If it had not been for that intoxicated Rohirrim who mistook Legolas for a she-elf and made a pass at him, none of this would have transpired,” the Queen said adamantly but then turned to Legolas with an apologetic look when she realised that she had just added to her friend’s already monumental embarrassment.

The King’s, Imrahil’s and several elven eyebrows went skywards as all eyes turned to Legolas who had, Faramir noted, begun growling again.

And so it was that the entire story came out much to Legolas’ mortification and Faramir’s chagrin. Aragorn, whilst finding some amusement in Legolas’ predicament with the amorous mountain of a Rohirrim, did not find such amusement in his Steward’s continued displays of temper with their inevitable destructive consequences.

“Well, that is quite a tale,” Aragorn said with an odd mixture of confound and anger, looking at each culprit in turn before settling on his Steward. Faramir thought longingly again of boltholes such as the comfort and safety of his apartments and bed. “Which brings us to punishment. I seek your council in this,” the King added, looking at his father, Thranduil, Imrahil and Maglor.

“I have already had a lengthy ‘discussion’ with Arwen and plan on having an even more intense one with the ‘duo horribus’,” Elrond said as he pinned each twin with a glare that made them wince.

“Do you require assistance?” Imrahil asked in a conversational tone, belying his annoyance at the twins for their part in getting his nephew into yet more trouble.

“Thank you, yes. Your assistance would be most welcome, mellon-nin,” Elrond replied, much to the horror of the twins, in an equally conversational tone.

“I will see to Legolas,” Thranduil said as he gave his son a look that halted the elf’s intermittent growling and caused him swallow hard.

“And I will see to master Gimli,” Maglor said as he shifted his gaze to the startled and blustering dwarf. “For he is no less guilty than the others.”

“Which leaves my devious Steward and his temper to me,” Aragorn said with a certain amount of relish as he glared at his Steward.

“Hand only, Estel,” the elven King warned.

“As if that will make any difference,” Faramir muttered to himself, still feeling the effects of his last encounter with Elessar’s hand.

“What was that, ion-nin?” Thranduil asked, pretending not to have heard his son’s surly comment.

“Nothing, ada,” Faramir sighed in such a morose manner that Imrahil, shaking his head and chuckling softly, walked over to his nephew and enveloped him in a mighty embrace.

“You are your mother’s son, foxling,” the Prince whispered into Faramir’s ear, smiling at Thranduil over his nephew’s shoulder. The elven King returned the smile. Imrahil tightened his embrace before releasing the Steward to their King but not before bestowing Aragorn with a look that promised repercussions if the King did not deal with Faramir in a sensitive manner. Aragorn rolled his eyes but nodded his head in acknowledgement that he understood the Prince’s meaning.

“Ions-nin,” Lord Elrond called out to his sons as he and Imrahil made their way to the door that led to the corridor.

After exchanging a sympathetic glance with her brothers, Arwen made her way to her own rooms.

“Master Gimli, if you please?” Maglor asked mildly, although Gimli was under no illusions that it was a command not a request, as he preceded the Mirkwood Seneschal from the study.

“I am too old for physical chastisement, laddie,” Faramir could hear Gimli blustering as his voice receded into the distance. The Steward silently wished the dwarf luck in his argument but suspected that Gimli was about to become acquainted with his namesake, elvish version.

“Leg-o-las” Thranduil called, turning to Faramir as he did so. The Steward stood still, arms wrapped around himself protectively and his eyes cast downwards in a familiar, dejected pose that made the elven King’s heart constrict. “Oh, ion-nin!” the elf exclaimed in an emotion-filled whisper as he slowly and carefully enveloped his human son in a hug. “As I did in my youth; which my Seneschal would argue that I have yet to leave behind, you must face the consequences of losing your temper and especially now that your wizarding powers have manifested you need to learn control.”

“I know, ada, but it is so hard,” Faramir replied quietly as he buried his face in his father’s shoulder breathing deeply, taking in his father’s familiar forest scent.

“I know, ion-nin. I know. I do love you” Thranduil soothed, tightening his arms around his son.

“And I you, ada,” Faramir sighed.

The elf broke the embrace and turned to Aragorn with a look, similar to that given him by Imrahil, that promised painful retribution if the King did not treat his son with care. Aragorn’s eyes softened and he nodded his head in mute acknowledgement as Thranduil left the room. Legolas embraced Faramir briefly before following his father out of the room.

Part 6

“Lord Elrond led his sons and Imrahil to the apartments that he shared with the twins. Opening the door he motioned his sons to precede him and the Prince. Imrahil had to bite the inside of his cheek in an effort to keep his expression stern as the sons of Elrond sidled warily past their father and into the sitting room, keeping their backsides away from their father’s obviously long reach.

In a manner identical to that of his human son earlier in the evening, Lord Elrond pointed at the twins and then to the chairs arranged around the fireplace in an unspoken order for the elves to sit. The twins sat as instructed still eying their father warily. The so far silent interaction between the elf and his sons indicated to Imrahil that the reserved elven Lord was an elf of ‘action’ as well as words.

Lord Elrond looked intently at each twin in turn, noting their wary expressions, pinched the bridge of his nose, closed his eyes and began a gentle massaging movement as if trying to temper a headache, a gesture that, interestingly, elicited winces from his sons.

“Please do not be harsh with Arwen, ada,” Elladan began in a rush.

“… she did not want to come,” Elrohir continued, the words all but tumbling out.

“… at first,”

“… she argued,”

“…. that it was not,”

“… seemly,”

“… but we,”

“… convinced her,”

“… to come,”

“… we did not,”

“… expect trouble,”

“… and if,”

“… it had,”

“… not,”

“… been,”

“… for that,”

“… dumb,”

“… blond,”

“… ox of a,”

“… Rohirrim,”

“… mistaking Legolas,”

“… for a she-elf,”

“… and making,”

“… a pass at him,”

“… not once,”

“… but twice…,” Elrohir said as he and Elladan looked up at their father. Both twins gulped on seeing their father’s raised eyebrow and realising that their panicked speech was getting them nowhere.

“… We are,”

“… sorry,”

“… ada,” they both finished together with identical expressions of contriteness.

Imrahil had stood transfixed during the twins’ panicked explanations, marvelling at how the sons of Elrond were able to maintain the thread of the conversation flawlessly with only a word or three being uttered by either one of them at any one time. He could see by the expression of scepticism with which Elrond graced the panicked young elves that he was not buying what the twins were attempting to sell in the way of explanations.

“Rohirrim aside, ions-nin,” Elrond said, glaring at his sons anew, “Arwen should not have been in that alehouse and you, as her older brothers, although I use that term loosely for you may be older in years but ever it seems lack for maturity, should have displayed more sense. I am thankful that the Sheriff had enough wherewithal to summon Faramir and thank Adrahil for his grandson’s deviousness if not for the young one’s temper, meaning no disrespect to your sire Prince Imrahil,” Elrond added with an apologetic glance at the Prince.

“None taken, my friend. My father has been called much worse by those who tried to out-sneak the old fox, my brother-by-law included and he did have a temper that bred true,” Imrahil replied with an affectionate smile as he remembered his much beloved father, his fiery sister and her foxling.

“I want you both to fetch your hairbrushes. Now!” Elrond snapped when the twins stared at him in stunned horror.

“No please, ada,” the twins said as one.

“Either your hairbrushes or I go and fetch ‘Faramir’s Bane’. The choice is yours,” Elrond replied sternly.

Elladan looked as if he was going to argue the point but before he could Elrohir dragged his twin towards their room.

“I do not know about you but I would rather not face that… that… ‘thing’ again,” Elrohir admonished his brother in a harsh whisper as he dragged his twin into their sleeping chamber.

Elrond and Imrahil exchanged a rueful look.

“They appear to be quite the handful?” Imrahil said as he watched the twins disappear through the door.

“Always,” Elrond replied with a weary sigh. “Although Elrohir does show a modicum of good sense… on occasion”

“Yes, I noticed. Takes after his mother does he?” Imrahil asked in the same conversational tone that he had used earlier.

Elrond turned to the Prince of Dol Amroth gracing him with his most lordly raised eyebrow.

“I am certain that not all the stories your father told you were accurate,” Elrond replied after several long moments appraising the Prince.

“Just the greater proportion, I would suspect,” Imrahil said in the same calm, well-inflected tone that showed the Prince’s familial relationship to the Steward of Gondor.

“Cheekiness, I see, has also bred true in Adrahil’s line, mellon-nin,” the elven Lord admonished mildly but with a hint of humour in his eyes.

Imrahil smiled but resumed a stern expression quickly when the twins re-entered the room, both holding lethal looking works of elven art in the form of large, ornate silver hairbrushes.

“I will see to Elrohir’s punishment. If you would be so kind as to see to Elladan’s, mellon-nin?” Elrond asked, smiling to himself at Elrohir’s look of relief and Elladan’s look of horror.

“With pleasure, my friend,” Imrahil replied, with an emphasis on the word pleasure, as he crooked a finger at the suddenly wary Elladan to follow him into the next room.

Glaring at his father who remained impassive except for a raised eyebrow, daring his son to say anything, Elladan sighed wanly in defeat finally, before following Prince Imrahil into the next room.

The Lord of Rivendell walked over to a chair with no arms that was situated in the far corner of the room, moved the chair to a space near the centre of the room and sat down upon its seat. He held out a hand for the hairbrush Elrohir still held. Elrohir walked over to his father silently and handed over the hairbrush reluctantly.

“You were not too harsh with Arwen, were you, ada?” Elrohir asked tentatively.

“Nay, I was not, ion-nin, although your sister did feel my displeasure firmly upon her posterior,” Elrond replied sternly. “I do credit Arwen with having more sense than her brothers though and understand that she is feeling somewhat bound at the moment and thus gave in to temptation. Now to your chastisement, ion-nin,” the elven Lord added.

With a resigned sigh, Elrohir loosened the ties of his leggings, pushed them down to his knees and lowered himself over his ada’s lap. Elrond wasted no time in beginning the chastisement, landing several stinging slaps with the substantial elven brush before Elrohir found breath enough to gasp. The elder elf continued a blistering pace, concentrating first on one of the younger elf’s buttocks and then the other. Elrohir’s gasps turned in quick order to whimpers and then to sobs interspersed eventually with howls. Elrond moved his attention to his son’s thighs. Even through his own sobbing and howling, Elrohir was aware of his brother’s howls coming from the next room.

Leggings also pushed down to his knees exposing his vulnerable posterior, Elladan lay over Prince Imrahil’s lap having his arse well and truly chastised. The Dol Amroth Prince was keeping a keen ear open to what he could hear happening in the other room so that he could keep pace with Lord Elrond. And what a pace that was turning out to be, Imrahil thought as he moved between Elladan’s buttocks and thighs so that each area would have received equal share of the punishment by its end. The young elf was fully sobbing and howling as loud as his brother by the time the chastisement did end. Not able to help himself, Imrahil landed two extra whacks to Elladan’s posterior for the trouble he had caused Faramir, as he recognised in the young elf the ring leader who had led his sister astray. Ending the chastisement, Imrahil dropped the brush on the floor and allowed the young one to voice his distress as he rubbed the elf’s back in gently soothing motions.

“All is forgiven, young one,” Imrahil crooned as he pulled up the Elladan’s leggings and gathered the still sobbing son of Elrond into his arms, careful not to add to the pain in elf’s posterior.

“I am… sorry… we got Faramir… into trouble,” Elladan gasped out between hitched breaths.

“My foxling is well capable of getting himself into trouble, young one. I am sure he would have managed to do so eventually, with or without your assistance. Although, I would have wished that one day between bouts of trouble could have been achieved,” Imrahil replied, eliciting a small smile from the son of Elrond. Imrahil was surprised and honoured that the young elf, so much older than he, accepted his comforting him. “I think we should see how your brother is faring, young one,” Imrahil said as he stood and with his arm around Elladan’s shoulders, guided the elf into the other room where they found Elrond cuddling an equally contrite elf.

Elrond looked up and gave Elladan a sympathetic smile, gesturing with his arm for his son to come and receive a hug. In the blink of an eye the Lord of Rivendell’s arms were full of repentant elflings, both repeating that they were sorry and both seeking reassurances from their ada. Elrond and Imrahil shared another rueful look and smile as the prince leaned against the doorframe with his arms crossed, watching the scene with amusement. Both were parents and both knew that the sons of Elrond would again find trouble but hopefully not for a day or two.

Thranduil led his nervous son to the apartments that they shared, located with the group of apartments belonging to the Steward in the King and Steward’s private wing of the palace. As had the Elrondion twins with their ada, the Mirkwood prince kept a wary eye on his ada as he walked past him and into the sitting room whilst also attempting to appear as contrite as possible.

Thranduil entered after his son and closed the door behind him. Leaning back against the door the elven King tried to maintain a stern expression but was unable to hide the twinkle of humour in his eyes. Unable to contain himself any longer, Thranduil, still using the door as support, doubled over placing his hands on his knees and burst out into heartfelt laughter that persisted so long that Legolas’ expression turned slightly affronted, although still somewhat wary.

“Oh, my elfling!” the elder elf gasped out as he wiped tears of mirth from his eyes. “Whilst I can understand that your pride, considerable as it is and for that I can blame no other than myself as it is my pride that you inherited, had indeed been bruised severely, you, my young prince, are going to have to learn restraint. As Mithrandir would point out to you, you cannot throw humans around willy, nilly,” the elven King said waving his about in the air mimicking the White Wizard, “no matter how annoyed or provoked you may be. You are most fortunate that the Rohirrim concerned landed amidst the dwarves, thus avoiding a heavy injury.”

“Aye, ada,” Legolas replied contritely although he could not help but smile a little ruefully at the truth of his father’s words even though he knew that he was still going to have his arse blistered.

“And to the more serious matter of Arwen. Did you at least argue that it was not a good idea for the Queen of Gondor to visit a questionable drinking establishment unbeknownst the King of Gondor?” Thranduil asked as he pinned his son with a glare and already suspecting the answer.

“Nay, ada,” the elf replied in a whisper as he looked at the floor, his head lowered.

“Alright, my elfling,” Thranduil said as he walked over to the desk situated in front of glass windows that led out onto a balcony overlooking a private garden, grabbed the chair sitting behind the desk and moved it to a space at the side of the desk, whereupon he sat down. “Mayhap a sharp lesson applied to your posterior will help your reasoning in future.”

Part 7

Grímacing, Legolas made his way over to his father, loosened the ties on his leggings, pulled them down to his knees and lowered himself over his ada’s lap. Thranduil also wasted no time in beginning the punishment, laying stinging slap after stinging slap to his son’s buttocks. The young elf accepted the chastisement stoically for about the first ten slaps. It was not long thereafter, for the elven King did indeed have a very hard hand, before he was whimpering then sobbing until finally letting out a few heartfelt, or in this case, arse-felt howls. After giving some attention to his elfling’s thighs and ‘sit-spot’, Thranduil ceased the chastisement. Pulling up Legolas’ leggings, the elven King gathered his elfling into his arms and soothed him until the sobs had quieted to hitched breaths.

“I hope, my elfling, that you will think twice before throwing any more humans about or allowing the Elrondion twins to talk their sister into anymore of their mischief,” Thranduil said as he continued to cuddle his son.

“Aye, ada,” Legolas replied as he snuggled into his father’s arms. “I am sorry, ada, to have got Faramir into trouble but I could think of no other way to get Arwen out. So I asked the Sheriff to summon him.”

“Nay, elfling. It was your brother’s temper that got him into trouble,” Thranduil responded.

Legolas continued to snuggle into his father’s embrace, much as he had done as an elfling. The attention of both elven father and son was distracted suddenly by what they could hear coming from the room across the hallway.

“Och there, laddie!” Gimli’s muffled bluster could be heard coming from the other room. “Where in the name of… did you produce that ‘thing’ from… If you think that you are going use that… that… Now, now, laddie, there is no need to elf-handle me… And there is certainly no need for that… I will catch my death, laddie… Ooouuucchhh! By all that’s… laddie! That… that ‘thing’ has the sting of a thousand fire ants. Ouch! Owwww! And you have used it on that poor young human’s scrawny behind. Ouch! For shame laddie! Ouch! Owww! … Aye I should have had more sense but I was outnumbered by flighty elves. Ouch! Owww! Not meaning that all elves are flighty. Just that I seem to know a disproportionate number who are. OUCH! OWWWW! LADDIE!”

Eyes twinkling, Legolas and Thranduil looked at each other and both burst out into fits of the giggles soon followed by hearty laughter.

“I love you, ada,” Legolas said when he finally caught his breath.

“As I love you, my elfling,” the elven King replied tightening his hold on his son.

Looking for all the world to Faramir like a predator eyeing a particularly tempting piece of fresh meat, Aragorn smiled evilly, pinning the young Steward with his most potent ‘heir of Isildur’ stare. Faramir’s eyes narrowed as he met the King’s intense stare warily. It took all of the Steward’s control to keep his eyes from darting about searching for the escape routes that his mind was desperately wanting to identify, categorise and prioritise.

Moving with the power, grace and confidence of a King of beasts as well as men, Aragorn swaggered over to a large seat, designed to seat three comfortably, and sat down as he crooked his finger beckoning his Steward to approach. With great difficulty Faramir got his feet moving and walked over to the King in much the same manner as one would approach the hooded man holding an axe on the execution scaffolding. Reluctantly loosening the ties of his leggings and pushing them down to his knees, Faramir took a deep breath and lowered himself over his King’s lap.

“What is this chastisement for?” Aragorn asked to ensure that he could monitor Faramir’s reactions.

“For losing my temper,” the young Steward replied immediately.

“And?” the King asked, his smile becoming more evil if anything.

“Ah, not telling you about the brawl?” Faramir began tentatively as he was not quite sure as to what Elessar was referring.

“No, no my Steward. I can understand why you did not tell me and I am grateful that you got Arwen out before she was discovered,” Aragorn replied.

“Then what?” Faramir murmured, annoyance again overcoming good sense.

“What? You cannot think of anything else you may have done recently that would cause my ire,” Aragorn asked almost teasingly.

“Surely not! Surely not for the other dousing?” Faramir said incredulously as he twisted and looked up at the King. “That was an accident!” he added indignantly.

“An interesting defence, my Steward. You did not mean to suspend the barrel of water over the doorway, hmmmm?”

“No… I mean, yes I did suspend the barrel over the doorway,” Faramir replied reluctantly.

“So then… I was not its intended target?” Aragorn asked perplexedly.

“Yes… and no,” the Steward responded.

“A decidedly clear and concise answer,” the King retorted sarcastically.

“I forgot about the accursed barrel,” Faramir snarled, inadvisably, his temper flaring as it often did when he was bare arsed and upended over a lap about to be blistered.

“The tone of reply of which brings us back to the subject of your considerable temper,” Aragorn said as he landed the first of a series of very hard very fast blistering slaps to his Steward’s buttocks, eliciting pained gasps from the young man as he, like his elven brother, fought to maintain a stoic demeanour.

As had been the case with Legolas this resolve did not last long as the King increased both the pace and intensity of the slaps applied to what had already been a very sore posterior. It was not long before Faramir was squirming in an attempt to lessen the impact of his King’s heavy hand. Whimpers gave way to sobs and the Steward began to apologise profusely for losing his temper in between gasps for breath.

“I hope, my Steward, that you will, in time, although I say this with little confidence based on past behaviour, learn to control your formidable temper, tempering its consequences,” Aragorn lectured punctuating key words with harder slaps. “And now to the issue of that second dousing.”

“It was an accident!” Faramir could hear himself snap out without conscious thought and directly after having apologised for losing his temper.

“Faramir?” the King said the same deceptively mild tone that Lord Elrond had developed into an art form, instilling fear into his children instantly when used on them. The Steward either did not process the question or did not want to process the question for he remained silent except for hitched and heavy breathing interspersed with what Aragorn was sure were muttered curses. “Faramir?” Aragorn repeated in stern tone.

“What!” the Steward snarled in exasperation.

“I would suggest that you release my arm,” Aragorn instructed in the same deceptively calm tone.

It took Faramir a moment to process the demand.

“I am not holding your arm,” Faramir responded in a surly manner, looking at his hands, which were wrapped currently around the calf of his King’s leg for balance.

“Faramir, release my arm. Now!” Aragorn barked loudly.

“And I tell you I am not…” Faramir began twisting as he did so to look up at Aragorn.

The words stopped abruptly, his eyes widened and the blood drained from his flushed face suddenly when he saw the King’s hand held high poised to deliver another slap. From Elessar’s strained look it was clear to the Steward that the King was fighting an invisible force that held his arm fast. Eyes the size of saucers, widened in panic, Faramir scrambled off Aragorn’s lap, pulling his leggings up as he did so. Still scrambling backwards away from the King, the Steward lost his balance and fell onto his behind with a resounding thump but so great was his panic and fear that his mind did not register the pain.

“Faramir… Faramir stay with me… all will be well,” Aragorn soothed, concerned about the strength and rapidity of his Steward’s panicked breathing.

Panic increasing, Faramir gained his feet and backed away from Aragorn whose arm was still held aloft and held fast. The Steward turned and flew towards the door that led into the hallway. At that exact moment, the door opened and Gandalf stormed into the room. The resultant clash of the wizards caused Gandalf to teeter backwards several steps and Faramir to bounce back and fall again onto his rump with an even greater resounding thump that made Aragorn, arm still aloft, wince.

“What have you done now, Aragorn?” exclaimed Gandalf, turning on the King when he saw how pale and frightened his wizardling looked.

“What I have done!” Aragorn bellowed in reply. “I am the one with my arm held in this unnatural position! It is your wizardling’s doing!” Mithrandir waved his hand as he knelt beside his very distressed wizardling. Aragorn’s arm dropped to his side, much to the King’s relief. “Thank you, mellon-nin,” said Aragorn caustically as he rubbed his arm to regain a measure of circulation.

“Mithrandir… I do not know how… I did not mean… I am sorry… so… sorry,” Faramir pleaded, his breathing still so rapid as to make it impossible for him to gain his breath.

“Shhhh, my wizardling,” Gandalf soothed his panicked pupil. “I keep finding myself short-footed with you,” he chuckled, stroking Faramir’s hair in an effort to sooth the young man. “You keep doing things of which you should not be capable as yet and quite unintentionally at that. What you did was akin to levitation but generally requires much knowledge and practice. I am afraid my wizardling that this means that you will need to devote more time to your training.”

“I cannot remain as Steward, Mithrandir,” Faramir whispered, tears filling his eyes. “I must leave this city. I am a danger. I could have… hurt… “

“Nonsense!” Gandalf and Aragorn replied as one.

“You did not hurt Aragorn, nor could you,” Gandalf scoffed. “It is well past midnight yet there is much movement about. What has happened?” the Wizard asked in an exasperated voice.

Aragorn explained all that had happened as he assisted Faramir to his feet, guiding the still visibly distressed young Steward over to the large lounge, sat down pulling Faramir down with him and gathered him into a comforting embrace.

“Well, quite a full evening has been had by all it appears!” Mithrandir exclaimed when Aragorn had finished the tale. “And so, my young pupil, you were being justly chastised for losing your temper – yet again and perhaps not so justly, in your convoluted logic, for dousing Aragorn with the barrel of water.”

The door through which Gandalf had entered opened again as Thranduil and Legolas walked into the room. The elven King took one look at Faramir, pale and wide-eyed and knew that something was very amiss.

“What have you done, Estel?” asked Thranduil, causing Aragorn to roll his eyes, as the elven King knelt in front of Faramir.

“Another unanticipated ability has manifested itself. It seems that whilst he was able to accept the chastisement for losing his temper, he objected strongly to being held accountable for dousing me with a barrel of water earlier and literally stayed my hand from proceeding with the chastisement,” Aragorn explained as he rose, allowing Thranduil to comfort Faramir.

“That was an accident, Aragorn,” Legolas growled, jumping to his brother’s defence.

“And it frightened you that you could affect the King so, ion-nin,” Thranduil surmised, tightening his arms around his trembling son.

The attention of all was diverted to the door opening a third time as Elrond entered followed by the twins, Imrahil, Maglor and a somewhat sheepish looking Gimli.

“What has happened, Estel?” Elrond asked, noting presence of Mithrandir and Faramir’s distressed state.

“I will explain later, ada” Aragorn replied. “You two,” Aragorn growled, turning to his brothers, “are hereby banished from Minas Tirith. Temporarily that is,” he added quickly when he saw his father’s raised eyebrow. “I have decided to put your overabundance of energy to more productive use. I want you to go forth from the city and search for signs of Saruman, where he currently and what he is about. Oh, no! Do not think you will be going alone my dear brothers,” Aragorn added on seeing the looks of delight on the twins’ faces.

“Who?” the twins asked warily.

“With Thranduil’s permission, I would like Finrod to accompany you to ensure that you do not get diverted, in your usual fashion, from the task given,” Aragorn said, smirking as the twins’ expressions turned slightly sour. “By the way, where is Finrod?” the King asked, realising that he had not seen the elf around for some days.

“The Lieutenant that accompanied him on the last search for Saruman has been showing him the delights of Minas Tirith,” Legolas replied with a very Thranduil-like twinkle to his eyes, eliciting a snort of laughter from Gimli.

“In other words they have been drinking and carousing with the young maidens on the lower levels,” Faramir smirked, the tremors from his earlier trauma easing as he gained comfort from his father’s embrace and concern.

“At least they have not been incarcerated due to brawling in public,” Aragorn said, looking sternly at the culprits gathered.

“Well it would not have happened to us…” Elladan began.

“… if it had not been for Legolas…” Elrohir continued indignantly.

“… being mistaken for a she-elf,” they both ended together.

A growl erupted from Legolas as he launched himself at the startled twins. Elven reflexes enabled the twins to reach, open the door and exit to the hallway, followed closely by an angry, growling, Mirkwood elf.

Part 8

Late the next morning Gandalf approached the Steward’s apartments and without knocking entered a large vestibule. There, to his great surprise, sat Maglor in the rightmost of four large lounges situated against the wall; each on either side of three internal doors that led into the Steward’s apartment and the Steward’s guest apartments.

“Mae govannen, Maglor,” Gandalf greeted the Mirkwood Seneschal as he went to walk past the elf and into his wizardling’s apartment. To Gandalf’s utmost surprise, Maglor rose quickly from the lounge and interceded between him and the door preventing him from entering.

“He is not to be disturbed, Mithrandir,” Maglor stated in a tone that brooked no argument.

“Nonsense! He is in need of much training, post haste,” Gandalf argued.

“No, mellon-nin. He is much more in need of sleep at the moment,” the elf countered seriously.

“What has happened now?” Gandalf sighed quietly, his expression both concerned and slightly exasperated.

“Come, sit, mellon-nin and I will explain,” Maglor said as he opened the door that led into the Steward’s sitting room, inviting the wizard to precede him.

Gandalf walked towards the fireplace and sat down in the chair closest to the small cheerful fire. The Mirkwood elf sat down in the chair opposite.

“So tell me, how fares my wizardling?” Gandalf asked quietly.

“Given the upsets of earlier,” the Seneschal began diplomatically, “it took some time for the young one to settle into sleep. His rest was not to prove peaceful and he awoke, screaming, a few hours later.”

“Dream or vision?” Gandalf asked suddenly very alert.

“Dream I hope,” Maglor shuddered slightly. “He dreamt that he lost control of his powers and caused the deaths of all those he holds most dear, you and me included, mellon-nin. It took much persuasion on the part of Thranduil to convince him that it was but a dream and that we were all indeed still to be counted as amongst the living.”

Gandalf gave a sigh of relief and relaxed back into his chair eliciting a raised questioning eyebrow from Maglor.

“Not an uncommon night terror for a wizard,” Gandalf said in way of explanation.

“Are we to expect these dreams often?” Maglor asked eyes wide and eyebrow still raised.

“No, although with my wizardling you just never know,” the wizard replied, shaking his head. “So he sleeps still?”

“And will for as long as Thranduil can get him to remain that way,” the Seneschal said, looking towards the door that led into Faramir’s sleeping chamber.

“Thranduil is with him then?” Gandalf surmised.

“Yes,” Maglor chuckled. “My young charge is clamped to his ada like a limpet, even deep in sleep.”

“That I do not doubt, my friend,” the White Wizard sighed, smiling sadly. “Boromir was Faramir’s foundation stone. In my pupil’s lonely, hard and cold world, shy, studious, shunned and ridiculed by Denethor, Boromir was his light, his comfort and his warmth. The loss of his beloved brother set my wizardling adrift. I praise the Valar that they saw fit to bless him with a cornerstone in the shape of a certain hardheaded and oft times ill tempered in his youth, Mirkwood elf. Having found that cornerstone, my young pupil is not about the let him go, in sleep or not.”

“Thranduil still has his moments, mellon-nin,” Maglor chuckled.

Elf and wizard sat by the fire and spoke at great length of matters enjoyable and inconsequential, until the door leading to the Steward’s sleeping chamber opened and King Thranduil emerged.

“He is awake then finally? Gandalf asked his eyes alight with amusement as he continued to smoke his pipe.

“Aye, he is awake and gone to bathe. Insists that he stinks although I could detect none such,” Thranduil chuckled as he leaned against the side of the mantelpiece.

“Ever has it been with him even as a child. I would say almost elvish in his fastidiousness and aversion to dirt and grime,” Gandalf smiled in amusement, “unlike his brother or Aragorn for they…”

“For they what, mellon-nin?” a sardonic voice said from the open door that led to the vestibule.

“Had a much greater tolerance for dirt and grime if you must know, you grotty ranger,” Gandalf replied without missing a beat.

“I found, perverse as it may seem, that when travelling long distances through rough terrain, pests and vermin have an aversion to ‘dirt and grime’, as you so eloquently put it, and thus would leave me alone” Aragorn retorted as he came, followed by Lord Elrond and sat beside the White Wizard. Lord Elrond sat beside Maglor. “I am glad that you are here, Gandalf, for I wish to discuss with you my Steward’s schedule as you will be claiming more of his hours for wizard training and ada wants to claim some of his hours to hone his mental abilities.”

Thranduil looked at Aragorn shrewdly for several long moments.

“All right, Estel, hand it over,” the elven King said holding out his hand.

“Hand over what exactly?” Aragorn replied eyes wide with innocence.

“The schedule that you have devised for my son, tithen pen, and you could learn a thing or two about more convincing looks of innocence from Faramir,” the elven King said, smirking at the King of Gondor who had the grace to blush as he took a scroll from a pocket inside his robes and handed it to Thranduil.

“It is but a draft,” Aragorn muttered, looking anywhere but at the elven King. Thranduil perused the schedule, his right eyebrow going skyward as his expression became more incredulous.

“Shame on you, Estel!” Thranduil remonstrated, passing the parchment to Maglor.

It was not long before Maglor’s expression became as incredulous as his King’s had been a moment before and slightly annoyed, much to Aragorn’s uneasiness.

“Two men would be hard-pressed to adhere to this schedule, pen-neth,” Maglor scolded as he passed the scroll to Lord Elrond.

“I need my Steward,” Aragorn said plaintively. “There is so much yet to do and Faramir is so good at organising and ploughing through the mountain of administrative tasks.”

“Which will do you absolutely no good, ion-nin, if through exhaustion he loses his temper and accidentally blows up the council chambers with incumbent councillors,” Elrond admonished, still reading the ‘schedule’ with an expression of disbelief before handing it back to his son.

“And that would be a bad thing,” Aragorn said slowly as he took hold of the schedule, thinking that there were several councillors that he would like to see disappear in a puff of smoke.

“Behave, Estel!” Thranduil reprimanded although the ever present twinkle in his eye intensified. “I suggest that you get rid of that piece of parchment before Faramir arrives or I fear we will all bear witness to another formidable display of temper.”

“I had best get some food for him,” Maglor deliberated. “I swear I force enough food down that young human to keep a hobbit satisfied but he has still to gain sufficient weight and a missed meal or two sees him go backwards very quickly,” the Seneschal added sounding slightly affronted.

“That is to be expected, mellon-nin, and is something which we will all need to watch for and guard against. It has to do with the amount of energy my wizardling is drawing upon and channelling during his very lengthy bouts of ill temper,” the wizard explained.

Taking note of the wizard’s words of warning, Maglor exited the sitting room through the doorway that led to the vestibule to find food from the kitchens to tempt his young charge.

“You can enter, pen-neth,” Elrond called out trying to contain a smile as he sensed Faramir’s wary but still sleepy thoughts on the other side of the closed door that led to the young man’s sleeping chamber.

The door opened seemingly tentatively and Faramir’s head and shoulder’s appeared around the door as he surveyed warily those gathered in his sitting room with sleepy, narrowed eyes.

“Oh come here, ion-nin,” Thranduil laughed, waving his son over to him. “I am sure they have all eaten this morning and are not about to devour you.”

Aragorn smirked, Elrond smiled and Gandalf chuckled as Faramir, looking none too convinced by his ada’s words, sidled over to the elven King and was immediately enveloped in a king-sized embrace. The Steward tried unsuccessfully to contain a wide yawn.

“I think after eating the oliphant I suspect Maglor will bring you for your break-of-fast you should return to you bed, ion-nin,” Thranduil said softly, eliciting a smile from Faramir as the elven King continued to comfort his still shaken son.

“I cannot, ada, for I have far too much to do. My schedule…” Faramir replied but stopped abruptly on sensing a spike of guilt emanating from Aragorn at the mention of the word schedule. Eyes narrowing in suspicion, the Steward caught the King of Gondor attempting to hide a scroll that he held in his hand. Faramir waved his hand and the parchment flew out of Aragorn’s grasp and into his own. With a soft distressed gasp the King attempted to catch the scroll but was not quite fast enough. Before the Steward could read its contents though, the parchment flew out of his own hand and into Gandalf’s.

“We were just discussing,” the wizard attempted to dissemble as the parchment he was holding burst into flames, reducing to ashes very quickly, “the need to sit with you to discuss the competing demands on your time and how best to accommodate the training you need in your newly discovered abilities by Lord Elrond and myself, your duties as Steward…”

“And ample time for leisure and relaxation,” Thranduil interjected with a pointed look at Aragorn, who squirmed under the elven King’s intense glare.

Eyes narrowing again at the King’s guilty demeanour, the Steward was just about to challenge him when the attention of all was diverted by a knock at the door that led into the vestibule. Thankful for the diversion, Aragorn rose to his feet and walked quickly to the door and opened it allowing Maglor, who was laden with a tray that held enough food to feed several men or two moderately hungry hobbits, to enter.

“That is for everyone is it not?” Faramir asked, looking at the veritable feast that the Mirkwood elf put on a side between two lounge chairs. “I seem to continue to have difficulty getting you to recognise that a man stands before you, not a hobbit,” he added exasperatedly when silence from Maglor greeted his question.

“What is standing before me, my young charge, is an overly thin wizard-in-training. Eat!” the Seneschal said in a tone that dared Faramir, to his peril, to argue further.

“I am not that thin,” the Steward grumbled as he complied with the elf’s instruction by sitting in the empty chair next to the tray of food.

“I beg to differ with you pen-neth. Stand sideways and I doubt you would cast a shadow. You have yet to gain a single notch on that belt you wear, let alone the two I would see you gain, which means you have yet to gain the weight you lost before the One Ring was destroyed,” Maglor scolded.

Recognising when a battle could not be won, the Steward sighed and began to eat. As Faramir ate, Aragorn, Gandalf and Lord Elrond discussed his training and duties as Steward. Thranduil interjected occasionally to ensure that Faramir was given ample time to relax and recuperate. It was agreed that Beregond would continue in his role in assisting the Steward and the King in the Steward’s absence. It was also recognised that Beregond would require assistance, so it was decided to train two more high level administrators in addition to the current ancillary staff.

When Faramir had eaten as much as he could and to the satisfaction of a certain, in his view, tyrannical elven ‘nanny’ he was shepherded by Thranduil back to his bed, where he spent the rest of the day and night.

Early the next morning, after breaking his fast with Thranduil and Legolas, having much food foisted upon him, Faramir and the two elves made their way to the courtyard in the front of the palace to bid the twins and Finrod farewell and a successful hunt. Faramir noted that four horses were being held by stable hands towards the back of the courtyard. The twins and Finrod were there as were the King, Queen, Lord Elrond, Gandalf, Gimli and Maglor. Faramir was surprised to find the Lieutenant who had searched for signs of Saurman with Finrod before was there and kitted out for travel.

“The King asked me to accompany Finrod and Lords Elladan and Elrohir to assist in keeping his brothers out of mischief,” the soldier whispered in reply to the Steward’s silent question obviously aware that the twins would be able to hear him, evidenced by the not so well hidden smirk on the soldier’s face at the twin scowls he was receiving.

Farewells and good wishes were exchanged. Both Aragorn and Elrond explained in great detail what would befall the twins if they so much as put a toe out of line in their search for signs of Saruman. The three elves and the Lieutenant mounted and were just about to leave when Maglor stopped Finrod and produced a very red paddle out of what appeared to be thin air and passed it to Finrod. Blushing furiously regardless, Faramir could see that the paddle was not his ‘namesake’, human or elvish version, but nonetheless a lethal looking paddle. The Steward felt a twinge of sympathy at the twin expressions of horror as they stared at the paddle as if transfixed.

“I thought it best not to send you out ‘unarmed’, mellon-nin. They are not known as the ‘duo horribus’ for nothing and they are the sons of Elrond,” Maglor said matter-of-factly as if that explained everything. Lord Elrond’s eyebrow went skyward as he looked at the Mirkwood elf and Thranduil’s eyes twinkled delightedly.

Finrod exchanged a look of amusement with the Lieutenant before securing the paddle in his saddlebags. The elves and human turned their horses towards the exit and made their way down the levels of the city and out onto the plains.

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.

Part 10

“As it is supposed to, pen-neth, which is why it is called chas… tise… ment,” Finrod replied as he continued to paddle the Rivendell elf’s buttocks using harder swats when enunciating pivotal points such as chastisement. Whilst relieved that Finrod did not hit as hard as Maglor, the implement of torture still hurt abysmally, Elladan thought dejectedly. “I suppose that I should be thankful that you and that doppelganger you call brother were able to stay out of trouble for two… whole… weeks!” the Mirkwood elf growled, emphasising the last three words with particularly hard strokes of the paddle made Elladan howl in pain, realising that Finrod could hit every bit as hard as Maglor.

The aforementioned doppelganger was sitting a short distance away under the watchful eye of the Gondorian Lieutenant, wincing with every stroke of the paddle his brother received. Heat and pain in his hindquarters reaching an alarming level, Elladan began to plead and apologise in the hopes of ending the torture.

“I am… sorry,” he sobbed out in gasped breaths. “We should… not have… left without…telling you… where we were… going.”

“What is this ‘we’ brother,” Elrohir sniped from his seated position. “I distinctly remember counselling that you should let them know where we were going but oh, no, not you!”

“Why you traitorous little yrch!” Elladan snarled in reply, twisting his head around to glare at his twin, the pain in his posterior forgotten momentarily. That is until Finrod landed an absolutely blistering slap to the exposed buttocks to regain the young elf’s attention. “Owwwww! Aieeeeee! Finrod!”

“Now that I have your undivided attention, pen-neth, I reiterate, you and your doppelganger will not go off orc hunting without advising myself or the Lieutenant. Do… I… make… myself… clear?” Finrod asked, emphasising each word with a blistering whack with the paddle.

“Nay… I mean aye… clear!” Elladan howled in reply.”

Finrod ceased the punishment and rubbed the distressed twin’s back in soothing circles. Pulling up Elladan’s leggings, he turned the younger elf over and into an embrace.

“I do not want to be in the position of having to tell your ada that you have been hurt or worse, killed, pen-neth, because we were not there to defend your back. He has lost enough,” Finrod admonished quietly.

“I am… sorry, Finrod,” Elladan said breathlessly.

The Mirkwood elf continued to sooth Elladan until the younger elf was calm enough to stand.

“Alright Elrohir. Your turn,” Finrod instructed, looking at the younger twin sternly.

Elrohir whimpered quietly as he rose to his feet and walked over to Finrod reluctantly, passing his still distressed and annoyed brother as he did so. The younger twin earned a clip over the ear when he came within range of his brother. A typical Elrondion brawl would have ensued had it not been for the Mirkwood elf’s veritable bark at Elladan to leave his brother alone. Elladan spared another dark look at his brother before moving over to where Elrohir had sat previously, and lowered himself onto his stomach.

Rubbing his ear to temper the sting, Elrohir stopped in front of Finrod, loosened his leggings pushing them down to his knees and lowered himself over the wood-elf’s lap. If anything, Finrod was harder on the younger twin for possessing more sense than his brother but not acting upon it appropriately. It was not long before the younger twin was howling as loudly as had his brother.

“I… am… sorry… sorry,” Elrohir said over and over again.

“I expect you to temper… your… brother’s… enthusiasm with wise counsel, pen-neth,” Finrod said, emphasising the key words of his message by blistering whacks.

“Owwww! Aye! I will! I will!” Elrohir howled.

Finrod stopped the punishment and comforted the younger twin as he had the older. When the younger twin had calmed enough, the Mirkwood elf pulled up the younger elf’s leggings and assisted him to his feet. Elrohir glared at his brother feeling the unfairness of being more thoroughly punished for not being able to keep the obstinate, opinionated oaf in line.

“On the morrow we will track the orc signs that you found and see if they lead to Saruman. Now I suggest the two of you rest for we have a long, hard ride ahead of us,” Finrod instructed, almost smiling at the twin looks of dismay that greeted his words.

In Minas Tirith the days following the disastrous council meeting and the unexpected claiming of the young Steward two days later by both the Ring of Power and the oldest tree in the White City in his mother’s garden, proved to be much easier for Faramir from a workload perspective if not from a personal freedom perspective. Elrond had indeed had a long talk with Aragorn about his son’s expectations of his still very young, by Númenorian standards, Steward. The elven Lord reminded Aragorn of what he had been like at Faramir’s age and that he should think himself lucky that Faramir, temper and self-preservation skills being notable exceptions, showed far more sense and intelligence than he had displayed on many; indeed most, occasions at the same age.

Thranduil and Imrahil approached Beregond to discuss how he, with their assistance and the assistance of his aides-in-training, could help to reduce Faramir’s workload for foreseeable future until, that was, the Steward had gained control over his burgeoning wizarding powers. So as the days progressed the Steward’s workload decreased significantly. Although Faramir was relived that much of the administrative burden had been eased, he was not so pleased with the state of his personal freedom. It seemed that everyone was keeping a close eye on him, scrutinising how much he ate, how much he slept and the tenure of his moods. The young Steward still found himself overwhelmed at times by all the attention. At these times he felt exposed and vulnerable.

The next of the regular fortnightly council meetings, minus the four councillors who had taunted Faramir so thoroughly in the previous meeting, was a subdued affair. After ‘dressing-down’ the Councillors Malagar, Ulrahad, Heriond and Aldahir, Aragorn suspended them for three full moons – a very serious sanction. Needless to say the four councillors did not take the news well. Although each managed to maintain fairly impassive expressions, each was furious and that anger was not directed towards the King but at the Steward; the one each thought was the cause of their current disgrace in the eyes of the King. The remaining councillors, with the exception of Imrahil, were now wary of both the Steward and the King’s tempers. Faramir was also subdued, embarrassed at having lost control of his temper so easily and so publicly. Both Aragorn and Imrahil noted Faramir’s sombre mood. When the King closed the meeting and the councillors were departing, Aragorn, unbeknownst to Faramir, looked at Imrahil to catch his gaze and then at his Steward with an unspoken question. Imrahil nodded in understanding and gave an unspoken reply that he would see to Faramir.

“Faramir?” Imrahil asked as his nephew made to follow the King. Faramir stopped, turned and looked at his uncle. “What ails you foxling?”

“Nothing, uncle” Faramir replied immediately and somewhat defensively.

“Foxling,” the Prince sighed, looking heavenward for a moment before returning his gaze to his sister’s child and shaking his head. “Come here, young one,” he added holding out his arms inviting Faramir into a hug, an offer the Steward could never refuse. “I would hazard a guess that you are feeling overwhelmed again and maybe a little exposed. Am I wrong?”

“Nay, uncle,” Faramir mumbled into Imrahil’s shoulder as the Swan Prince held him tightly. “I know I should be grateful for all that you, ada and the others have done and I am grateful but a part of me is feeling trapped and bereaved. I cannot seem to divest myself of this accursed feeling.”

“It is a natural feeling, foxling. I myself, Elessar and I would hazard a guess Lord Elrond and your ada have all felt this way on occasions. Ever it is with those who have had such public roles and responsibilities placed on them. And you were not expecting to become the Steward of Gondor, my foxling,” Imrahil soothed quietly as he held his nephew.

“Never in my wildest dreams or most fevered imaginings. I am certain that they were not in Denethor’s either – only Boromir and I would have wished it no other way,” Faramir replied adamantly. “I miss him so much!” the Steward said with a hushed sob.

“Shhhh, my foxling, I miss Boromir too,” Imrahil replied in a whisper as he looked over Faramir’s shoulder and saw Thranduil, Elrond and Maglor walking towards them, sympathy evident in their expressions.

“I wish I was not such a burden to you and ada. Owwwww!!!!!” Faramir yelped at the stinging swat to his posterior and turned to identify his assailant only to wince when he discovered it was his ada.

“Let that be a lesson to you, foxling,” Imrahil chuckled as he released Faramir into the waiting arms of Thranduil but not before landing a swat of his own to his nephew’s rear, prompting an indignant yelp from the Steward.

“I am sorry, ada,” Faramir whispered, snuggling into Thranduil’s embrace.

“It is alright, ion-nin. You cannot help the way you feel. Boromir loved you dearly and so do I,” the elven King replied, wishing that he could ease his son’s sense of loss but knew only time would dull the pain.

“I love you too, ada,” Faramir sighed.

“Lord Elrond, Maglor and I have sought you out to begin working on that imposing temper of yours, ion-nin,” Thranduil said, looking upon his suddenly wary son. “They both assisted me in gaining control over my fairly impressive temper.” Maglor snorted and Elrond’s eyebrow almost touched his extremely high hairline, causing Faramir’s eyes to begin twinkling with suppressed mirth. “Oh alright! My very impressive temper.”

“_Very_ impressive? The words that come to my mind are alarming, fearsome, stupefying, frightening, astonishing, terrifying, awe inspiring…” Maglor began.

“Yes, yes Maglor. Do not belabour the point,” Thranduil sniped staring intently at his Seneschal, who returned a mild, if slightly smug look.

“I find it very difficult to believe that you have such a temper, ada,” Faramir said looking puzzled.

“Believe,” Elrond replied without hesitation, much to Imrahil and Maglor’s amusement and Thranduil’s chagrin.

“What does this assistance entail?” Faramir asked, wariness returning to his features.

“We will continue our meditation sessions which will be modified slightly to help you keep your calm during stressful situations,” Elrond replied.

“And Maglor?” Faramir asked tentatively, knowing already that he was not going to like the answer.

“I will be there, pen-neth, whenever you do lose your temper to reinforce why you should be devoting more time to your meditation sessions with Elrond,” Maglor stated in a conversational tone that made the underlying threat all the more frightening to the young Steward.

“And you, ada?” Faramir asked, or more to the point squeaked, not taking his wary eyes off Maglor.

“I will assist with your meditation sessions and be there to comfort you whenever you do lose your temper and Maglor has reinforced why you should be devoting more time to your mediation sessions with Elrond,” Thranduil replied, the almost ever present twinkle in his eyes very evident.

“Oh my foxling!” Imrahil chuckled. “You look more like a startled rabbit! All will be well. We will take this one step at a time, one day at a time. And I am ever thankful that it was your mother who inherited Adrahil’s temper and not I.”

Faramir graced his uncle with a less than gracious scowl causing chuckles all around.

Meanwhile in a grimy, sleazy back room of a less than reputable alehouse in the commercial district in the second level, three men, cloaked and hooded, plotted.

Part 11

“How do we lure the whelp out of the city?” asked conspirator number one, a tall swarthy looking man with the faint trace of an accent, in a hushed coarse whisper.

“He is canny and dangerous. They say that he can read minds,” whispered conspirator number two with the same faint trace of an accent.

“We will not be able to approach directly with his wizard abilities and him being surrounded constantly by elves,” added the third conspirator.

“We must discover his weakness and I think I may know a way,” the first conspirator grinned evilly.

Over the next week Faramir’s general demeanour improved as his workload decreased enabling him to gain much needed sleep. His daily sessions with Gandalf and to a lesser extent Elrond, were becoming ever more gruelling. His conscience was pricked by Beregond’s increasingly haggard look for it seemed that despite having two extra aids and the assistance of both his ada and uncle, the man was finding the going very hard.

“You were shielding him too much ion-nin,” Thranduil admonished, on seeing his son’s look of guilt when his friend yawned for what Faramir thought must have been the thousandth time during the midday meal in the great dining hall. The meal had been called in honour of a detail of elves who had arrived from Mirkwood that morning, bringing news and goods for their elven King.

“Indeed! I am still amazed, foxling, with how much you were doing in addition to your sessions with Mirthrandir and Lord Elrond,” Imrahil added from where he was seated opposite the Steward.

At the conclusion of the meal, Legolas and Faramir made their way to the Steward’s apartments where they entered through the vestibule and thence through to the drawing room. There they were greeted by the sight of a large, elegantly carved, wooden trunk perched on the top of Faramir’s work desk by the glass door that opened onto the balcony that overlooked the King and Steward’s private garden.

“Ada said that he had a gift for you brought from Mirkwood,” Legolas apprised, grinning widely at Faramir’s stunned expression.

Faramir approached the elegant trunk almost reverently and stood still.

“Well open it, muindor tithen,” Legolas laughed, motioning with his hand towards the trunk.

Faramir did so tentatively and then jumped back with a yelp of horror when the largest spider that he had ever seen, scuttled, rather clumsily if truth be known, out of the trunk and onto the desk where it just stood looking at him.

Seemingly unperturbed, Legolas just looked at the spider with an expression of mild disgust.

“I do not think this hatchling is what ada intended to gift you,” Legolas said as he eyed the baby spider.

“Hatchling?” Faramir squeaked incredulously, eyes as wide as saucers as he continued to stare at the spider with a morbid fascination.

“Aye, you can see by the pieces of the egg still in the trunk. I would say it has hatched within the last hour.

“Who would have…?” Faramir began.

“Amras,” both Faramir and Legolas answered at the same time as they looked at each other, Faramir rolling his eyes and Legolas shaking his head.

“I think that elf should seek counselling,” Faramir said as his gaze shifted back to the hatchling.

Faramir started quite violently when he could have sworn he heard a sibilant “Mama?” come from the hatchling.

“They speak?” Faramir asked on a rising inflection that sounded slightly hysterical even to himself.

“Aye,” Legolas replied conversationally. “Although their vocabulary is limited generally to words such as kill, poison, dinner, ‘feed on you’ and suchlike.

“What should we do with it?” Faramir asked, at a complete loss, having never faced this or a similar situation before.

“We should k…i…l…l…it,” Legolas spelled out, not wanting to offend the hatchling.

“Mama,” the baby spider repeated looking up at Faramir. This time the word sounded like a statement not a question, making Legolas giggle and Faramir to glare at his brother.

“I have heard that you can see into the hearts of men and beasts and thus charm them,” Legolas teased. “But I did not know that it included arachnids.”

“Do you sense any evil from it?” Faramir asked his initial horror and distaste turning to curiosity. “I cannot.”

“Nay. I do not either,” Legolas replied, perplexed.

“Is that not unusual?” Faramir asked, equally perplexed.

“Aye. That it is, muindor tithen. That it is,” Legolas answered.

“Mayhap now that Sauron is no more, the spiders are just that; spiders,” Faramir surmised.

“Nay, the ones in Mirkwood still reek of evil,” Legolas countered

“I must confess that it is kind of cute, in an ugly, ghastly sort of way,” Faramir said as he walked around the spider to the other side of the desk. The spider scuttled around, losing its balance at one stage as all eight legs skated outwards at the same time, thus causing the creature to flop onto its belly. Getting its legs back under it, it continued to scurry around making strange scuttling noises that reverberated on the wooden surface of the desk.

“I know that look, muindor tithen. You cannot keep it!” Legolas admonished.

“But I am loathe to destroy it when I can detect no evil,” Faramir replied. “When are your compatriots returning to the halls of Mirkwood?”

“Within two weeks,” Legolas acknowledged suspiciously. “You cannot be thinking of asking them to take it back to Mirkwood. They will kill it as soon as they are out of sight of Minas Tirith!”

“Not if we explain to ada our suspicions about Amras and suggest that it should be returned to him with the decree that he is charged with its upbringing until the elves leave Mirkwood. And that the decree is to be overseen by the King’s representative in Mirkwood,” Faramir proposed with a decidedly demonic glint in his eye.

“You are pure evil, muindor tithen,” Legolas retorted with more than a little admiration. “That should play beautifully to ada’s wicked sense of humour.”

“Why thank you, brother,” Faramir replied, acknowledging the comment with a bow of his head and a very wide smirk.

“Before we tell ada, I would love to play a prank on a certain dwarf,” Legolas said, his eyes afire with impishness.

“Are you out of your mind?! Do you have a death wish?!” Faramir asked incredulously. “Ada would blister your arse and Gimli would dismember you and not necessarily in that particular order!”

“Oh I suppose you are right. It was just a thought,” Legolas replied petulantly.

“Not a very good one…,” Faramir began.

“Mama… hungry,” the hatchling piped up, quelling the rest of Faramir’s admonition.

“On what do they feed?” the young Steward asked.

“At this age, generally insects, mice, small birds,” Legolas answered.

“Well there are plenty of mice in the disused dungeons where wheat is being stored and we can keep him contained, under lock and key. Come my little friend,” the Steward said as he pulled a throwover from the couch beside the fireplace and wrapped it around the spider.

The princes made their way to the dungeons stealthily, taking care not to be seen with their bundle. Faramir deposited the spider into a cell that contained sacks of wheat, having ascertained first that there were mice around. The Steward closed the door and looked at the spider through as small, bared window in the topmost section of the cell door, designed to allow guards to look in on prisoners. They stayed until they heard a resounding burp from the satiated spider.

“Efficient little bugger,” Faramir whispered, impressed by the neat efficiency with which the spider went about securing and devouring dinner. “We will tell ada after the trade meeting later this afternoon.”

The trade meeting, to be attended by representatives from Gondor, Dol Amroth, Mirkwood, Rivendell and the dwarves to discuss the needs of each and who could supply what, had been organised by Aragorn. As Steward, Faramir had no choice but to attend the meeting. Legolas on the other hand was free to attend if he so chose. He chose not to, begging off saying that he had other important things to do. Faramir turned to the elf, about to question him as to what these ‘other duties’ were but his brother had disappeared. Shaking his head and with a feeling of disquiet, the Steward made his way to the large meeting hall. There he was met by his father. Also in attendance were of course Aragorn, Maglor, Elrond, Gimli, Imrahil and a few other representatives from both Gondor and Dol Amroth, including Beregond.

Well into the evening, the meeting, which had been most fruitful, had almost concluded when the biggest spider the men gathered, with the exception Aragorn, had ever seen descended quickly, and clumsily, on a thread and landed with a thump on the middle of the table around which the delegates were seated. There were various shouts and yelps of horror and distress as the humans jumped up and back from the table. As the only one armed, for Gimli was never found without his axe, the dwarf raised it aloft and struck at the spider but missed as it scuttled towards Faramir. Such was the force with which he struck, Gimli could not secure enough leverage to remove the axe that was well and truly embedded in the wooden table top. Oblivious to the growing cacophony of angry and distressed voices, Faramir looked at the spider, which he noted, in a detached kind of way, had a pink ribbon around its neck and was dripping with water. He then looked up from whence the spider had descended only to see his brother, pale-faced and looking absolutely mortified, looking down at the chaotic scene.

“Mama, mama, mama,” the hatching repeated in its strange sibilant voice as it scurried towards Faramir, who was sitting, unmoving, as if carved in stone.

“Calm yourselves gentlemen,” Faramir heard Aragorn command from his still seated position at the head of the table. “It is but a hatchling. Although what it is doing in Minas Tirith I would very much like to know,” he added. glaring at his Steward.

“A hatchling? A hatchling! How big do the bloody things grow?” Faramir heard Beregond ask in an incredulous tone, as he continued to stare at the spider.

‘I wondered that myself’ Faramir thought as the spider started pouncing on the feathered quill that he was holding in his hand, occasionally losing control over one or more of its legs which seemed to skate out from under it.

“About ten times the size,” the Steward heard his King reply.

That big thought Faramir with the same strange calm detachment, his mind latching on to any thought that did not involve the amount of trouble in which he was likely to be.

“Come down from there, my elfling. You have much to explain,” Thranduil growled dangerously not taking his eyes from the spider, which was still ‘playing’ with the feathered quill Faramir was holding.

“I think that concludes the meeting for today. If you will excuse us gentlemen,” Aragorn commanded. “If you will stay please, Imrahil, Gimli?” the King added quietly to the Prince and dwarf.

Aragorn waited until all the men, with the exception of his Steward and Prince Imrahil, had departed.

Legolas climbed down from the rafter and walked over to Faramir and sat down beside his brother in the seat his father vacated. The spider took one look at the subdued elf and said in what was an amazingly humanlike indignant tone “Baaaaadddd!” before scuttling closer to its mama, who was still sitting as if carved in stone, as all eight legs again skated out from under it, so smooth and slippery was the surface of the table, causing the hatchling to complete a very undignified belly flop. The ends of the pink bow fell over the hapless hatchling’s eyes as the poor thing had difficulty in getting its legs back under control.

Aragorn, Thranduil, Elrond, Imrahil and Gimli looked upon the hatchling in astonishment. Maglor snorted in amusement. Legolas blushed furiously, having just been admonished by a baby spider and Faramir finally arose from his calm detachment.

“Whatever did you do to it, brother?” Faramir asked in a harsh whisper.

“I did not hurt it, muindor tithen. And if it had been more co-operative…” the elf began.

“Baaaddd, baaaddd, baaaddd,” the hatchling kept repeating in the same very human sounding indignant tone, despite the sibilant delivery.

“Just what have you been up to?” Faramir asked, annoyance and therefore temper on the rise.

“Aye, my elfling. Just what have you been about? Hmmmm?” Thranduil asked in the same calm tone, sounding all the more dangerous for its soft delivery, that sent shivers up Legolas’ spine as it did Faramir and Aragorn’s.

The hatchling scurried over to Legolas.

“Baaaddd!” it hissed before scuttling back to Faramir, almost slipping over the end of the pink bow around its neck that was unravelling.

With all eyes, including the spider’s, fixed upon him, Legolas gulped.

Part 12

The attention of those gathered was diverted away from the blushing elf abruptly by the sound of the great doors at the entrance of the meeting room, which had been closed after the men had left, opening wide to reveal Gandalf. The White Wizard stormed into the room, staff in hand, wizard robes billowing about him and glowing brightly with restrained power as he marched over to where Legolas and Faramir were sitting.

“What in Eru’s name is happening in here?” Gandalf bellowed as looked about him. “There are men fleeing as if being chased by the very hounds of Sauron…”

Gandalf would have continued had he not spied the hatchling sitting upon the table near Faramir, resplendent in unravelling pink bow.

“What, pray tell is that thing doing here?” Gandalf asked, waving his hand at the hatchling.

“It arrived in the post,” Faramir answered without thinking.

“What do you mean it arrived in the post, ion-nin?” Thranduil asked, his confusion evident.

“It was in the trunk that had been placed on the desk in my drawing room by the detail from Mirkwood, ada,” Faramir explained.

“I do not remember requesting a hatchling as a gift for you. I did not request a hatchling did I, Maglor?” the elven King asked, turning to his Seneschal.

“I admit, mellon-nin, that you have done many strange and stranger things in the time that I have known you but you did not, and have never to my knowledge, requested a hatchling,” Maglor responded, garnering a indignant glare from Thranduil, badly disguised chuckles from Aragorn and Gimli, similar smirks from Elrond and Imrahil, but no reaction from either Faramir or Legolas; each somewhat distracted. Faramir was distracted by the spider, which seemed to find the quill endlessly fascinating and Legolas, by the effort of trying to remain as inconspicuous as possible in the hope that they would forget about what he had been about.

“We think it was Armas, ada,” Faramir suggested, tearing his attention away from the hatchling. Legolas fought the impulse to kick his brother on drawing any kind of attention to him, however vague the reference.

“There is something singular about this spider,” Gandalf mused as he looked at the small creature that was amusing itself with the quill that Faramir held. “I can sense no evil in it.”

“That is wondrous strange, mellon-nin, for I can sense no ill intent either,” Thranduil agreed, perplexed. “What say you, Maglor?”

“I too, can detect no evil. That is indeed very odd,” Maglor replied, looking as perplexed as Gandalf and Thranduil.

Frowning in concentration so intense that his eyebrows formed a bar across his forehead, Gandalf looked ‘into’ the spider. The hatchling, as if sensing the wizard’s intense regard, stopped playing with the quill, scurried around until it faced the wizard and looked at the wizard as intently. After several long moments Gandalf’s eyebrows seemed as if they would take flight as his expression turned to astonishment before he threw back his head and burst out into hearty laughter.

“Only you, my wizardling…” Gandalf could not continue as he wiped tears of mirth from his eyes and face.

The wizard’s laughter gained in strength as he saw identical looks of confusion on the faces of men, elves and dwarf with the exception of Faramir who had looked at him with an annoyed expression.

“What do you mean, mellon-nin?” Thranduil asked, from where he was standing between his sons.

“Some wizard’s are sent a familiar or familiars, in animal form, by the Valar to act as warners of danger and protectors. Radagast for example, was sent a bird that keeps him from wandering off pathways and over cliffs when he is in deep thought. Most familiars are animals such as cats, birds and dogs. Only you, my wizardling, would be sent a spider that is going to grow to the size of a small horse, which is probably an indication of how much trouble the Valar think you will get into,” Gandalf laughed.

“Familiars,” Faramir squeaked, his voice containing more than a tinge of panic. “Do you mean to say that I could have more than one familiar…more than one spider…?” He was not able to finish the question for the sheer horror that his imagination insisted on conjuring in graphic detail.

“With your penchant for attracting and blindly forging headlong into trouble, my boy, you could indeed end up with an army of spiders sent by the Valar to protect you,” Gandalf teased.

Faramir’s already rapid breathing escalated to an alarming level, making him somewhat light-headed.

“Oh behave, Mithrandir,” Thranduil reproved as he squeezed Faramir’s shoulder to comfort his distressed son. “You are not helping.”

“Could the Valar not have seen fit to send something that is a little less conspicuous, like a cave troll for instance and mayhap a little more advanced in age?” Faramir moaned, when he could find breath enough to do so, as the spider pounced on the quill only to have its legs skate out from under it again, resulting in a spectacular belly flop and the ribbon, which had unravelled further, to whack it in the face.

“I feel obliged, my wizardling, to point out that you were not supposed to chance upon the ring for many years,” Gandalf chided. “The Valar simply worked with what was available; a hatchling on route to Minas Tirith.”

Although sorry for his brother’s visible distress, Legolas could not help thinking that Gandalf’s arrival had indeed been fortuitous for him and his posterior, as everyone’s attention was focussed on Faramir. Before the Mirkwood prince could so much as sigh in relief at the thought, all attention was diverted yet again by the arrival of Arwen looking angrier than Legolas, or for that matter Aragorn, Thranduil and Maglor, had ever seen the she-elf. Dressed in leggings and tunic and her long dark hair still wet, she descended upon Legolas like an elven warrior. Elrond took one look at his daughter’s expression and neatly sidestepped so that he was not between her and her intended target, who at this moment sat frozen and pale with fear; all blood having drained from his face. Grabbing hold of his pointed ear before Legolas could even think, let alone think of escape, Arwen took a deep calming breath and turned to the hatchling which had, on seeing the she-elf in elven warrior guise, practically jumped into Faramir’s tunic.

Arwen had heard Gandalf’s words that the baby spider was a familiar and so calmly approached the hatchling, which was huddled close to its mama.

“I apologise, tithen-pen, for frightening you and throwing that bucket of soapy water on you,” Arwen soothed, in her gentle lilting, if sounding a little exasperated, voice; all the while maintaining an iron grip on the Mirkwood prince’s ear, “but you startled me appearing before me in my bathing chamber as you did.” On hearing the softly spoken words, the hatchling approached Arwen tentatively and then all but purred when she stroked its head. Turning to Legolas she said “You are in such deep, deep trouble, elfling, that you will be lucky if they ever discover where I have buried the pieces” in a tone Aragorn had only ever heard used on the twins and only when they had done something spectacularly awful.

Arwen pulled on the wood-elf’s ear, forcing Legolas to follow or risk having his ear torn from his head. Bent over sideways in an attempt to reduce the pull on his ear and yelping and wincing in pain, Legolas had no option but to follow Arwen as she marched towards the entrance. As the angry she-elf was about to pass by Maglor, the Seneschal produced ‘Faramir’s Bane, elvish version, and handed it to her. Faramir winced wondering yet again where the elf hid the heinous thing about his body and Legolas whimpered. Arwen thanked Maglor and exited the room with the hapless wood-elf in tow. Legolas’ yelps and pleading could be heard receding into the distance.

“Baaaddd!” the hatchling hissed after Legolas. The tone held an odd hint of satisfaction, eliciting chuckles all around, as it watched Arwen and Legolas leave.

“Well that explains why the hatchling is wet,” Aragorn said with a rueful smile. “But it does not explain the pink ribbon.”

After a few moments, Thranduil burst out in such gales of laughter that the hatchling startled badly, jumped into Faramir’s lap and then looked up at the elf reproachfully.

“I would venture forth,” Maglor supplied with a smirk as Thranduil was having difficulty enough finding breath to breathe through the laughter he could not contain, let alone find breath enough to talk, “that the prince played a ‘prank’ on Arwen but did not want to give her too much of a fright, so he tied a pink ribbon around the hatchling’s neck.”

“Is this some kind of elven logic of which I have been hitherto unaware?” Imrahil asked, trying unsuccessfully to contain his amusement.

“I am afraid to say that it is elfling logic and some never do outgrow the tendency,” Elrond sighed thinking of the twins.

“I certainly agree with that,” Maglor said, looking askance at Thranduil whose eyes narrowed in suspicion as he took in his Seneschal’s meaning.

“I do doubt most sincerely, that my beloved would have seen the ribbon for the spider, however pink and prettily tied it was,” Aragorn laughed.

“Oh aye. I think the laddie will rue this day,” Gimli chuckled, shaking his head at his friend’s lapses into elfling behaviour.

“Where am I supposed to house the creature? And how am I to feed it?” Faramir muttered in despair.

“I have noticed that you have a mouse problem, Estel. From whence do they originate?” Thranduil asked.

“The dungeons, ada. We are using them currently to store stacks of grain,” Faramir responded before Aragorn. “That is where I had put it before the meeting, secure under lock and key or so I thought,” he grumbled.

“You can thank the Elrondion twins for teaching Legolas to pick locks, ion-nin,” Thranduil said, giving Elrond a sly look. Elrond simply rolled his eyes and sighed. “So for the moment there should be plenty of food for the hatchling to eat. It should keep down the mouse population if nothing else.”

“And as it grows it should also keep down the rat, cat, dog and undersized domestic staff member populations as well,” Maglor added with a sly chuckle, eliciting an exasperated glare from Thranduil.

Faramir groaned.

“It will not be as bad as you think, ion-nin,” the elven King soothed.

“People have been saying that to me a lot lately and it has yet to be ‘not as bad as I think’,” Faramir retorted sullenly. “People think me strange and frightening enough now. I can just imagine what the reactions will be when they see me with a giant spider in tow, pink ribbon or not.”

“The bright side is that Arwen is not adverse to the spider,” Aragorn ventured optimistically.

“That is all well and good but you are married to Arwen. I will be married to Éowyn, if she can accept a spider-toting wizard for a husband. I only hope this hatchling is fully grown by the time they meet. It, not to mention me, will need all the advantage we can get when it meets the woman who killed the witch king,” the young Steward groused.

“It could be worse, mellon-nin,” Aragorn said with a rueful smile.

“How, pray tell.”

“You could be Legolas right now,” the King chuckled.

Faramir winced at the thought of what Arwen, as angry as she was, was doing with that… that… thing but could not fault Aragorn’s logic.

“I suppose that if I am to keep this ‘familiar’, I should give it a name,” Faramir sighed, thinking that his life had been quite complicated enough, thank you very much. “What sex is it?”

“Congratulations, ion-nin,” Thranduil laughed. “You are the proud mama of a bouncing baby boy.”

“Mama,” the hatchling agreed.

Part 13

“Owwwww Arwennnn! Ouuuccchhh! Please have pity on my ear,” Legolas pleaded, bent over sideways as Arwen continued to drag the elf by his now very sore ear down the corridor that led to the King and Queen’s apartments. The wincing, yelping elf was dragged past the occasional guard who, to their credit, showed no reaction to the strange sight until the elves had passed and then smirks and grins appeared. It was never dull with the elves and Steward in residence each thought.

The two elves continued, Arwen pulling and Legolas bent sideways and almost doubled over, until the Queen reached her destination – her drawing room. Releasing the hapless Prince’s ear finally, Arwen pushed him through the doorway that led to her drawing room landing a mighty whack to Legolas’ posterior with the paddle as she did so, eliciting a pained and indignant yelp from the wood-elf.

“I did not mean to give you such a fright, Arwen,” Legolas said with a very un-prince-like whine, rubbing his ear furiously in an attempt to assuage the stinging pain. “Have you not seen a spider before…” the elf began but stopped when Arwen gave him a look that would have curdled milk. “You have not,” Legolas realised, cringing.

“Not a Mirkwood spider, elfling. Why else do you think I jumped out of the bath so quickly and threw a bucket of water over the poor creature,” Arwen said in a tone that managed to convey equal measures of anger and sarcasm; another trait inherited from Elrond no doubt.

Legolas would have mentioned the pink ribbon in his defence but realised belatedly that the ribbon may not have been one of his more intelligent ideas.

“I must admit, that the jump would have made a wood-elf proud,” Legolas said with great admiration but no forethought.

“Aieeeee! Wrong answer, elfling!” Arwen exclaimed in exasperation, pointing at the back of a lounge chair located with others around the fireplace.

Legolas gave Arwen his most contrite expression but the Queen was having none of it. Sighing deeply and mournfully, Legolas leaned over the back of the chair.

“Leggings down elfling,” Arwen ordered in a tone that Legolas thought only Lord Elrond capable of producing.

“Allow me some dignity, please,” Legolas implored.

“As much as I had when leaping from that bath, tithen pen, and the hatchling when doused with the bucket of soapy water,” the Queen retorted.

The grumbling Prince straightened again. Loosened the ties on his leggings and pushed them down to his knees before leaning back over the padded chair.

“Mind your language,” Arwen chided mildly. “You do not normally curse like that. What has got into you?”

“Faramir,” Legolas mumbled petulantly. Aragorn had mentioned previously that Faramir was having a bad influence on his friend’s vocabulary and Legolas only just now realised to what extent.

“Faramir? Surely not sweet, gentle Faramir?” Arwen asked shocked.

Legolas straightened again, turned and graced the Queen with a look of unbridled disbelief.

“Have you gone mad!,” the wood-elf exclaimed, leggings still down around his knees. “I think you have been associating with humans too long. Sweet! Gentle! Have you never seen him in a temper or heard him cursing? He can curse fluidly in many languages and his curses could make an orc blush.”

“He can obviously hold his tongue and temper around a lady, pen-neth, unlike a certain wood-elf,” Arwen retorted, giving Legolas a look that made him swallow hard.

Legolas was just about to make a an ill-advised comment regarding Arwen’s definition of a lady, remembering many a time, in dealing with the twins, when she did not fit within any definition of a lady except maybe the broadest definition of being female as opposed to male, when the commonsense that had deserted the young elf over the past couple of hours reasserted itself in the form of the thought that he should talk about the influence of humans considering how much it seems his human brother had influenced him and not positively. Arwen, as fey as her father on occasions, smiled inwardly at the thoughts she knew were flitting across the wood-elf’s mind. Sighing in resignation, Legolas resumed his position over the back of the chair.

Arwen began the chastisement letting loose with a whack forceful enough to make Legolas gasp and whimper in the knowledge that he was not going to be able sit comfortably for some time. Much to his chagrin, whimpers soon turned to sobs and sobs turned to howls but still Arwen would not relent.

“I… am… sorry!” Legolas cried out between gasps for breath. “I… did… not mean… to frighten… ,” he added in a rush.

“It is not only the fright you gave me, or the thought of what I could have done to that poor little creature for which I am angered but that my very young human handmaiden was in the next room,” Arwen replied as she continued to apply the paddle to the wood-elf’s ever reddening buttocks. “How much of a fright do you think that poor child would have received if I had yelled and she had responded to my yell only to be met by the sight of that gigantic spider?”

“I… did… not…. know!” Legolas answered, mortified.

“I know, pen-neth, but you do not think things through,” Arwen chided mildly as she ceased the chastisement throwing the paddle on the lounge seat and rubbed the mortified and sobbing elf’s back in soothing circles.

Calming eventually, Legolas straightened, pulling up his leggings as he did so. He stood, head bowed looking at the floor not wanting to meet Arwen’s eyes. The Queen placed a finger under the Prince’s chin lifting it until he looked her in the eyes. On seeing the tears welling in the wood-elf’s eyes Arwen pulled him into a much-needed hug, which Legolas returned after only a moment’s hesitation.

“I only ask that you think things through before indulging in pranks, my elfling,” Arwen said in her lilting tone. “Now off with you and please no more pranks for awhile,” the she-elf added as she broke the embrace and stroked the side of Legolas’ face.

“Come,” said Legolas as he lay on his stomach sans leggings, hastily covering his exposed buttocks with the top covering on his bed when the tentative knock sounded on the other side of the door to his sleeping chambers.

Faramir entered the room followed by the hatchling, which took one look at Legolas and hissed.

“Oh, pipe down you,” the Steward admonished softly, frowning down at the spider. “You are going to have to learn the art of forgiveness, little one.” Faramir almost laughed when the hatchling gave him what he would have sworn was a look of incredulity. “How fare you brother?” Faramir asked gently as he approached the bed and sat down beside his brother. Legolas sighed and pulled back the cover once again exposing his buttocks to the cooling air. “Ouch!” Faramir exclaimed as he took in the extent of the redness decorating his brother’s posterior. I knew the Queen was very angry but I did not realise how angry.”

“Deservedly so, muindor tithen,” Legolas sighed. “I did not realise that her young handmaiden was in the next room to her bathing chamber at the time. I was very fortunate that the young one was not alerted and thus not given a very bad fright.”

“I would hate to think what the condition your behind would have been in if she had, brother,” Faramir whistled softly.

“Exactly,” Legolas replied ruefully.

“I come bearing you a gift,” the Steward said as he produced a small glass jar that he hid behind his back.

“Maglor’s numbing salve?” Legolas asked hopefully.

“No. We unfortunately exhausted his supply,” Faramir replied eliciting a disappointed groan from the elf. “However, my uncle had replenished Boromir’s supply of numbing salve from Dol Amroth,” Faramir added shyly.

Legolas sighed in relief as Faramir applied the lavender scented salve gently to his extremely sore buttocks, easing the throbbing pain.

“Thank you, muindor tithen,” Legolas smiled shyly.

“You are welcome and that is quite enough out of you, Misto!” Faramir chided looking at the hatchling, which had been hissing ‘baaadddd’ quietly and repeatedly throughout his conversation with Legolas.

“You have named it,” Legolas said as he eyed the hatchling suspiciously only to have the same expression returned by the creature as it looked at him as intently.

“Yes, I have named him Misto Flingil (Stray Spider). Come here, Misto,” Faramir called to the spider to join them on the bed. “Legolas. I think you owe our little friend here an apology.”

“I am sorry, tithen-pen,” Legolas said after a few moments. He had not meant to hurt the little creature.

“Well?” Faramir asked after several long moments, looking at the baby spider intently with his eyebrow raised.

“Forrrgivvve,” the hatchling sniffed reluctantly after several more long moments and deliberately not looking at the elf as it did so.

“We will also discuss the art of forgiveness with feeling later, my little friend,” Faramir promised.

“Mama, hungry,” the baby spider said in such a way that Faramir suspected it was a diversionary tactic on the part of the hatchling.

“You will be hearing the ‘h’ word a lot, mama,” Legolas said with a smirk. “Spawn, Fluffy, Charlotte, Ariadne, Bo Bo, Webster, Sweetums, Daisy… “

“Spawn… Daisy? What, in Arda’s name, are you prattling on about?” Faramir asked, looking at his brother as if he thought him a few leaves short of a tree.

“Just thinking up other names in case Mithrandir did not jest and the Valar do send an army of spiders to protect you,” Legolas snickered, then laughed when Faramir repeatedly hit him about the head with a pillow before taking his leave of his brother; spider in tow.

Faramir walked the hatchling down to the dungeon, giving several guards a fright as there had been a change of the guards and not one guard on the previous watch had mentioned the spider. Leaving the baby spider to munch away on dinner, under lock and key for the hatchling’s protection until all became accustomed to its presence, Faramir returned to his apartments where, to his surprise, he was met by a very distressed young servant.

“What is it, little one? What has happened?” Faramir asked as he crouched down in front of the boy.

“Me sister, milord,” the young boy replied in a tremulous voice as he handed a note to Faramir.

Faramir looked at the note. He did not recognise the writing.

_Come to the old stables
on the first level. Tell no
one or the child dies._

“Who gave you this note, child?” Faramir asked gently.

“A tall man what had dark hair and dark skin and talks different,” the boy answered. “Please help me sister, milord.”

“Stay here until I return,” Faramir instructed as he rose to his feet and exited his apartments.

The Steward made his way quickly down to the first level where the old stables were situated. The part of the city in which the old stables were located had taken substantial damage in the Ring War and required extensive structural work. As it was non-residential the reconstruction work was scheduled to be completed at later date.

It was not until Faramir had reached the old deserted stables that the thought that he should have advised someone of what he was about entered his mind. Although, truth be known, this was an improvement for Faramir usually left thinking until after the event. He tried hard to contact Elrond mind-to-mind but drew a blank; obviously too far away he thought. Mentally scanning the immediate area in an attempt to locate the thoughts of the assailant or assailants the Steward picked up immediately upon the terrified thoughts of a child. The overwhelming distress of the child’s thoughts battered Faramir’s mind and blocked his attempts to pick up on the assailant’s thoughts. Steeling himself, Faramir entered the stable.

“Throw down your weapons,” Faramir heard upon his entrance.

The Steward then caught sight of the terrified child, for she could have been no more than five he thought, being held by a tall, swarthy man who held a knife to her throat. Faramir could see that the poor child was shaking violently and had tears of terror streaming down her tiny face.

Berating himself silently for being all kinds of a fool, Faramir divested himself slowly of his weapons. He was unable to use his powers as there was every possibility that he would seriously hurt the child.

“Drink,” the man ordered, nodding in the direction of a goblet that was on the floor in front of him.

“What is in it?” Faramir asked, eyeing the goblet suspiciously.

“Nothing that will kill, just make you more amenable,” the man smirked.

“I will do nothing until you release the child,” Faramir said with deadly calm.

Surprisingly, the assailant did let the child go. Faramir encouraged her to run and so she did. Immediately, Faramir lunged for the assailant in an effort to give the child as much time as possible to make her escape.

“No! Leave the girl…. help…. me!” the assailant said as he struggled with Faramir.

At that moment that Faramir caught the thoughts of two others. He was just about to raise his hand when he was king-hit from behind. The blow sent him sprawling but did not knock him out completely. Dazed, Faramir attempted to fight but the three men were upon him, holding him tight as one forced the liquid in the goblet down his throat. The liquid was viscous, foul tasting and burned his mouth. Faramir tried to expel the fell liquid but his nose was held tight until he was forced to swallow the liquid or suffocate. Gagging, he had but a moment to think that if he survived this his ada and Elessar were going to kill him, when excruciating burning pain throughout his body robbed him of all thought and then consciousness.

Part 14

The three assailants bound the unconscious Steward hand and foot with a length of rope. The tallest and strongest of them hauled Faramir to his feet and slung him over his shoulder, as if he were as light as a child.

“Quick into the tunnel! We have but two hours to get to the river,” he said in quiet urgency.

The smallest of the trio opened a well-concealed trapdoor in the floor of the stable situated against the far wall of the stable. They descended quickly and quietly through the trapdoor and into the tunnel below, closing the door behind them.

“Faramir!” Thranduil exclaimed as he jumped to his feet on hearing the distressed call of the tree under which he had been seated. “Something has befallen my son!”

Thranduil, Elrond and Maglor had decided earlier that afternoon to take a turn around the garden that Faramir’s mother had created before partaking of the evening meal, settling eventually on the benches beneath the tallest tree.

“Faramir’s ring is calling to the tree,” Elrond added as he tried to make sense of what the ring was saying.

“The tree does not know where he is,” Maglor said concern evident in his expression.

“And neither does the ring, just that he has been hurt by men,” Elrond said as he turned towards the palace.

“Where is Estel?” Thranduil asked as he hurried beside Lord Elrond and Maglor.

“He will be with Arwen in their quarters,” Elrond replied.

“What has happened, ada?” Legolas asked anxiously as he ran towards the older elves. “The trees are aggrieved.”

“It is your brother, my elfling. Something evil has befallen him,” the elven King said as they all hurried to the King and Queen’s apartments.

“Prince Legolas,” a breathless young guard called out to the elf as he and the older elves were about to enter the King’s apartment.

“What is it?”

“It is the hatchling, milord. Lord Faramir asked me to guard the door until he returned. He has not returned as yet and the hatchling is very distressed and calling for its mama.”

“Why did you not release it?” Legolas asked.

“I do not have the key,” the guard responded.

“Go see to it, ion-nin,” Thranduil instructed.

With a nod, Legolas turned and ran towards the dungeons. Utilising his elven speed he arrived well ahead of the young guard who had followed him. By the time the gasping guard arrived Legolas had succeeded in picking the lock, letting the wailing hatchling out.

“Mama hurt, mama hurt,” Misto hissed as, in a panic, he scurried out of the room and up towards the palace.

On reaching the ground level the hatchling continued towards the main entrance. On finding the doors closed it scurried towards an open window and climbed up the wall and out of the window. Legolas followed Misto, jumping out of the window and down the substantial drop on the other side onto the ground. The young guard made to follow but took one look at the drop and changed his mind abruptly.

“Oh crap!” he exclaimed as he retraced his steps quickly, exited through the main doors and followed the unlikely duo.

Legolas and the guard continued to follow the hatchling down to the first level of the city.

“What has happened?” the young guard asked breathlessly.

“Lord Faramir has been abducted, I fear,” Legolas replied and the young guard blanched.

The hatchling stoped finally at the entrance to the old stables in the deserted section of the first level. Entering the stables it scurried over to where the trapdoor was situated, with Legolas close behind. Using his elven strength, Legolas attempted to open the trapdoor but was unable to as it had been locked from the other side.

“I will seek assistance,” the young guard said as he turned and ran from the stables.

It was not long before the guard returned with several soldiers. It took the combined effort of all of them to break through the trapdoor. Legolas descended and let loose a Gondorian curse so vile that more than one soldier’s eyebrow was raised.

“The tunnel has been collapsed, deliberately,” the elf growled as he jumped lightly back from the tunnel and onto the floor of the stable.

Seeing the way had been barred, the distressed hatchling scuttled out of the stables towards the massive carved wooden doors that marked the entrance to the White City. The doors had been closed earlier as was the custom when night-time was descending. The hatchling scurried up and over the vertical face of the stone wall. Legolas followed, almost as easily as the spider, leaving the bemused soldiers behind. With much yelling of commands and no small effort, the great doors were opened finally and the soldiers poured out onto the plain, by which time the hatchling and Legolas were already quite a way in the distance, heading towards the river. Legolas inspected the site where the tunnel ended not far from the river near some large rocks and then followed the tracks to the river where they stopped. It was there that Misto lost the trail. It was obvious to those gathered that the hatchling wanted to follow as it kept walking into the water and then retreating, not knowing which was to go, all the while repeating the words ‘mama hurt’.

Legolas stooped and picked up Misto and with a tremulous sigh turned back towards the city, murmuring soothing words to the hatchling as he did so. They were met at the great gates by Aragorn, Elrond, Imrahil, Gandalf, Gimli, Maglor and Thranduil, all of who were mounted looking worried and distressed. Legolas saw that his ada held a small female child, who had her arms wrapped tightly around his father’s neck and her face buried in his shoulder.

“He was taken through a tunnel which begins in a deserted stable that backs onto the front wall of the city and ends near the river,” Legolas said, still stroking the visibly distressed hatchling.

“And this little one was the bait. We found her trying to find her home. We had already spoken to her brother who was still in Faramir’s room awaiting his return. He explained that this little one had been abducted from the crèche where she was cared for, for she and her brother had lost their parents in the siege, and Faramir had been given instructions by the abductors to come to the stables,” Thranduil said, anger and worry vying for dominance in his features.

“We lost their trail at the river. He was taken away by boat.”

“I will have ships sent both up and down the river,” Imrahil said as he turned his horse and made for the Port a few miles away.

“I knew not of any hidden tunnel, “ Aragorn growled.

“Who were they and how did they know about the tunnel?” Gandalf asked the questions uppermost in everyone’s mind.

“I have my suspicions,” Aragorn said, offering a hand to Legolas in a mute request for the elf to mount behind him.

Legolas jumped up lightly, still holding onto the hatchling.

“I will examine the tunnel and see what I can discern,” Maglor said.

“And I will accompany you, Master elf,” Gimli offered.

“Can you detect anything, Mithrandir?” Thranduil asked the wizard.

Gandalf sent out his consciousness again in an attempt to locate his wizardling but was unable to pick up any sense of the boy.

“I am sorry, mellon-nin, but I can detect nothing,” he responded dejectedly.

Aragorn ordered the soldiers back to their posts with the instruction not to reveal the abduction of the Steward to anyone as yet. Nodding in understanding the soldiers moved back into the city. The King, elves and wizard made their way back to the palace. On entering his throne room, Aragorn summoned the four suspended councillors; Malagar, Ulrahad, Heriond and Aldahir.

As the guards went in search of the four councillors, Arwen arrived with the young servant. Thranduil lowered the now sleepy young girl to the floor and pointed towards her brother. With a yell of joy and relief the boy ran to his sister and hugged her tightly.

“I think I should take these two to one of our spare rooms and put them to bed,” Arwen said as she bent to pick up the little girl. The child whispered in Arwen’s ear and the Queen smiled. She walked over to Thranduil. The little girl crooked her finger, beckoning him closer and then put her arms around his neck and planted a huge kiss on his cheek before letting go. “I think you have made a conquest this evening” Arwen smiled as she turned, beckoned the boy to her side and exited the throne room. Maglor coughed to hide a snigger when Thranduil blushed.

Eventually, guards escorted each councillor into the throne room. It was obvious that each had been roused from their beds. They looked around nervously at those gathered.

“My Steward has been abducted,” Aragorn began without preamble as he pinned each councillor with such a look that each in turn blanched. “You, gentlemen, are at the top of my list of likely suspects. One or more of you was in possession of knowledge of a secret passage from the city to the river.”

The councillors protested their innocence, blubbering and blustering.

The hatchling, which had been standing between Legolas and Thranduil, became agitated again, spider sense alerted. Misto stalked over to the councillors, stopped and hissed. The councillors looked down upon the very large, to their unaccustomed eyes at least, spider with both revulsion and fear.

“Mirkwood spiders are renowned for being able to detect untruths. Their bite is painful but the venom they inject causes the one so bitten, excruciating pain,” Thranduil lied with such ease that Legolas’ eyes widened. The venom of Mirkwood spiders did not cause excruciating pain. It just put the victim to sleep so that the victim could be stored until later, killed and eaten. Legolas’ doubted whether Misto could inject enough venom to make the man drowsy. Misto, as if sensing what the elven King was attempting to do, stalked the councillor Ulrahad, causing the man to back away so quickly that his feet caught in his night robe sending him tumbling backwards onto his rump. Misto climbed onto the terrified councillor and made his way slowly towards the man’s face.

“Hurt mama,” the hatchling hissed.

Aragorn and Elrond watched the councillor’s horror and Misto’s performance with detached interest and Gandalf with eyebrows raised.

“Alright, alright! I told them about the tunnel but I did not expect them to abduct the Steward. They told me they wanted to smuggle goods into the city thus avoiding taxes,” Ulrahad babbled, eyes wide with terror.

“Who are they and where are they from?” Aragorn demanded, his voice sounding deadly.

“From Umbar! Call it off! Please! Call it off!” the man pleaded in terror as Misto reached his face and stood with front legs raised, fangs bared, poised for the strike.

You put knowledge of a secret entry into the city into the hands of the Haradrim?” Aragorn barked, incredulous.

The other councillors looked down upon their colleague and friend, horrified.

“Without my councillor’s income, I had little income and debts to pay,” the man whined.

“You are a man of assets and wealth! What else did you discuss, children perhaps?” Aragorn asked the terrified man.

“I may have mentioned in passing that Faramir had once risked his life to save a few urchins, much to the annoyance of his father,” Ulrahad answered.

“Take this piece of scum away,” Aragorn spat.

The guards approached the councillor but were reluctant to assist the man to his feet with the hatchling still poised and hissing, as if to strike.

“To heel, Misto,” Legolas called out to the hatchling as if commanding a dog.

The hatchling turned towards the elf, giving him a look that spoke volumes about its thoughts regarding the ‘to heel’ command.

“Come, Misto,” Thranduil said gently. The hatchling scuttled towards the elven King but not before turning back to the human and hissing.

The guards assisted the man to his feet and then escorted him out of the palace and onto the gaol.

“See where your arrogance and your pettiness can lead. Get out of my sight,” Aragorn snarled at the remaining councillors.

The very subdued men turned and left, each escorted by a guard.

“So he is on a boat headed for Umbar,” Gandalf said. At that moment Imrahil, Gimli and Maglor entered the throne room.

“I have sent my fastest ships in both directions with instructions to challenge and search all boats they encounter,” Imrahil said breathlessly.

“Master Gimli and I traced the abductor’s tracks to the river where a boat had lain in wait. There appears to have been three men. One man’s tracks were much deeper than the others. I would assume that he was the one who carried Faramir. My guess is that they rendezvoused with a larger vessel, and that vessel is sailing towards Umbar as we speak,” Maglor reported.

“They have chosen their time well. The prevailing winds are in their favour,” Imrahil sighed.

“Ada, Imrahil?” Aragorn asked. “I ask that you both remain here in the White City to look after Arwen and the city. I and the others will go in search of Faramir.”

Both nodded their heads in understanding but it was clear that Imrahil would have preferred to go after his nephew.

Fire… pain… pain… bound… sick… pain… fire… burning… scream… water… cool… swallow… darkness.

“No, tithen-pen, you are too young to come. You could get hurt,” Legolas tried to reason with the hatchling only to be hissed at by the annoyed little creature. “Where did you hear that word? Do not look at me like that! I have never used that word! Bad Misto, bad word!” Legolas added as he mounted the horse on which Gimli was already seated, standing in the courtyard in front of the palace steps.

Aragorn, Thranduil, Maglor and Gandalf were also mounted having said their goodbyes. Imrahil, Elrond and Arwen were standing at the bottom of the steps.

“Come, Misto,” Arwen called gently, having already kissed Aragorn farewell and bid them all success in fetching Faramir home. Hissing again at Legolas, the hatchling turned and followed Arwen reluctantly.

The rescue party made their way down the levels of the city and stopped in front of the main gates until they were opened. They exited the city and out onto the plains, Legolas and Gimli bringing up the rear. The elf had just cleared the gates when a large something jumped onto his head, making both him and Gimli yelp in surprise.

“Mama hurt,” Misto hissed in his ear. “Not sssstaaayyy!”

“He had best come, my elfling,” Thranduil said with a wistful smile. “He may be of use.”

Legolas sighed, resigning himself to having two annoying passengers on this mission.

Pain… burning… scream… stench… orc… pain… scream… fire… sick… drink… swallow… foul… ada!… blackness.

Faramir came to his senses abruptly. He felt his head lying on someone’s lap and that someone was gently massaging the lobe of his ear. He opened his eyes tentatively and was surprised to see that he was in a forest. Only the colours appeared too bright, too vivid to be real. He saw that he was in a clearing and could hear a stream gurgling in the near distance.

“Hello, little brother,” a familiar voice directly above him, greeted softly.

Part 15

“Aieeeeeee!” Faramir yelped as he scrambled furiously away from the apparition, upon which his head had been resting, ending up several feet away and on his knees. “You are… you are…”

“Dead? Deceased? Carked it?” the apparition supplied helpfully, eyes twinkling as he sat on the ground with his back braced against a large rock.

“This is no jesting matter you… you bastard!” Faramir mewled, disoriented and trying desperately to understand what was happening to him.

“Shame on you, little brother. That is a falsehood and you know so. I do believe the record books show our parents were married at the time I was conceived,” Boromir chided gently, amusement tugging at the corners of his mouth. “Oh, miel-neth nin (my kitten), it is good to speak to you,” he added, softly, quietly, his expression turning melancholy.

Faramir put a trembling hand to his mouth and tears sprang to his eyes at the endearment miel-neth, Boromir’s childhood name for him. It was something Faramir thought never to hear again.

“If I touch you,” Faramir began tentatively, “you will not disappear in a puff of smoke will you?”

“No, miel-neth, not here,” Boromir assured, rising to his feet and opening his arms wide in invitation.

“Promise?” Faramir whimpered, tears overflowing and streaming down his face.

“Promise, little one,” Boromir assured Faramir as he waved the fingers of his outstretched hands, coaxing his skittish brother.

In but a moment, the Gondorian Warrior’s arms were filled with his sobbing, mewling brother. Faramir placed his arms around Boromir’s neck and if not for the fact that his brother was already to be counted amongst those deceased, would have squeezed the life from him. Faramir breathed in deeply, taking in the familiar scent of his brother and knew that it was indeed Boromir for none other had that particular scent, one he had known from his first memories. Boromir held his brother tightly also, savouring the feel of his little brother.

“I have missed you… so… much,” Faramir sobbed as Boromir held him tightly. Both brothers stayed like that for a long time, each savouring the nearness and solidity of the other. “Am I dead?” Faramir mewled eventually into his brother’s shoulder, when his sobbing had abated enough for his thought processes to resume.

“I have missed being able to hold you and no, little brother, you are not dead but I fear you would wish it from the sounds of your screaming before you lost consciousness,” Boromir said in a whisper, hoarse with emotion.

“What is happening to me? Where is here?” Faramir asked, gaining slightly more control over his thoughts if not his emotions.

“What is the last thing that you remember,” Boromir asked as he guided his brother to the rocked and bade him sit down.

“I was in a stable grappling with three men when they pinned me to the ground and poured a foul potion down my throat, forcing me to swallow. Oh, how it burned!” Faramir replied, shuddering at the dark memory.

“The three men have adducted you and are taking you down river by boat. The potion they gave you is to keep your thoughts disjointed so that you cannot employ your wizarding powers but I fear they have given you too much of the evil brew,” Boromir said, tightening his embrace to temper his brother’s trembling.

“How do you know this?”

“Where ever you have been, little brother, so have I, watching over you” Boromir replied, chuckling as the ramifications of his statement began to settle on Faramir.

“Where is here?” Faramir asked.

“Betwixt and between,” Boromir replied vaguely.

“Betwixt and between what, buffoon?” Faramir asked, his temper taking control of his mouth – yet again.

“Between the living world and the halls of our ancestors, a staging area so to speak,” Boromir answered, amused at his brother’s display of temper.

“Why are you here? I thought you deserted me, that time in Mirkwood,” Faramir asked a little petulantly.

“Only after I saw you placed safely in the hands of an elven ada and brother who have grown to love you dearly, Fara,” Boromir corrected, causing Faramir to blush, contrite. “And I told you, I have been watching you. The bond between you and I is indeed strong, little one, for not even death has been able to break it and I admit that something else has been holding me here but I have not thought overmuch on its cause for I have been far too entertained watching your antics,” Boromir admonished, chuckling as he did so. “I have laughed heartily and been ever so delightfully amused as I have borne witness to Gondor’s King, a wizard, a whole cast of elves including King, Lord, Prince and nanny and our dear, dear uncle, run ragged attempting to keep you out of trouble.”

“It is not my fault, circumstances just keep getting a little ahead of me,” Faramir whined, pouting.

Boromir threw back his head and fair howled with laughter as he pulled his brother more tightly to him, praising the Valar for giving him the opportunity to do so.

“Ahoy there,” Aragorn hailed from the shore as his party came across a small ship of Dol Amroth and a second ship, abandoned and run aground.

The company dismounted.

“The vessel was ran aground deliberately, sire, when realised that it could not outrun my ship,” the breathless young Swan Knight Captain said from behind Aragorn, causing the King to turn quickly about. “My sailors and I gave chase but were prevented from securing the Steward by the largest orcs I have ever had the misfortune to fight. Whilst we fought the abductors escaped with the Steward in that direction,” the knight said looking inland. “I am sorry, sire.”

Legolas ran off in the direction the knight indicated with Misto scuttling along in hot pursuit.

“Uruk-hai,” Aragorn spat. “This reeks of Saruman.”

“But they are heading towards Umbar,” Thranduil mused.

“I do not like where that thought leads us, mellon-nin,” Aragorn responded, shaking his head in consternation.

“Neither do I. An alliance between Saruman and the Haradrim is indeed a sobering thought,” the elven King agreed.

“Return to Minas Tirith, advise Prince Imrahil of what has transpired and tell him that we follow on land,” Aragorn instructed the Swan Knight.

“Legolas has picked up on the trail,” Thranduil explained on hearing the elven whistle.

The company remounted, met up with Legolas and continued in pursuit.

“It is not yet your time, Fara. You have to go back,” Boromir said at last, breaking the embrace reluctantly.

“My heart is torn,” Faramir moaned softly. “I want to stay with you but I do not want to leave ada and Legolas.”

“I know, little brother,” Boromir whispered, again taking Faramir into his bear-like embrace. “But you have much life yet to live and great deeds yet to achieve.”

“Will you remain betwixt and between much longer?” Faramir asked hopefully.

“Aye, little brother. I will be here for quite a while yet, I think,” Boromir replied.

Pain… scream… Boromir!… fire… pain… scream… “silence him!” … blackness.

“Well, that did not go well,” Boromir said, slightly exasperated as he gently stroked his brother’s hair.

“That hurt,” Faramir growled as he felt his head again resting on his brother’s lap.

“Can you hear the ring in this place?” Boromir asked.

“Aye, faintly,” Faramir replied bemusedly after several moments, wondering what Boromir was planning.

“Concentrate on the voice of the ring and try going back again,” Boromir suggested.

Faramir swore mightily, much to the amusement of Boromir, but did as he was bid.

Faramir regained consciousness and wished promptly that he had not. The pain, burning its way through his body, was excruciating, robbing him of breath. Despite the pain he realised that he was aware, no longer were his thoughts fragmented. Faramir could hear the voice of the ring drawing him ever deeper into himself and conversely, further away from the pain. He felt as if he had become detached, ever so slightly, from his body. With awareness came the realisation that it was night, his hands were tied behind his back, his feet were also bound and he was slung over someone or something’s shoulder. By the stench that assailed his nostrils, very strong despite the detached state in which he found himself, an orc carried him – a very large orc.

Faramir continued to feign unconsciousness whilst he formulated a plan for escape, a very difficult task considering the pain he was in and the blood rushing to his head, as he was virtually upside-down. The Steward thought the fell creatures would never stop. From the snippets of conversation, which was conducted mostly in grunts, he discovered that the orcs were being pursued, in all likelihood he thought, by Elessar and his ada. Faramir also ascertained that the orcs were hoping to meet with a much larger group of orcs, who were coming from Ithilien, at a predetermined point on the Harad Road. From the sippets of information he deduced that Saruman had allied with the Haradrim, although for what ultimate purpose he did not know; just that it did not bode well for Gondor.

The orcs did not stop until they had reached the Harad Road and hid, off road in the forest, to rest and wait for the other party of orcs to arrive. Faramir felt himself being lowered, none too gently, to the ground.

Feeling nausea and the strange detachment, Faramir felt his left leather wrist and forearm protector and was relieved to find that the abductors had missed the small dagger that was secured near his wrist. After what seemed like an eternity to the nauseous Steward, he managed to free the dagger and cut through the rope that secured his hands. Soon after he managed to cut the rope holding his feet. Utilising his ranger-trained stealth, he slipped quietly into the darkness. Unfortunately his escape was witnessed by an orc who was returning from relieving itself and the alarm was raised. Faramir ran as fast as he could, almost doubling over at times due to the burning pain that still assaulted his body, despite the detachment. It was not long before the ranger found himself propelled forward and crashing to the ground, tacked by an orc. The wind was knocked out of him and pain exploding in his head and body, Faramir raised himself to his knees and began retching, which turned into a series of dry heaves as he had had no food or water for some time.

“Attempt to escape again, little rabbit, and I will have you skinned alive,” the largest human hissed in his ear. “Punish but do not kill him,” he ordered, comfortable in the knowledge that the Wizard was unable to access his powers, for if he could he would already have done so.

Faramir was pulled to his knees by two orcs and his leather over-tunic and shirt ripped from his body. The two orcs held him in place whilst a third orc, the one who had carried him, produced a large, lethal looking whip with many tails; each with a jagged piece of metal tied at the end. Smiling, the orc circled Faramir letting the human see the whip. Too exhausted to fight, Faramir closed his eyes. He felt every stroke, felt his flesh part and blood trickle down his back but although there was pain enough to make him cry out, he still felt the strange detachment and heard the voice of the ring, lamenting, drawing him further away from the pain. The orc kept up a steady pace growing more and more annoyed at the human’s lack of response but finally ceased the punishment. Faramir was released and promptly fell forward in a dead faint.

Not wanting to risk injury to the horses by travelling in the dark, for there was not even moonlight to guide them, the companions made camp for the night.

“Oh, my elfling,” Thranduil moaned as he sat with his back braced against the trunk of a tree, near a small fire that had been set alight. “I have such a feeling.”

“We will find him and bring him home,” Legolas whispered, adamant, as he put an arm around his father’s shoulders and pulled him close.

Aragorn, Gandalf, Gimli and Maglor looked upon the elven King with sadness in their hearts for each felt the same darkness as the elf. Misto scuttled over to the elven King and sat down upon his lap, silent.

On first light the next morning the company mounted and rode until they were within elven sight of the Harad Road. They stopped briefly allowing Legolas to dismount and climb the tallest tree.

“I can see them just on the other side of the Harad Road. There are three men and fifteen orcs that I can see,” Legolas called down to his companions and then he gasped.

“What is it, mellon nin?” Aragorn asked, alarmed.

“There is a second group of orcs further up the road. There must be at least three hundred heading towards the smaller group,” Legolas replied as he climbed down the tree quickly, as only a wood-elf could, and jumped lightly onto his horse in front of Gimli who was holding the hatchling.

Wheeling his horse, much to Gimli’s distress, Legolas galloped off towards the orcs with Gimli holding onto the elf for grim death and Misto attached, with all eight legs, to the Dwarf. Thus the race was on – to reach Faramir before the two groups of orcs met and combined forces.

Part 16

The others followed Legolas as fast as they dared along the rough forest track, careful of tree roots and low hanging branches as they did so. Eventually they came upon the Harad Road. Legolas made straight for where he knew the abductors were hiding in a clearing through the thicket on the other side of the road. The elf freed his bow and nocked an arrow, prompting Thranduil and Maglor to do the same, Aragorn and Gandalf to draw their swords and Gimli to ready his axe.

Legolas made straight for the human figure with gold-red locks he could see, wrapped in a cloak and curled into a ball of misery between two massive boulders. He jumped from his horse and onto one of the boulders as he continued to nock and shoot arrows with lightening speed. Gimli, with Misto still attached and hissing, slid from the horse’s back and ran towards Faramir to protect the human. Misto jumped from the dwarf’s back and scuttled to his mama. Legolas’ heart sank as he saw the first of the second group of orcs swarm into the clearing.

The orcs moved quickly to isolate Legolas and Gimli from the others. Gimli swung viciously as orcs came within range of his axe, hacking off limbs with ease. Arrows exhausted, both Thranduil and Maglor jumped from their mounts, unsheathed their elven knives, sliced and carved their way through the swarming orcs in an intricate and deadly dance. Aragorn remained mounted as he swung his sword with skill born of many years of fighting. Gandalf used both his staff to blind the orcs and his sword to cut them down.

Having exhausted his supply of arrows, Legolas made to jump down from the rock on which he was standing when his eyes widened, his expression one of surprise, as he fell forward off the rock and onto the ground near Faramir, a black orc’s arrow sticking out of his back. Thranduil let out a cry of alarm and rage as he saw his beloved elfling felled. Gimli too yelled in distress, redoubling his efforts to keep the orcs at bay. Sheer rage taking control, Thranduil gave an elven battle cry, twirled and danced as he sliced and stabbed his way through the orcs towards his sons.

Faramir regained consciousness to the sound of Misto’s panicked voice, hissing ‘mama’ repeatedly in his ear. The pain he felt almost sent him back into the blackness but he saw, out of the corner of his eye an elf with an arrow sticking out of his back and knew immediately that the elf was Legolas. The strange detachment that he had been feeling dissipated abruptly bringing agony enough to rob him of senses for several long moments before he managed to struggle to his knees. Feeling a rage such as he had rarely felt before build rapidly within him, Faramir began to crackle and his hair to stand on end. He drew on the power he felt around him, from the rocks, trees, orcs and from within himself. The power built to such a level that Faramir was no longer able to contain it and, raising his ringed hand, let loose blue bolts of energy that took out every orc within forty feet, after which he fell to the ground like a stone, where he remained – unmoving.

Seeing Faramir fall, Thranduil let out another cry of rage as he continued his deadly dance towards his fallen sons, oblivious to everything else. Maglor, recognising the signs of a rage in his friend in which all reason has fled, attempted to remain close to his King and friend. Aragorn, still mounted, also attempted to get to his friends but felt pangs of despair as the orcs continued to swarm cutting off his access. His heart missed several beats when he heard elven battle cries a short distance away and his hope rekindled when Finrod, the twins and the Gondorian Lieutenant rode into the fray.

Thranduil made it to Legolas first and, oblivious to the danger around him, dropped to his knees to check that his son was still alive. He breathed a sigh of relief when he saw that the arrow had penetrated his son’s shoulder and that Legolas was breathing steadily and had a strong heartbeat. The elven King rose to feet once more and ran the short distance to where Faramir had fallen. His heart constricted when he could feel no heartbeat in his son. Thranduil howled with rage and tears streamed down his face. Spying Saruman and three humans he assumed to be the ones who abducted Faramir in the distance, he jumped to his feet and began his deadly dance, killing every orc in his path as he made his way towards the disgraced white wizard. At Thranduil’s howl of rage and pain, Aragorn’s heart sank for he knew that it could only mean that either Legolas or Faramir was dead.

Maglor knew that they would need to make their escape soon as they had no hope of killing all the orcs. Whistling to Finrod who was still mounted, Maglor ran back to Legolas and cut through the shaft of the arrow embedded in the younger elf’s shoulder and passed the unconscious elf to Finrod. Finrod whirled his horse and galloped through the orcs and off into the distance towards the Harad Road. The Mirkwood Seneschal gathered Faramir into his arms and whistled for Elrohir. The younger twin took Faramir from Maglor and followed the path that Finrod had taken. Aragorn collected Gimli and Misto and followed the elves. Maglor whistled for his own mount. Gandalf, Elladan and the Gondorian soldier protected the elven horse, slashing and hewing with their swords, as the elven bred horse made its way to its master. Recognising that Thranduil was in such a rage that he would continue to fight to the death and would not listen to reason, Maglor approached the enraged elf from behind and landed a mighty chop to the back of his friend’s neck catching him before he hit the ground. The Seneschal slung his friend over his horse, jumped up behind him, whistling for Thranduil and Legolas’ horses to follow and galloped off in the same direction as the others with a very surprised wizard, elf and human, following in his wake.

The company fled until midafternoon when they reached a position that was defensible, if the orcs had decided to pursue them, and had water and shelter available. Elladan dismounted and relieved Finrod of Legolas, who was still unconscious, so the Mirkwood elf could dismount. Similarly, Aragorn gathered Faramir into his arms and placed him on his side on a bedroll near where Elladan had placed Legolas. Misto settled next to his mama’s head. Elrohir dismounted and ran to assist his brother to remove Legolas’ tunic and shirt so he could examine his friend’s wound. Maglor allowed Thranduil, who was slowly regaining consciousness, to slip from his horse.

“What hit me?” Thranduil asked attempting to shake the fog from his mind.

“Well, if you must know, I did, mellon-nin,” Maglor replied as he also slipped from his horse. “It is a long time since I have seen you throw such a temper tantrum.”

“Faramir!” the elven King exclaimed, looking about frantically.

“He is alive, Thranduil,” Aragorn called out from where he and Gandalf knelt next to Faramir, “for the moment at least,” he added under his breath.

A powerful wave of relief caused Thranduil’s knees to weaken. Maglor grabbed his friend’s arm, pulled it around his shoulders and hauled the elven King over to where Faramir and Legolas lay. Finrod, Gimli and the Lieutenant went to stand watch for signs of orcs. Maglor busied himself with starting a small fire, collecting water, putting it on to boil and gathering the medical supplies. Aragorn groaned and then swore mightily when he removed the cloak in which Faramir had been wrapped, only to discover that his young Steward was naked from the waist up and had been subjected to a merciless whipping.

“Oh, ion-nin,” Thranduil moaned, tears again welling in his eyes as he stroked Faramir’s hair.

When the water had boiled, Maglor brewed tea for both fever and pain. The twins set about removing the remaining piece of arrow from Legolas’ shoulder whilst their friend was still unconscious, sighing with relief when they discovered that the arrow had not been poisoned. They cleaned and bandaged the wound, confident that his elven healing ability would see Legolas back to full health within a matter of days. Not long after the twins had finished, Legolas regained consciousness groaning as he did so. Thranduil was beside his elfling in an instant.

“Faramir?” Legolas asked, struggling weakly to rise.

“Shhhhh… “ Thranduil soothed in a whisper as he stroked his son’s hair. “He yet lives, my elfling.”

Elrohir fed some of the tea that Maglor had prepared to Legolas and it was not long before the elf slipped into reverie. Thranduil turned his attention back to his human son. Aragorn used warm water and clean cloth to cleanse the vicious looking welts and weals on Faramir’s back. He then applied an ointment containing arnica, comfrey, elm and marigold to assist in healing before dressing the wounds in clean bandages.

“I cannot believe that you did that, little brother,” Boromir admonished as he stroked his brother’s hair.

“Did what?” Faramir asked in a tone that indicated his confusion and disorientation, as he woke yet again in the surreal forest with his head resting on Boromir’s lap.

“Took the energy from within yourself! How many times has Mithrandir warned you not to do so? You have all but killed yourself!” Boromir chided.

“I am sorry but I was angry,” Faramir snapped. “They shot my brother!” he snarled. On realising his words, his angry expression turned sheepish and a little apologetic.

“Never be ashamed of the love you bear for both your brother’s and your ada, little one. I praise the Valar for guiding you to King Thranduil,” Boromir said softly. “I do not think you grasp truly the depth of his love for you, miel-neth. It is as deep as his love for Legolas and my love for you.”

“How are they? Are they safe?” Faramir asked.

“Aye, little brother, they are safe for the moment. Legolas has taken an arrow to his shoulder but the arrow has been removed and he is in a deep healing sleep. Your ada is beside himself with worry for you though,” Boromir replied.

“I should go back then?” Faramir asked in a tone that said that the prospect was daunting to him.

“Nay, little one. Not yet. Rest awhile for if you go back now you will be in seven kinds of hell. Your back!” Boromir exclaimed as he began to gently massage Faramir’s earlobe with his thumb and index finger.

“Not good?” Faramir asked tentatively, in a tiny voice, snuggling into his brother’s thigh.

“_Not good_,” Boromir confirmed in a whoosh of breath as images of his little brother being whipped to within an inch of his life and he powerless to stop it, replayed in his mind. There were many disadvantages to being deceased, he thought.

“He is still with us,” Aragorn sighed as he and Thranduil lifted Faramir carefully and wrapped him in a clean blanket before wrapping him back in the blood-encrusted cloak. “I do not want to risk moving him but we cannot stay here.”

Thranduil closed his eyes in despair but nodded once in agreement.

Finrod, Gimli and the Gondorian Lieutenant were called back from their watch. The company mounted their horses. Thranduil cradled Faramir in his arms and Maglor held Legolas. They risked riding throughout the night along the Harad Road. It was well past midnight when elven hearing detected sounds ahead, sounds that did not belong to nature.

They rode quickly into the cover of the trees to the side of the road. Finrod signalled that he would ride ahead to determine whether the sounds ahead were from human or orc. The Mirkwood elf returned quickly, with a Gondorian soldier in train.

“Soldiers. About one hundred sent by Prince Imrahil,” Finrod advised the company.

“Prince Imrahil got wind of a large band of orcs on the Harad Road, not long after you left, sire. He sent us to assist if we could,” the mounted soldier informed them.

“That man is a wonder and despite what he says, every bit the cunning old fox as was his sire,” Aragorn said with a rueful smile.

The company rode to the soldier’s camp where Faramir and Legolas were made comfortable. Misto again settled beside Faramir. Thranduil sat between his sons with one hand on each as if to reassure himself that both were still living and looking more worried than Aragorn had ever seen the elven King look.

“I cannot lose him, Estel,” Thranduil said as Aragorn approached and sat down on the other side of Faramir, close to Misto.

“My Steward has great stubbornness and all of us on his side, mellon-nin. He will survive,” Aragorn said with more confidence than he actually felt.

“He will be grounded, though,” Thranduil growled.

“What do you mean?” Aragorn asked gently.

“I am going to lock him in that palace of yours where he will remain until he is at least three hundred and sixty!” Thranduil replied adamantly. “My heart cannot take it, Estel,” he complained when Estel smiled at him. “He is so young, not even one hundred.”

“Whilst I understand the sentiment, for I too desire to see him locked away safe from trouble, you are father to a human, who, I will admit, manages to find more trouble than most, if not all, and you will need to adjust,” Aragorn counselled with a rueful smile.

“My respect for Elrond grows daily,” Thranduil said with just that blend of sincerity and sarcasm of which he alone was master.

“How fares, Faramir?” Elrohir asked quietly as he and Elladan sat down on the ground near Aragorn, both eyeing the hatchling with faint disquiet.

“Alive, though I think he would wish it otherwise if he was conscious,” Aragorn replied sadly. “I have been meaning to ask you how you came to be in the vicinity?”

“We found Saruman’s trail in the hills of Emyn Muil… “ Elladan began.

“… we discovered that an old man was seen in the company of orcs… “ Elrohir continued.

“… and that they were headed towards the Dead Marshes … “

“… We travelled to the marshes and … “

“… discovered their trail and followed … “

“… Two days ago we caught up with them … “

“ … We have been trying to discover … “

“ … their intentions … “

“And have you discovered anything?” Aragorn interjected.

“Just pieces … “ Elrohir responded.

“ … An alliance with the Haradrim … “ Elladan added.

“ … something about training wizards … “

“Why do they want my son?” Thranduil interjected.

“We do not know … “ Elladan said.

“ … Just that they see him as a threat.” Elrohir concluded.

“I think we should rest this night. We have a long journey ahead of us, back to Minas Tirith,” Aragorn said as he stood before making for his bedroll.

Thranduil sat vigil over his sons the entire night. Neither son stirred until morning.

“How is Faramir, ada?” Legolas asked as soon as he came back from his healing reverie, stretching and wincing at the pain in his shoulder.

“He is with us yet, my elfling,” Thranduil replied as he looked down at Faramir. “How are you feeling?”

“I have been better I must admit but I will survive,” Legolas smiled ruefully.

“Go eat, tithen-pen,” Thranduil said quietly to Misto, for he knew the hatchling must be very hungry. “I will watch over your mama.”

Misto scuttled off a short distance, turned back as if unsure but continued to scurry into the forest when shooed gently by the elven King.

“Time to go back, little brother,” Boromir said as he smiled down at Faramir.

“I love you, Boromir,” Faramir said as he prepared mentally, to return.

“And I you, miel-neth,” Boromir said. “I am sorry, little one, but you could not stay here any longer,” he added in a whisper.

Faramir awoke and was immediately beset by pain, such as he had never felt before.

“Boromir! You rotten, conniving, son of a… bastard! You could have given me some warning!“ Faramir growled writhing in agony, arm raised in the air, hand opening and closing, seeking his ada. “Oh help, ada! It hurts!”

“Estel! Maglor!” Thranduil called out as he took hold of his son’s hand, allowing Faramir to grip it as hard as necessary.

“What hurts, Faramir?” Aragorn asked his distressed Steward.

“Head… back… stomach… everything!” Faramir replied in gasps, between the spasms.

“Drink this, pen-neth,” Maglor directed, holding a cup to his young charge’s lips.

The pain was so great that Faramir did not fall into sleep as quickly as was his wont when given a strong pain reliever, or, for that matter, given even the mildest of pain relievers. Thranduil held his son’s hand through the spasms of pain until Faramir relaxed finally into sleep.

Part 17

“His fever is worsening,” Aragorn murmured, concern evident as he felt the heat of Faramir’s brow with the palm of his hand that rested there. “We must needs get him back to Minas Tirith as quickly as possible.”

“Is that advisable given his condition?” Thranduil asked quietly, stroking his son’s hair.

“We do not have the medicines needed and his condition will only deteriorate out here in the elements,” Aragorn advised gently.

After the morning rations were consumed, the soldiers broke camp and preparations were made for the journey back to the White City. Legolas, who was conscious if very sore, complained bitterly that he was more than capable of sitting on a horse by himself, that was, until Maglor gave him a look that quelled the younger elf instantly and had him looking like an elfling again – all eyes. Gimli chuckled at his friend’s expression, but was quelled equally as effectively by a look from the Seneschal.

“I am still very much vexed with your sire at the moment, Thranduilion. I would suggest that you do not push me,” Maglor responded tartly, turning his gaze once again upon Legolas.

Legolas looked at his ada with a questioning raised eyebrow. Thranduil was mounted and cradling Faramir, who was still either sleeping or unconscious. The elven King simply pretended not to hear his Seneschal’s vexed words or see his elfling’s questioning expression. Legolas chose the wise course of remaining silent and doing as he was bid as Maglor mounted the horse behind him. Gimli, with Misto clinging to his back, rode with Aragorn.

The troop travelled as far as they could as fast as they could before Aragorn called a halt in the early afternoon to rest the horses and check on both Faramir and Legolas. Whilst the soldiers rested and ate, Maglor readied boiling water and healing herbs and salves for the two patients. The twins tended to Legolas while Aragorn and Thranduil tended to Faramir. Gandalf, Gimli and Finrod hovered in the background and Misto settled near his mama. The twins changed the dressings on Legolas’ shoulder wound, pleased to see that it was healing well. Aragorn and Thranduil removed the soiled cloak and blanket from Faramir; and were met with the distressing sight of blood soaked bandages. Despite the healing salve that had been applied, the wounds on the Steward’s back had become infected.

At that moment Faramir awoke to a world of pain. Thranduil took hold of his son’s hand and crooned quiet, soothing words in elvish. Faramir concentrated on his ada’s voice, trying desperately to divorce himself from the pain, wishing that the fogged detachment he had felt earlier would return but it did not.

“Faramir! Stay with me, tithen-pen,” Aragorn called to his Steward, as he removed the bloody bandages, aware that Faramir was on the verge of losing consciousness again. “Something is amiss here. He should not be in such pain. Faramir, Faramir! Open your eyes, stay with me, pen-neth. Were you given anything by the abductors, food, liquid?”

“Potion… so could not… use powers,” Faramir gasped out through gritted teeth as he squeezed his ada’s hand hard as another spasm of pain caused his muscles to contract violently. Thranduil kept up a litany of soothing elvish words as Faramir writhed and arched, his body in agony.

Gandalf groaned, causing Aragorn to look at him sharply with a questioning expression before being distracted by Maglor passing him a brew for pain and fever, which the Mirkwood elf had prepared. Thranduil raised Faramir to a semi sitting position so that Aragorn could feed him Maglor’s brew.

“Drink this,” Aragorn said as he held the tea to Faramir’s lips. “That is it, mellon-nin,” he continued as Faramir swallowed the liquid.

Still writhing as the agonising muscle contractions continued, Faramir drank the foul tasting brew without complaint, in between gasps for breath, so great was his pain. Again the brew did not have as fast an effect on the Steward as in the past. Aragorn waited until Faramir had drifted finally into the blessed oblivion of sleep before seeking clarification from Gandalf on the wizard’s groan earlier and tending the foetid wounds on his young Steward’s back.

“The potion of which Faramir spoke would, in all likelihood, have been a poison of Morgul make,” Gandalf sighed deeply before Aragorn had asked the question. “I know of no other that could strip a wizard of his power. It is altogether evil.”

“Will we never be free of the evil shadow of that fell place and its poisons?” Aragorn exclaimed, as he finished applying clean bandages to Faramir’s wounds. “What can we do for him Gandalf?”

“We must get him to Elrond as fast as possible,” Gandalf replied. “Only Vilya, the elven healing ring, will be able to counter such a vile potion in time.”

“I will ride out now and take Faramir to Minas Tirith, Estel. Maglor, the twins and Finrod can accompany me,” Thranduil added when he could see Aragorn about to object. “We will be much faster and can, with our elven sight, ride throughout the night.”

Aragorn paused for a moment before closing his eyes and nodding once in agreement.

“I can ride too, ada,” Legolas said from his supine position near Faramir.

Thranduil looked at Maglor who nodded agreement for both knew that worry over Faramir could cause a debilitating grief reaction in the younger elf.

“Alright my elfling but only if you ride with Maglor,” Thranduil cautioned.

Legolas screwed his nose in distaste at the condition placed on him but nodded his head in agreement, knowing that it was not the time to argue.

It was not long before the elves set out for Minas Tirith with Faramir held in the safe arms of his ada, Legolas with Maglor and Misto with Finrod at Thranduil’s request, much to the elf’s surprise. Finrod thought it wondrous strange that any elf of Mirkwood would befriend a spider let alone their King. The elves arrived at the White city just on dawn the following morning, having ridden throughout the night as fast as they could allow the horses to travel in the dark. Thranduil had grown ever more concerned for Faramir as they raced towards the White City for his son had yet to regain consciousness, was beginning to have difficulty breathing and his fever had climbed ever higher. Despite the early hour of their arrival, Imrahil, Elrond and Arwen met the elves and Faramir in the courtyard in front of the palace. Elrond had sensed their coming and roused the others.

Imrahil groaned when he saw his nephew, unconscious and obviously seriously hurt, cradled in Thranduil’s arms. Elrond, understanding the severity of Faramir’s condition immediately, moved quickly to take the young human from Thranduil, who released his precious burden reluctantly, and walked quickly towards the Houses of Healing with Thranduil, the twins and Misto close on his heels. Maglor assisted Legolas, who was in danger of slipping into reverie at any moment, to dismount. He then swept the exhausted elf off his feet and took him to the Houses of Healing with Imrahil and Arwen in tow. Finrod stayed to see to the horses.

“What happened?” Imrahil asked as he walked beside Maglor.

“This one took an arrow to the shoulder trying to protect his brother but should be back to his normal irritating self in a few days,” Maglor said affectionately, eliciting a sleepy grumble from Legolas.

“And Faramir?” Arwen asked as she walked on the other side of the Mirkwood Seneschal.

“I am aggrieved to say that he has been whipped to within an inch of his life by his abductors and has been fed an evil brew of Morgul make,” Maglor replied, eliciting gasps from both Arwen and Imrahil.

Maglor, Arwen and Imrahil arrived at the Houses of Healing and entered the room in which Faramir had been placed. Maglor was thankful to see that the room contained two beds. Faramir had been placed on the bed closest to the widow, which overlooked a garden. Maglor placed Legolas on the other bed, against the wall opposite the window. The young Prince had slipped into reverie.

Elrond and Thranduil had already removed the cloak and blanket in which Faramir had been wrapped for the journey to the White City and were just removing the bloodied bandages. Elrohir and Elladan had gone to fetch Elrond’s healing supplies and boiling water. Misto was busy spinning a web in the corner of the room above Faramir’s bed, all the better to keep an eye, or in this case, many eyes on his mama. Arwen and Imrahil stood back out of the way; ready to do anything that was requested of them. Elrond, aware that Faramir had been given, in all likelihood, a potion of Morgul origin for Thranduil had to him so, gasped on seeing the state of Faramir’s back.

The twins arrived with their father’s healing supplies, bandages, cloths and boiling water in a large kettle that they put on a stand near the fire that was alight in the fireplace. Elrond placed his ringed hand upon Faramir’s forehead, closed his eyes and sought out the poison.

“It is of Morgul,” Elrond sighed.

“You can help him, can you not?” Thranduil asked in a breathless whisper, pale at the thought of losing Faramir.

“I can neutralise the poison but it will not be easy. It will be extremely painful for him and will tax him sorely,” Elrond sighed. “I cannot give him anything for pain until after the poison has been neutralised. His condition is not good and he is having trouble breathing. He may not survive, mellon-nin,” Elrond said gently.

“My son is stubborn and he will survive,” Thranduil countered adamantly, though tears welled in his eyes.

Elrond bathed Faramir’s back with warm water containing herbs and potions designed to kill infection and promote healing. He then applied healing salve and clean bandages. Sitting down on the bed beside Faramir, he waved Thranduil to sit on the other side of his ailing son. Thranduil held Faramir’s hand as Elrond placed his ringed hand over the young human’s face and began chanting in Elvish. Vilya began to glow. Even unconscious, Faramir moaned and then writhed in agony as Elrond continued. The Steward woke abruptly and began screaming from the sheer agony. He felt as if he was being consumed by fire from the inside. The screaming and writhing did not abate. Agitated, Misto started hissing but remained in his web.

“Oh … Valar, help me, ada! Hurts! Boromir! … help me! … Ada!” Faramir screamed, writhing in agony.

Tears streaming down his face, Thranduil held Faramir’s hand through the entire ordeal as Faramir arched in pain, again and again. Imrahil began pacing like a caged lion as he watched his sister’s son’s agony. Arwen wept gently, arms wrapped around herself protectively, flanked by the twins. Both twins placed their arms around their sister. Legolas, awoken from his reverie by his brother’s screams, was held and comforted by Maglor both with tears in their eyes. Still the screaming did not abate.

“Please… stop… hurts… stop, ada!” the young Steward cried out, his voice becoming hoarse from the damage done to his vocal cords.

To all present, it was obvious that Elrond was struggling. The normally regal and calm elf was looking distressed and pained. Just when Thranduil could take no more of his son’s agony and screams and was about to ask Elrond to cease the torture, Faramir’s screams ceased and he fell back on the bed, limp. Elrond collapsed over his patient.

Elladan ran to pull his father off Faramir and Elrohir moved quickly to check Faramir. Thranduil felt his heart shatter at the thought that his beloved son was dead. Arwen hurried over to her father’s supplies and pulled out a small vial. Taking the top off the vial she moved to her father and waved the vial under his nose. Elrond shook his head from side to side to escape the pungent fumes but it still took him several long moments before he regained consciousness.

“Faramir still lives, King Thranduil,” Elrohir said, eliciting a trembling sigh of relief from the elven King.

“The poison is neutralised, mellon-nin,” Elrond said wearily, looking more tired than Thranduil had ever seen the Rivendell elf, “but the battle is yet to be won. He is weak and fevered.”

“Yet he lives and where there is life there is hope,” Thranduil replied in a horse whisper, filled with emotion.

“Go rest ada… “ Elrohir said.
“ … we will look after Faramir… ” Elladan continued.
“ … and Legolas.”

“Hannon le, ions-nin,” Elrond said with great weariness as he made to stand.

Imrahil walked over to his nephew, bent and kissed him on the brow before assisting Elrond to his feet and out of the room. Arwen squeezed Thranduil’s shoulder, eliciting a small smile from him, before turning and following her father out of the room. Maglor still rocked Legolas who had slipped back into reverie. Elladan and Elrohir bathed sweat from Faramir’s face and arms and made sure that the young human was made comfortable before sitting in vigil on two chairs near the fireplace. It was going to be a long, long day.

Part 18

Thranduil sat, silent, still holding Faramir’s hand as he watched his son’s chest rise and fall and his breathing becoming ever more laboured. Earlier, Elrohir had applied a warm poultice, soaked in herbs and oils, to Faramir’s chest to assist his breathing. The elf was worried that the young human was developing an infection of the lungs. The twins sat on chairs near the fireplace, Maglor sat on the end of the bed in which Legolas lay, deep in reverie, and Misto slept in his web above Faramir.

“Lord Elrond is resting comfortably. Arwen is with him,” Imrahil said softly as he entered the room and sat down upon the chair that stood beside the bed in which Faramir lay. “I have never seen him so wearied. The healing has taken much from him. Foxling’s breathing worsens,” he added on hearing Faramir’s breathing. “I do hope he is not developing pneumonia.”

“Please help me raise him to a better position, mellon-nin,” Thranduil requested as he pulled Faramir gently to a semi-sitting position, assisted by Imrahil.

With elven agility and grace, Thranduil moved behind his son and sat with his back braced against the wooden bed-head and a leg on either side of Faramir. Imrahil lowered his nephew gently so that Faramir’s back rested against his ada’s chest. The elven King wrapped his arms around his son and crooned softly in Elvish as Faramir stirred slightly and snuffled in his sleep.

“He breathes easier,” Imrahil sighed in relief, after several long moments. “Though I suspect that has more to do with being held safe in the arms of his precious ada, my friend,” he added, eyes a-twinkle. “He has always been a tactile little creature, has my foxling.”

“This one has so much capacity to love. He loves whole-heartedly and unconditionally but demands, no, expects, nothing in return, which tells of a lifetime spent without love,” Thranduil said softly.

“Not without love, my friend. Many loved him although he did not realise it,” Imrahil corrected gently. “But he did grow up without love from the one person from whom it should have been expected, unconditionally.”

“Was Denethor so blind to this treasure he sired?” Thranduil asked sadly, without malice, resting his chin lightly on the red-gold locks atop his son’s head.

“Blinded by grief but alas, no less blind,” Imrahil replied, a sad smile tugging at the corner of his mouth as he watched Faramir.

Thranduil and Imrahil spoke quietly and at great length about Faramir’s childhood as they watched him sleeping. Imrahil related many of the more mischievous antics of his nephews. Twice, Elrohir changed the poultice, tut-tutting as he did so, concerned over his friend’s fever and his continued difficulty with breathing. It was late afternoon when Legolas returned from his reverie.

“How fares Faramir, ada?” Legolas asked as he sat up and swung his legs over the edge of the bed, narrowly avoiding Maglor as he did so, until he was sitting upright with his feet resting on the floor. “He is not breathing right.”

“Nay, elfling. He is still fevered and his breathing, though eased somewhat, is still laboured,” Thranduil replied as he looked intently at Legolas. “You are looking better, though.”

The twins approached Legolas to redress his shoulder wound. They had just finished when all the elves present heard Aragorn’s approach, hearing him ask to be taken to his Steward’s room. It was not long before a flushed and exhausted looking King entered the room. It was obvious that he had come straight from the palace without bothering to change, as he was still in his travel-stained riding clothes.

Aragorn saw Legolas sitting on the bed opposite the window. He smiled brightly and sighed in relief that his friend looked well. Legolas returned his smile. His smile faltered, though, when he looked upon Faramir propped up against Thranduil, in a deep sleep. To Aragorn’s unaccustomed eyes, his Steward looked terrible. Faramir was flushed with fever, which only highlighted the underlying pallidness of his skin.

“Arwen explained that ada was able to counteract the poison but at great cost to Faramir and himself,” Aragorn said as he approached his Steward, resting a palm on his friend’s fevered brow. “By the way, Arwen sends news that ada is feeling better and should be here soon.”

After assuring himself that Faramir was not in imminent danger of dying, Aragorn fussed around his Steward, changing the poultice and fetching a bowl in which he poured boiling water and added athelas leaves. Aragorn, pleased to hear Faramir’s breathing ease a little, left to bathe and change into more suitable clothing. It was not long though, before he returned and joined the twins in front of the fireplace.

Elrond came later that evening but could do little more for Faramir than the twins and Aragorn had already done. Faramir’s fever receded and spiked a number of times over the next three days but did not break. Thranduil sat vigil beside his human son refusing to move despite Elrond’s urgings that he eat and rest and Maglor’s more direct threats.

“You are digging yourself ever deeper, mellon-nin,” Elrond cautioned, as he watched Maglor glaring at his friend from his seated position near Legolas, after refusing yet again to rest. “You do realise that your hide will pay the price eventually for both the recent tantrum that so vexed Maglor and your refusals to rest.”

“I know,” Thranduil replied, screwing his nose in distaste; the same gesture that Elrond had seen gracing Legolas’ face on occasion. “I can see his hand twitching,” he added, trying not to look in Maglor’s direction. “I just wish this damned fever would break.”

It was several hours later, in the early hours of the morning, that the fever did break finally but many hours later Faramir seemed no closer to awakening. Elrond attempted to enter Faramir’s mind to coax him back but found that the Steward was too far away.

“Estel, you will need to go after Faramir and fetch him back to us for I do not have the energy to reach him,” Elrond said to Aragorn who was seated with the twins in front of the fireplace.

“Aye, ada,” Aragorn replied.

He moved to sit on the bed beside Faramir and placed a palm over his Steward’s brow. Aragorn went in search of Faramir. Having done so before, he found it easier to follow Faramir’s trail. He walked for what seemed an eternity, calling out to Faramir constantly but receiving no reply. Just when he was beginning to truly worry, he heard someone singing a lullaby softly. Following the sound he came into a forest clearing and gasped in shock, tears welling in his eyes, at the sight of the two figures before him, one sitting on the ground with his back braced against a large rock and the other lying down with his head resting on the other’s thigh.

Boromir saw Aragorn’s approach. He waved and then put a finger to his lips, gesturing for his friend to approach quietly. Aragorn walked to where Boromir sat, knelt down beside him, placed a hand either side of the Gondorian’s head, bent it towards him, leaned forward and kissed Boromir on the forehead.

“What are you still doing in this place, my friend?” Aragorn asked in a hushed voice as he drank in the sight of the warrior who was gently massaging his slumbering brother’s ear. “I thought you had moved on.”

“There is something, I know not what, brewing. Something in which I have yet a part to play,” Boromir replied with a far away look in his eye. “And besides which, I have had far too much enjoyment watching my little brother run rings around the lot of you,” he added, breaking out into a huge grin as his gaze shifted from the distance and back to Aragorn.

“He is a handful, my friend,” Aragorn replied a little sheepishly. “His fever has broken and he needs to return to us,” the King added gently.

“The poor little mite has had a rough trot over the last year,” Boromir sighed sadly, the love for his brother showing in his eyes, as he looked down upon his sleeping form. “Rouse, miel-neth,” he said quietly. Faramir mumbled something that neither Boromir nor Aragorn could catch but each knew was probably something that should not be repeated in mixed company, or within Maglor’s very acute hearing range, and promptly went back to sleep. “He does not wake well,” he added with a rueful smile.

Aragorn snorted.

“Aye, we have noted, my friend,” Aragorn replied, chuckling at Boromir’s gift for understatement.

“Quick, quick, the library is burning,” Boromir said in a very quiet voice as he leaned over his sibling.

Faramir sat bolt upright, clipping his brother under the chin as he did so, causing both of them to howl in pain and Aragorn to wince in empathy.

“Owwww!!!” Faramir exclaimed as he rubbed the top of his head vigorously. “Are you trying to give me heart failure, you hard-headed oaf?”

“You are not exactly soft-of-head, if soft-headed, yourself, little brother!” Boromir responded as he rubbed his chin.

Aragorn laughed as he watched the interplay between the brothers, gaining a glimpse into what life must have been like when they were together, in life.

Faramir swung around at the sound of the laughter and was surprised to see Aragorn standing there.

“It is time to go back, my Steward,” Aragorn said.

“Aye, little brother. If you do not go back now I fear your elven nanny will do something drastic to your ada. Your ada has been by your side constantly and is most grieved about you,” Boromir added as he stood, assisting his brother to do so as well. Faramir blushed spectacularly at the mention of his elven nanny. Chuckling Boromir embraced his brother. “I love you, little brother,” Boromir said as he held his brother tightly.

“And I you, brother,” Faramir replied, tears welling in his eyes.

Boromir let go of Faramir finally and then pulled Aragorn into a mighty hug.

“I will still be here, little brother,” Boromir assured as Aragorn took Faramir by the elbow and guided him back to those waiting anxiously for him back in the Houses of Healing.

Aragorn came back to himself and could feel the tears streaming down his face and his ada asking him repeatedly what was wrong.

“Boromir was there, still watching over Faramir, sheltering him until the fever broke,” Aragorn said when he had regained some composure.

“What? He has not moved on to the halls of our ancestors?” Imrahil asked, eyebrows aloft.

“Nay, he said there is something brewing and he has yet a part to play…” Aragorn began but his attention was diverted by moans coming from Faramir.

“Open your eyes, ion-nin,” Thranduil coaxed, his relief evident in his eyes.

Faramir moaned again but after a few moments opened his eyes, to be greeted by the relieved expressions of his ada, uncle and Elessar looking down at him. Imrahil raised his nephew to a sitting position as Thranduil held a cup of water that Elrond had given him, to Faramir’s lips.

“Are you in much pain?” Elrond asked.

“Oh, aye!” Faramir exclaimed in a whoosh of breath and a hacking cough in response.

“What hurts, tithen pen?”

“In order of… magnitude?” Faramir asked in return when he finally stopped coughing.

“Yes.”

“Every-damned-thing!” Faramir complained, having difficulty isolating all the sources of pain.

Smiling at the resilience of the human spirit, which never ceased to amaze him, Elrond reached for a vial containing essence of poppy and laced a cup of water with but a few drops, knowing that Faramir was susceptible to even small amounts. He coaxed the Steward in to drinking the potion. It was not long before Faramir was drifting off into a more natural sleep.

“Ada?” Faramir asked as he felt the pain ease and himself start to drift.

“Yes, ion-nin?” Thranduil asked softly.

“Go rest. You do not want Maglor on… your… tail…” Faramir began but drifted off into sleep before he could finish the sentence.

Maglor snorted, Legolas sniggered from his bed and Thranduil blushed furiously.

Faramir slept solidly for twelve hours. When awareness returned, it did so very slowly. He was aware vaguely that someone was singing. He even recognised the tune as one that came from Dol Amroth; a round in which one by one, drunken sailors fall overboard, until there is not one left on board. Each stanza ended with a very high note. The singer kept searching for the note, up and down the register but obviously found it elusive. Faramir also thought to himself that the ship must have contained a whole host of sailors as the singer was down to eight hundred and twenty three, having disposed of one hundred and seventy seven, if the ship had originally had one thousand sailors on board. The voice was familiar to the Steward but, as is the perverse nature of the universe at times, all Faramir’s logic faculties had yet to don gear, let alone muster.

“I suggest you try an octave lower,” Faramir mumbled, eyes still closed.

The singing stopped abruptly. It was at that precise moment that several more of Faramir’s faculties had mustered finally and he knew, without doubt, to whom the voice belonged. Faramir’s eyes flew open, wide.

“What was that, ion-nin?” Thranduil asked above him.

“You hear me?” the voice said.

“What is wrong, ion-nin?” the elven King asked, concerned by his son’s stricken pallor and rapid breathing.

“And you can see me?” the voice said as Faramir’s eyes, widened in panic, tracked the movements of the owner of the voice.

“Faramir! Speak to me,” Thranduil urged.

“I am fine, ada,” Faramir squeaked unsteadily, although his eyes were fixed upon another in the room.

“Oh, he is going to believe that, Fara,” the apparition chided sarcastically. “I had more colour to my cheeks after I had died than you have at the moment, little brother.”

Faramir whimpered.

Part 19

“What is it? What do you see, foxling?” Imrahil asked as he leaned towards Faramir, still seated in the chair located beside the bed in which his nephew lay. “You look as if you are seeing a ghost…” Faramir began coughing. “You can see Boromir!” Imrahil exclaimed, knowing it to be the truth.

His suspicion was confirmed immediately when Faramir, not trusting his voice even though his coughing fit had ceased, simply nodded in that distracted way one does when given a severe shock and the cause of that shock is still standing there, bold as brass, smirking.

“What is he doing?” Imrahil asked.

“Smirking,” Faramir replied but then groaned in pain, paling even further as he attempted to curl into a tight ball on the bed.

“What hurts, tithen-pen?” Elrond asked from where he stood with Aragorn near the side of the bed, having approached Faramir as soon as the Steward had awoken.

“Cramps… legs… back,” Faramir replied in gasped breaths as looked up at his ada who was sitting on the bed beside him and groped for his hand.

Thranduil saw the gesture and took hold of his son’s hand, offering what comfort he could. Faramir squeezed the elven King’s hand fiercely as the muscle spasms continued, unrelenting.

“I think something to help your muscles to relax and then a warm bath is in order, pen-neth,” Elrond said as he pulled back the blankets covering Faramir to examine the extent of the spasms. “Elladan, can you please attend to the bath, ion-nin?” Elladan nodded and exited the room quickly. “Elrohir, please prepare a muscle relaxant.” Elrohir also nodded and went about the task. “Estel, help me relieve the muscle spasms.”

Aragorn assisted his father in massaging Faramir’s legs until Elladan returned to advise that the bath was ready. Elrond gently raised Faramir to a sitting position and fed him the muscle relaxant Elrohir had placed in his hand.

“Mellon-nin,” the Rivendell lord said gently gaining Thranduil’s attention, which was riveted on the son he was trying to comfort, “allow him to soak in the bath until the spasms cease completely. I need to prepare a few potions. And Maglor, look after your elfling,” Elrond added with a smile.

Maglor stood at the end of Faramir’s bed bemused for a moment until he realised to which ‘elfling’ Elrond referred.

“Come, elfling,” Maglor said to Thranduil, eliciting sniggers from both Legolas and Aragorn that were involuntary and therefore could not be contained.

Thranduil gathered Faramir into his arms and exited the room following Maglor, but not before he graced Elrond with a look that promised pain filled retribution for reminding his Seneschal of the unfinished business that lay between them. Elrond simply smiled in reply at the dark look from his friend.

Not long after Thranduil and Maglor entered the corridor that led to the bathing chambers, Misto came scurrying out into the corridor muttering and hissing ‘not ssstttaaayyy’, ‘mama hurt’ and ‘baaaddd elf’. The elder elves had heard Legolas try to reason with the hatchling, requesting he not to follow, as he would only be in the way. Needless to say, the suggestion did not go down well with the baby spider.

“I foresee they are going to have a troubled relationship, those two,” Thranduil said with small chuckle.

“I believe our little hatchling is jealous of Legolas,” Maglor replied, looking down upon the spider, which was still muttering. At the mention of the ‘baaaddd’ elf, Misto muttered a word that he had heard said in anger, of which he liked the sound. “Misto! Bad word! Bad!” Maglor admonished. Misto looked up at the elf somewhat shamefacedly and a little sheepishly, which was quite remarkable for a spider and made Maglor smile inwardly, although he kept his expression stern. “Where did you hear that word?”

“Not me,” Faramir was quick to point out between gritted teeth as the spasms continued, although not as intense as they had been for the muscle relaxant he had been given seemed to be working.

“Baaaddd elf,” Misto replied.

“Now is that jealously, or did he really hear that from our elfling?” the Seneschal mused with a smirk, as he stared down at the little creature sceptically.

They reached the bathing chambers finally and entered. Thranduil lay Faramir down upon the padded wooden bench that stood, about waist high, beside the large copper bath. Faramir did not have enough strength at present or for some time to come, Thranduil suspected, to sit unassisted. The copper bath also stood waist high, on solid metal, legs. Both the padded wooden bench and copper bath were designed to allow patients under the care of healers, to be bathed easily by those healers. The scents of healing herbs and oils that had been added to the bath water wafted towards them.

Faramir’s concentration began to drift as the muscle relaxant he had been given worked its magic. Misto scurried up the vertical wall and onto the rafter that spaned the breadth of the room above Faramir’s head, hissing ‘not in waaayyy’. Although his mind was well and truly clouded by the effects of the relaxant, Faramir recognised Misto’s annoyance and smiled up at his familiar. Thranduil and Maglor removed the bandages that covered Faramir’s back and also removed his leggings. Thranduil’s anger and temper flared again on seeing the angry looking weals and welts that covered his precious son’s back and the weight that Faramir had lost during his ordeal.

“You are in enough trouble, elfling,” Maglor warned, recognising the flash of temper in addition to the anger.

Thranduil winced and then sighed, nodding once in acknowledgement.

The two elves lifted Faramir with great care and placed him gently into the warm water. Although almost asleep, he groaned as the water stung the open wounds on his back. Thranduil crooned softly in elvish and Faramir settled, lulled by words and by the warmth and soft buoyancy of the water. Thranduil supported Faramir’s neck with one hand, keeping his son’s head above water and washed his hair with the other, whilst Maglor gently washed Faramir’s body and then massaged his legs. The young Steward drifted off to sleep.

After allowing Faramir to soak until the muscle spasms had ceased, the elves removed him from the water and placed him on the padded bench upon which towels had been laid out and began towelling dry the slumbering human. Whilst the two elves went about drying their young charge, Elrond entered the chamber bearing healing salve, clean bandages and fresh, loose fitting leggings.

“I have seen scarecrows with more meat to their bones than this child. He is dangerously thin yet again,” Elrond clucked as he rolled Faramir gently onto his side and applied salve to his back.

“I am open to any suggestions you may have on how we put meat on his bones,” Maglor huffed indignantly, holding Faramir in a sitting position so that Elrond could rebind the wounds. “All the food that I have foisted on the poor child did not see him gain the weight he had lost during the War of the Ring. If he were not so tall I would swear he was a hobbit. He certainly has their capacity for consuming food with no apparent effect on his weight.”

“Part of the problem is his proclivity towards running headlong into trouble without thought to his own safety and then losing his temper when forced to use his wizarding powers; with the result that he expends too much energy, thus depleting his reserves,” Elrond said.

“You are not telling us what we do not already know, mellon-nin,” Thranduil replied testily. “So, we continue to work on his sense, or lack thereof, of self preservation, his temper and his wizarding skills, whilst stuffing him full of food. I can see how my son will be enamoured by the constant, unrelenting attention to his behaviour and his eating habits,” he added, exasperation evident and temper very close to the surface.

“There are some potions that I can try which will reduce the need to feed him quite so often,” Elrond replied, ignoring, for the moment his friend’s sarcasm as he slipped the fresh leggings onto Faramir and wrapped him in a large dry towel. “As to the rest, we will simply have to take it one step at a time.” Much to Thranduil’s surprise, Elrond gathered Faramir, who was still deep in sleep, into his arms. “I am taking this one back to his bed and see if I cannot relieve his breathing which is still too laboured for my liking. I would suggest, Maglor, that this would be an opportune time to conclude the unfinished business you have with his ada.”

Elrond exited the room with his patient in his arms, a spider scuttling in his wake and unbeknownst to Thranduil, a wicked smile on his face.

“Traitor!” Thranduil muttered as he glared at the retreating back of the Lord of Rivendell.

“He is right, elfling,” Maglor said. “Your mood and temper will ever sour until the business between us is concluded. Come, elfling,” he added as he turned and exited the chamber, into the corridor.

Thranduil, looking very much like his elven son in similar circumstances, followed his Seneschal as Maglor led him outside and into a secluded private garden attached to the Houses of Healing. The elf sat down upon a stone bench and produced Faramir’s bane.

“Where do you hide that thing?” Thranduil asked as he eyed the red paddle, warily. Maglor did not reply but patted his knee in a silent command. “You are jesting…. You cannot mean to…. I have not been over your knee in centuries!” Thranduil exclaimed indignantly.

“You have not lost your temper so spectacularly in centuries,” Maglor retorted.

“I had just cause, think you not?” Thranduil asked.

“We will deal with that in a moment, elfling. Leggings down. Now!” Maglor barked, causing Thranduil to start. He could see that his Seneschal was still very angry.

“You can keep a grudge longer than any elf I know,” Thranduil muttered as he approached Maglor, loosened the ties on his leggings and pulled them down to his knees before lowering himself over the other elf’s lap.

“Alright, elfling. It has indeed been a long time since we have been in this position. What is this chastisement for?” Maglor asked, paddle at the ready.

“For losing my temper,” Thranduil grumbled. “I saw one son felled by an arrow and I thought the other dead. I think I had a right to be angry!” he exclaimed, temper taking control of his mouth as it often did when faced with a child’s chastisement, well, if truth be known, any chastisement.

“To be angry? Yes, you had every right. To launch into a rage so intense that you lost sight of your fallen sons and put your life at risk, no, you had no right to do that,” Maglor said adamantly, as he landed the first of a flurry of powerful stinging whacks to the King of Mirkwood’s posterior. “What say you, elfling?” Thranduil began to squirm but still remained stubbornly silent. “You are as stubborn as your son!”

“Which one?” Thranduil barked, the pain in his hindquarters quickly becoming unbearable.

“The fox-furred, spit-fire of a human one, pen-neth. Now answer me!” Maglor growled as he continued the unrelenting pace as he landed whack after stinging whack to his King’s buttocks. “Did you have the right to launch into a rage so intense that you lost sight of your sons and which could so easily have claimed your life?”

“No… I did not,” the elven King, snarled.

“Explaining your death to Legolas would have been devastating enough, pen-neth, but how could I have explained to that poor orphaned man-child that he had lost his precious ada to a fit of temper! As is his wont to do, he would have blamed himself and it would have destroyed him! Something that living a life as the unwanted second son of the Steward of Gondor and losing the foundation stone he called Boromir to that accursed ring, was unable to do,” Maglor continued to admonish, as he beat out an unrelenting tatoo on the elven King’s buttocks and thighs.

“I thought… he… was… dead! I felt… no… heartbeat ” Thranduil howled in anguish and pain at the memory of thinking his son dead.

“But he survived, mellon-nin,” Maglor soothed as he ceased the chastisement, pulled up the distressed elf’s leggings and allowed him to sob silently, as was his wont, as he rubbed his back in soothing circles. “And for us to keep him that way, you need to control your temper and stay alive.”

Still sobbing silently, Thranduil slipped from Maglor’s lap and rested his head upon the elder elf’s thigh. Maglor continued to croon softly to his King, stroking his long golden hair.

“I am sorry, mellon-nin, but I love them both so much,” Thranduil sighed as he gained control over his emotions.

“As they do you, mellon-nin,” Maglor replied, smiling down upon his repentant elfling. “As they do you.”

Part 20

After carrying Faramir back to the healing room, Elrond had put the slumbering Steward abed, propped up by pillows, and had rubbed aromatic oils onto his chest to ease his breathing. Misto had scurried back into his web suspended in the corner above Faramir’s bed, took one look to check that his mama was breathing and went promptly to sleep.

Knowing that Thranduil would still be somewhat distressed when he returned, the Rivendell Lord had also shooed Aragorn, the twins and Imrahil back to the palace with the instructions to eat, rest and not to return before morning. Legolas, who was almost completely healed, was deep in reverie with his bare feet hanging off the end of the bed, having been given a sleeping potion by Elrohir to ensure that the elf, contrary to normal behaviour when at this advanced point in his healing, rested.

Elrond smiled down upon the peaceful wood-elf, suspecting that Legolas would be annoyed in the morning when he discovered Elrohir’s deception. The Rivendell elf made a mental note to ask his son how he managed to fool Legolas into ingesting the sleeping potion, for future reference of course. He checked Faramir’s breathing, relieved to find that it had eased somewhat, although dismayed to find that the fever had returned. Elrond sat down on the chair beside Faramir’s bed and awaited Thranduil and Maglor’s return.

And return they did eventually. Thranduil entered the room looking unusually dishevelled and flushed, followed closely by Maglor and was relieved to find that, apart from his slumbering sons, Elrond was the only one present. Elrond rose gracefully and approached Thranduil opening his arms and pulling his long-time friend into an embrace, which the elven King returned.

“I will exact retribution. You do realise that do you not, mellon-nin,” Thranduil grumbled into his friend’s shoulder.

“I look forward to the attempt,” Elrond retorted mildly as he released his friend, smiling at Maglor who stood behind Thranduil.

Thranduil looked at his elfling deep in reverie and quirked an eyebrow.

“Elrohir,” Elrond replied to the unspoken question.

“I would like to know how he managed that considering how suspicious my elfling is normally of the twins bearing gifts, especially food and drink,” Thranduil mused.

“So would I… “ Elrond began but was interrupted by a snuffling noise and murmur from Faramir. He walked over to the young Steward, placing a hand on the man’s brow and the other around his wrist.

“His fever has returned?” Maglor asked, seeing the tell tale signs.

“Aye, it has,” the Rivendell elf sighed. “Although not unexpected, it is still disappointing.”

Thranduil sat on the bed beside his son, hissing and wincing as he did so. He glared at Elrond, daring the elf to so much as smirk before taking Faramir’s limp hand into his own. He remembered what Imrahil had said about Faramir being very tactile by nature. The three elder elves sat vigil over Faramir the entire night; Thranduil bathing Faramir’s face and arms with cool compresses and Elrond applying oils to the human’s chest to ease his breathing. All were relieved when Faramir’s latest fever broke just before dawn and he had relaxed into a more natural sleep.

“Faarrrraaa, wakey, wakey,” Faramir heard the familiar voice above him chant. His eyes flew open and he started violently on seeing his brother’s ghostly face, inches above him, smirking.

“You are going to give me a complex if you keep jumping like that every time you lay eyes on me, little brother,” the ghost said, grinning from ear to ear.

“Faramir! What is wrong?” Thranduil asked. Faramir’s face had paled even further, if that was possible.

“You are seeing Boromir again?” Maglor surmised.

Faramir winced and nodded.

“I just wanted to know if you could still see and hear me, little brother. I will leave you alone for a while so that you can gather your obviously sleep addled wits,” Boromir advised, smirking again. “There are places I want to haunt for a while,” he added, grinning widely at his little brother’s whimper before turning on his heels and exiting the room through the closed door.

“Ada? Why can I see him? Why can I hear him?” Faramir asked, sounding so young and so bewildered.

“You are asking an elf, ion-nin. I have no experience of such human things,” Thranduil replied gently. “Why do you not ask him?”

“He is no longer here. Said he was going haunting,” Faramir replied, matter-of-factly, as if detached somewhat from the bizarreness of the situation.

Thranduil bit the inside of his cheek to stop from chuckling, thinking that he would really liked to have met Boromir.

“Are you in pain, tithen pen?” Elrond asked, looking at Faramir intently and recognising the signs of intense pain.

“My back… and my head,” Faramir replied as he catalogued what pained him.

“Drink this, pen-neth. It will help,” Elrond instructed as he held a cup to the Steward’s lips. It was not long before the pain eased and Faramir drifted off into slumber again. “I added but three drops of elixir to the water,” he said in amazement. “I think next time I will just wave the vial over the cup.”

Thranduil and Maglor chuckled at their friend’s discomfiture.

It was later that morning that Faramir awoke again. He opened his eyes slowly and started violently for the second time in a matter of hours, but this time not due to his ghostly brother but to his familiar. Misto was hanging down on a thread a few inches from his face and was staring at him intently with all his eyes.

“Mama,” the hatchling greeted.

Thranduil laughed at the spider’s antics and his son’s startled reaction.

“Good morning Misto,” Faramir sighed. “Between you and Boromir I may just find myself frightened into my brother’s ‘betwixt and between’!” he exclaimed quietly.

Misto dropped from the thread onto the bed and then jumped off and scuttled over to the bed in which Legolas was still deep in reverie.

“Is Legolas alright, ada? I have never seen him so long in reverie,” Faramir asked, concerned, looking over at his slumbering brother.

“I fear Elrohir was a bit overzealous in ensuring that Legolas rested to regain his full strength,” Thranduil replied, smiling gently at his elven son.

“What? Elrohir drugged him?” Faramir asked incredulously.

“Aye, ion-nin. My elfling is well known for overexerting himself when almost healed. Elrohir just wanted to ensure that Legolas rested and did not re-injure his healing back,” Thranduil responded with a shake of his head, remembering instances when Legolas had done just that. “How is the pain, ion-nin?” he asked, turning his attention back to Faramir.

“Manageable. I do not wish to sleep anymore at the moment,” Faramir answered slightly disgruntled. “I feel so weak, ada. I cannot seem to move.”

“And you will not be able to for a few days yet, pen-neth,” Elrond said as he approached Faramir. “You almost killed yourself when fighting the orcs and I came close to completing the task when trying to cure you of the Morgul poisoning.”

“Morgul poisoning!” Faramir exclaimed, whistling softly in a whoosh of breath that ended in a coughing fit.

“Aye, you are indeed fortunate to be alive, tithen-pen” Elrond said as he pulled Faramir into a sitting position, allowing him to breath easier.

The coughing fit subsided finally and the Rivendell Lord eased Faramir back onto the mounds of pillows behind him.

“Mama, hungry,” Misto said from Legolas’ bed.

“I will take him to the dungeons,” Maglor said as he re-entered the healing room having departed earlier to instruct the kitchen staff to bring food enough to feed several elves and one oversized hobbit, to Faramir’s room. The elf beckoned Misto to follow, turned and exited the room. Misto followed Maglor out of the room, making a very strange noise, for a spider that is, as he left.

“Is it my deranged mind, or did I just hear him cackle?” Faramir asked in astonishment as he looked at the doorway through which the hatchling had departed.

“It did indeed sound very much like a cackle…” Thranduil began but was stopped suddenly by a thump and a startled sounding curse coming from the direction of Legolas’ bed.

Elves and human turned as one to look at the source of the thump and curse only to see an angry elf on the floor, struggling to unbind his ankles. Apparently, unbeknownst to Legolas and everyone else present, Misto had managed to spin webbing around the elf’s ankles effectively binding them together. Legolas had awoken and tried to get out of bed only to find himself falling onto the floor.

Thranduil laughed heartily, Faramir sniggered and Elrond smiled broadly at the struggling elf.

“This is not funny!” Legolas ground out between gritted teeth as he tried to remove the very strong webbing without the benefit of a sharp implement. Elrond handed the annoyed elf a knife, which he used to cut the webbing all the while muttering about what he was going to do with the nasty little creature. Jumping to his bare feet, Legolas bounded out of the door in hot pursuit of the arachnid.

Aragorn, Imrahil and Gandalf passed the angry elf just before entering Faramir’s room. All three entered the room with identical looks of astonishment that the sight of the bare-footed angry elf flying down the corridor had caused.

“Should we ask?” Imrahil questioned, smiling at the sight of his conscious, sniggering nephew.

Thranduil explained what Misto had been about and the consequences for Legolas, causing the humans and wizard to laugh.

“I am sorry to have missed the fun,” Aragorn laughed as he looked down upon his smiling Steward. “I do believe that that little hatchling is going to prove very entertaining in the future.”

“How fare you, my wizardling?” Gandalf asked, as he sat down upon the chair beside Faramir’s bed.

“I am fine,” came Faramir’s standard response, given even on occasions when one foot was firmly planted in the next realm and the other threatening to follow quickly.

Gandalf stared at his wizardling intently. Elves and humans rolled their eyes. Faramir ducked his head in acute embarrassment, blushing furiously.

“I understand from Aragorn that you have seen Boromir?” the White Wizard asked, taking pity on Faramir by changing the subject.

Faramir nodded.

“Is he here now?” Gandalf asked, looking about.

“Nay. He left earlier saying that he had places to haunt,” Faramir replied, blushing even more at the thought of the places Boromir was likely to haunt. His brother had been well known as an admirer of the female form.

Aragorn snorted, his thoughts going in the same general direction as his Steward’s.

“Shame on you both,” Imrahil admonished but with his eyes a-twinkle. “He is probably out gathering intelligence, now that he knows that Faramir can see and hear him.”

Both King and Steward ducked their heads in embarrassment, causing Imrahil’s eyes to twinkle even more.

“We know that Saruman has made an alliance with the Haradrim and that he is also training wizards,” Gandalf began so as to focus the minds of present on the issues at hand. “We also know that they wanted Faramir because they saw my wizardling as a threat. But they wanted him alive… relatively,” Gandalf corrected on hearing Aragorn and Thranduil’s snorts. “I assume that Saruman had the antidote to the poison in his possession. They needed to keep Faramir from accessing his wizarding powers during his journey to Harad.”

“We need to determine what the Haradrim are planning. How they plan to use the wizards and orcs. I can only assume that they plan to invade Gondor,” Imrahil mused.

“With your approval Thranduil, Aragorn,” Gandalf said as he looked from one to the other. “I want to send Finrod and that Gondorian Lieutenant, whose company he seems to frequent, to meet with Radagast and then venture to Harad to see if they can discover Saruman’s plans.”

Both Thranduil and Aragorn nodded their approval.

“I will stay here to further this one’s training,” Gandalf said looking intently at his wizardling. “I fear we will need to prepare for a war of the wizards.”

Part 21

“How many wizards are there likely to be? How long have they been training? How much power will they be able to wield? How…” Faramir fired off questions at a frantic pace, his quiet voice rising in inflection with each question uttered and his breathing becoming rapid to the point where a fit of coughing ensued.

“Calm down, my boy,” Gandalf soothed, hands raised in a placating manner. “Or Elrond will have me thrown out.” Thranduil moved closer to Faramir and pulled his son gently into a more upright position being careful not to put pressure on his son’s back. “As to the number of wizards? I would hazard a guess at no more than thirty,” Gandalf replied.

“That many?” Aragorn hissed softly as he sat down on the side of Faramir’s bed, sharing a concerned glance with Imrahil who was leaning against the right hand post at the end of the bed.

“I am certain that we still have some months to prepare as training wizards takes time. However I will send Finrod and the Lieutenant to keep us abreast of the situation as it develops,” the White Wizard said.

“Why so many? What is their source of power?” Faramir asked, his face paling at the thought of fighting so many wizards and thinking himself a poor excuse for one. “I thought all wizards needed a specialised medium such as this ring, or your staff,” Faramir said indicating the ring on his finger and looking over to where Gandalf’s staff was leaning against the end of the fireplace, “through which to focus their energy.”

“I suspect that Saruman, as bitter and twisted as he has become, is teaching dark magic. It is an easier, more seductive path and even weak wizards can become powerful using dark magic but at a cost. The lives of dark wizards are usually very short in comparison to their light counterparts, although their lives can be extended by the darkest of means; using the life-force of innocents,” Gandalf said sombrely and with great sadness as he looked at his wizardling. “As to their source of power? There are many stones and gems in Mordor, still imbued with evil, through which they can focus their energy. Whilst there are many objects through which energy can be focussed, there are few humans who have the potential to become wizards.”

“Oh, just wonderful,” Faramir replied, his words dripping with sarcasm. “Potentially, thirty wizards, albeit ones that may or may not be long lived, on the side of darkness and what do we have on the side of light? Two wizards, one of whom needs a familiar to stop him from falling over cliffs, as he is wont to do when in deep thought,” Faramir whined, referring to Radagast, “and one unstable wizard-in-training who is ruled by his emotions and beyond useless at this point in time! Owwwwww, aaddaa!” Faramir exclaimed as Thranduil pinched the top of his son’s ear for the want of his usual and, in his opinion, more tempting target.

“Do I have your attention, ion-nin?” the elven King asked in a conversational tone that belied the strength of his grip on Faramir’s ear.

“Owwwww! Aye,” Faramir squeaked, subdued by the sparks of fire he could see in his ada’s eyes.

“Good,” Thranduil said in a deceptively calm tone, eyes still sparking, making Faramir swallow hard. “You are a powerful wizard. You are not useless. You will learn to control your powers and you will learn to control your temper… eventually,” he added, turning his attention to Elrond, daring his friend to so much as smirk.” Faramir winced as the grip on his ear tightened. “Do… you… hear… me?”

“Ahhhh! Aye, ada,” the Steward replied and then started at the booming voice of his ghostly brother.

“Ha!! Pot, kettle, black is what I say after witnessing his nib-ship’s temper tantrum when fighting the orcs,” Boromir boomed, nodding his head towards Thranduil.

“I take it by your reaction that Boromir is back from his… haunting?” Thranduil asked, emphasising the last word as he let go of Faramir’s ear. The Steward put a hand to the abused ear immediately, rubbing it to temper the sting and nodded.

“What did you tell him?” Boromir asked, his suspicion aroused at Thranduil’s tone.

At the same time Thranduil said, “What has he got to say?”

“Nothing,” Faramir replied to Boromir’s question, wincing at the glare his brother was directing his way. “Pot, kettle, black,” he added a whisper in response to his ada’s question.

“What do you mean ‘nothing’ and ‘pot, kettle, black?” Thranduil asked, perplexed.

“’Nothing’ to Boromir’s question and ‘pot, kettle, black’ to yours,” Faramir replied, feeling besieged by the glares he was receiving from his brother and ada.

Elrond, holding a cup in his hand, threw back his head and laughed merrily, an occurrence so unusual from the normally sedate elf that Aragorn looked at his father in astonishment.

“Remind me later to impart to you the more interesting stories of your ada’s awe inspiring temper,” Elrond said, his laughter reducing to chuckles. “I must admit, mellon-nin, that that works almost as well on human ears as it does on elven,” Elrond addressed Thranduil, ignoring his friend’s glare as he stood over Faramir and eased his hand gently behind the young man’s back to raise him to a more upright position. “I never thought to use it on Estel.” Aragorn blushed furiously when he realised that he had put his hands over his ears protectively. Elrond put the cup to Faramir’s lips. The Steward glared up at the elven Lord. “Drink, pen-neth. You are in pain and do not, through that famous stubbornness, attempt to tell me differently,” he added when he saw the denial on his patient’s lips and heard it in his mind.

Faramir glared at Boromir who was giggling like a loon and then looked imploringly at his uncle, knowing that he was likely to get no support from his ada, Aragorn or Gandalf.

“What do you want me to argue, foxling?” Imrahil asked, eyes a-twinkle with mirth. “That you are not stubborn or that you are not in pain. I would be telling an untruth either way.”

Faramir spared a glare for each of those gathered, including another for Boromir who was smirking again, but did as he was bid. It was not long before the pain he had been feeling eased somewhat and sleep threatened. He would have dropped into sleep had his attention not been distracted by the unusually noisy entrance of Legolas, Maglor and Misto. Legolas, still sans shoes and Misto were both grumbling and muttering at each other. Maglor followed in their wake, looking thunderous.

“You, bed!” the Mirkwood Seneschal barked, pointing first at the elf and then at the empty bed. “You, web!” he added, pointing at Misto and then the hatchling’s web located in the corner over Faramir’s bed. “Do not even think of using that word again tithen-pen or you will find yourself minus supper and confined to your web for the rest of the day and night,” the elf admonished. “And you, elfling,” he growled turning to Legolas, “watch your mouth around the hatchling.”

Misto scurried up the wall and into his web. Legolas glared at the hatchling and sat down, gingerly, upon his bed. The guarded movements and slight wince did not go unnoticed by Faramir who sighed.

“Misto? Come here, please,” Faramir said as he looked up at the spider above his bed. The hatchling, knowing that he was about to receive another lecture, lowered himself, reluctantly, down onto Faramir’s bed, via a thread.

“This nonsense has gone on long enough, I think,” Faramir said quietly but sternly. “I believe that you are more than even for the indignity of the pink bow and drenching incident. It is time to put this behind you and apologise to Legolas.” Misto looked ready to argue. “This is not a request, little one.” Again, seemingly reluctantly, the hatchling jumped off the bed and scuttled over to where Legolas sat.

“Sssorrry,” the baby spider said as he looked up at Legolas, although sounding more sincere it still lacked the tenor of forgiveness.

Legolas continued to glare at the spider, remaining silent.

“This is not a request, brother,” Faramir warned as he looked across at the silent elf. Although he did not expect that this would cease the hostilities between his familiar and his elven brother, Faramir hoped it would at least slow its escalation if both were aware that they were ‘on notice’.

“Accepted,” Legolas replied finally, with a sigh.

“Thank… you… both,” Faramir responded, finally succumbing to the pain medication and falling into slumber.

It was not long after Faramir fell into sleep that servants arrived with what appeared to be enough food to feed a small army, followed by the twins. The food was placed by the servants on a large table that stood against the wall between the two beds, before they left.

“He needs to eat but should we wake him?” asked Thranduil quietly, brushing a red-gold lock of hair from Faramir’s face.

The decision on whether to wake Faramir or not was taken out of their hands when Faramir awoke abruptly, starting severely and looking around in what appeared to be confusion mingled with panic, having awoken to Boromir’s booming voice calling him to, “wake up Fara, you are already late for lessons!”

“Boromir!” Faramir growled glaring at his brother when he realised what Boromir had done.

“Thank you, Boromir. I think,” Thranduil added, his eyes twinkling with mirth, directing his comments in the general direction in which Faramir was glaring.

“They are decidedly too soft with you at times, little brother,” Boromir said.

“Soft!” Faramir exclaimed quietly. “I think being on the other side has muffled your senses, brother. And keep that up,” Faramir growled in reference to the fright given him, “you may just find me joining you on the other side of life!”

Chuckling at the one sided conversation but having a very good idea what had been said on the other side, Maglor approached Faramir with a tray containing some light broth and bread. Thranduil pulled his son once again into a more upright position, whilst Elrond placed additional pillows behind Faramir’s back. Maglor placed the tray on his charge’s lap. Faramir was still glaring at Boromir who was leaning against the far wall, smiling.

“Eat,” both Maglor and Boromir said in exactly the same ‘will brook no argument’ tone, at exactly the same moment.

Maglor held the bowl of soup so that Faramir, who was weakened to the point that he was unable to hold the bowl himself, could spoon its contents into his mouth. Elrohir walked over to the table laden with food and drink, poured two cups of juice, one for himself and one for Legolas and offered one to his Mirkwood friend. Legolas eyed the juice suspiciously, his eyes narrowed as he put two and two together to reach the conclusion that his reverie the night before did not begin by natural means.

“It is juice only, mellon-nin,” the younger twin smiled.

“You drugged me!” Legolas exclaimed indignantly.

“Which reminds me, ion-nin. I have been meaning to ask you how you managed such a feat?” Elrond asked.

“Both drinks were drugged,” Elladan replied, his pride in his brother’s deviousness apparent.

“Last evening I had taken a mild stimulant to counteract the effects of the sleeping draught, prior to entering this room,” Elrohir said, smiling broadly.

“So when Legolas insisted on switching cups as I am sure he would have…” Thranduil mused.

“… he still ingested the sleeping draught,” Elrohir replied. “Although I was a little concerned when he also drank the rest of mine.”

“It never ceases to amaze me,” Thranduil said to Elrond, “how much the ‘duo horribus’ have inherited from their grand sire.”

“Are you insinuating that my father-by-law is devious?” Elrond asked mildly.

“Nay, not insinuating; stating. Although I do believe that Adrahil was the most devious being with whom I have ever been acquainted, no offence intended, mellon-nin,” Thranduil said looking at Imrahil, his eyes twinkling; a look mirrored in Imrahil’s expression. The twins and Aragorn smiled broadly at the friendly banter. Faramir looked wide-eyed as he continued to eat the soup.

“None taken. I loved the wily old fox dearly but I was not blind his deviousness, nor his temper,” Imrahil sighed, remembering his father affectionately and then looking at Faramir who blushed, knowing what Imrahil was thinking about traits that bred true. “I knew that Elrond had met my father and that they had had many adventures in my father’s younger days, but I was unaware that you also had met him,” he added, looking at Thranduil.

“In all the stories that Adrahil related to you about me, of which there appear to be many judging by your reaction, mellon-nin, did he never mention ‘Twinkles’?” Elrond asked straight-faced.

Soup spraying from his mouth, for even he had heard stories of the infamous Twinkles; a legendary figure in Dol Amroth, even though the enigmatic elf had never visited the city, Faramir gasped eventually, accidentally inhaling a small amount of the soup down his windpipe causing a severe coughing fit. Maglor grabbed the spoon from Faramir and put it and the almost empty bowl of soup onto the tray and then moved the tray over to the table, as Faramir tried to regain his breath.

“Nay, you jest! You do not mean to tell me that Thranduil is the notorious ‘Twinkles’! But I thought him a Rivendell elf,” Imrahil replied disbelievingly, as he stared at the blushing elven King who in turn was glaring at Elrond.

The Prince of Dol Amroth threw back his head and laughed heartily, remembering snippets of the many antics, as told to him by his father and others, that his father, Elrond and Twinkles had got up to, in his father’s youth. The twins, Aragorn and Legolas looked at each other in puzzlement for they had not known of the link between their adas and Imrahil’s. Neither Gandalf nor Maglor looked surprised.

Part 22

“Twinkles?!” Legolas exclaimed, his laughter tinkling in the way that never failed to fascinate Faramir or to bring a smile to his face.

The Steward’s smile broadened as he heard Boromir’s booming laughter. He could see his brother still leaning against the wall near the entrance but looking as if he was in danger of collapsing from laughter. The twins and Aragorn were chortling merrily. Imrahil, Gandalf and Maglor all smiled broadly, enjoying the moment at Thranduil’s expense.

“Your sire and your grand sire,” Thranduil began, his mock glare sweeping over the occupants of the room before looking at Imrahil and then settling on Faramir, “insisted on perpetuating that silly name, knowing full well that it would continue to haunt me long after the fox had gone on to the halls of his ancestors.”

“Although lacking a certain level of dignity, I believe the name strangely suits,” Faramir voiced his opinion, smiling in just that way that reminded Thranduil of Adrahil. Faramir could see his ghostly brother in the distance, no longer in danger of collapsing onto the floor but still chortling merrily to himself.

“You would believe that, ion-nin,” Thranduil grumbled but the origin of his ‘pet’ name evident in his eyes, which were twinkling. “You are so much like him, tithen-pen, in both looks and mannerisms,” he continued, eyes turning melancholy as he remembered his friend of long ago. “I believe that is why I took to you the moment I saw you. It did not take me long to discover that apart from his fox fur, you have the same impish humour, deviousness and needless to say; temper.”

Elrond nodded his head in agreement, looking intently at the young Steward and cataloguing the similarities. Faramir blushed furiously at the intense regard and comparison. Through shyness he went back to examining his hands that rested on top of the blankets covering him.

“I told you so, foxling,” Imrahil said in vindication, looking at his nephew. “Two more who knew your grandsire in his youth say that you are in his image. I know you were ever sceptical when I said so.”

“And given our grandsire’s reputation, in certain sectors, I do not blame you, Fara,” Boromir added, remembering some of the more colourful exploits told to him about their grandfather, who was quite the ladies man apparently.

“When was this, ada?” Elladan asked, his curiosity piqued.

“And how did you come to meet?” Elrohir added, eyebrows raised; questioning.

“It was about one hundred and forty years ago, when Adrahil was in his early twenties and causing his father much consternation by his restlessness and wild ways,” Thranduil replied.

Imrahil chuckled, remembering the stories his grandfather, Angelimar, had told him about his father’s ‘wild ways’ in his youth. His father never truly settled down and always retained an air of restlessness, its likeness seen in Faramir when he was forced to remain within stone walls for any length of time.

“Mithrandir was the cause of our meeting young Adrahil. He had been resident in Dol Amroth during a particularly trying time for Angelimar. It seems Adrahil had become involved in a series of incidents involving wine, women, song and the murderous husband of one of the women,” Elrond elucidated, a smile playing at the corners of his mouth. Thranduil’s eyes twinkled merrily.

“And Denethor always wondered where Boromir got it from,” Imrahil chuckled.

Unheard by any present with the exception of Faramir was Boromir’s indignant spluttering retort.

“Oi!! That is defamation that is! And from my own kin no less!” Boromir said as he straightened from leaning against the wall and rose to his full height. “I am sorely wounded, little brother,” he added putting his hand over his heart in a dramatic fashion.

Faramir smirked broadly at his brother’s indignant expression and spluttering, coughing and covering his mouth to disguise both his smirk and his chuckling, garnering a glare from his ghostly brother.

“Mithrandir suggested to Angelimar that Adrahil aid him in a task that he needed done. Needless to say Angelimar jumped at the opportunity to extricate his son from his latest debacle and get him out from under his feet until matters settled down,” Elrond continued the story.

“Mithrandir sent word to Elrond and myself, asking that we meet him at Minas Morgul on a particular date. From there we journeyed to Mordor to check and report on any orc movements. Over the years we repeated this and other missions,” Thranduil concluded the story.

“That is why you kept disappearing…” Elladan began.

“… for months on end,” Elrohir continued.

“… each time telling us that you were…”

“… off to visit Lothlorien or Mirkwood,” Elrohir concluded in an indignant tone, both twins staring at their ada wide-eyed.

“And you told me that you were visiting Rivendell or Lothlorien,” Legolas added his voice, gracing his ada with a stunned look.

“Who kept the borders safe?” Aragorn asked of his ada, not distracted as his brothers were as the incidents occurred before his birth.

“Mithrandir,” Elrond replied calmly.

“And here we thought…” Elrohir began this time.

“… it was to visit us,” Elladan finished, pouting outrageously.

“More like to ensure that Rivendell survived the two of you with no ada around,” Aragorn muttered earning a clip over the ear from Elladan and a glare from Elrohir. “And what of Mirkwood?” he added rubbing his stinging ear and glaring at Elladan.

“Maglor,” Legolas sighed causing Maglor to snort remembering the difficulties he had encountered in keeping the young prince out of mischief at the same time he was attempting to ensure that the internal processes of Mirkwood’s operation ran smoothly in the King’s absence. And by his sigh, Maglor thought, so did Legolas.

“Prince Imrahil?” Elladan asked.

“Yes?” Imrahil replied, somewhat suspiciously.

“You must tell us what you know…” Elladan continued.

“… about the adventures of ‘Twinkles’ and Co.,” Elrohir continued.

“… they must be good.”

“… judging by Faramir’s reaction earlier.”

“Not now, ions-nin,” Elrond interjected for he could see that Faramir was beginning to wilt and was fighting increasing pain as the effects of the pain draught wore off. The young man had become decidedly pale.

Elrond announced Legolas well enough to leave the houses of healing and shooed all except Thranduil and Maglor from the room to allow him to treat his patient. Immediately on hearing the pronouncement that he was free to leave the houses of healing, Legolas graced Elrohir with such a look as to cause the Rivendell elf to shudder. The look of a predator eying a choice piece of prey came to Elrohir’s mind. Never slow on the uptake; the Rivendell elf turned on his heels and fled the room, followed closely by Legolas who sprinted out of the room in pursuit, still sans shoes. Elladan, Aragorn and Boromir also left quickly to witness the chase. Faramir gave a shudder when he saw Boromir take a shortcut through the masonry. Misto also made to follow but was ordered by Maglor to stay in his web. Grumbling and hissing to himself, the spider obeyed. Faramir looked up at his familiar with a sympathetic expression.

“Please see that they fight fair and are not overly rough with Legolas. He has not healed fully yet,” Elrond called out to Gandalf and Imrahil who had exited at a more sedate pace although no less interested in watching the young elves at play. Elrond held a cup containing water and essence of poppy to Faramir’s mouth urging the young man to drink. Faramir gave Elrond a petulant stare as he drank the contents of the cup, muttering about elves and their unhealthy habit of drugging unfortunate victims. It was not long before he relaxed as the pain he had been feeling lessened and not long after that that he fell into a doze. “I think another bath and a change of dressings is in order,” Elrond said, smiling down at his still muttering patient.

Legolas pursued Elrohir through the houses of healing, out into the garden surrounding the houses, startling many a servant and guard, then out through the gate, up to the palace, up the stairs, through a labyrinth of corridors and rooms and out finally into the King and Steward’s private garden. In fairness to the wood elf, it should be pointed out that that Legolas would normally have caught the Rivendell elf before he had made it to the palace steps, being the swifter of the two elves. Unfortunately, or fortunately for Elrohir, Legolas was still not back to full strength after the trauma suffered to his shoulder.

“Now, now, mellon-nin,” Elrohir panted as he continued to evade the half wild wood elf and try to reason with him at the same time.

It was a little known fact, except within the elvish community, that Mirkwood elves, although considered gentle if a little suspicious of others outside the elvish communities, were indeed more wild and feral than either their Rivendell or Lothlorien elven cousins. As such, it was never a good idea to incite the wild spirit of a Mirkwood elf. Elrohir knew that he had taken a chance when he had decided to drug Legolas but his healer instinct won out over his survival instinct.

“Will you please… be reasonable? I… did it… for your own… good,” Elrohir pleaded as he continued to dodge and weave out of the wood elf’s range as Legolas continued to chase the Rivendell elf around trees, over benches, water features and hedges. “Will you please… stop looking at me… like that,” he gasped, tiring very quickly. Legolas was looking at him in the intense predator-like way that only a wood elf could manage. “It truly… gives me… the shivers!”

Legolas’ smirk broadened, which only intensified the feral expression and considering the wood-elf had cornered the Rivendell elf finally, it made Elrohir shudder ferociously. Elrohir’s eyes searched for an escape route and then rested, for but a moment, on something behind Legolas before diverting his gaze. Legolas caught the meaning of Elrohir’s expression in that brief moment but was not fast enough to evade being pounced upon by both Elladan and Aragorn. An Elrondion free-for-all ensued with Legolas, held down now by both twins, being tickled mercilessly by Aragorn. Unseen by all, Boromir was laughing merrily as he sat on the bench beneath the largest tree and watched the show.

“Daro! Daro! (Stop, stop)” Legolas gasped, struggling for breath, he was laughing so hard and wriggling in an attempt to escape his tormentors.

“That will be quite enough of that, you Elrondion brats! Ease up or you will feel the business end of my staff,” Gandalf threatened sternly but with his eyes glinting with humour even as he swung his staff at Aragorn’s posterior, eliciting a startled yelp from the human as it connected.

Unbeknownst to Imrahil, who was laughing heartily at the antics of the elves and his King, and to Boromir if truth be known, Boromir was laughing in exactly the same manner as his uncle and with very similar expressions.

Reluctantly, the sons of Elrond released Legolas who remained on the ground for a few moments attempting desperately to regain his breath. When he had done so, a familiar glint returned to his eyes causing Elrohir’s eyebrows seem almost to take flight from his brow and the Rivendell elf to once again take flight followed by an even more determined wood-elf.

Faramir, deep in sleep and ensconced in the large four-poster bed in the houses of healing with blankets pulled up to his chin, had been bathed and his bandages changed. Misto was asleep in his web. The three elder elves were enjoying the peace and quiet as they watched the young Steward sleep peacefully. Their attention was diverted by the arrival of Imrahil cradling Legolas in his arms. The eyes of the young wood-elf were glazed over. Thranduil’s expression turned to one of alarm but was calmed immediately by a smile breaking out over Imrahil’s face.

“If he was a puppy, I would say that the young one has simply tuckered himself out. He chased Elrohir ‘round and ‘round the garden until both collapsed, exhausted. He then just seemed to wilt and fall into reverie,” Imrahil said, his voice hushed as Maglor pulled the covers back on the bed opposite Faramir. “I have not seen anything like it since Faramir was a small child and would fall to sleep in whatever position he was in at the time. I remember once in Dol Amroth seeing him fallen asleep whilst playing with kittens in a basket. His little bottom was in the air and his upper body and head resting in a basket and with kittens asleep around him,” he reminisced as he put Legolas into the bed, pulling the covers over the exhausted elf.

Part 23

Elrond ordered complete bed rest for Faramir for no less than two weeks. The young Steward had protested vociferously on hearing the Rivendell Lord’s pronouncement, that was, until quelled by glares from both Elrond and Maglor, after which he muttered to himself much in the way Misto mimicked when annoyed. Thranduil chuckled to himself at his son’s dark glare and mutterings. By the beginning of the fourth day of his enforced incarceration, Faramir was able to sit up and feed himself. He felt his strength returning, albeit slowly. Such was his restlessness by this time that he felt himself capable of walking unassisted, something his carers refused outright to allow him to attempt. By the beginning of the sixth day the young Steward thought he would spontaneously combust, such was the heat of the frustration building within him by his captivity. The feeling of frustration was further heightened by the sunlight that was streaming through the window that looked out upon the inviting garden scene below. After ensuring that he had eaten enough to satisfy both of them, Thranduil and Maglor had left giving Faramir some time to himself. Legolas had scarpered as soon a he came back from reverie the morning after Imrahil had carried the exhausted elf back to the Houses of Healing. Even Boromir had departed intent upon gathering further intelligence. Faramir snorted thinking that the only intelligence his brother was likely to gather was of certain ladies of his acquaintance.

Not long after he was left alone, Faramir decided to throw caution to the wind and go out into the sunshine. Casting his mind about, for throwing caution to the wind was one thing but throwing sanity directly after it was quite another, he thought, Faramir checked whether there were any familiar minds within the vicinity of the houses of healing of which he should be cognisant. The only familiar mind he could detect was that of Misto who was happily ensconced in his web above the bed and dreaming of his favourite food, mice. Mentally declaring the vicinity clear, the young Steward took hold of the blankets that covered him and threw them off. Swinging his legs and body around until his legs were dangling over the side of the very tall bed, Faramir slipped onto his feet. He would have collapsed from the powerful wave of vertigo that him if he had not grabbed the post at the head of the bed. Faramir concentrated on taking deep breaths. The dizziness lessened eventually.

Hunched over like an old man for he still felt considerable pain and weakness, Faramir shuffled to the end of the bed on which his folded robe had been placed. He put on the robe and then shuffled over to the opened door. It was at this point, as he leaned heavily against the doorjamb, that the Steward thought that maybe he should have waited another day before venturing out into the garden. He was however, committed to his objective and through sheer stubbornness determined to make it out into the garden to feel the sun on his face and the grass beneath his feet, which he realised, on looking down, were bare. Faramir leaned out into the corridor and looked in both directions, casting his mind out at the same time. Determining that the way was indeed clear, he turned to the left and shuffled along using the wall as support. He had almost made it to the end of the corridor and to the door that led outside when he was startled severely by Misto descending on a thread and dangling in front of him.

“Misto!” Faramir exclaimed in a hushed voice, holding a hand over his heart which he could feel beating an insanely quick tattoo and trying to catch his breath after the severe fright.

“Mama trouble in,” Misto said with conviction.

“That would be ‘mama is in trouble’, tithen-pen,” Faramir heard Elrond’s voice behind him, causing the Steward to cringe and to bang his head against the wall, repeatedly.

“Mama in trouble, big,” Misto declared again with the same conviction.

“Aye, tithen-pen. Mama is in big trouble,” the Lord of Rivendell said with a calmness that made Faramir wince. “Can you make it back to bed on your own, or do you require assistance?” Elrond asked in the same calm voice. Faramir sighed mightily but did not move or to be more precise, could not have moved even if Sauron himself was pursuing him. “I thought as much pen-neth,” Elrond said as he moved to Faramir’s side, gathered his patient into his arms with the ease granted to him by his elven heritage and carried the foiled escapee back towards his room with Misto following along in the rafters above them.

At that moment Thranduil was also walking towards Faramir’s room but from the opposite direction. He saw Elrond with Faramir in his friend’s arms and let out an exasperated breath. Faramir graced his ada with such a look of innocent intent that Elrond snorted.

“This one is truly of Adrahil’s line, mellon-nin,” Elrond said, a smirk tugging at the corners of his mouth. “I suggest you put that look away, pen-neth, for use on those who knew not your grandsire and are therefore susceptible.”

“Let me guess,” Thranduil said, sounding exasperated, “he was heading out into the garden. How far did he get?” he asked when Elrond nodded in the affirmative.

“Almost to the door,” the Rivendell elf replied as he looked down the long corridor. “Do you wish to do the honours?” he asked in such a light tone that Faramir cringed, understanding only too well the meaning behind the innocuous words.

“Nay, mellon-nin. You are his healer and I would have too much sympathy for his restless spirit and desire to be away from this place of stone and out with the trees,” Thranduil replied. “Although I would ask that it be hand only.”

Elrond nodded his agreement as he had planned on using his hand for he knew his patient was still too weak to endure a session with ‘Faramir’s Bane’. Faramir sighed, scrunching up his nose in distaste at the unfortunate turn of events. He was definitely not looking forward to the next little while.

Thranduil smiled at his scowling son sympathetically. He brushed back the locks of hair that had fallen over his son’s face and bestowed a kiss on his forehead.

“I love you, ion-nin,” he said gently, seeing his love returned in Faramir’s expression, before looking up at the hatchling. “Come Misto. Let us see what tempting morsels we can find for you in the dungeons,” he called to the hatchling before turning and leaving the way he had came.

Elrond entered Faramir’s room, closed the door behind him using his foot and deposited the young human onto his bed. He relieved Faramir of his robe and checked the bandages wrapped around his patient’s back and chest to ensure that he had done no further damage to the healing wounds. Satisfied that no further damage had been done, Elrond gathered Faramir in his arms again, sat down upon the bed, well back from the edge and turned Faramir over his lap easily ensuring that the young man’s head and feet were well supported by the bed. The elf pulled Faramir’s leggings down enough to expose the young man’s buttocks.

“I trust you know what this chastisement is for, pen-neth?” Elrond asked. Faramir mumbled an affirmative into the blanket in which his face was buried. Unseen by Faramir, Elrond smiled at the surly response. “I would rein in that temper of yours, tithen-pen,” the elf said as he landed the first of a series of hard slaps to the exposed buttocks.

“What have you done now, little brother?” Faramir heard the exasperated voice of his ghostly brother ask, causing him to groan into the blanket beneath him.

“You will not go against my orders when it comes to your health,” Elrond said, enunciating the important points with extra hard slaps to Faramir’s buttocks.

“Did you try to escape the houses of healing again? What were you thinking? You are still unwell, little brother. And what, may I be so bold as to enquire, made you think that you could get away with absconding? You are the Steward of Gondor for Eru’s sake. Did you not think they would notice that the Steward had disappeared? No, wait, you were not thinking were you? As it has ever been with you, Fara, when you feel caged you…” Boromir ranted.

“Will you please cease your blasted prattling,” Faramir interjected with a snarl and a snap even as he squirmed in an attempt to lessen the impact of Elrond’s hand on his increasingly sore posterior.

“I… am… not… prattling… pen-neth,” Elrond replied, indignantly, punctuating each word with several slaps to the thighs.

“Ouch! Not… owww!… you….That… ouch!… dunderhead… of a… owwwww! brother… of mine,” Faramir ground out between gasps for breath.

“I am very impressed. Lord Elrond has an elegant rhythm and strength about his swings, little brother,” Boromir teased

“Owwww! If you were not already a ghost… brother… I would happily… strangle you,” Faramir growled in an impressive fit of temper, considering his upended position. In an attempt to regain the angry human’s attention, Elrond let loose such a blistering slap to Faramir’s posterior that Boromir winced in sympathy and ceased his taunting. “Owwwww!” Faramir yelped.

“Do I have your attention, tithen-pen?” Elrond asked in a calm manner as he continued to land blistering slap after blistering slap.

“I am not about to say no, now am I,” Faramir snarled, his mouth taking over from his mind as it often did when he was being chastised and he was in a strop. “Owwww! Owwww! Aye… aye… you have my… attention,” he added in a more contrite manner, although still gasping for breath, after Elrond increased the strength of the slaps yet again.

“Your grandsire will never be dead whilst you are alive, pen-neth,” Elrond said ruefully, continuing to blister the hapless human’s buttocks and thighs. “Back to the issues to be addressed. What is this punishment for, again?”

Faramir groaned.

“For… not staying… in bed,” Faramir replied.

“And?”

“For… going against… your orders,” Faramir added after a moment’s thought.

“Will you do so again?”

“Nay… I will… stay… in bed.”

Elrond ceased the punishment, turned Faramir over and held the teary, gasping human close, soothing him with soft elvish crooning.

“I never thought the day would come when I would find myself saying this, tithen-pen, but you make the ‘duo horribus’ seem positively tractable,” Elrond whispered as he rocked the distressed human, eyes alight with humour.

Faramir blushed furiously and Boromir snorted.

“Oh, do shut up you dunce!” Faramir snapped out at Boromir who was chortling merrily, thinking that he had not done as badly as he had thought with his little brother, when it was he alone dealing with Faramir’s discipline.

The colour drained from Faramir’s face suddenly and he looked up at Elrond expecting to see a livid expression upon the elf’s face. He relaxed slightly when he saw that Elrond’s eyes were crinkled and the corners of his mouth turned up as if he was trying to suppress his laughter.

“I suspect that that comment was aimed at Boromir and not me, pen-neth,” Elrond said.

Faramir nodded and then sent a glare at his brother. He sighed on seeing his glare bounce off his brother’s mumak-thick hide. Feeling drained, Faramir’s eyelids began to droop. Still cradling his patient, Elrond slipped off the bed, turned around and placed Faramir under the covers. The Rivendell elf poured a cup of water from the pitcher of water that was located on the table against the far wall. He placed several drops of poppy extract in the water and bade Faramir to drink. The irony of the situation was not lost on the young Steward. Due to the emotional turmoil that Faramir had just undergone, his guard was lowered and his thoughts open to Elrond. The elf chuckled at the rather irreverent thoughts he sensed from the young human centred on the inconsistency of elven healers, adding pain to what had been a relatively pain free area and then giving him a pain-relieving draught.

“When you awake, pen-neth, I will teach you how to remain undetected when another mind is scanning,” Elrond said, a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth.

Faramir blushed spectacularly.

“Busted, Fara,” Boromir chortled, growing merrier at the glare he received from his long-suffering sibling.

The repentant Steward had almost dropped off to sleep when Thranduil and Misto returned. The elven King approached his son, sat down upon the bed and gently brushed the hair from Faramir’s face, smiling sympathetically. Faramir looked at his ada with such love and trust in his eyes that it took Thranduil’s breath away. A smile still playing around his mouth, Faramir dropped off into a peaceful sleep. Thranduil looked up at his life-long friend who returned a rueful expression.

“He is a handful, mellon-nin,” Elrond said, shaking his head.

“And that from the sire of the ‘duo horribus’,” Thranduil retorted, chuckling.

Unseen by both elder elves, Boromir stood close to his brother, his eyes a-twinkle with humour. He had not done so badly after all, he thought.

Part 24

The well-chastened Steward remained in bed for the next two days although it was obvious to all who attempted to engage him in conversation that he was anything but happy about the situation. On the third day, Thranduil took pity on his adopted child and sought to gain Elrond’s permission, for to do what he planned without seeking his friend’s permission would incite not only his friend’s wrath but also the wrath of Maglor, to carry Faramir out into the garden and into the sunshine. Thranduil found his Rivendell friend breaking his fast in Estel and Arwen’s company, in their private dinning room. Also present were the twins, Legolas and Gimli.

“He banned me from his room, ada,” Legolas replied, somewhat indignantly, to his father’s unasked question indicated by a raised eyebrow. “He told me not to bother returning until after midday when he could better deal with my, and I use his words, ‘Arda-be-damned, unnatural morning chirpiness.” Gimli and Aragorn laughed and Arwen giggled. “Besides which, Maglor was trying to feed him enough to satisfy even Pippin. He was not happy.”

“Which brings me to the subject of why I have sought you out, Elrond,” Thranduil said as he sat down on the vacant seat beside Gimli and helped himself to a piece of fruit. “I want to take Faramir out into the garden today, with your permission of course,” he added after a slight pause, causing a smile to tug at the corners of Elrond’s mouth.

“As I live and breathe, mellon-nin,” Elrond sighed in exasperation, “that child is turning into a wood-elf.”

“A decidedly grumpy one,” Legolas interjected with a grumble and an affronted scowl that elicited broad smiles all around.

“I suppose you had best take him to that tree that is intent upon mothering him and see if she can calm his restlessness,” Elrond said, shaking his head.

“Aye, he does have distinctive elven traits, although such traits have always been strong in Adrahil’s line,” Thranduil replied, alluding to Adrahil’s elven forbears, the Nimrodel from Lórien, not all of who sailed from Amroth to Valinor.

“That is true. Just make sure that he does not exert himself or you may tell him that he and I will have words,” Elrond called out to Thranduil as he left the room in a tone that made all the younger elves and dwarf present wince.

Thranduil made his way through the palace, out into the courtyard in front of the palace and across to the Houses of Healing. There he met Maglor coming towards him. The Seneschal was heading towards the kitchen to put in a special request for lunch in order to tempt his sulky young charge. Thranduil asked Maglor if he could arrange for blankets and pillows to be placed under the tree and continued on to Faramir’s Room. The scene that greeted the elven King upon his arrival made him smile inwardly although managing to maintain a stern expression but unable to dampen the twinkle in his eyes completely.

Misto was floating around the room in midair perched upon a large pillow. Faramir, enjoying himself for the first time since his enforced incarceration, had not sensed his ada’s approach. The young human was so startled to see his ada leaning against the door jamb with his arms crossed that he lost concentration on what he was doing and as a consequence the pillow, which had been floating midair, dropped like the proverbial stone as did the cargo it carried much to aforementioned cargo’s annoyance when, having lost the support of the pillow, all eight legs straightened and he performed an undignified belly flop back onto the pillow which had landed on the floor below him. Faramir tried a look of innocence on his ada but realised the ludicrousness of such a look, given that he was the only wizard, or wizard-in-the-making, in the room. His expression turned sheepish and he bowed his head in embarrassment, not wanting to meet his ada’s eyes.

“You are very fortunate indeed, ion-nin, that Elrond did not witness that little display or you and he would be having ‘words’ now,” Thranduil admonished, putting the same inflection on the word ‘words’ that Elrond had used, causing Faramir to wince. “But as he did not, we will keep this between us, ion-nin. I have come to tell you that I have Elrond’s permission to take you out into the garden.”

Faramir looked up sharply at Thranduil as if discerning the truth of his words and then broke out into a smile of such brilliance that the elven King could not help chuckling. Wood elf indeed he thought as he gathered Faramir into his arms and carried him out into the garden, Misto following behind them. The elven King lowered his son into the nest of blankets and pillows that Maglor had placed there. The Seneschal was seated on a bench under the same tree, also enjoying the morning sun. As the sun was still on the rise, Faramir felt its warmth on his face and when the sun but at its highest and hottest, the tree would shade him. The Steward blushed furiously, smiling shyly, as he heard the tree admonish the elves for not looking after the elfling, even though it was clear that he was prone to accidents. Both Thranduil and Maglor took the scolding good-naturedly.

It was not long after that Elrond arrived with a cup in his hand. Faramir eyed the cup suspiciously.

“It is not a draught for pain, pen-neth but a potion to assist in increasing your weight without the need to feed you quite so often,” Elrond informed his suspicious patient as he handed the cup to the young human. Faramir sniffed the contents before taking a tentative sip, finding the potion surprisingly thick but pleasant in taste. He graced Elrond with a look of surprise before downing the contents quickly. “Are my usual offerings so unpalatable, pen-neth?” he chuckled.

Faramir blushed furiously when both Maglor and Thranduil gave their Rivendell friend a look that implied that they thought him quite mad and both said ‘yes’ simultaneously. It was not long before Faramir was curled up on his side asleep and looking truly at peace for the first time since his return to the White City. Now firmly convinced that there was indeed wood elves forebears in Faramir through Adrahil, Elrond insisted that his patient spend each day out in the garden until he recovered. So each morning, when the weather was clear, Faramir was carried out into the garden by one of the elves. By the sixteenth day, Faramir was able to walk outside under his own steam, although with his ada, Elrond or Maglor hovering closely.

It had been a relatively quiet time during Faramir’s convalescence, or so Thranduil thought, with the exception of his son’s foiled attempt to escape from the Houses of Healing and the twins’ altercation with Gandalf. Both were angry at the White Wizard for sending Finrod and their human friend, known only as ‘Lieutenant’ as the man hated the name given to him by his parents, off to rendezvous with the wizard Radagast and thence to spy on Saruman again without telling them. When Gandalf told them, point blank, that they could not be trusted not to get sidetracked when anywhere in the vicinity of orcs, the twins argued vehemently until Gandalf threatened to turn them both over his knee after which he would turn them into toads. Their moods were soured further by the incredulous looks that they not only received from their ada, Thranduil, Maglor and Imrahil, which was to be expected, but also from Aragorn, Gimli and Misto, quite the feat for a spider with few expressions, when they argued that they were trustworthy. Only Faramir did not grace them with such a look and that was because he was asleep beneath a tree.

The elven King had no doubt that the current peacefulness would not last for the twins were fast becoming bored. So much so, that the strain was beginning to show with both Elrond and Estel. The elf and his human son had become so desperate that they took the unprecedented step of co-opting Legolas and Gimli to keep the twins contained and amused. Elrond’s preference had been for Maglor but the Seneschal had enough on his hands with Faramir. Aragorn forwent asking Arwen to keep the twins out of his hair, still smarting over the resultant debacle involving dwarves, Rohirrim, Gondorians and his wife and brothers being incarcerated in his own gaol, when last he had asked.

The peacefulness persisted so long that Elrond began to worry, for the twins were quiet, very quiet – unnaturally quiet. He saw them at meal times but could discern nothing of what they had been about. He did not want to question them too closely and thus sour their mood all the more. The elder elf thought to himself as he stood in the courtyard with Estel, Arwen and Imrahil, his robes billowing about him for the wind was very gusty, waiting for the delegates from Dol Amroth who would be riding into the courtyard any moment, that he was not sure what was the most worrying, the twins noisy and annoying or the twins unnaturally quiet and possibly planning some mischief.

“Oi, Fara! Wake up, damn it!” Faramir found himself startled awake by his brother’s bellowing. The caustic retort on his lips died on seeing his ghostly brother’s look of alarm. “Those idiots are going to kill themselves!” Boromir growled.

“Which idiots?” Faramir asked as he rose to his feet a little unsteadily, still half-asleep, and then followed his ghostly brother who was setting a brisk pace.

“The brat twins,” Boromir replied as he ran straight through a closed door, only to stop abruptly and wince when he heard a resounding thump on the other side of the door, followed in quick order by a very inventive curse. He leaned back though the closed door to see his little brother sitting on the floor with his legs straight out in front of him, his straightened arms behind him and his palms on the floor supporting his weight, whilst shaking his head in the hopes of ridding himself of the stars that were floating before his eyes. “It is wise to open the door first, Fara…” Boromir began but the rest of what he was going to say was stayed by the murderous glare he received from his little brother.

After several moments, Faramir got to his feet, opened the door and continued to follow his brother. Boromir led his brother out into the courtyard in front of the palace. Faramir stood transfixed for several long moments by the scene that was playing out before him. Eight Swan Knights, discerned by their distinctive dress, were attempting to control their frightened mounts. Two knights had been unhorsed but had managed to maintain a hold on their horses’ reins. The cause of the fright to the horses became evident when the Steward followed the direction of the concerned gazes of Elrond, Aragorn, Arwen and his uncle.

The twins, looking like two frightened bunnies, were holding on for grim death to ropes attached to what appeared to be a giant black kite in the shape of a dragon, which explained the frightened horses. The twins were too high up, even for elves, to risk letting go of the ropes without risking very serious injury. Faramir also saw the stunned faces of Legolas and Gimli looking over the edge at the top of the tower, his panicked elven brother looked as if he was about the loose an arrow at the kite. Thankfully, Gimli was able to stop him with a clip to the elf’s head.

The kite was caught by another updraft as the wind remained very gusty and was being pushed to the end of the ‘ship’s keel’ shaped section at the very edge of the top circle of the city and the abyss that was beyond and below. Faramir knew what would happen if the kite went over the edge; a downdraft would cause the kite to plummet to the bottom of the abyss, killing both twins in the process. Without conscious thought Faramir raised the hand that had the ring of power upon it and saw a long blue line of light, as opposed to a bolt of blue light, reach the black kite. Slowly, inch by agonising inch, Faramir pulled the kite down towards him and away from the edge of the ‘ship’s keel’. It turned into a monumental struggle for the recovering Steward as he fought the fierce wind. Time after time the wind would carry the kite back towards the edge and Faramir struggled to pull it back and down. Just when he thought he could do no more, the twins let go of the ropes and landed on !
the ground before collapsing into frightened, winded heaps. It was only then that Faramir’s strength failed him and his knees buckled but before he hit the ground he felt the familiar, strong arms of his ada, who had appeared from he knew not where, catch him and lower him gently to the ground, supporting him in a seated position.

From the corner of his eye Faramir saw Lord Elrond, looking like the famed warrior who fought beside Gil-galad, swooping down upon his sons like a bird of prey. He pulled first Elrohir and then Elladan to their feet, gave each a fierce hug, relief evident, and then grabbed each by the point of an elven ear causing both to squawk in protest, much to the amusement of the Swan Knights who had mostly regained control over their skittish mounts. Faramir then saw Maglor to his right, standing behind a sombre looking Legolas and Gimli. Boromir was also there glaring at the protesting twins.

Part 24

“Maglor? Would you be so kind as to escort the ‘trio horribus’ and Master Gimli to Estel’s drawing room to await us?” Elrond asked in a calm tone that belied the pincer-like grip he maintained on the wincing twins’ ears. “I wish to check on Faramir first.”

Maglor nodded his head as Elrond released the ears he was gripping. The twins rubbed their injured ears in a vain attempt to temper the sting, as they preceded Maglor towards the Palace. Faramir saw Boromir follow the elves still glaring at the twins, unbeknownst to them.

“I have always been meaning to ask how they acquired that name; horribus?” Faramir asked as he leaned into his ada’s embrace.

“They were forever tormenting their little sister when she was a young elfling before she learned to take care of herself but the closest she could get to the word horrible was horribuses, so they became known as the ‘duo horribus’,” Thranduil replied, his humour evident in his eyes. “I cannot wait to hear their explanation for what has just transpired. It should make for….”

The rest of what Thranduil was about to say was arrested by one of the Swan Knights who approached them and knelt down beside Faramir.

“That was astounding, Fara,” the young knight greeted as he removed his helmet, displaying a shock of fox coloured hair.

“Amrothos!” Faramir exclaimed in delight. “Ada, this …”

“Could only be another of Adrahil’s, judging by that fox fur,” Thranduil teased, causing the young Knight to blush furiously.

“Amrothos is the youngest of Uncle Imrahil’s three sons,” Faramir said, introducing his cousin.

“Mae govannen, Prince Amrothos,” Thranduil greeted the young knight who looked not unlike Faramir.

“Mae govannen, King Thranduil,” Amrothos greeted in turn. “Father sent word to us that Faramir had been adopted by no less personage than the King of Mirkwood, so happy was he when he wrote the letter that the words almost bounced from the parchment,” the young man added in answer to Thranduil’s raised eyebrow. “I have seen you look better, cousin; although… I have seen you worse,” he teased, remembering a few of the mornings after the nights before.

“Aye, I agree,” Elrond said as, he too, knelt beside Faramir. “Alright, pen-neth, let us see what this latest wizarding display has done to you, although I thank you sincerely for saving those two idiot sons of mine.”

“I am looking forward to hearing their explanation, my friend,” Imrahil chuckled as he stood behind his son, looking down upon his nephew. Thranduil nodded in agreement, eyes twinkling, as he shared a look with Imrahil. Elrond sighed, shaking his head.

In the background, Estel and Arwen were seeing to the settlement of the remainder of the Swan Knights.

“Does your head ache?” Elrond asked as held Faramir’s wrist to check the speed of his heartbeat.

“Nay, I just feel very… weary,” the Steward replied.

“Do you think you can get to your feet?” Elrond queried.

“Aye,” Faramir answered as he got to his feet, very unsteadily, supported by his ada.

“Well, this is certainly an improvement, pen-neth,” Elrond smiled at his patient.

“If this an improvement, cousin, I hate to think what you have done to yourself previously,” Amrothos said with some consternation.

“You did not draw the energy from within yourself this time, ion-nin. Mithrandir will be pleased,” Thranduil praised Faramir, sparing a look for Amrothos that was filled with mirth. The elven King gathered his human son up into his arms, much to Faramir’s embarrassment.

“I can walk, ada!” Faramir protested in a whisper.

“Humour me, ion-nin,” Thranduil responded, knowing that there was no way that Faramir would be able to walk all the way back to the palace.

Thranduil carried Faramir towards the palace in the company of Elrond, Imrahil and Amrothos. There they were met by Arwen and Aragorn before entering the King’s drawing room. Imrahil and Amrothos were about to take their leave, for they both thought this a family matter, when Elrond ushered them into the room. Faramir saw Boromir sitting on top of one two tall bookcases standing against one wall, observing, with what looked like amusement, the discomfiture of the twins, Legolas and Gimli who were sitting in chairs placed around the fireplace, under the watchful eye of Maglor.

The twins looked up at their ada and both winced on seeing their father’s stern expression. It was obvious to both that his anger had not abated one iota. Thranduil placed Faramir on a three-seater lounge, opposite the fireplace, near the other chairs, and sat down beside him. Imrahil and Amrothos sat on the arms of the lounge at either end. Arwen and Aragorn stood behind the lounge. Legolas blanched and swallowed hard when he saw all eyes rest on him, the twins and Gimli.

“Well,” Elrond began with a slightly exasperated sigh. “Which of you would like to begin the explanation for what almost led to my sons being swept to their deaths?”

“That was… “ Elladan began.

“… an accident… “

“… ada,” they both finished together.

“I did not think it deliberate, ions-nin, for though you display the opposite on many… nay most, occasions, neither of you possesses an actual death wish,” Elrond retorted, his comments fair dripping with sarcasm that was not lost on the twins who winced. “Whose idea was it to build the kite?”

“Legolas,” the twins and Gimli replied without hesitation.

Legolas blanched, yet again, as all eyes in the room, with the exception of Elrond’s, fixed upon him.

“Och, I had no hand in the idea…” Gimli responded to Elrond’s intense look and questioning eyebrow, “… so to speak,” he added, wondering if you could indeed have a hand in or put a hand on, an idea. “I am a Dwarf who lives in a cave. What know I of kites and wind?”

Faramir snorted and eyed his brother with much amusement on hearing clearly in his mind Legolas’ thought; ‘volumes about the latter after you have eaten beans, Dwarf’! Legolas spared a glare for Faramir, realising that his brother had read his thought, before turning his eyes skywards and his expression to one of innocence when Gimli eyed him suspiciously.

“They were bored. I thought it would keep them amused” Legolas muttered, annoyed.

“So, it started out innocently enough or so it seems,” Elrond mused.

“I think there is more interest to be had in the materials from which the kite was made, mellon-nin,” Maglor interjected meaningfully, handing a piece of black material to the Rivendell elf.

“This is silk and by the look and feel, very expensive silk. Where did you get so much of such an expensive material?” Elrond asked, suspiciously.

“Just hope that Gondor has no need for State funerals in the foreseeable future, little brother,” Boromir called down from his perch, causing Faramir to chuckle and Amrothos to look at his cousin sharply.

“I think you will find that it is from a stock of silk always kept on hand for the purposes of State funerals,” Faramir responded to the plethora of questioning looks aimed at him.

“You took this without permission?” Elrond asked, his anger, as was his inflection, rising.

“It was in a cupboard… “ Elladan reasoned.

“… gathering dust, ada” Elrohir concluded.

“That would be because the Lords of Gondor keep finding ways of offing themselves that precludes the necessity of its use,” Boromir expostulated, eliciting a look of astonishment from Faramir at the matter-of-factness of the remark about his death.

“Did Legolas and Gimli know that the material had been purloined?” Elrond asked imbuing the word purloin with a measure of just how he felt about the twins’ propensity for ‘acquiring’.

“Nay, ada,” the twins answered truthfully if a little reluctantly.

“So, with the purloined material you built a kite in the shape of a dragon. Why a dragon?” Elrond asked, already suspecting the answer.

“For a prank, ada,” Elrohir confessed in a whisper.

“And this prank was aimed at the Swan Knights, mounted on their horses,” Elrond conjectured.

Amrothos looked as if he thought the prank a good one and was filing it away mentally for future use. His look turned to chagrin when he saw both Faramir and his father give him a look that indicated that both knew exactly what he was thinking.

“Aye, ada,” Elladan confirmed, head bowed.

“And were all a party to this prank?” Elrond questioned.

“Nay, ada,” Erohir sighed morosely, knowing that their backsides were about to pay a high price for the prank gone wrong.

“Let me guess. The ‘trio horribus’?” Elrond sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose; never, ever, a good sign with the Lord of Rivendell.

“Aye,” the twins and Legolas responded quietly in unison, wincing as they did so and all looking at the floor.

Gimli looked stunned and slightly affronted to have been so duped by the trio of elflings.

“I would hazard another guess that not one of you anticipated the consequences of such a strong wind as is had upon the top of Minas Tirith?” Elrond surmised pinning each of the younger elves with an intense, stern look.

“Nay,” came the quiet response from the trio of luckless elflings.

“If it had not been for Faramir… “ Elrond began but could not continue, so great was his anger. “Maglor?” Elrond asked, taking a deep calming breath.

“Aye, mellon-nin?” the Seneschal replied calmly.

“Can I impose upon you again to take these three to my quarters and wait with them until I have calmed down enough to deal with them?” Elrond asked.

“Certainly,” Maglor replied in the same calm tone. “Alright elflings, follow me,” he said not bothering to look back to see if they were indeed following as he exited the room.

Faramir and Amrothos looked upon the hapless trio of elves as they followed Maglor, with similar expressions of empathy.

“I love those three dearly, mellon-nin, but they are going to drive me insane!” Elrond exclaimed looking at Thranduil whose eyes were twinkling.

“I seem to remember Maglor telling me a time or thousand, of Oropher and Gil-galad saying exactly the same thing about you and I, mellon-nin,” Thranduil chuckled.

“I certainly have no memory of being quite that bad,” Elrond sighed. “Do you think it is the Valar’s way of getting back at us?”

“It does have a certain elegant symmetry to it, mellon-nin,” Thranduil reasoned.

“I suppose we should… “ Elrond began but was interrupted by a cry of alarm.

“Ahhhhhh!” Amrothos yelped; putting a hand to his racing heart, as he jumped back from where he had been sitting on the arm of the lounge, when the largest spider he had ever seen in his life appeared before him suddenly, dangling on a thread.

“Mama” Misto said cheerily. “Not mama,” he added on seeing that it was not Faramir.

“Eru’s balls! What are you feeding your spiders?” Amrothos exclaimed before the higher functions of his brain engaged, causing Aragorn, Faramir and Gimli to laugh and Arwen to put a hand to her mouth to hide a giggle.

“You watch your mouth, son,” Imrahil admonished quietly.

“Sorry, father,” Amrothos said contritely, blushing furiously when he saw Arwen, still standing beside a chuckling Aragorn.

“It is a long story, the short version of which is that Misto is a hatchling from Mirkwood and my familiar,” Faramir explained.

“You mean like that bird of Radagast’s that keeps pecking at his ear to keep him from falling down stairs and wandering off paths?” the young Swan Knight asked. “And what do you mean hatchling? He is the size of a dog!” he added; eyes as wide as saucers, not able to take them off Misto who was now sitting beside Faramir. “How big will he grow?”

“About the size of a pony,” Faramir sighed.

“Do not even attempt to tell me what you are going to feed him, Fara,” Amrothos said, looking a little squeamish at the thought.

“I judge our elflings have waited long enough, mellon-nin,” Elrond said, looking at Thranduil and taking another deep, calming breath before exiting the room.

“Aye, we had best put them out of our misery,” the elven King replied, following his friend from the room.

“Is what I suspect is going to happen, going to happen, Fara?” Amrothos asked in a hushed voice.

“Aye, it is,” Faramir replied solemnly.

“Ouch,” the young Swan Knight whispered.

Part 26

Elrond and Thranduil made their way to the Rivendell elf’s quarters, the elven King looking askance at his friend every now and then as they walked. He saw that his friend’s anger was rising the closer they got to their destination. Putting a hand to Elrond’s arm, he halted and turned towards his friend.

“I think it would be in the twins’ best interests if Maglor and I see to their punishment and you to Legolas’, mellon-nin,” Thranduil cautioned softly.

Elrond looked as if he was about to argue but thought better of it and bowed his head conceding to his friend’s advice.

“They just never think things through!” Elrond railed quietly at his friend in exasperation.

“None of them do, mellon-nin and neither did we… oh, all right, I, at the same age,” Thranduil amended in reaction to Elrond’s raised eyebrow. “I am sure you noticed that it was my elfling, in a blind panic, that was just about to shoot an arrow at the kite,” Thranduil exhaled, shaking his head.

“I must admit that I have not seen young greenleaf quite so panicked in a very long time. It is a good thing that Gimli had the presence of mind to cuff him upside the head. Although, it may just have worked,” the Rivendell elf conceded with a small smile that faded quickly on considering the possible consequences.

Gently, Thranduil pulled his distressed friend into an alcove opposite where they had stopped and into his embrace.

“I felt your fright and despair when you witnessed the plight of your sons and Faramir’s struggle, mellon-nin. Let it go,” the elven King crooned softly.

“Elros is lost to me,” Elrond let out in a quiet almost-sob, remembering his ages gone twin who chose mortality whilst he chose the elven path. “Arwen and Estel will be lost to me also all-too-soon. I cannot lose the twins as well, I cannot!”

“Arwen chose mortality and she and Estel will reunite with Elros in the halls of your human ancestors eventually, the existence beyond human death of which we have daily proof,” Thranduil said, alluding to the very real although unseen presence of Boromir, eliciting the hint of a smile from Elrond. “Faramir, on the other hand, has had immortality foisted on him and will be much grieved to learn that should he die, he will not reunite with his ancestors or his human descendents but will go to the Halls of Mandos instead. Such is the way of the Valar and choices made, mellon-nin, and there is nothing you or I can do to alter the course set. All we can do is to enjoy each day given us and be there for one another and our children.”

Elrond returned the embrace and Thranduil held his friend until he felt that Elrond had regained control over his emotions.

“Hannon-le, mellon-nin. You are right!” Elrond whispered as he took a deep, calming breath and looked at his friend with an expression that was a mixture of gratitude and surprise.

“Do not look so surprised! Even Maglor would grant that I do have my moments,” Thranduil teased gently. “I really do think our elflings have waited long enough,” Thranduil said, as he turned towards Elrond’s quarters.

The scene that greeted them on entering Elrond’s drawing room caused the two elder elves to look heavenward before sharing a rueful glance. Legolas, looking as dejected and nervous as Thranduil had ever seen him, sitting on a three-seater lounge, was flanked by twin, equally dejected and nervous looking dark-haired bookends. Maglor was perched upon the desk in the corner of the room watching the trio solemnly, although Thranduil detected a smile tugging at the corner of his Seneschal’s mouth.

“With but a little reflection do you understand the trouble that you are in, elflings,” Thranduil lectured sternly. “All we ask is that you spend a modicum of time considering the consequences, before launching into ill-conceived and ill-thought out actions.”

The trio kept their gazes averted and continued to look at the floor.

“Elladan… Elrohir?” Elrond called upon the twins and waited for them to look up at him. “So that I do not cause you damage for my anger is great, ions-nin,” he said, his anger very much in evidence in his eyes and the set of his mouth, “Thranduil and Maglor will see to your punishment for the offences of acquiring without permission and for the prank that came very close to costing you your lives. I will see to Legolas’ for aiding and abetting you in your folly.”

At first the twins looked horrified but on seeing their father’s anger came to the conclusion very quickly that they would much rather face Thranduil and Maglor or the Dark Lord himself, had he still been alive. Legolas looked no less horrified at the thought of Lord Elrond taking his wrath out on the posterior of the elf who had not only failed to keep the twins out of trouble but had aided them in the prank that had gone so wrong. Maglor and Thranduil saw the warning signs of a fully-fledged Thranduilion panicked bolt about to happen. With elven reflexes and speed both Mirkwood elves caught Legolas just as he launched himself from the lounge upon which he had been seated a moment earlier, towards the door. Maglor let go allowing Thranduil to calm his panicked elfling. The elven King held his son tightly crooning soft, soothing words in the shaking younger elf’s ear even as he offered Elrond a rueful look.

“Leg-o-las,” Elrond crooned softly as he approached the distressed wood-elf and stroked his hair, rhythmically. “I do not blame you for what almost happened. I know you did not suggest the kite with mischief in mind. I do not think I am wrong in saying that it was Elladan or Elrohir who suggested the prank when they discovered that Knights from Dol Amroth were expected. Am I?” Legolas shook his head once in the negative. “But you did go along with the idea, did you not?” Legolas nodded once still holding onto his ada, fiercely. “Then that is what you are to be punished for, greenleaf. Hand only, I promise.”

Legolas sighed and let go of his ada. Elrond smiled gently and with his arm extended around the young elf’s shoulders, guided Legolas into the next room. The twins were still seated on the lounge looking up at Maglor and Thranduil warily. Their looks turned to one of alarm when Maglor produced both human and elven versions of ‘Faramir’s Bane’ from what appeared to be thin air.

“How…?” Thranduil began in bewilderment. “Never mind,” he added, shaking his head in bemusement at his Seneschal’s rather unique abilities.

Maglor placed two straight-backed desk chairs located at the desk in the corner into the centre of the room, spaced far enough apart to allow both twins to be chastised at the same time. Maglor sat down upon one chair and Thranduil the other.

“All right, elflings. Let us proceed,” Thranduil called out to the twins.

Elrohir rose immediately and walked over to King Thranduil, leaving his tardy and now annoyed twin to stand beside Maglor. It had been agreed upon by both the Elrondions and the Thranduilions that Maglor had the heaviest swing, be it with hand or paddle. Elladan gave his brother a look that promised retribution. Elrohir smirked. The elven King rolled his eyes and then coughed, meaningfully. The twins became subdued immediately and fumbled at the ties to their leggings before pushing them down to their knees. They lowered themselves over the elder elves thighs. Thranduil and Maglor pulled the younger elves’ tunics up to their waists and held them there, exposing the twins’ buttocks.

“What is this punishment for, tithen-pens?” Maglor asked, beginning the time honoured ritual.

“For acquiring without permission… “ Elladan began.

“… and the prank,” Elrohir finished.

Thranduil laid the first of a series of hard strokes to Elrohir’s exposed buttocks, causing the younger elf to gasp at the intensity. Maglor allowed Thranduil to set the pace, matching the King swing for swing on Elladan’s buttocks, although later Elladan would swear blind that Maglor gave him more swats with ‘that thing’. Every time the paddles were used upon their posteriors the twins respect for Faramir intensified, especially as the human did not have the same recuperative abilities that elves possessed. It was not long before the twins were whimpering and squirming as their bottoms were heated by the constant swats that were landed to each of their buttocks.

“We will not dally on the subject of your habit of acquiring things that are not yours, for you know my feelings about stealing. On the subject of your propensity for forging headlong into disasters of your own making, I have told you before and I will repeat this tattoo upon your bottoms until it penetrates your elfling skulls, tithen-pens, …your… ada… has… lost… enough!” Thranduil bellowed, emphasising each word with heavy swats to the top of Elrohir’s thighs, matched by Maglor on Elladan’s. “You… will… not… break… your… ada’s… heart… by… dying… when… a… little… forethought… can… prevent… such… an… occurrence… happening!”

By this stage the twins were howling from both the pain in their posteriors and remorse at their lack of forethought. Thranduil judged the punishment enough and ceased the chastisement. He pulled up Elrohir’s leggings, causing the younger elf to hiss with pain, turned him around, embraced the sobbing elf, crooning soft words of forgiveness and allowing the elf to cry out his pain and his remorse. Maglor did the same with an equally remorseful Elladan.

In the next room it had taken Elrond quite some time to calm Legolas enough to enable him to proceed with the chastisement. It was obvious that the young wood-elf was still in shock at having witnessed the twins in peril. The Rivendell elf managed to get Legolas over his knees finally and began the punishment.

“What is this chastisement for, pen-neth?” Elrond asked, as he landed the first of a series of barehanded swats to the wood-elf’s exposed buttocks.

“F-for assisting the twins in a b-bad p-prank,” Legolas stuttered uncharacteristically, which told Elrond of the state of mind of the elf over his lap more clearly than any explanation by the distressed elf could have.

“What distresses you so?” Elrond asked gently in direct contrast to the force of the slaps he was administering to Legolas’ buttocks and thighs.

Ill-advisedly taking a leaf out of Faramir’s book, Legolas remained stubbornly silent.

“Tell me!” Elrond said more forcefully, matched by the increased intensity of slaps to the wood-elf’s already extremely tender ‘sit spot’.

“I could have killed them!” Legolas wailed, finally.

“Nay. How so, tithen-pen?” Elrond asked, reducing the intensity and frequency of the slaps.

“I had my arrow nocked… and… was about… to shoot, if Gimli had not stopped me…” Legolas sobbed, unable to finish, visualising the possible consequences.

“Whilst the prank was a very bad idea and you should not have assisted the twins, your idea was not an ill-conceived one, tithen-pen,” Elrond explained, a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth even as he continued to land slap after slap on the wriggling and sobbing elf’s posterior. “Had Faramir not have been there or had he faltered, it may have been the twins’ only hope. Your only fault lay in not waiting to see if Faramir faltered first,” Elrond added wryly and ceased the chastisement, pulling up the elf’s leggings and rubbing his back in a gentle circular motion.

“I… am… s-sorry, so… s-sorry,” Legolas sobbed as he lay over Elrond’s lap.

“Shhhh, tithen-pen,” Elrond crooned, turning the distressed wood-elf over and gathering him into an embrace.

Seeing Legolas’ remorse and guilt, Elrond was able to come to grips with his own anger and fear over what might have happened. The twins were alive and that was all that mattered, he thought as he continued to rock and croon words of forgiveness to the sobbing elfling in his arms and by the sounds of the howling next door, the lesson may have been learned. Then again, he thought sighing deeply, as humans were fond of saying; pigs might fly.

Part 27

After comforting and cosseting their repentant elflings for a time the three elder elves left them to ponder their pained states, emerging eventually from Elrond’s quarters into the hallway. There they were met by a sheepish looking Faramir and Amrothos. Thranduil eyed his son intently.

“You should be abed, ion-nin,” he admonished, seeing the dark circles under Faramir’s eyes.

“I will rest after I have seen Legolas, ada. I promise,” Faramir replied.

“They are in the twins’ room,” Thranduil sighed, understanding his human son’s needs. “You do not have any of that numbing salve hidden about your persons, I hope?” he asked, his suspicion aroused.

“Nay, ada,” “Nay, sir,” Faramir and Amrothos answered immediately, both blushing, hoping that none of the elves looked up.

Thranduil looked at both fox-furred young humans intently causing them to blush even more, which, given their fair complexions, was quite an endearing sight he thought.

“Alright ion-nin, your brother could use some sibling comfort right now and I am sure the twins would appreciate some as well. Be off with you!” the elven King said, taking pity on them.

The elves continued down the corridor. Faramir and Amrothos both let out in whooshes, breaths that they had not realised they had been holding and entered Elrond’s quarters. Faramir led the way the twins’ room and knocked on the door softly. Receiving permission to ‘come’, he opened the door and entered, followed by Amrothos.

The room contained two large four-poster beds parallel to one another and several feet apart, one occupied currently by Legolas and the other by the twins, all of whom lay on their stomachs covered by blankets. The cousins looked upon the still miserable trio with great empathy. Legolas twisted around, half on his side, careful of his posterior and graced his brother with a rueful if somewhat forlorn look. Faramir walked straight over to Legolas, sat down on the bed beside him and gathered his brother into a much-needed hug. Amrothos stood at the end of the bed, marvelling at the close bond between his cousin and the elf.

“You should be abed, muindor tithen. You look terrible. I am so sorry,” Legolas whispered on the verge of tears.

“Oh, pish. I will be fine after some rest later,” Faramir replied in a whisper. “I have not had the… opportunity to introduce you to my cousin, Amrothos, youngest son of Uncle Imrahil,” Faramir said, his eyes alight with mirth.

The twins and Legolas moaned at their recent folly and their damnably bad luck.

“Is your uncle very upset with us?” Legolas asked forlornly.

“Nay, nay, my father is not upset at all,” Amrothos assured the upset elves. “I thought it a good prank if gone a little askew.”

“As it does inevitably, with these three involved,” Faramir chucked wryly as he continued to hold his brother.

“Do you perchance have some numbing salve stashed about you?” Legolas asked hopefully, wincing at the pain in his posterior.

“Nay,” Faramir replied. The elven faces dropped. “However,…” he added, looking up.

The elves looked up and saw Misto sitting on a rafter holding a very large jar of numbing salve with two of his eight legs. The hatchling chose that moment to drop down on a silken thread but unfortunately misjudged the affect of the heavy jar he was holding and subsequently landed heavily on Legolas’ already much abused posterior, causing the elf to howl in pain. Faramir and Amrothos winced in sympathy but the twins did not as they were dealing with the abominable throbbing in their own posteriors.

“Ssssorrryyy, mama,” the hatchling apologised sheepishly.

“It was an accident, little one,” Faramir soothed.

“I am not so certain, muindor tithen,” Legolas muttered into Faramir’s shoulder through gritted teeth.

“Let us see what has been done to you, brother,” Faramir said, sliding from beside Legolas and on to his feet. The Steward pulled back the blanket that was covering his brother, exposing Legolas’ posterior as the elf was sans leggings. “Painful I grant but not as bad as I thought it would be,” he judged.

“Speak for yourself, muindor thithen,” Legolas grumbled.

“I speak from experience, brother,” Faramir replied quietly.

The Steward walked over to the twins in the other bed.

“Do you mind if I…?” Faramir asked, seeking permission before proceeding.

“Aye, go ahead,” they responded dejectedly, in unison.

Faramir pulled back the blankets that covered them. Like Legolas, they were both also sans leggings. Faramir winced.

“The last time I saw that particular shade of red was when Boromir…” Amrothos whistled softly as he approached the bed. “You do not mean to tell me that that… ‘thing’ still exists, Fara?” Amrothos asked on seeing Faramir’s reaction.

“Aye, human… “ Elladan grumbled.

“… and elvish versions,” Elrohir spat out disgustedly.

“Long story, cousin,” Faramir replied in answer to Amrothos’ look of puzzlement.

“Help me, sprog,” Faramir requested, using Amrothos’ pet name, as he applied the soothing salve to Elladan’s buttocks, whilst Amrothos applied some to Elrohir’s. The elf blushed at exposing such an embarrassing injury to a relative stranger, even though he was a relative of Faramir. “Be at ease, Elrohir” the Steward soothed. “Amrothos has also fallen victim to that ‘thing’ on a number of occasions and has been in exactly the same position as you are now.”

“Is nothing sacred to you Hurins?” Amrothos whined, sending a mock glare at his cousin that caused Elrohir to smile. “All done,” he smiled, pulling the blanket back over the elf as Faramir did his twin.

“Hannon-le, mellon-nin,” Elrohir responded.

Faramir returned to Legolas and applied the salve to his brother’s buttocks before pulling the blanket back over the elf who was sighing in relief.

“We will leave you in peace now,” Faramir said as he put the lid back on the jar of salve and placed it under the covers of the bed in which Legolas lay. “You will be going to the feast tonight will you not?”

“Aye,” the unhappy trio groaned.

“We will see you then,” Faramir said before he, Amrothos and Misto departed.

Most of the guests had arrived by the time Legolas, Elladan and Elrohir arrived. They, as other guests had been, were greeted by Aragorn, Arwen and Faramir in their official capacities of King, Queen and Steward of Gondor. A group of musicians were playing lively music in the far corner of the Great Hall. The twins and Legolas moved further into the hall, tentatively, not knowing what kind of reception they were likely to receive from the Swan Knights of Dol Amroth. They tensed when several knights descended upon them. Their tension turned to relief when the knights, in all their finery, greeted them warmly, laughing at the antics of the elves.

Unbeknownst to them, Amrothos and Faramir had explained the prank gone wrong and asked the knights to forgive if not forget. All but two of the knights agreed readily as they could see the humour of the situation. The two who were reluctant to forgive were reminded by Amrothos, somewhat forcefully if truth be told, of some of their past indiscretions on which he had remained silent. Faramir had to hold on to his angry cousin by the back of the young man’s tunic to stop him from throttling the denser of the two knights, when the man made a disparaging remark about the elves concerned. The Steward resolved the situation, still holding onto his struggling cousin, by advising the two knights, in his normal, quiet, well-modulated tone, that it was not good policy to upset a wizard. His assertion was reinforced by a display of crackling and hair standing on end, which, upon witnessing, the two knights blanched and seemed quite suddenly to see reason.

Legolas and the twins made their way to where their adas and Maglor were already seated at the main table. Two other tables were placed at right angles to the main table, creating a three-sided square. The main table was reserved for King, Queen and their family and friends and the Steward of Gondor and Prince of Dol Amroth. The table to the right of the main table was reserved for the Swan Knights of Dol Amroth and as many young maidens of Gondor, to partner the nights in the dancing planned for later in the evening. The table to the left was reserved for some of the Lords and Ladies of Gondor.

Gimli, who was sitting next to Gandalf near prince Imrahil, graced his wayward elfling friend with a look that promised the matter that lay between them remained to be settled. Legolas winced and then sighed in resignation. He looked down at his chair and then looked up attempting to catch Faramir’s eye. Upon succeeding, he dipped his head slightly and smiled his thanks. A soft pillow, the same colour as the chair, had been placed upon its seat. Legolas knew without a doubt that it had been Faramir who had done this for if it had been his ada, the cushions would have been almost as large as the chair and very brightly coloured. Faramir acknowledged his brother’s thanks with a smile of his own, before returning to the task of greeting guests.

When the last of the guests had arrived and been greeted, Aragorn, Arwen and Faramir sat down at the main table at which time the first courses were carried in on large ornate silver and gold trays and served to the guests by servants. Faramir was pleased to see that Boromir was also in attendance, enjoying the music and festive atmosphere.

“A finer flock of peacocks you are never likely to see, little brother” Boromir jested, looking around at the guests, causing Faramir to chortle at but one of their ongoing jests about the colourful formal uniforms of the Swan Knights.

Boromir was just about to make another comment when he stopped abruptly, his expression turning to one that Faramir knew well, that of a hunter scenting prey. As he could not ask his ghostly brother what alerted him without most of those present the room thinking him mad, Faramir turned back to his meal; all the while keeping an eye on his brother who seemed to be concentrated on the Swan Knights seated at the table at which Amrothos, as their captain, was also seated.

At the conclusion of the main meal and well before dessert was due to be served, Amrothos rose from his chair and walked around the table until he was in front of his father, who was sitting at the main table next to Faramir. All went silent as the guests watched the young knight go down on bended knee.

“Whatever are you doing, Amrothos?” Imrahil exclaimed disconcerted by his youngest son’s odd behaviour.

“Bear with me, father.” Amrothos replied in a ‘put upon’ manner. “I am acting under very strict instructions from your heir.”

“What has Elphir got to do with this… ?“ Imrahil was at a loss at to describe what ‘this’ was.

“Please father, I beg you,” Amrothos spoke as if he was reading aloud, very badly at that, from a script. “Please return to Dol Amroth. The kingdom will fall to ruin if you do not come home soon. Please come home!”

Faramir, who could contain himself no longer, broke out into musical laughter at his cousin’s speech. Faramir’s laughter proved infectious and it was not long before all those gathered in the hall, including the King, Queen and elves, were laughing merrily.

“Enough, sprog,” Imrahil chuckled, throwing a bread roll at his son, hitting him on the head. Amrothos rose to his feet gracefully and bowed to his father and then the King and Queen. “I am sure that my eldest did not intend for you to deliver his speech in front of an audience,” Imrahil said, not quite able to bring himself to make it sound like an admonishment.

“I reasoned that if he saw fit to force me to deliver such an embarrassing speech, I could choose the time and place, neither of which was specified in his orders,” Amrothos retorted.

“Am I given to understand then that your brother is struggling with a few matters?” Imrahil asked.

“A few, father, but he is coping at the moment,” the young knight replied.

“Then it is your judgement that I do not need to return to Dol Amroth forthwith?”

“Nay, father. My brother’s tone did not contain quite the tenor of sheer desperation that would necessitate a return to Dol Amroth at this time,” Amrothos said with a straight face.

“You do realise what your reception is likely to be on returning home, when he finds out about this? Do you not?” Imrahil asked.

“I was rather hoping that I could stay here in Minas Tirith for foreseeable future as I have several furloughs long overdue,” the young knight responded, clearing his throat before doing so.

“We will see, sprog,” Imrahil said with a mock glare.

Orders carried out, Amrothos returned to his seat just as dessert was being served. Faramir had almost completed his dessert when he realised that in all the commotion created by his cousin, he had lost sight of Boromir. Scanning for his brother, he spied him crawling under the table at which the Swan Knights and young ladies were seated. He stopped at where Amrothos was seated and then rose to his haunches abruptly, which pushed his head up through the table and the plate from which Amrothos was eating.

“Boo!” Boromir bellowed.

“Ahhhhhh!” Amrothos yelped as his dessert went one way, his chair the other and he scrambled back from the image of his cousin’s head, sitting on the table.

“I knew so! You can see me! You can hear me you sneaky young… Why did you not tell me?” Boromir continued to bellow at his cousin as he rose to his feet, walked through the table and stalked towards his cousin like a predator. Amrothos continued to back away, wincing at the volume of his ghostly cousin’s bellowing.

“Whatever is the matter with that boy? He looks like he has seen a ghost. Oh… “ Imrahil said, eyes widening, seeing his youngest right the chair that had toppled and wince as he is wont to do when in receipt of a very severe tongue-lashing.

“He can see Boromir,” Faramir whispered harshly.

“Oh my! Where is Boromir?” Imrahil asked, still a little confused by the scene playing out before him.

“About a hand span from sprog’s face, bellowing at him. It is a wonder that no one else can hear him. He is hurting my eardrums from over there.”

Faramir gave Aragorn, who was looking upon the scene in bemusement, a ranger signal requesting that he create a diversion. Ever the ranger, Aragorn announced immediately that he wished to dance with his Queen and invited anyone who wanted to join them to do so. The King held out his arm to Arwen who took it and walked with him onto the dance floor. As Aragorn distracted the guests, Faramir hurried to his cousin and pulled the pale young man from the room, followed by Boromir who was bellowing ever more elaborate and painful admonishments at the top of his ghostly lungs.

Part 28

Faramir pulled his cousin into a private meeting room not far from the Great Hall. He pushed the pale young knight into one of the lounge chairs dotted around the room in groups of three or four.

“Sir! Will you cease your bellowing?!” Faramir bellowed in turn, his face turning an interesting shade of magenta and startling his cousin who did not know that his normally soft-spoken cousin was capable of bellowing, yet alone that loudly.

This had an immediate effect upon Boromir who did indeed cease bellowing and was currently imitating a fish out of water, eyes wide in shock and mouth opening and closing. No less shocked at the volume of the sound emanating from Faramir, were the three elder elves and Imrahil as they entered the room.

“Thank you, Fara,” Amrothos whispered gratefully to his cousin.

“Shame on you Boromir!” Faramir admonished as he reached for a decanter of brandy on a side-table that was kept well stocked for guests, poured a goodly amount into a glass and passed it to Amrothos who accepted the glass with a shaking hand. “That was a terrible thing to do to him! The boy is still shaking!”

Amrothos felt some indignation at being called a boy since there was but five years between him and Faramir but upon reflection realised that his cousin had been forced into manhood at a much earlier age, his uncle the Steward being the way he was towards his second born; cold and disdainful.

“Well, sprog? What do you have to say for yourself?” Imrahil asked quietly as he knelt down beside his son.

Aragorn arrived at that moment and stood with the elves next to Elrond. He waved Amrothos to remain seated, when the very pale young knight made as if to rise to his feet. He had got away after the first dance leaving an annoyed wife in the hands of Legolas. Arwen wanted to come as well but Aragorn felt that at least one of them should remain and as he wanted to hear the explanation of what had occurred first hand, he had pulled rank.

“Uncle? Will you please tell Boromir to stop growling and snarling?” Faramir asked, glaring at his brother who seemed about to gain a second wind now that the initial shock seemed to have dissipated.

“Boromir, cease your tantrum now or I will tell everyone here of one of your more nefarious escapades. I could start with the summer of ninety-eight,” Imrahil said in a calm, quiet tone.

Boromir, forehead furrowed in concentration, counted back the years trying to recall where he had been in summer of ninety-eight. When he remembered, his eyes widened, his ghostly pallor turned slightly pink and he ceased his growling and snarling immediately.

“Thank you, uncle,” Faramir sighed with a not very well hidden smirk, wondering briefly how he could wheedle the story out of his uncle.

“Well, sprog. You can obviously see Boromir. Why did you not say anything?” Imrahil asked, frowning in consternation.

“Do you not remember what happened the last time I said I could see a ghost?” Amrothos replied petulantly.

“Oh, sprog! You really could see your grandfather,” Imrahil comprehended, feeling both shame and chagrin. “I am so sorry, son. We thought it a manifestation of your grief for the loss of your beloved grandfather,” he soothed.

“And of seeking attention,” he muttered, looking down at the glass he held with both hands resting on his knees. “People alternately dismissed me or acted as if they were walking on eggshells, not wanting to be accused of pushing the poor mad thing over the edge into insanity. You did not have any such thoughts about Faramir seeking attention, I am sure,” he added, feeling very much aggrieved at the moment for both the past and present.

“That is because, unlike you my gregarious son, Faramir would walk ten miles out of his way through burning lava simply not to bring attention to himself,” Imrahil retorted quietly, evincing a small smile from Amrothos, for he realised the truth of the statement, smirks and smiles from the elves and Aragorn and a flush of scarlet from Faramir who shook his head in denial. “Now back to the issue of concern. Why did you not say anything to Faramir?”

“I was not absolutely certain that he could see Boromir and you never mentioned in your letters home that Faramir was seeing ghosts. I was almost certain. Anyway, what opportunity have I had since entering the city? Things have been a little hectic,” Amrothos refuted as he took another gulp from the glass of brandy.

“Alright, sprog. I can understand why you did not tell Faramir but why did you not acknowledge the truth to Boromir?” Imrahil questioned gently.

“He was one of the ones who dismissed me for he did not believe in ghosts,” Amrothos replied, sarcasm fair dripping from the latter part of the statement.

Faramir turned to his brother, eyebrow almost touching his hairline. Boromir winced, remembering his not so delicate handling of his young cousin at the time. In truth, his judgement had been blurred by his still fresh grief over the loss of Adrahil, whom he had loved dearly.

“Sorry, sprog,” he apologised sincerely.

“Apology accepted,” Amrothos sighed.

“Which begs the obvious question as to why you can both see Boromir,” Thranduil interjected, his curiosity piqued.

“If I remember correctly,” Faramir mused as he refilled the glass held by Amrothos, for his young cousin was still too pale, “you almost died of a fever not long after our grandsire passed on.”

“Aye,” Amrothos acknowledged.

“Did you perchance dream of him?” Faramir asked gently.

“Aye, only t’was no dream. Grandfather sheltered me through the worst of the fever. He would not allow me to move on towards the light. He told me that I had to go back, that there were still adventures awaiting me,” Amrothos replied distantly, detached from the here and now and drifting upon the currents of past memories.

Imrahil gasped, tears welling in his eyes.

“It seems both of us had one foot firmly planted in the next realm and both of us were sheltered by those we love who had recently passed over. It is as if a door has been opened…,” Faramir mused.

“You were so ill, sprog. I am ever thankful to Adrahil for sending you back. My heart and the heart of your mother would have been broken to lose you. I am so sorry that you we did not believe, sprog,” Imrahil professed, leaning forward and cupping his son’s cheek. Amrothos, as always, leaned into his father’s caress.

“Nay father, it was not your fault. I suspect that I would have had the same reaction had it been one of the others and not me who could see ghosts,” he replied rather ruefully, returning the look of love he saw in his father’s eyes. Faramir looked on with haunted eyes.

“Faramir raised with love,” Thranduil gasped so softly that only Elrond and Maglor heard the words, heart aching for his human son as he felt the love between Imrahil and Amrothos.

Both elves agreed with the meaning of their friend’s words. The young Swan Knight was indeed alike to Faramir but Faramir raised with love; intelligent, witty, impish, loving but above all, cognisant of his value, confident of his place in the world and in the affections of those around him.

Thranduil walked over to his son, held out a hand, which Faramir grasped, pulled him to his feet and into his strong arms. The Steward buried his face into his beloved ada’s shoulder and sighed a quiet sob.

“Do not ever doubt that you are loved as dearly by all of us, ion-nin,” Thranduil whispered into his son’s ear, tears welling in his eyes, cursing the old Steward’s legacy, knowing that the hurt, abandoned child that resided also in Faramir sought still the love of the man who had sired him.

Faramir nodded, acknowledging the words, burrowing deeper into his ada’s embrace to hide his tears. Thranduil responded by tightening his embrace. Moved by the scene, Aragorn moved unconsciously closer to his ada. Boromir looked on, aching to hold his little brother but thankful for the elven King’s strong arms and compassionate heart.

Explanation received, Aragorn took his leave of the others, sharing a look of affection with his ada, and left to search for his still, he felt certain, annoyed wife; whom he was sure would require delicate handling if he was to avoid sleeping on the couch this night.

Thranduil held his son until he was sure that Faramir had regained his composure. Just as they parted, Misto, who had been up in the rafters the entire time, descended upon a silken thread to dangle just in front of Faramir.

“Hungry, mama,” the hatchling said adamantly.

Faramir sighed.

“Would you prefer him to go in search of his own food, ion-nin,” Thranduil teased.

Faramir’s eyes widened in horror and he shook his head vehemently, visualising having to explain the sudden disappearances of cats, dogs and undersized servants. Thranduil laughed. Calling Misto to him, the Steward turned and was walking towards the door when he was stopped by his ada calling out his name. He turned back just in time to catch something thrown to him by the elven King. To his utmost mortification it was the jar of numbing salve he had smuggled into the twins’ room.

“I…,” he began, eyes widened in panic and swallowing hard.

“I know that you did not lie to me, technically, ion-nin but it was a very fine line. And never underestimate the eyesight or hearing abilities of an elf, especially one as old as Maglor,” he teased, looking askance at his Seneschal who returned a mock indignant glare. “Now be off with you.”

Faramir turned bright scarlet, ducking his head and smiling a little ruefully, before turning and walking from the room with the hatchling scuttling beside him, leaving his cousin to enjoy some quiet time with his uncle.

Aragorn returned to the Great Hall just as a dance was reaching its conclusion. He found his wife and Legolas easily amongst the lords and ladies of Gondor and the Swan Knights. Legolas released Arwen’s hand to Aragorn, who was looking at Arwen rather sheepishly and apologetically in the face of his wife’s raised eyebrow eerily reminiscent of their ada. Legolas walked over to the main table where he was met by the dwarf who was looking formidable, for what he lacked in height he more than made up for in breadth. Legolas gulped and attempted a tentative smile that looked more like a grimace.

“Mae govannen, Gimli,” Legolas squeaked.

“Well met indeed, Laddie,” Gimli replied menacingly. “We hae unfinished business to talk aboot, hae we no?”

“I am sorry for deceiving you, Gimli. Lord Elrond has already… dealt with my errors… most forcefully,” Legolas whined.

“Aye, I know. I hae spoken to Elrond and your ada,” Gimli said, almost chuckling at the look of indignation on his elfling’s face. “You were brought to account for aiding in the prank but you hae no been for deception, Laddie. Come, me bairn,” he added, turning towards the exit from the Great Hall

“What about the twins?” Legolas asked, wincing at his own cowardice.

Gimli stopped and turned back to his elf, eying him intently. Legolas, feeling ashamed, averted his gaze.

“From what your ada told me, they hae paid dearly for their errors and wi’ red backsides to prove it,” Gimli replied, turning again and walking towards the exit.

Gimli did not look back at the elf and Legolas was tempted to bolt but thought better of it, knowing how much worse it would be when the dwarf caught him. And catch him he would, as he could not stay out of sight indefinitely. Muttering curses he had learned from Faramir, Legolas followed the dwarf. Gimli led his elven friend to a quiet room in the opposite direction to that taken by Faramir. He found a comfortable lounge that was of a height suitable for a dwarf; which is why he had chosen the room and sat down in the middle, leaving enough room on both sides for an elf.

“All right, laddie,” Gimli said, patting his knee.

Legolas huffed as he walked over to the dwarf, fumbled with the ties of his leggings, so annoyed was he at the situation, pushed his leggings down to his knees and lowered himself over the dwarf’s knees. Gimli wasted no time in landing the first of a flurry of blows to Legolas’ buttocks, which he had to admit had been thoroughly spanked already. On the advice of Lord Elrond he was careful not to cover ground that Elrond had already covered, for fear of Legolas’ feelings of guilt deepening. It was not long before Legolas’ whimpers turned to yelps and his yelps to howls.

“I… am… s-sorry… I… will… never… d-deceive… again,” the distressed elf gasped out between sobs and howls of pain.

Taking pity on his elfling, Gimli ceased the chastisement, pulling up his elfling’s leggings. Legolas knelt on the floor, placed his head on the dwarf’s lap and his arms around his friend’s waist. Gimli smiled at the request for comfort and rubbed Legolas’ back in soothing motions.

“I am s-sorry, G-Gimli,” he said repeatedly, his breath hitching.

“I know, Laddie. All is forgiven,” he soothed the distressed elfling.

Elf and Dwarf stayed that way for a long time before making for their respective beds.

Part 29

For the next few days the three younger elves remained subdued following their recent chastisements. Faramir was deemed well enough by Elrond to resume his wizarding training in earnest. The Steward began each morning with Lord Elrond who tutored him in meditation techniques and in mind-to-mind strengthening exercises, after which he would spend some time listening to the teaching songs of the ring. The remainder of each day was devoted to wizarding training with Gandalf. No matter what the wizard asked his pupil to do Faramir was always able to do so, much to Gandalf’s growing consternation as, in his opinion, his young pupil should not have been capable of doing half of what he could.

The training proved so intensive and gruelling, due in a very large part to Gandalf’s attempts to ascertain his wizardling’s limitations, that the still recovering Steward was compelled to have an afternoon nap each day, which he chose always, weather permitting, to partake of bundled up warmly in a nest of blankets and pillows under the oldest tree in his mother’s garden. He was curled up currently under the very tree, sound asleep. Invariably, Misto spent that time ensconced in a web of his making in the tree above where his mama slept, happily occupied in watching the movement of humans and animals. Usually, Gandalf left his wizardling in peace but chose this day to sit upon a bench near Faramir and smoke his pipe. Thranduil, as was his habit, sat beside his slumbering son, enjoying the whispering of the trees and protecting Faramir from any who would disturb his sleep. Maglor sat on the stone bench opposite the one upon which Gandalf sat. The wizard seemed to be deep in thought, his head cocked slightly to one side as if listening, looking intently at his wizardling.

“Aha!” the wizard exclaimed eyebrows seeming to take flight, a puff of smoke billowing from his mouth and in a voice loud enough that Faramir stirred restlessly in his sleep. “That explains everything!”

“Explains what, Mithrandir?” Thranduil asked in a hushed, puzzled, voice as he watched his son settle back into sleep and tucked in the blankets covering Faramir to stave off the cool breeze that was blowing.

“Why my wizardling can do many things of which he should not yet be capable, such as pulling those young twin fools back from the edge of the Ship’s Keel,” Gandalf replied in a quieter voice. “It was not levitation that he used to save the twins but something far more difficult, requiring very advanced skills.”

“And the reason is…?” Thranduil prompted the wizard; much to the amusement of Maglor, who smirked at his friend, for even as a younger elf he had ever lacked the patience to wait for Gandalf’s oft-times long, convoluted explanations.

“The ring has been teaching him in his sleep!” Gandalf huffed.

“And that is a bad thing…?” Maglor asked tentatively.

“It is when he does not know what he knows until he finds himself in the position of having to use it and I do not know what he does not know, so I do not know what to teach him,” Gandalf blustered, annoyance growing.

“So, have you found much as yet that he does not know?” Thranduil asked intrigued.

“Nay, but…”

“So the training is progressing much faster than you anticipated, mellon-nin,” the elven King interjected before Gandalf could work up another head of steam and possibly wake Faramir.

“Whatever, but it is still very vexing!” the wizard huffed. “Wizarding skills are something that should be learned consciously and over much time, not whilst the wizardling is asleep. It is unnatural. Oh, do stop that!” the elves realised that the last annoyed comment was aimed at the ring. Thranduil and Maglor shared an amused look, both smiling at their grumpy friend, much to their grumpy friend’s annoyance.

“So, what are his skills?” Thranduil asked.

“I do not know!” Gandalf replied testily.

“The skills you know he possesses,” Maglor said patiently, looking askance at Thranduil whose eyes were twinkling with mirth.

“As you are aware he can read minds but he has always been able to do so, to a certain extent. He can project his thoughts into the minds of others. He can harness energy from around him and turn that energy into a bolt of blue lightening, the power of which we have had ample demonstration,” Gandalf said, alluding to the incident when Faramir lost his temper on realising that he would live much longer than he had anticipated and went about blasting very large boulders in half. The wizard winced at the thought of what his wizardling was capable of doing when he lost his temper.

“Oh, aye!” Thranduil confirmed, also remember the incident.

“You know that he can levitate and as we have recently discovered, he can also use energy drawn from about him to tether objects with a line of blue energy and pull them towards him. He can conjure illusions and I have just discovered that he can command the forces of nature, earth wind and fire. To what extent, I am still to ascertain,” Gandalf said, ticking off the list of skills mentally.

Elven eyebrows flew skywards as both Thranduil and Maglor whistled softly.

“He is indeed a powerful wizard!” Thranduil said, his voice filled with awe as he looked down upon his slumbering son. “Does the ring increase his power?”

“Nay. From when he was a babe –in-arms I have known that my wizardling had the potential to become an immensely powerful wizard and I knew also that he would one day find the ring of power he now wears, just not quite at so young an age. Denethor, as fey as Faramir, often berated and belittled his second born for being a wizard’s pupil, aware of Faramir’s potential but chose to see it as a threat to his much beloved heir, his first born,” Gandalf added, bitterness evident in his tone. “The ring extends his life, focuses his power and… teaches him in his sleep,” he growled the latter, glaring yet again at the ring on Faramir’s finger which could be seen peeping out from the edge of the blanket that covered him.

Gandalf would have continued had Faramir not awoken from his nap. Stretching like a cat before sitting up, the Steward rubbed his eyes in a sleepy manner that made him look exceedingly young.

“Good sleep?” Thranduil asked, a smile playing at the corners of his mouth at Faramir’s endearing motions.

“Aye, ada,” he replied blearily. “We meet with Elessar soon,” he added, looking at the sun’s location in the sky to determine the time.

Aragorn had called a Security Council meeting for mid afternoon to apprise his military commanders of new information he had received about the Harad situation and to develop strategies for the defence of Gondor. Present at the meeting were the King and Steward, most of the military commanders, two of the more competent councillors, Beregond, Prince Imrahil, Amrothos, Gandalf, the elves and Gimli. Misto had become such a common sight around the palace that not so much as an eyebrow lifted when the hatchling settled in the rafters above the Steward. Aragorn sat at the head of the table with Faramir on his right and Imrahil on his left. Legolas, still looking subdued, sat between Faramir and Thranduil. On first seeing his despondent brother and reading his thoughts which were very close to the surface and accompanied by feelings of guilt about what had almost transpired, Faramir squeezed the elf’s knee such as Legolas did when wanting to comfort him. Legolas gave his brother a small smile in return. Boromir entered the room through the wall greeting both his brother and cousin, both of whom returned the greeting with smiles, before sitting upon a side table near Faramir.

“I have received word from Dol Amroth that there has been increasing Corsair pirate activity on the Bay of Belfalas and Harad activity in Belfalas, Lebenin and Southern Gondor,” Aragorn began without preamble as he pointed to a large map laid out upon the table filled with lines, numbers and dates, depicting the movement, strength and dates on which the Haradrim, Corsairs and Orcs activity had been sighted. It was obvious from the map that the Haradrim and Orcs were gathering somewhere in the contested part of Southern Gondor, south of Lebenin. “Rohan advises of sightings of Orcs moving south in large numbers. We know that Saruman and the remaining Uruk Hai have allied with Harad and Saruman is training Haradrim wizards as we speak. All this activity leads me to the inevitable conclusion that the Haradrim are preparing to invade Gondor.”

“I concur,” Imrahil agreed.

“Gandalf advises that it will take several months at least to train wizards, so we do have time to plan our defences for when and where we wish to engage them, before they are trained fully. I am hoping to have word about Saruman’s location soon” Aragorn said, thinking about Finrod and the Lieutenant who by now had rendezvoused with Radagast and well on their way to tracing Saruman.

The rest of the meeting was devoted to planning the preparations necessary to see Gondor and its allies ready for the battle to come. The commanders were sent away with orders regarding supplying, training and deploying their troops. Beregond and the councillors were ordered to see to stocking of provisions in case Minas Tirith was put under siege and for evacuating outlying towns. Both Elrond and Thranduil pledged what support they could. At the conclusion of the meeting Aragorn, Beregond, the councillors and commanders were dismissed, whilst the rest stayed.

“Can Boromir spy upon the Haradrim?” Aragorn asked knowing that Boromir was in the room somewhere.

“I do not believe so,” Amrothos answered immediately, looking to Boromir for confirmation. Boromir nodded. “Grandfather told me that ghosts are anchored to that which they loved best. Grandfather could not go beyond five miles of Dol Amroth…”

“But Boromir appeared much further away from Minas Tirith,” Aragorn interjected, puzzled.

“Aye, however he is not anchored to Minas Tirith but to…”

“Faramir,” Aragorn comprehended.

“That which he loves best,” Amrothos confirmed, smiling at his cousins both of whom appeared to be blushing, although it was a little hard to tell with Boromir due to his ghostly pallor.

Aragorn, very aware that his brothers and Legolas were still feeling the aftershocks of their recent debacle of a prank, invited them and the others present to share the evening meal with him and Arwen in their private dining room. Faramir, Legolas and Thranduil returned to the Steward’s apartments to bathe and dress for dinner after which they proceeded to the dinning room.

Between the effects of excellent food, wine and the sparkling conversations of those in attendance, it was not long before the sombre mood of the three younger elves dissipated. At the conclusion of the meal the guests repaired to the next room, which boasted large fireplaces at both ends of the room and comfortable chairs and lounges grouped around the fireplaces to take advantage of the warmth to be had there from the cheerful fires. Arwen sat at one end of the room with Legolas, who sat between Faramir and Amrothos on a lounge, the twins and Gimli who sat on individual lounge chairs, whilst Aragorn sat at the other end with Elrond, Thranduil, Imrahil, Maglor and Gandalf. Misto was situated in his preferred location, that being above his mama.

Amrothos proved exceedingly adept at drawing tales from the twins about some of the more successful pranks they had perpetrated on unsuspecting elves, humans and dwarves. At the end of the last tale told they claimed that humans, in their experience, were not as skilled at devising or executing pranks, as were the elves.

“Oh dear, the gauntlet has been thrown!” Imrahil groaned to himself and winced as he had heard the ill-considered comment from the twin Elrondions. He looked over to his nephew and son, who sat on either side of Legolas, and winced anew at the identical expressions, a mixture of deviousness and plotting, sported by his fox-furred cubs, expressions that promised much deviltry to come.

Thranduil, who had also heard the twins’ comment, saw Imrahil cringe and heard his groan. He looked askance at Elrond and then to his human son and his son’s cousin. By the look Elrond had given him he realised that his friend was also aware of the twins’ challenge. At the same instant the fox-furred cousins apprehended that they were being watched and again in the very same moment their expressions turned to identical ones of innocence, such as their grandsire had sported all those years ago, made all the funnier as Legolas turned his head and looked from one to the other, lifted his eyes heavenward, shook his head and shuddered severely. Both Elrond and Thranduil laughed heartily and Maglor smirked, much to the bemusement of both Aragorn and Gandalf as neither had been in a position to witness what had just occurred. Arwen, as sharp as her ada, giggled. The twins and Gimli looked as bemused as Aragorn and Gandalf at the elder elves laughter.

Part 30

The next day, seven day, was Faramir’s day of rest, as proclaimed by Thranduil. No one dared approach the Steward on the seventh day with anything that looked remotely like work for fear of inciting the wrath of both the elven King and a certain elven ‘nanny’. Faramir awoke later that morning, although still quite early, than was his wont as he had spent a goodly part of the previous evening plotting with his like-minded cousin. The Steward walked to the large dinning room in his apartments, with Misto scuttling along the rafters above, arriving just as the morning meal was being served.

Already in attendance was his ada, Legolas, Maglor, Gimli, Imrahil and Amrothos. Faramir greeted each in turn before sitting in the empty chair between his ada and Legolas, opposite his uncle and cousin. Throughout the meal Imrahil kept looking at his fox cubs intently as if putting them on notice, so to speak. In return he received looks of such innocence that the hair on the back of his neck stood on end. Thranduil saw the byplay between Imrahil and his fox cubs and could not help but feel sympathy for the Prince, for his friend’s inability to confront them, having no concrete evidence that they were indeed conspiring to perpetrate some mischief.

He smiled knowingly at his elfling’s increasing annoyance as he also bore witness to the byplay between the humans. It was obvious that his elfling was vexed at being excluded thus far from the conspiracy. Thranduil doubted that they would continue to exclude Legolas. Given his elven son’s past history with pranks gone wrong and cascading disasters that seemed to flow from the smallest of actions on the part of his elfling, Thranduil thought it wise of Faramir to limit Legolas’ involvement. As much as he loved his elfling, the elven King was not blind to the fact that his elfling was ever a disaster waiting to happen. Knowing of what his very devious human son was capable, and suspecting that Imrahil’s cub possessed a similar capability, the Valar only knew he thought, what they would do to the Elrondion twins. The part of him that was father felt sorry for the unsuspecting sons of Elrond but all the other parts were secretly looking forward to what the descendents of Adrahil perpetrated upon the ‘duo horribus’.

At the conclusion of the meal, Thranduil, Maglor, and Imrahil departed. As soon as they were deemed to be out of earshot, Legolas rounded on his brother.

“What are you planning, muindor tithen? And do not attempt to tell me that you are not!” Legolas exclaimed both angered and a little hurt.

Faramir put a hand on his brother’s shoulder.

“It was never our intention to exclude you, brother,” Faramir soothed his elven brother’s ruffled feathers. “It is just that you are mishap personified and I am afraid that if you knew all of what we planned, it would turn to follow the path of disaster as inevitably as the sun rises and sets.”

“Och! He has ye there, laddie,” Gimli laughed, remembering more than one such disaster befalling his elven friend.

After an initial wave of annoyance and denial, Legolas blushed furiously ducking his head in acceptance of his brother’s words.

“So you have something planned for this evening then?” Legolas guessed.

“Aye, we have and you will be pivotal to the success of what we have planned, cousin,” Amrothos apprised, bringing a shy smile to Legolas’ countenance both by his inclusion in the planned prank and in his brother’s family.

“What we want you and Gimli to do is to effect revenge on the twins for drugging you recently, by, in turn, drugging them,” Faramir advised making both Legolas and Gimli shiver at the look of unfettered mischief that graced Faramir’s features.

“That does possess a certain elegant symmetry, I do confess,” Legolas replied, a broad smile breaking out. “Although, in truth, it was Elrohir only,” he added sighing.

“Aye, that is true but it was Elladan who boasted about the deed,” Faramir reasoned.

Legolas’ smile turned decidedly wicked.

The twins spent the day with Legolas, Gimli and Misto, who was still grumbling about being forced by his mama to go with the ‘baaaddd’ elf. When the twins enquired about Misto’s presence and Faramir’s absence, they were advised that both Faramir and Amrothos were visiting mutual friends in the lower rings of the city and thought it unfair to drag the hatchling from location to location through crowded streets.

Early in the evening, Faramir and Amrothos arrived at the King and Queen’s private dinning room as Aragorn and Arwen had earlier invited family and friends to join them for the evening meal. Both fox-furred humans looked to be in good spirits but somewhat tired. The meal was a congenial affair enjoyed thoroughly by all those in attendance. At the conclusion of the meal, Gimli invited Legolas, the twins, Faramir and Amrothos to share several bottles of wines of excellent vintage that he had procured. They were in fact wines of excellent vintage given to him by Faramir who had raided his own supply. The Steward also supplied a very strong sleeping elixir.

Aragorn had indicated earlier in the evening that he wanted to discuss matters of supplies with Elrond, Thranduil, Maglor, Gandalf and Imrahil. He had looked meaningfully at Faramir, hoping that his Steward would volunteer to stay but did not dare ask openly as he did not want to face the wrath of Thranduil or Maglor. Faramir gave his apologies advising the King that he and Amrothos were headed for the barracks as they had promised to meet with the Swan Knights who were due to depart for Dol Amroth on the morrow.

Elrond bid his sons a good evening, saying that he would, in all likelihood, not return to their apartment until after they had retired to their beds. Unseen by all with the exception of Maglor and Imrahil, although Faramir did have his suspicions, was the twinkle in Thranduil’s eyes. All three suspected that Elrond was leaving the way clear for whatever mischief had been planned for the evening, which surprised Faramir greatly.

Gimli and the younger elves departed for Elrond’s quarters. Faramir and Amrothos bid all a good evening and left the room at a sedate pace, until, that is, they reached the doors leading outside the palace after which they hared off towards the lower levels of the city to continue their preparations.

Amrothos ran down to the second level of the city to collect the very large pig that was mascot for one of the several alehouses located on that level. Earlier, it had taken much convincing and not a little money on his part to gain the agreement of the publican to lend him the pig for the night. The pig was domesticated and required only a steady supply of ale, contained in a barrel purchased and now held by Amrothos, to follow the Swan Knight through deserted alleys, up to the next level and down a disused blind alley that contained the hidden entrance to a secret passage that led back to the palace, known to only a handful of people.

Faramir went to collect the goose, duck and rooster that he had purchased earlier in the day from the commercial district and had hidden in another secret passage that led from the commercial district back to the palace. Faramir, having made his way through a labyrinth of connected passages, stopped near the twins’ room. It was not long before he heard Amrothos berating the pig for having a hog of an appetite for ale. His admonishment was followed in short order by a very deep resounding burp, which Faramir assumed came from the pig or so he hoped. The young Swan Knight’s task was made all the more difficult because he was holding a glowing lantern as well as the barrel of ale, the contents of which had diminished alarmingly. Amrothos stopped when he saw his cousin, upon which the pig collapsed slowly to the ground; passed out drunk.

“It is a good thing that you can levitate heavy objects, Fara” Amrothos sighed ruefully as he and Faramir looked down upon the soused, slumbering piece of pork, which must have weighed at least five hundred pounds.

Faramir looked about him in the soft light of several lit lanterns to check that they had all the items necessary. The items included two largish, filled barrels with cork stoppers located on the outside of each barrel close to the bottom. Behind the stopper of each barrel, on the inside, was a thin piece of wood larger than the hole to stop it from escaping through the hole. Attached to the piece of wood was a length of twine, which had been threaded through the hole before the cork stopper was inserted. Another length of twine had been threaded through the cork stopper of each barrel. In addition to the barrels and twine, there were two lengths of rope each of which was attached to a pile of rocks encased in rope netting. Two large single rocks were attached to the two piles netted rocks by a much smaller length of rope. Lastly there were two wooden catapults, standing about waist height and a large plump hemp bag, such as in which potatoes were transported.

The cousins waited with their strange collection of items and animals, until they heard a series of knocks on the wall signalling that the twins were asleep and in their beds. Faramir opened the secret door and emerged from behind a large bookcase, which was mounted on a false wall and swung open into the room on hinges, like a door. Legolas and Gimli’s smiles attested to the success of their part of the prank, the twins being well and truly asleep having been relieved of their leggings and tunics and dressed in their nightshirts by the Mirkwood elf and the dwarf.

Faramir shooed his brother and Gimli from the room with the advice that they should be ready at dawn to return to witness the results of their efforts. Legolas signalled Misto to come but the little creature hissed at him and refused outright. Faramir allowed Misto to stay but told him to keep to a corner of the room. Misto obeyed without question, much to Legolas’ annoyance.

With his brother and Gimli gone, Faramir and Amrothos began to gather the items from the secret passage and place them strategically in the room. Faramir levitated each pile of rocks, with attached single rock, to the top of the rafter located high up above, about four feet clear from the end of each bed. He then used his wizarding skills to wrap the rope around the wooden pegs that had been nailed earlier into the side of the rafter, thread the rope over the rafter and fall to the floor and coil haphazardly on the floor. A catapult was placed about eight feet away from the end of each bed and half the contents of the hemp bag placed into each catapult. The wizardling then levitated each barrel onto the rafter in close proximity to each pile of netted rocks. The other ends of the two lengths of twine dangled from the barrels and coiled on the floor. Faramir levitated his cousin up to the rafter so that Amrothos could tie the pieces of twine attached to the corks to the top of the pile of netted rocks. Lowering his cousin to the ground, Faramir proceeded to tie the other piece of twine attached to the thin piece of wood located inside each of the barrels, to each of the catapults. The ends of the rope coiled on the floor, which were attached to single rocks, which in turn were attached to the piles of netted rocks, were tied around one of each twin’s ankles. Throughout the process, Faramir kept checking that the twins were indeed still in deep sleep.

Faramir added the final touches by levitating the huge, slumbering pig out of the secret passage and onto Elladan’s bed. The elf never stirred. Finally, the cousins, calmly and quietly, let the duck, goose and rooster out of their cages and into the room. Thankfully, the animals remained strangely quiet, which Faramir realised was due to Misto’s presence. Pleased with their efforts, the cousins and Misto left the twins’ bedroom via the secret passage and made their way to their own beds.

Elladan was the first to emerge from reverie the next morning, as the first rays of sunshine entered their bedroom, to the feel of hot breath on the back of his neck.

“Roh, get back to your own bed. Your breath stinks of ale,” he mumbled, elbowing his brother only to discover that something much bigger, softer and smellier, lay in the bed beside him.

Yelping, Elladan jumped out of bed only to find himself jerked by the ankle and up towards the ceiling as the pull of the rope round his ankle dislodged the single rock on the rafter, which then dislodged the netted rocks, which fell the floor, pulling him towards the ceiling. His yelp of distress woke both the rooster, who began to crow from his perch at the head of Elrohir’s bed and his brother. Elrohir jumped from his bed in fright only to find himself in the same position as his brother, upended and hanging from the rafter by an ankle, his long raven hair dangling beneath him and his nightshirt around his neck, exposing him.

As the piles of netted rocks had hit the ground, the pieces of twine that ran from the corks of the barrels to the netted rocks, dislodged the corks, thus spilling the contents of the barrels onto the twins. The barrels were filled with a mixture of molasses and water, making a very sticky mixture, which oozed quite freely from the barrels and onto the hapless, inverted twins. The yelping of the twins excited the duck, goose, pig and rooster, which began, in turn, to quack, honk, squeal and crow, waking all the occupants in the wing housing the King and Steward.

Elrond, being the closest in location to the twins’ sleeping chamber, was the first on the scene, followed in quick order by Aragorn and Arwen, who arrived just in time to see the now empty barrels fall from their perch, tugging on the twine that attached them to the catapults. Legolas, Gimli, Maglor, Imrahil, Gandalf and Thranduil arrived in time to see the contents of the catapults, feathers, shoot towards the twins who were struggling to keep their nightshirts from exposing them and thus their modesty. All the while the duck was still quacking, the pig squealing, the rooster crowing and the goose honking.

“Like twin, feathered bats,” Elrond said surveying his sticky, feather-coated sons calmly and mentally shaking hands with his friend Adrahil for breeding true.

It was at this point that Aragorn, Gimli and Legolas, all of whom had just watched the chaotic scene in stunned silence, lost it completely, laughing so hard that they needed the support of walls and doorframes. Thranduil and Arwen laughed merrily, Gandalf smiled and Maglor chortled. Imrahil just shook his head, eyes wide as he surveyed the chaos. Faramir and Amrothos arrived on the scene with such wide-eyed looks of astonishment and innocence that both Maglor and Imrahil snorted and Elrond laughed heartily. Faramir and his cousin both saw Boromir up in the rafter, his booming laughter bringing smiles to their faces.

Part 31

The twins were assisted down from their undignified, upended positions by Gandalf and the three elder elves, upon which they disappeared promptly into their bathing chamber, to regain their composure and divest themselves of the very sticky molasses, which had managed to insinuate into every crevice, and feathers. Before disappearing they gave Legolas and Gimli, who were still laughing heartily, looks that promised hours of pain filled retribution, seemingly unaware of the identities of the real culprits behind their embarrassing, not to mention sticky, situation.

The birds and pig were still registering their protests vociferously. Exasperation evident, Imrahil glared at his fox cubs, searching for even a hint of guilt from either cub upon which he could pounce. But neither so much as blinked, returning looks of such innocence and faint hurt that Legolas found that he could not stop himself from cuffing Faramir upside the head hard enough to cause red-gold curls to bounce. A fresh round of snorts and laugher from those gathered ensued and Faramir glared at Legolas and then at Boromir who was still sitting on the rafter above, chortling merrily.

Shaking his head, Imrahil ordered his fox cubs to ‘put the place to rights’ before turning on his heels and exiting the room followed by the elder elves, Gandalf and Aragorn. Aragorn signalled Arwen to stay with the others in the hopes that she would find out how Faramir and Amrothos had achieved such a feat as entrapping their brothers so thoroughly in a prank. Imrahil led the others to one of the smaller, more comfortable meeting rooms and sat down upon one of several lounge chairs arranged around a large fireplace. Morning sunshine was streaming through the large windows that looked out upon a garden beyond.

“I must profess,” Elrond began, sounding uncharacteristically impressed as he sat down on the lounge next to Imrahil, “I have never before seen such an elaborate prank executed with such efficiency and so swiftly.

“Nor have I seen the ‘duo horribus’ so easily and so thoroughly ensnared before,” Thranduil chuckled, eyes twinkling with mirth as were Gandalf’s.

“I would like to know where they obtained that gargantuan of a pig and how they managed to secret it into the twins’ room unseen and unheard,” Aragorn said in a tone that was a mixture of puzzlement and awe.

Imrahil groaned.

“I think you will find that the pig belongs to a thoroughly disreputable drinking establishment located on the second level of the city that sprog and foxling were known to frequent in their younger years before the war,” Imrahil explained, somewhat abashed. “The palace, not to mention Minas Tirith, is riddled with secret passages, most of which are known only to my foxling now, I suspect.”

“I know my son is devious and suspected that young Amrothos is as well, but this…” Thranduil said, waving his hand in a vague manner, awed by the magnitude of what Imrahil’s descendent fox cubs had achieved in such a short space of time.

“The Sionnach¹ of Ithilien strikes again, I am afraid,” Imrahil sighed.

“What did you call him?” Aragorn asked, shocked.

“Sionnach of Ithilien, the name given Faramir by his rangers. Did you not know?” Imrahil asked in turn.

“Nay, I did not know that the infamous Sionnach was my Steward. Although, of course, sionnach; fox,” Aragorn confessed, shaking his head and smiling ruefully. “Boromir told me tales of his younger brother’s war in Ithilien and of his keen strategic mind but never once mentioned that he was the Fox of Ithilien.”

“I did not know either, though I knew he was a captain of the rangers,” Thranduil acknowledged.

“_The_ captain of the rangers,” Imrahil corrected. “There was only foxling and his lieutenants leading the rangers. And given how poorly provisioned they were in terms of arms and food in comparison to every other Gondorian soldier; they wrought miracles, only, in the end, to pay the highest price of all Gondorians. So few survived and not one of them untouched,” he sighed in sadness, his voice trailing off as he remembered the fallen rangers, some of their faces flashing across his mind’s eye.

“Even in Mirkwood we heard tales of the war of wits that Sionnach waged against the Southrons and Easterlings, not to mention the enormous bounty that had been placed on his head, doubled if captured alive,” Thranduil whistled softly.

“His reputation was known in Rivendell as well. It explains much,” Elrond confirmed and then smiled, if a little wanly, thinking on Imrahil’s words about the fate of the rangers. “I fear I set not fox cubs on my two unsuspecting fledglings but fully blooded foxes!”

“Nay, my friend, fox cubs still. But the Valar help us all when they develop fully and surpass the old fox, my sire, they so resemble,” Imrahil shuddered.

“On the subject of your fledglings, mellon nin” Thranduil began, eyes twinkling, “when they recover from the shock they are certain to seek revenge.”

“Aye, I know,” Elrond sighed, “although they seem not to have comprehended as yet, whom or what they are up against.”

“Nay, they do not,” Imrahil shuddered yet again at the thought of what his devious cubs were capable.

“I trust the Sionnach of Ithilien’s skill in executing pranks that do not harm the White City or its inhabitants but ada! The twins!” Aragorn exclaimed, eyes widening in alarm at the very thought of the devastation the twins could cause. “They are capable of rocking Minas Tirith to its very foundations, especially as their pranks are ever wont to go awry.”

“Which brings me to the subject of a favour I have been meaning to beg of you,” Elrond said, looking directly at Maglor.

“You wish me to twin-sit,” Maglor replied looking as if he was suffering from indigestion.

“If you would, please, as I need to spend more time with Faramir,” Elrond said, the corners of his mouth twitching; threatening to break out in a smirk.

“I will do so but under sufferance and you will owe me, elfling,” Maglor replied sternly, causing Imrahil’s eyes to widen in surprise at the term ‘elfling’ and the tone.

“Just how old are you?” Imrahil’s question sprang forth before his mind could consider whether the question was indeed politic or not.

“As old as Arda,” both Thranduil and Elrond replied at the same time, the elven King’s eyes twinkling and the Lord of Rivendell smirking. Both laughed on seeing Imrahil’s look of astonishment that highlighted the resemblance between the prince and his fox furred nephew.

Imrahil’s response was allayed by a servant who entered to advise that the morning meal was ready and being served in the King’s private dinning room.

The elder elves, Gandalf, Imrahil and Aragorn repaired to the dinning room. They were not there long before Gimli, Legolas and Arwen arrived. Arwen, whose eyes and face were still alight with mirth, glided over to Aragorn and sat down beside him exchanging a look filled with merriment. Legolas sat beside his ada and Gimli beside him. Faramir and Amrothos entered the room calmly as if nothing the least bit untoward had occurred. Amrothos sat next to Imrahil, who sat opposite Thranduil.

“Where is Misto?” Thranduil asked.

“In the dungeon partaking of his break-of-fast,” Faramir responded, eyes a-twinkle, examining his cousin’s face which was looking a little green, as he moved to sit beside his ada only to stop when he saw Boromir come striding through the wall, a sight that never failed to send a shiver down his spine.

“I would start running if I were you, little brother,” Boromir said conversationally, a smirk very evident on his ghostly face, sending a shiver up Faramir’s spine.

The Steward, eyes searching about him frantically for the source of the danger, made to move towards the glassed doors that led out to a balcony that overlooked the pond and garden beyond, when the twins came bounding into the room, one via the glassed doors and balcony, and the other via the entrance that led out into the hallway. With predatory stares fixed upon their prey, the twins, looking for all the world like two black-furred hunting cats, stalked towards Faramir.

“Methinks they have finally established the identity of the main perpetrator of their embarrassment,” Thranduil murmured, eyes twinkling as he exchanged knowing glances with both Elrond and Imrahil.

Amrothos and Legolas would have risen to Faramir’s aid had they not each been stayed by the heavy hands of their sires on their shoulders. Faramir thought fleetingly of using his wizarding powers but rejected the idea immediately not wanting to incite his ada’s wrath, not to mention that of Gandalf, Elrond, his uncle or Maglor. In the blink of an eye, he grabbed a large metal bowl of fruit from the middle of the table and threw it at Elladan who had entered the room via the hallway entrance. In a reflex action, Elladan caught the heavy bowl minus most of its contents.

Faramir used the distraction to dive under the table, coming out on the other side next to Amrothos, sprang to his feet and ran towards the door leading out into the hallway. He would have succeeded too if it had not been for a servant who chose that moment to enter the room carrying a large silver pot containing hot porridge. Faramir avoided the servant but in the process of doing so lost his balance momentarily, allowing enough time for Elrohir to tackle him from behind even as Elladan was attempting still to divest himself of the heavy metal bowl, which he did so by placing it back onto the table.

Aragorn and Legolas winced knowing what it was like to be tackled by either twin. The servant, however, acted as if nothing unusual was happening as he placed the pot of porridge on a side table and then exited the room, stepping over the Rivendell elf who straddled the Steward of Gondor. Elladan approached his twin and Faramir, who had managed during the tussle to turn over onto his back, crouching down beside them.

“Why me?” Faramir whined, feeling somewhat aggrieved that he alone had been set upon by the twins.

“Legolas is mischievous…” Elrohir purred, pinning Faramir’s wrists firmly to the floor.

“… but is not by nature…” Elladan continued in the same purr-like tone.

“… devious… “

“… conniving… ”

“… duplicitous… “

“… cunning…”

“… designing…”

“… crafty… ”

“… scheming… “

“… treacherous… “

“… sneaky… “

“… tricky… “

“… sly… ”

“… as was the perpetrator…”

“… of the prank…”

“… to which we fell…”

“… victim…” Elladan concluded, enunciating each syllable clearly.

“I am not the only one here who has been called devious,” Faramir retorted, petulantly.

“Nay… “ Elladan purred.

“… but we recognise… “

“… who is the leader… “

“… of that fox-furred litter…”

“… foxling… “ Elladan purred menacingly.

“Oh do shut up, you dunce!” Faramir snapped at his chortling ghostly brother, eliciting twins looks of puzzlement.

“Oh, little brother, they have described you perfectly!” Boromir laughed merrily.

“Most humorous!” Faramir replied sarcastically. “Great lot of good you were!” he grouched.

It took a moment for the twins to realise that Faramir was conversing with Boromir.

“I do not believe you truly know who you have there, ions-nin,” Elrond cautioned, mirth very close to the surface.

“Faramir Thranduilion… “ Elrohir began, somewhat bemused at his ada’s enigmatic tone.

“… Steward of Gondor…”

“… Prince of Ithilien… “

“Not only the Prince but the Sionnach of Ithilien,” Elrond added in a conversational tone.

Legolas, Arwen and the twins all gasped, each knowing the name, having heard tales of the illusive human who waged war against the Southrons and Easterlings in the forests of Ithilien.

“You are Sionnach?” the twins asked as one, astonished and deeply impressed.

“This is not exactly a position from which I would want to admit to that, now is it?” Faramir protested, alluding to his currently captive state, flat on his back, under Elrohir. “And if you do not cease your incessant cackling, brother, I swear I will fall on my sword and chase you all the way to the halls of our ancestors! And do not think I will stop there, Sir!” he snarled, which of course only incited his ghostly brother’s sense of the ridiculous, thus his laughter, to ever-greater heights and sniggers and chortles from the others.

“Temper, temper, little one!” Boromir teased, chortling. “What kind of example are you setting for our young cousin here, hmmmm?”

“Oh, no! You leave me out of this argument, Boromir,” Amrothos warned from his seated position at the table, although his eyes were alight with humour, eliciting questioning looks from those seated around the table.

“We are going to have such fun,” Elladan began brightly, regaining Faramir’s wary attention.

“… think of what we can do when we join forces… “ Elrohir continued in the same bright tone, still pinning Faramir firmly to the floor.

“… after we have exacted retribution for the prank of course…” Elladan concluded with a decidedly feral looking grin.

Boromir laughed uproariously, garnering a beaming grin from Amrothos and a menacing glare from Faramir.

[1] Sionnach Irish for fox. Pronunciation: I have no idea. Anyone out there know?

Part 32

The rest of the day proved uneventful as Faramir continued his tutelage under Elrond and Gandalf. As had become the pattern for the Steward of Gondor, soon after eating the midday meal of cheese, bread and fruit in his mother’s garden, he fell asleep in a nest of blankets under his tree. The twins were not seen for the rest of the day, assumed generally to be plotting.

It was not until the following morning that it became evident that the twins had indeed spent the previous day plotting, when a mighty bellow, such as could only belong to the bellows… lungs… of a dwarf, rent the air within the Steward’s wing of the palace. Faramir, Amrothos, Legolas and of course, Misto, were in the antechamber that led to the entrances of the Steward’s apartments and guest apartments about to make their way to the King’s Private dining room when the bellow sounded. They turned towards the entrance to where Gimli was staying in time to see the dwarf, dripping wet, dressed in nothing but his leggings and a loose fitting under-tunic, wielding his lethal battle-axe and looking extremely… green. His hair, beard, face, forearms, hairy chest and bare feet were all a vivid green, a green not seen in nature. Human and elven eyes all widened in astonishment at the state of the dwarf and at the growing number of green drips forming a puddle on the floor beneath the dwarf. Amrothos thought, rather irreverently, that it certainly put paid to the general belief that dwarves were averse to immersing their entire bodies when bathing.

“Let me at ‘em. I will kill yon twin beasties!” Gimli roared. “One smirk out of ye, laddie… “ he added on seeing the twinkle in Legolas’ eyes, leaving the threat of painful physical chastisement hanging.

Faramir managed to dispossess the angry dwarf of his axe by reminding him, in his normal, calm, quiet, conversational tone, as he tugged on the axe trying to loosen Gimli’s grip, of the relationship between the twins and the Lady Galadriel; with whom he knew the dwarf was besotted.

The commotion brought Thranduil, Imrahil, Maglor and Boromir, who made his usual entrance through a solid wall, upon the astonishing scene, emerging from the apartments in which they were residing or in Boromir’s case; wherever he had been haunting last. Thranduil looked sharply at Maglor who retuned a rather coy shrug. It was obvious to the elven King that his Seneschal had been aware of the prank and had allowed it to play out.

Faramir, still holding the battle-axe, kept making strange choking sounds not helped by Boromir’s booming laughter and comments about walking vegetables and this was as close as the dwarf would ever come to eating his greens.

“Please, excuse me Gimli,” Faramir managed to choke out before handing Legolas the battle-axe, turning on his heels and all but bolting out of the room and through the open door leading to his own chambers.

“What is that laddie’s problem?” Gimli asked, obviously confused.

“I will find out,” Amrothos offered in the same strange choked voice before he too bolted in the same direction Faramir had taken, Boromir’s laughter following him.

“Humans!” Gimli exclaimed, perplexed.

The rest of what he was about to say was interrupted by Aragorn’s entrance, the King’s eyes widening comically as he tried to comprehend his friend’s current intensely green state. Aragorn started making similar noises to those made by Faramir and Amrothos.

“That way, Estel” Thranduil said, pointing in the direction taken by his son, his eyes twinkling as he watched Aragorn also bolt from the room without so much as an acknowledgement or thank you.

“Well!” the green dwarf huffed.

“Come, Master Gimli,” Maglor sighed. “Let us see if we can cure you of that very… fetching colour,” he added, guiding Gimli back into the dwarf’s chambers, sparing a ‘put upon’ look for Thranduil as he passed him.

As soon as dwarf and elf disappeared into the chamber, Imrahil burst out into peals laughter so hard that tears streamed down his face. It was not long before the human’s laughter was accompanied by the tinkling laughter of elves.

“As old as Arda or not, that elf is positively evil at times,” Imrahil managed to say when his laughter had abated somewhat.

“Yes… well… you must understand that there is a bit of history between the dwarves and the elves of Mirkwood, not made any easier by the rather… unique… perceptions of a certain hobbit,” Thranduil replied enigmatically, looking askance at Legolas, whose eyes twinkled as brightly as his adas.

“_Do_ tell,” Imrahil encouraged as he led Thranduil and Legolas out f the antechamber, into the hallway and towards the King’s private dining room.

Thranduil related the story of Bilbo Baggins and the dwarves from the elven perspective, which was decidedly different from that of the hobbit. Knowing Thranduil as well as he did now through their mutual love of Faramir, Imrahil found it difficult to reconcile the version of events as detailed in Bilbo’s book with what Thranduil had just told him. Although he had a great deal of respect for the hobbit and his nephew, Frodo, he was not blind to a hobbit’s propensity for embellishing the truth on occasions, not Sam or Frodo but certainly Merry and Pippin… especially Master Took.

“So… Maglor knew what Bilbo was attempting and was there to ensure that he succeeded in getting the dwarves out of your fortress; thus getting you out of a delicate situation of your own making,” Imrahil summarised, causing Thranduil to wince.

“Yes… well… I and my temper do still have our moments, I must confess,” Thranduil replied sheepishly, eliciting a snort from Legolas. “He is still upset that Bilbo in his book depicted the Mirkwood elves as being avaricious and slightly backward, when, he had to clear the corridors constantly of elves who arrived on the scene to investigate the vast array of noises that the hobbit and dwarves kept making during the ‘escape’.”

“He was still giving ada dark looks and making pointed comments when I arrived back from patrol two days later,” Legolas sniggered.

Thranduil blushed remembering Maglor’s reaction to the whole affair. He had found sitting not to be a viable option for several days after the incident. Imrahil smirked seeing the elven King’s discomfiture, suspecting what Maglor’s response would have been and where it would have been registered most strongly.

The morning meal turned out to be an interesting affair. Gimli, looking less green, entered the room followed by Maglor. The dwarf glared at the twins before sitting down at the opposite end of the table beside Legolas who was seated at the table already. Gimli was not the only one glaring at the twins for Elrond, who had deduced immediately cause of the dwarf’s green tinge, glared at his sons and sent a look of reproach at the Mirkwood Seneschal, which Maglor chose to ignore. Despite the glares they received the twins looked very smug.

Aragorn, Faramir with Misto in tow and Amrothos entered the dining room looking fairly composed followed by Boromir who was still chortling merrily, much to the fox cubs’ annoyance as it made it more difficult for them to maintain their composures. Aragorn sat down beside Arwen who looked at her husband with suppressed mirth that made his own threaten to bubble to the surface again. Faramir and Amrothos sat down beside their respective fathers and tried not to look at Gimli. Misto scuttled off to Arwen to greet the she-elf, hoping to receive a caress from her in return.

Boromir enjoyed himself immensely as the watched all the surreptitious looks, amusement and glares that played out around the table. Faramir, Amrothos and Aragorn were working very hard in their attempts to maintain neutral expressions. Gimli and Elrond sent occasional glares towards the twins. The twins were deliberately fuelling the fires by continuing to smirk. Arwen’s eyes were filled with amusement and even Gandalf seemed to be enjoying the non-verbal messages flying around the table, his eyes looking very owlish as they looked from diner to diner.

At the conclusion of the morning meal Faramir followed his normal morning routine, first with Elrond and then Gandalf, after which he ate the midday meal in the garden and rested under his tree with Misto ensconced in his web above until he saw something that interested him, descended the tree on a thread and scuttled off towards the palace; being careful not to wake his mama.

Emboldened by their success with the prank on Gimli, the twins sought out Legolas to have a little fun intimidating the wood elf. They managed to corner Legolas in a room, the windows of which looked out upon the garden in which Faramir was sleeping. The twins stalked towards Legolas with predatory expressions designed to make the wood elf wary. Just as they reached Legolas they were startled by the sudden and silent appearance of Misto, dangling on a thread, between them and their prey having descended from the rafter above.

“Mine!” Misto exclaimed. “My baaaddd elf! Go ‘way!” he hissed in warning trying to look as menacing as possible, which given how much he had grown was quite menacing indeed.

Elven eyes, including those of Legolas, widened as they all stared at the baby spider in astonishment.

“Mama!” Misto said focussing on a point behind the twins who stood in front of him, causing the twins to turn in the direction the spider was looking expecting to see Faramir but seeing only Amrothos in the hallway at the entrance to the room.

When they turned back again both Misto and Legolas were gone. Legolas had used Misto’s thread to pull himself up onto the rafter and Misto had followed him. Legolas ran along the rafter and dropped down near Amrothos who had witnessed the entire scene and had been ready to intervene if Legolas needed assistance. Misto continued on his way out of the room towards his mama, cackling; a sound that sent shivers up the spines of human and elves. The twins, having been thwarted in their intimidation of Legolas, exited the room via the balcony to return to their plotting.

“I thought that he did not like you?” Amrothos remarked, looking puzzled as he watched the spider scuttle out of the room.

“I think that he is of the belief that he, and he only, has the right to annoy and torment me,” Legolas sighed resigned, eliciting a chuckle from Amrothos.

“He is remarkably sneaky, for such a young creature that is,” Amrothos said.

“Aye… he is,” Legolas mused, looking thoughtful. “More so than is known in his species, generally.”

“Aye, but remember to whom he is allied and how sneaky Fara can be” Amrothos smiled.

“You do not do badly yourself, cousin,” Legolas retorted.

“Aye, but everything I have learned, I have learned from him and our grandfather,” Amrothos replied.

After the sun had set and prior to the evening meal, Elrond, Gandalf, Imrahil and Thranduil were enjoying a friendly and lively discussion in the drawing room of the apartment that Elrond shared with the twins. The conversation came to an abrupt halt when the twins entered the room, expressions as dark as thunderclouds, covered with what looked like oil and reeking of a floral perfume, followed by Maglor who was smiling broadly. Elrond raised an eyebrow in question at the twins, his nose wrinkling at the power of the floral smell, a question they chose not to answer as they disappeared through a doorway that led through to their bathing chamber.

“Under the cover of darkness they attempted to rig a large leather bladder filled with highly perfumed oil in the branches in the tree under which Faramir sleeps…” Maglor began in response to the questioning looks he received.

“Let me guess. The tree warned Faramir,” Thranduil interjected.

“Aye. I am still not certain myself where he was but as the twins were standing on the ground attempting to hoist the bladder into the tree by use of a rope over a branch, two arrows from a long bow hit the bladder. The weight of the water tore the thin leather… “ Maglor continued only to be interrupted again.

“The contents of which emptied onto my elflings below,” Elrond said, shaking his head. “I do hope they did not purloin any of Arwen’s perfume or she will have their guts for garters.”

Part 33

The twins were the only ones not to surface the next morning for the morning meal in the King and Queen’s private dining room, apparently yet too fragrant; despite several hard scrubbings. Gimli, still tinged green, laughed uproariously and slapped Faramir on the back so hard that the Steward almost went face first into his bowl of porridge when Aragorn had concluded the story of the mysterious arrows that foiled the twins’ prank, as told to him by his ada when he enquired the previous evening as to the origin of the very powerful floral smell that seemed to have permeated his apartments. Arwen, on hearing the story from their ada, had gone straight to her private chambers to count bottles of perfume and check the contents. Wherever the twins had secured the perfume they had at least shown uncharacteristically good sense in not pilfering from their sister.

Amrothos beamed at his cousin, as did Legolas and Gimli. Gandalf eyed his wizardling with a stern expression but it was evident to all that the wizard’s humour was laying just beneath the surface. Imrahil just shook his head at his foxling’s cunning, thinking that his father would have enjoyed the company of his descendent cubs immensely now that both had grown to adulthood. The conversation that morning was lively and filled with good humour.

At the conclusion of the meal Faramir, with Misto in tow, walked with Lord Elrond out into his mother’s garden to begin their daily meditation and mind strengthening exercises. As they emerged from the palace into the garden, Faramir saw his ada and Maglor under his tree looking from the tree and then ever upward and over towards the palace, obviously trying to work out the trajectory the arrows had taken. Faramir stopped abruptly. He knew the exact moment that his ada and Maglor realised where he must have been standing when he fired the arrows. On seeing the dark expressions on both elves faces, the young Steward backed up a step but was stayed by Elrond’s hand gripping the back of his neck suddenly. Looking askance at the elf he could see Elrond looking at the position the other elves eyes were fixed upon, his expression as thunderous as his ada and Maglor.

“Faramir Thranduilion!” the Elven King growled ominously as he turned dangerous looking eyes upon his son.

Faramir whimpered.

“Mama in trouble?” Misto asked.

“Aye, tithen pen, mama in trouble, big,” Elrond responded, using the grammatically incorrect phrasing that the hatchling had used on another occasion, increasing his grip on the back of Faramir’s neck causing the young human to wince.

“It is not as dangerous as it looks, ada,” Faramir reasoned tremulously, trying to swallow past the lump that had lodged suddenly in his throat. “I have a good head for heights,” he added quietly.

“Not as… not as dangerous… Aieeeeeeeee!” Thranduil spluttered. “That would be a precarious position for an elf in broad daylight, ion-nin! For a human at night, with a longbow, it is all but suicidal!” he bellowed looking back up at the small ornamental platform that protruded from the very edge of the topmost part of the steep palace roof, a sheer drop of many tens of feet on three sides.

In the blink of an eye and with a thunderous expression still gracing his features, Maglor produced Faramir’s Bane and passed it to his friend. Thranduil grabbed the paddle and stalked over to his son, eyes never leaving the nervous, whimpering human who was still being held in place by Elrond’s hand gripping the back of his neck tightly. The Rivendell lord released his grip when Thranduil seized Faramir by an ear, pulling the yelping young man over to a stone bench located in a small stone and wood gazebo several yards away. The elven King released his hold on the ear, which Faramir rubbed furiously to temper the sting, and sat down upon the bench.

“Aaadaaa,” Faramir whined quietly, as he continued to rub his ear and look around to see if anyone passing would be able to see what was about to happen.

“You should have thought of that before risking your fool neck, ion-nin,” Thranduil lectured sternly but knowing that Elrond and Maglor would ensure their privacy. His son was the Steward of Gondor after all and as such, had a reputation to protect.

Faramir muttered and grumbled as he loosened the ties of his leggings at his ada’s urging, pushed them down to his knees and lowered himself over the elf’s lap. Thranduil smirked, his eyes softening slightly at the familiar display of temper from his human son. Fisting Faramir’s tunic at the waist to expose his son’s posterior, the elven King wasted no time in beginning the chastisement, landing an almighty whack to exposed buttocks.

“Owwwwww! Aaadaaa!” Faramir yelped in indignation and pain, taken aback by sheer force of the whack to his posterior and at the realisation of just how serious was his ada.

“What is this punishment for, ion-nin?” Thranduil asked as he went about the task of thoroughly chastising every part of his squirming son’s buttocks and thighs.

“For… risking… my… fool neck,” Faramir gasped out through gritted teeth. Thranduil got the impression that his son did not truly believe that he had been reckless, borne out by the next words to usher from him. “It… was not… that dangerous… ada. I have done … things… with more risk… m-many times.”

“We are all well aware of that, ion-nin! How you have managed to stay alive this long is nothing short of a miracle!” Thranduil said, shaking his head, confounded by his son’s continued obliviousness to his own safety.

“I… h-have… a g-good… head for… heights, ada,” Faramir tried to reason again.

“So, you would have allowed one of your rangers to do as you did last evening?” he asked, trying a different tack, one that had worked in the past, as he continued to land heavy swats to the ever reddening buttocks and thighs before him.

Silence, except for gasps, grunts and whimpers, greeted the question.

“I thought as much,” Thranduil said as he continued his painful ministrations to his son’s buttocks.

“He has got you there, little brother,” Boromir chuckled, although looking anything but merry, announcing his presence as he sat down upon the bench opposite Thranduil and Faramir.

“Oh, do… shut… up!” Faramir snarled, gasping for breath. “N-not you, ada!” he exclaimed immediately, sounding very panicked.

Thranduil was taken aback for a moment until he realised that Boromir must have made an appearance.

“Now, tithen pen, are you going to swallow your stubbornness and answer me? I am more than capable of maintaining this pace indefinitely, ion-nin,” Thranduil said as he kept a steady pace with the paddle, moving again to Faramir’s thighs.

“Answer him, miel-neth (kitten), or I will start singing that sailor’s ditty you so enjoyed,” Boromir purred evilly, reminding Faramir of the ditty of which he was searching for the high note up and down the musical scale, at the time he discovered that Faramir was able to see him in the living world.

“That… is… blackmail… sir!” Faramir ground out between gritted teeth as his ada continued to beat out an energetic tattoo upon his crimson posterior.

“Aye. It is. I learned from the best, little brother,” he smirked, alluding to the times his little brother happily resorted to blackmail to wheedle stories out of his big brother, and then opened his mouth as if to start singing.

“Oh… all… r-right! N-nay… w-would… not… allowed… m-men…” Faramir said, becoming incoherent as the mere act of voicing the words made him realise the truth of what his ada and others had been trying to tell him about his reckless disregard for his own safety. Heart-wrenching sobs ensued. “S-sorry, ada. S-so… s-sorry…”

Hearing the change in the tenor of Faramir’s tone and his words of repentance, Thranduil ceased the chastisement immediately and placed ‘Faramir’s Bane’ on the bench beside him. After pulling up Faramir’s leggings he turned his son over and into his embrace, careful of his son’s very sore posterior, crooning to him softly.

“Finally,” Thranduil sighed quietly as he rocked his son soothingly. “I think the words have penetrated that very stubborn mind of yours. All I ask, ion-nin, is that when you are about to do something dangerous, ask yourself if you would have allowed any of your rangers to attempt the same and if the answer is no, please find another way,” Thranduil chided gently, continuing to hold his precious son close, rocking him. “Hannon le, Boromir,” Thranduil said softly, tears welling in his at the thought that Faramir was finally beginning to understand. Not that he thought there would not be lapses… indeed many, many lapses… on the part of his human son but just maybe he will think occasionally, before doing something reckless. He lived in hope.

Thranduil carried his mildly protesting son past Maglor and Elrond over to the nest of blankets and pillows, that were replaced daily, under Faramir’s tree. He placed his son on his stomach, divested him of his leggings, covered his blushing son with two thick blankets and ordered him to rest. Both he and Maglor left with Misto to take the hatchling down to the dungeons to eat.

Gandalf arrived in the garden at the scheduled time and place and found his pupil asleep under the tree. He was just about to prod his wizardling when a familiar voice sounded in his head.

“I would not do that, mellon-nin.”

“Whatever has my wizardling done now?” Gandalf asked, sounding exasperated, noticing the dried tear tracks on Faramir’s face.

“Received a lecture on his propensity towards being reckless with his own life,” Elrond voiced quietly as he emerged from a small copse of high bushes that hid a clearing containing a bench, perfect for reading and contemplating. “That,” he added in answer to the wizard’s silent question, turning around and pointing to the tiny ornamental platform that protruded from the roof of the palace, “is where the Steward of Gondor was standing when he loosed the arrows that resulted in my sons being bathed in perfumed oil, of which they still reek,” he concluded with what looked suspiciously like a smirk.

“Stubborn… fool… young… idiot…” Gandalf growled, so annoyed that he was unable to form a sentence, as he raised his staff as if to whack his wizardling’s posterior.

“Thranduil was quite thorough, mellon-nin. I am sure our young charge here will be feeling it for some time, as no numbing salve has been provided and I doubt sincerely whether any will be,” Elrond said.

“I will work him twice as hard on the morrow, be assured!” Gandalf huffed as he turned and stormed out of the garden, grumbling about young human fools, his robes billowing about him.

“I suggest you be on your best behaviour tomorrow, pen-neth,” Elrond said to Faramir whom he realised had been playing fox, not wanting to deal with a huffy wizard.

“Aye,” Faramir sighed. “Thank you, Lord Elrond.”

Legolas, Gimli and Amrothos arrived at that moment, all three looking somewhat perplexed.

“We just saw Gandalf. He is looking furious and muttering about young fools not having the sense the Valar gave cave trolls,” said Amrothos, looking down at his cousin, who winced.

“What have you done now?” Legolas asked suspiciously as he crouched down beside Faramir.

Elrond explained where Faramir had been standing when he loosed the arrows that had pre-empted the twins’ prank. Elf, dwarf and human eyes widened and jaws dropped when they saw the tiny platform high up in the distance. As one, they turned disbelieving and dark looks upon Faramir.

“H-how did you manage the climb, let alone with a long bow? Aieeeeeeeeeeeee!! Faramir!!” Legolas yelled, causing Faramir to wince anew.

The furious elf pulled at the blankets covering Faramir until the human’s very red posterior was exposed and landed several hard whacks of his own shocking both Faramir and himself, not to mention Elrond, Amrothos and Gimli, the latter of whom recovered quickly enough to yell…

“And one for me, laddie!”

“And one for, Boromir,” Amrothos said without thinking, just following the stern command from Boromir who was standing beside him, looking down upon his little brother, his anger evident in his expression.

“Owwwwww!! Owwwwww!! Ouuuuch!! Owwwwww!!” Faramir cried out. “Have pity on my poor behind, brother. Ada has made known already his feelings on the subject, most clearly.”

“I hope my feelings on the subject are equally clear, muindor tithen?” Legolas growled as he covered his brother’s posterior with the blankets.

“Aye, as crystal!” Faramir sniffed mutinously into the pillow beneath him.

The attention of the Steward and those gathered around him was diverted by bellowing from Aragorn who had arrived upon the scene accompanied by Imrahil, both looking angrier than Faramir had ever seen either of them look.

“AIEEEEEEEE! FARAMIR THRANDUILION! ARE YOU INSANE!” he bellowed looking up at the tiny platform.

“Nay, nay, nay,” Faramir whimpered, pulling the pillow that was beneath his head, over his head.

“Gandalf just told us from whence you loosed the arrows. He was so angry he could barely get the words out. I cannot believe… you… I should blister your arse until you are wailing!” Aragorn continued to shout as he advanced on his Steward, crouching down beside Legolas and pulling away the pillow under which Faramir was attempting to hide.

“Too late, ada has beaten you to it,” Faramir replied sullenly, holding on tightly to the blankets that covered him.

“As well he should have! To risk your life so!” Aragorn replied angrily.

Temper on the rise, Faramir turned onto his side, put a fisted hand, with thumb extended, to his mouth biting down on his thumb nail in a gesture recognised by Imrahil as a precursor to angry and usually ill-considered retort.

“Be very mindful of the words that next usher from your mouth, foxling,” Imrahil warned in a tone, though quiet, held a very real threat.

His original retort thwarted by his uncle, his temper rising by the moment, feeling exposed and vulnerable, unknowingly, as the words tumbled out without thought, Faramir bespoke of what was in his heart and the source of his disregard for his personal safety.

“Do you not understand? Denethor was right! I should have died in Boromir’s stead and failing that I should have died in Osgiliath!” Faramir howled.

Stunned silence greeted the Steward’s outburst. Surprisingly, it was Amrothos who responded first. The Swan Knight sat down beside his cousin and embraced him.

“Oh, Fara,” he said in a hushed voice. “Denethor was wrong. Wrong to distance himself from you emotionally because he could not cope with Aunt Findulas’ death. Wrong to chastise you physically when he could not connect with you emotionally. Wrong to humiliate and belittle you for no reason other than his preconceived notions of what constituted strength and to justify, in his own mind, his treatment of you. Wrong to second-guess constantly the command decisions that you made that were never in error. Wrong to invest all his love and affection in Boromir, leaving nothing for you. Wrong in so many, many ways.”

Amrothos looked up at Boromir, seeking permission to continue.

“Tell him, sprog” Boromir whispered, nodding solemnly, his eyes holding such a depth of sadness.

“And there is not a day goes by that he does not repent of his actions and through his actions, repent of what he lost,” Amrothos continued.

“Eru! He is not… here… now… please… nay!” Faramir gasped in panic, beginning to tremble causing Amrothos to tighten his embrace.

“Nay. Be easy. He cannot reveal himself, Fara. Not until you are ready and if that takes three hundred years then so be it,” Amrothos replied, his tone turning uncharacteristically hard. “He sees the depth and purity of the love you bear King Thranduil and Legolas and the depth and purity of their love for you,” the Swan Knight continued, oblivious to the tears that streamed down his face, smiling up at the elven King who also had tears in his eyes as he looked upon his human son, standing beside his father, having heard everything; including Faramir’s initial heart-wrenching outburst, “and realises what he could have had but threw away so dispassionately and callously. He sees your pure heart, your compassion and your strength of character and wonders how he could ever have mistaken such qualities for weakness. He sees you struggle constantly with the consequences of the pain and damage he caused you and can do nothing but stand by and watch, mute, invisible and impotent.”

Faramir began sobbing into his cousin’s shoulder, the same eerily silent sobs that Aragorn and Legolas recognised from all those months ago on the top of the tower, when Faramir had sought solitude to grieve for all he had lost. Thranduil approached his human son, sitting down beside him. Amrothos relinquished his hold on his cousin to Thranduil, held out a hand to his father who pulled his visibly distressed son to his feet and into his comforting embrace. Imrahil whispered words of praise and love into the ear of his much loved youngest son.

Faramir, sensing that it was Thranduil who held him for he could not see through the tears in his eyes, wound his arms around his ada’s neck and gave voice to his grief as his sobbing gained sound. Thranduil rocked his son and crooned a litany of elvish words of love and comfort. Legolas, tears streaming down his face, sat down on ground on the other side of Faramir, offering silent support for his brother. Gimli in turn, placed a comforting hand on Legolas’ shoulder.

“You did well, sprog,” Boromir quietly praised his cousin.

“Well I feel bloody awful,” Amrothos replied in a harsh whisper, eliciting a chuckle from Boromir who was thinking how much alike his cousin was to his little brother.

Part 34

Thranduil continued to hold his precious human son rocking him until all emotion was spent, after which Legolas moved enough to allow Faramir to lay back down in his nest of blankets and rest his head on his ada’s thigh. Legolas fussed over his brother, bringing a smile to Thranduil’s face and a smirk to Aragorn’s and Gimli’s, ensuring that the blankets covered his brother’s dignity at all times as Faramir was still sans leggings. It was not long before the young Steward dropped off to sleep, assisted into slumber by the persistent ‘sleep’ commands projected into his mind by Lord Elrond, who sat upon a stone bench to the right of Thranduil with Aragorn sitting next to him. Gimli sat upon a large three root near Legolas.

“What is that human saying?” Thranduil began softly, smiling wryly at his slumbering son. “Ahh, aye; one step forward and three steps back.”

Imrahil, who sat with Amrothos on a stone bench to the left of Faramir, was about to correct Thranduil but decided three steps back was probably a more accurate description in this situation.

“Well, sprog,” Imrahil sighed, looking down upon his sleeping nephew. “That was quite the lightning bolt you loosed upon your poor cousin.”

“I know, father, but it was something he needed to hear, to allow him to move forward for he is mired in the past,” Amrothos said morosely, prompting Imrahil to put his arm around his son’s shoulders and pull him close.

“When did you become so wise?” Imrahil teased, eliciting a small smile from Amrothos.

“I do not think Elphir would agree…” Amrothos began smiling, the rest of what he as about to say halted by a familiar voice.

“What has happened now?” Maglor exclaimed in a hushed voice having just arrived upon the scene with Misto in tow.

The Seneschal saw immediately, by the fresh tear tracks adorning Faramir’s face, that his young charge had suffered yet another trauma.

“Mama sad,” the hatchling said solemnly. He scuttled over to his mama, peered into his face and touched it lightly on the cheek with a front leg eliciting smiles all around as if checking that his mama was alright, before scurrying up into the tree under which his mama lay and into his web situated between two of the tree’s branches.

Imrahil explained all that had happened in the Seneschal’s absence.

“You have seen Denethor here?” Maglor asked Amrothos, his surprise evident.

“Aye, although he does not have the substance of Boromir. When I reflect upon it, Boromir is the most substantial ghost I have ever seen, more so than Grandfather when he was still upon Arada. My uncle, on the other hand, is very faint and hovers sometimes at the periphery of my vision,” Amrothos explained.

“And you have spoken to him?” Maglor inquired further.

“Nay, he is mute to the living. Boromir has… spoken… with him at length,” Amrothos replied diplomatically, having heard Boromir berate the old Steward, eloquently and at great length in just that way of which his cousin only was master, on more than one occasion.

The pause at the word ‘spoken’ was noted by those gathered and Amrothos found himself the subject of several raised eyebrows and enquiring looks.

“Boromir had not been aware of the full extent of my uncle’s dealings with Fara over the years. He was not… pleased… by uncle’s… confessions,” the young Swan Knight replied hesitantly. He had heard only Boromir’s part of the ‘discussion’ and that had been bad enough. Poor Fara, to have had such a father!

Denethor had seemed to become even less substantial under Boromir’s glare, Amrothos remembered.

“I do hope that Boromir has made plain to the old fool the grievous wounds he has perpetrated upon his second born, unjustly, some of which may never heal fully,” Maglor said with uncharacteristic venom in his tone.

“Aye. I can say with all honesty that Boromir has conveyed and continues to convey his feelings on that subject, most clearly,” Amrothos responded in an exhale of breath, remembering the extent of Boromir’s anger.

“Good! “For he,” Maglor emphasised looking upon Faramir, his anger very close to the surface, “continues to suffer through the repercussions of Denethor’s… attentions…”

“Do I take it from your previous words to Faramir that Denthor will remain on Arda until Faramir forgives him?” Elrond interjected, studying the young Swan Knight shrewdly.

“Aye. Uncle has asked Boromir to intercede with Fara on his behalf. Boromir has agreed to but not for twenty-five years,” Amrothos replied with a smirk.

“Why twenty-five?” Elrond asked, intrigued.

“What can I say? That is Boromir. He reasoned that uncle treated Fara ill from just after Aunt Findulas died until just before uncle died. By my cousin’s calculation that was a period of twenty-five years,” the Swan Knight explained, the corners of his mouth twitching with humour. “I said he should not pursue the subject of forgiveness for three hundred years,” he added his eyes turning cold as he looked into the distance at the shadowy figure hovering on the periphery of his vision, looking dejected and repentant.

“Sprog!” Imrahil exclaimed, taken aback by his son’s uncharacteristically acrimonious response.

Faramir continued to sleep, his head still resting on his ada’s thigh, until just after midday when he was awakened by Maglor who fussed over his young charge, ensuring that he ate enough food given the distress earlier that was sure to have affected Faramir’s appetite. The Steward spent the rest of the day resting beneath the tree in the company of his extended family listening to the lively chatter, each attempting to keep him from brooding,

Still drained emotionally, Faramir, with Misto in tow, retired to bed early that evening and spent a restless night attempting to assimilate what he had been told about the man who had sired him.

“I thought I would find you brooding, little brother,” Boromir’s quiet statement seemed to shatter the pervading silence of Faramir’s sleeping chamber, startling the young Steward who lay in his bed on his stomach, his posterior still very sore as Maglor had confiscated his stash of numbing salve.

“Father is not with you, is he?” Faramir asked, the pace of his breathing increasing to an alarming rate at the thought.

“Nay, nay, little one. Rest easy,” Boromir soothed, wishing that he could touch his brother, who had always been a tactile little creature, calming best when held in the arms of someone whom he loved. “I will not allow it until you are ready,” he assured.

“Is he sorry, truly?” Faramir asked, the crack in his voice betraying his distress, as he turned on his side to better see his brother.

“Aye, miel-neth nin (my kitten),” Boromir replied, sitting down on the bed next to his little brother.

“Why could he not love me, Brom?” Faramir asked, using his childhood name for Boromir, in such a lost, plaintive voice that Boromir thought his heart would shatter. “What is so lacking in me that he could not love me?”

“You lack nothing, little brother. The ‘lack’ was with our sire,” Boromir responded immediately and firmly. “You are so like mamma. You have her eyes, her willowy frame and her compassion for others,” he added wistfully. “Father loved mamma very much and when she died I think a part of him died as well. He could not look at you for seeing her and feeling anew the pain of her loss. I think he thought that if he closed his heart to you, belittled you, saw nothing but weakness in you, he would somehow feel less pain. He saw in you also his gift for looking into the hearts of men and beasts. Where you seek only the good in others and feel sadness at their flaws, he looked not for the good, nor pitied the flaws but sought only ways of using such knowledge to his advantage.”

“I could never see into father’s heart,” Faramir said, tears flowing down his cheeks unnoticed.

“As father could not see into yours. Neither of you wanted the other to know the truth. He did not want you to know that he loved you and you did not want him to know how much he hurt you. If you could have seen into his heart, little brother, you would have found that love shinning brightly.”

“Then we were both fools,” Faramir sighed.

“Nay, little one. Father was the fool. For if he had been opened his heart to you; you would not have hidden your heart from him. He sees the strength of the love and concern you engender from those around you whose lives you have touched, however briefly and understands what he forfeited through his own callous actions,” Boromir said softly.

“He hurt me…” Faramir said in a hushed whisper, having great difficulty in verbalising the words.

“I know, little brother. I know,” Boromir soothed. “And I wish truly I had known at the time. I am sorry, little one. I let you down.”

“Not your fault, Brom,” Faramir replied distractedly, his mind lost on the tide of memories. “I do not know if I can forgive him,” he added in barely a whisper and after a long pause.

“Nay, nay, little brother, do not think upon it now. There is all the time in Arda for you to address the issue of forgiveness and if it takes that long then so be it,” Boromir said in almost the exact words and tone Amrothos had used but knowing that Faramir was incapable of maintaining a grudge for any length of time.

Overwhelmed by Boromir’s words and thoughts of what might have been, Faramir curled into a ball on his side; his arms wrapped around his pillow.

“He_ hurt_me,” Faramir repeated plaintively and began sobbing quietly.

Boromir ached to hold his little brother, tears flowing down his own cheeks unchecked. The door of Faramir’s chamber opened silently admitting Thranduil who had been listening to the one sided conversation before entering. He had a fair idea of what had been said on the other side. The elven King moved quickly to his human son’s side; sat down upon the bed and pulled the tightly curled and distressed young human into his arms with an ease that fascinated Boromir. Feeling safe in the arms of his ada, Faramir’s sobs, although quiet still, had gained greater volume. Thranduil cradled his distraught son, rocking him until he fell into slumber finally and then continued to hold him into the early hours of the morning.

Faramir awoke in the morning alone, feeling tired and emotionally drained but smiled in the knowledge that his ada had stayed with him most of the night. Yawning widely he greeted his familiar who was still in his web above and entered his wash chamber to throw some cold water on his face in hopes of shocking himself into wakefulness. His sleep fogged mind turned to his schedule for the day causing him to groan and think fleetingly of escaping to Rohan, when he thought about his upcoming session with Mithrandir, who he was sure, would still be in a snit about the ‘incident’ the day before. The Wizard had never given him any quarter when he felt that Faramir had put himself at risk without good reason. After dressing, Faramir made his way to his private dining room where he was due to share the morning meal with his ada, uncle, cousin, Legolas, Gimli and Maglor.

After the morning meal and his meditation session with Elrond, Faramir made his way to the top of the tower where Mithrandir was expecting him. It was as he feared, Mithrandir was indeed still in a snit.

“Shall I just throw myself off the top of this tower now and save us both the time and angst,” Faramir, in his tiredness, verbalised his thought unknowingly.

‘Oh crap’ the young Steward thought ‘did I just say that out loud?’ One look at the thunderous expression on the face of his mentor answered his question. Faramir berated himself silently and a great length, cringing as he watched Mithrandir’s approach.

Part 35

“You, my young wizardling, I suggest gain control over that acerbic mouth of yours,” Gandalf growled, wagging a finger at Faramir. “I do not think you want to undergo another chastisement prior to what I promise will be a very gruelling training session.”

The wizard’s expression turned to one that was decidedly predatory. Faramir groaned, feeling unaccountably like a mouse that had fallen prey to an overfed, arrogant, spiteful, nasty tempered, ornery, old, wizard’s cat. Gandalf began the session by ordering Faramir to levitate heavy stone benches that dotted the courtyard on top of the tower and moving them from one end of the courtyard to the other. The task was made manifestly more difficult as Gandalf exerted his own will on the benches in order to keep them in place. The tug-of-war continued for what seemed like forever to the panting, sweating wizardling. His legs feeling like water, Faramir sank to his knees eventually, panting heavily. Unfortunately for the young human, this was only the beginning. Gandalf meant to push his wizardling to his very limits and possibly over.

“Up, up, I say! We have only just begun!” the wizard ordered perfunctorily. “I want you to create an illusion good enough to fool the enemy.”

Faramir groaned but managed to get back onto his feet, albeit on rebellious, shaking legs. The first illusion that he created was one of a warg. Gandalf complained that it looked more like a mangy dog upon which the wizardling, his temper on the rise, gave the warg an exceptionally accurate rendition of the face of a certain wizard. Said wizard used his staff on his wizardling’s posterior, thusly registering his annoyance effectively. Growling, Faramir created the illusion of a dragon, excellently proportioned and menacing looking. Gandalf however, criticised the illusion and forced Faramir to make what seemed to be many pointless changes to the illusion. Gandalf also criticised his wizardling’s dedication to the training and his focus to the point where Faramir’s face flushed furiously.

Without allowing the exhausted young human a break, Gandalf ordered Faramir to create a whirlwind. Barely able to stand upright, angrier than he had been in a very long time and harbouring the desire to throw the harping old buzzard off the tower, Faramir tried to create the whirlwind. Needless to say the attempt resulted in little more than a ‘willy-willy’² and a veritable barrage of criticism from the wizard. Gandalf complained about the human’s lack of focus, his dedication and his abilities. Faramir’s rage reached critical point and he snapped. His hair began to stand on end and tiny blue lightning bolts crackled around his body.

Drawing energy from around him, Faramir created not a small whirlwind but a fully fledged tornado, complete with dark clouds and bolts of lightening shooting out from its core and hitting the ground around him and at times, alarmingly close to Gandalf. The impressive tornado hovered in the air above the angry, maniacal looking wizardling. As Faramir’s temper increased the tornado gained in both power and size, threatening to dislodge everything on top of the tower. Pebbles and leaves swirled around the courtyard and the heavy stone benches quivered. Gandalf’s robes billowed around him and the old wizard had to lean into the wind to retain his footing. Faramir seemed to be unaffected by the tempest around him as if he was the eye of the storm.

“Alright, young one, you can stop now!” Gandalf yelled over the noise of the wind but Faramir did not appear to be listening.

Still gaining in strength and size, the tornado threatened to touch down and sweep everything from the top of the tower.

“Cease and desist now!” Gandalf bellowed, deciding not to use his own powers on the tornado as yet.

Faramir’s anger spiked again. The resultant claps of thunder and bolts of lightening made Gandalf look skyward and wince at the sheer ferocity of the tornado hovering menacingly above. The effort of controlling the tornado resulted in Faramir’s mental shields dropping suddenly. With his shields gone he felt the thoughts of others, all of whom seemed to be very close. All were concerned for him and for the people in the city below should the tornado be loosed upon the city. Further a-field he could sense the panicked thoughts of citizens in the lower levels of the city as they watched the hovering tornado in horror.

With a supreme effort, Faramir regained control over his anger, swaying on his feet and breathing heavily with the effort. Ever so slowly the tornado dissipated until all that was left was a panting, crackling wizardling, who sank to his knees and then onto all fours, his legs no longer able to support him.

“Good, boy! Well done!” Gandalf praised, his expression rueful having realised just how close they had came to disaster.

Faramir felt the urge to bark like a dog. ‘Good boy indeed’, he thought. ‘So help me if the old crow goes to pet my hair, his ankle is fair game for my teeth!’

Still panting heavily, Faramir looked up at his mentor blankly for several long moments before the meaning behind the words registered.

“You… did that… on… purpose!” he panted indignantly. “How… could you… do that… to… me!” he snapped out in gasps, straightening and sitting back on his heels, placing his hands on his thighs and breathing heavily.

“I needed to know if you could maintain control even when your temper was tested sorely,” Gandalf explained.

“You…you…” Faramir growled but could not continue as he was at a complete loss for words.

“I suggest the next time you wish to test such a theory, Gandalf,” Aragorn chided as he walked out from the shadows and approached the wizards, “you do so away from Minas Tirith… far away from the city,” he added awed by the sheer power of what he had just witnessed.

“I second that motion, pen-neth” Thranduil added as he too walked out from the shadows accompanied by Elrond, Imrahil and Maglor, with Misto following the Seneschal.

“I cannot believe… you did that to me!” Faramir found words enough to complain again, still crackling faintly.

“I am proud of you, my boy,” Gandalf praised, ignoring his wizardling’s ill-tempered retorts. “Not only were you able to control your temper but you have also not exhausted all your strength.”

“When I regain enough feeling in my limbs to move, you old crebain, we will see if I have enough strength to throw you off this tower and see how well you fly,” Faramir muttered softly but loudly enough to be heard by the elves and Imrahil, eliciting smirks and chuckles.

“Now, now, little brother. That is no way to speak about the old reprobate,” Boromir chortled as he approached his brother.

“And where, pray tell, were you, you dunderhead! And why did you not warn me!” Faramir snapped at his brother.

“I was elsewhere engaged if you must know, Fara,” Boromir replied vaguely. “I arrived in time to see you gain control over that temper of yours. Well done, little brother!” he added knowing the praise would not be well received and he was right.

“Elsewhere engaged! I know just where you would have been ‘elsewhere engaged’, brother!” Faramir retorted with a knowing look that caused Boromir to blush faintly.

“Well, he is the descendent of my sire, foxling,” Imrahil chuckled discerning what Boromir had said from Faramir’s snarly reply.

“You all knew!” Faramir exclaimed comprehending suddenly, feeling somewhat betrayed, the faint crackling around his body growing in intensity again as he looked from one to another, each expression betraying their complicity.

“Aye, we did, ion-nin,” Thranduil responded in a soothing manner, crouching down beside his annoyed son. “We advised Mithrandir against doing so but he chose to ignore the advice,” he added, staring at the wizard intently who in turn looked discomfited and not a little, sheepish.

Anger spiking again, Faramir pointed a finger at Gandalf’s feet. A tiny bolt of blue energy hit the wizard’s feet causing him to yelp in surprise as much as in pain and jump backwards.

“FARAMIR THRANDUILION!” the wizard bellowed.

Faramir heard Boromir fair howling with laughter.

“It is no less than you deserve, mellon-nin, for what you did to the child.” Elrond cautioned the wizard.

“Come, foxling,” Imrahil said, holding a hand out to his nephew.

Faramir grabbed the proffered hand and was hauled to his feet. Imrahil held him until he was sure that his nephew could stand unaided.

“I think food, one of Elrond’s potions and a nap are in order, ion-nin,” Thranduil said as he stood, looking at his bedraggled son.

“The nest has been prepared,” Maglor added with a faint smirk at the long suffering look he received from his young charge.

Misto cackled, having comprehended the humour, garnering looks of astonishment from all gathered.

“He is growing up, ion-nin,” Thranduil laughed.

Faramir ate what was given to him by Maglor with little complaint, causing the elf to look at him with concern and feel his brow for fever, eliciting a glare from his young charge, drank Elrond’s potion and fell to sleep almost immediately beneath the tree in his mother’s garden. Misto, as ever, was in his web above. Thranduil sat beside his slumbering son and passed the afternoon pleasantly in the company of Elrond, Imrahil, Maglor and Aragorn. Just before Faramir awoke, the elves, Aragorn and Imrahil were joined by Legolas, Arwen and Gimli, all of who wanted to know about the tornado, which was the talk of the palace and the city beyond. Aragorn explained all that had happened on the tower to a rapt audience.

“Ye do not say! The laddie did that to the wizard and lives still?” Gimli asked in astonishment.

Legolas’ eyes were as big as saucers as he looked down upon his sleeping brother.

Faramir began to stir and awoke slowly; yawning widely and stretching like a cat, eliciting smiles from those gathered.

“Good sleep?” Thranduil asked.

Faramir made a mewling sound in the affirmative before opening his eyes and starting slightly at the number of his friends and relatives that were present.

Before embarrassment could register, a very strange sight distracted Faramir’s attention. Two guards were escorting a man between them. The identity of the man could not be discerned as he was covered from head to toe in mud. Faramir could see Boromir walking beside them, chortling merrily. It was not until the strange party was almost upon them that both Imrahil and Faramir recognised the woebegone young man.

“Sprog?” they both asked as one, Faramir rising to a sitting position.

“Sorry to disturb you, your majesty,” one of the dutiful guards informed Aragorn as they came to a halt in front of the bemused King. “This man says that he is a prince of Dol Amroth, but we could not be sure so we escorted him here,” he added, both guards looking as if they were having great difficulty in keeping their expressions neutral.

The guards were not the only ones having difficulty in keeping straight faces. Elrond’s eyebrow looked as if it was about to take flight, Thranduil and Legolas’ shoulders were shaking with suppressed mirth, Arwen had a fit of the giggles she was attempting to hide behind a raised hand, Gimli kept trying to hide his chortles behind a series of coughs and the other’s just looked upon the scene with eyes widened in astonishment.

“As much as I am loath to admit it, this is indeed my son, Prince Amrothos of Dol Amroth,” Prince Imrahil sighed.

“We will leave him in your care then, your highness,” the same guard said turning on his heels when he received a nod from the King. The other guard followed suit. Chortles could be heard from the guards as they left in haste.

“What on Arda happened to you, cousin?” Faramir asked; his eyes alight with mirth.

“They have absolutely_ no shame_” Amrothos said as he pulled at muddy clothing that was sticking to places he would rather be left alone.

“Who, sprog?” Imrahil asked, suspecting the answer.

“Those twin fu… libbertigibbets,” the young Swan Knight amended quickly on seeing the Queen sitting next to the King and the look of warning on his father’s face.

Elrond sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose, shaking his head. Aragorn and Arwen looked askance at their ada and both winced.

“What did they do, sprog?” Faramir asked, intrigued.

“They saw a weakness and exploited it to its fullest extent,” Amrothos growled, annoyed with himself as much as with the twins.

“The only real weakness you have, cousin, which applies to most of the Knights of Dol Amroth, involves a damsel in dis… “ Faramir began before bursting forth into such musical laughter at the look of utter disgust on his cousin’s face, evident even through the layer of mud, confirming his suspicions, that the others, with the exception of Amrothos, could not help but smile. “You mean to tell me they… say it is not true…” he asked in gasped breaths between bouts of laughter.

“One of them most certainly did!” Amrothos exclaimed indignantly. “And will you stop that hyena impersonation, cousin,” the last annoyed comment was aimed at Boromir who was laughing so hard that tears were streaming down his ghostly face. Imrahil shook his head, chuckling at both his mud-encrusted son and Faramir, the latter of which was laughing so hard that he was wheezing.

“Will someone please enlighten the rest of us?” Aragorn asked, bemused.

“I will, sire, as soon as I have, with your permission, divested myself of this mucilage before it dries and I have to use chisel and hammer to remove it and I have found what is left of my dignity, which is somewhere between here and the third level, possibly never to be seen or heard from again,” Amrothos said in his normal conversational tone that sent Arwen into another fit of the giggles.

At a nod from Aragorn, back ramrod straight, Amrothos turned smartly on his heel and marched towards the palace, pulling occasionally at the clinging clothing, leaving both his cousins and father in hysterics.

[2] Small Aussie twister known for lifting clay tiles from roofs.

Part 36

Both Elrond and Thranduil looked intently at Maglor, eyebrows raised; the elven King’s eyes twinkling with mirth. Maglor sighed, returning a look that said quite distinctly ‘how, pray tell, can I be in two places at once’? It was obvious to the elder elves that Faramir remained Maglor’s primary focus and given what Gandalf had put his wizardling through that morning and the potential consequences of the old Wizard’s certain lack of forbearance with his mercurial but very powerful young pupil; it was the wiser decision.

“I knew the twins were plotting devilment but I did not expect them to act upon it so quickly, especially considering this morning’s distractions,” Maglor replied somewhat peevishly to the unasked question; alluding to Faramir’s temper, the consequence of which would have been seen by most, if not all of the inhabitants in the city below and could easily have proved catastrophic.

The Seneschal fully intended to confront the irascible old wizard and deliver a severe reprimand for playing with fire without due care. He suspected that both Thranduil and Elrond would also be voicing their displeasure.

“Do you know what they were planning?” Aragorn asked.

“Aye,” Maglor responded succinctly.

“Do you perchance wish to enlighten us, mellon-nin?” Thranduil asked, already knowing the answer.

“Nay,” Maglor answered, his expression bland.

“Imrahil is right, mellon-nin,” Elrond admonished mildly, humour just beneath the surface. “You are positively evil at times. You had no intention of stopping the ‘duo horribus’, did you?”

“Nay, I did not. Just to ensure that they were not… over… exuberant… in enacting their retribution against the fox cubs and accomplices,” Maglor replied, looking at Faramir who blushed guiltily and at Gimli and Legolas who both averted their eyes at the same time they attempted to look innocent. “You know as well as I do that if I had stopped the twins, their frustration level would have increased to such a level that they became positive pests. This way they are kept relatively quiet and out of our collective hair,” he added on seeing both Elrond and Thranduil shake their heads.

“I do not think sprog would agree with your ‘not overly exuberant’ assertion,” Imrahil chuckled.

“Did_ you_see what happened, Brom?” Faramir asked his ghostly brother who was still chortling to himself periodically as he sat upon the ground near his brother.

“Oh, aye!” he laughed.

“Well?” Faramir prompted.

“I do not wish to pre-empt the telling. Just sufficit to say that our cousin the Swan Knight, took a swan dive,” Boromir laughed merrily.

“Well?” Legolas asked, his curiosity feeling like an itch.

“The stopout will not say,” Faramir harrumphed. “We will just have to await sprog’s return,” he sighed.

Amrothos did return eventually, looking very much cleaner but no less embarrassed. He sat down beside his father where he sat upon one of the numerous stone benches near Faramir’s tree. The young Swan Knight flushed even more, if that was possible, under the intense regard of four elves, a she-elf, three humans and a dwarf.

“All right, sprog, confess,” Faramir said, eyes alight with humour. “Just how did you get ‘got’ by the ‘duo horribus’.”

Boromir sniggered.

“Why did you not warn me, cousin?” Amrothos asked, affronted.

“How many times have I, or Fara for that matter, brought to your attention this weakness possessed by most, if not all, of the ‘ever chivalrous’ younger Swan Knights of Dol Amroth, involving the disconcerting habit of mind’s disengaging when confronted by the sight of a damsel in distress?” Boromir asked in reply.

“I suppose you would let young maidens fall to their doom,” the Swan Knight retorted petulantly.

“Nay, not necessarily so,” Boromir answered slowly, seemingly to give the observation due consideration, “but I would hope that my mind stayed engaged enough to notice if there seemed to be anything strange regarding the maiden’s circumstances and about the young_ maiden_specifically,” he admonished, emphasising the word maiden.

Amrothos blushed spectacularly again at his cousin’s words, feeling very sheepish by his lapse considering that he was touted as being nearly as devious as his Minas Tirith cousin and his grandfather. Imrahil also looked uncomfortable, as he was well aware of this habit in the young men of his city. He, himself, had fallen victim to the same malaise when he was a young Knight, much to his sire’s amusement at the time. Small consolation to the Prince was the fact that most outgrew the tendency.

“Do not keep us in the dark, laddie,” Gimli remonstrated; wanting to know what Boromir had said to create such a deep scarlet blush that graced the young human’s face.

“You could at least have given me a hint, Boromir,” the Swan Knight said in an aggrieved tone.

“Which, with your mind disengaged as it was, would have gone in one ear and out the other,” Boromir admonished mildly. “Sometimes the only way to learn is to be dropped into the thick of it,” he added smiling from ear to ear.

Amrothos groaned at the memory of how ‘thick’ it was.

Faramir explained what Boromir had said to an impatient dwarf and interested audience, a smirk tugging at the corners of his mouth.

“Well, laddie! Do not keep us in suspense! Out with it!” Gimli prompted again, displaying the normal measure, or lack thereof, of dwarvish patience.

“Oh, all right,” the Swan Knight sighed. “It all began after the morning meal when I decided to go to the commercial district…”

At he conclusion of the morning meal which he had shared with his father, his cousin and his cousin’s family, Amrothos meandered down to the commercial district on the second level of the city in search of a present for his younger sister Lothiriel’s looming birthday. He knew that if he did not purchase and send the gift soon, it would not reach Dol Amroth before the event, the consequence of which would be unpleasant. Whilst his sister, renowned for both her beauty and wit, was generally sweet of nature, when she felt slighted, her tongue, aided by that renowned wit, could tear strips off the hide of oliphant. He pitied secretly the man that was destined to choose her for a wife for his hide would indeed have to be very thick and his ego impervious to the waspish tongue of an intelligent woman vexed. He wondered briefly where they could hope to find such an oaf.

Amrothos arrived finally at the market square where, unbeknownst to the young Swan Knight, a certain elf had had, over twelve months prior, an altercation with a Gondorian nobleman of limited sense or reason involving a wasp’s nest and a very angry wizard. Going from stall to stall in the market square, examining the various wares on display; clothing, jewellery, perfumes and suchlike, he settled on a pair of golden combs of what looked like elven design and make judging by the intricate filigree and placement of semi precious stones. The combs, he felt, would look stunning in his sister’s long dark hair. Happy with his purchase he walked over to the alehouse that sat opposite the square to have a much-earned ale.

Halfway through drinking the ale he noticed that people were looking up towards the palace with expressions of consternation and… fear. Jumping to his feet quickly he looked up towards the palace and saw a mighty tornado, twisting ferociously, surrounded by clouds and with bolts of lightning shooting out from its core. It took but a few moments for Amrothos to discern correctly the tornado’s origin, his wizard cousin’s impressive temper. The young Swan Knight made for the palace in haste to determine if his assumption was correct and to see if there was anything he could do.

It was whilst he was progressing through the third level of the city up towards the palace, his thoughts concentrated on his cousin, that he heard high-pitched cries for assistance. Seeing no other citizens in the vicinity he ran towards the cries. What he saw made his heart leap into his mouth. A dark-haired elf clothed in a dress he recognised as belonging to the queen, was dangling high off the ground over a large vat. The elf was hanging on desperately to an overhanging hoist, affixed to the wall of a warehouse, used for putting material in and taking material out of the vat.

Without hesitation or for that matter, thought, Amrothos climbed up some boxes that were stacked along the wall of the warehouse and onto the hoist. He saw then that the vat was filled with mud for making bricks needed for the continuing work on restoration of the city. With an agility that was almost elven, he heaved himself up onto the top of the hoist, which was a large wooden beam, walked to the end of the beam and bent over so that he could grab Arwen’s hand. The dark-haired elf looked up at him and smirked evilly. Amrothos had but a moment to register that it was not Arwen and that he had fallen into a trap when he was pushed from behind and went headfirst towards the vat of mud. He did manage though to grab onto the dress the elf was wearing, but alas, it tore and he fell into the thick, oozing and slimy mud.

By the conclusion of the story, Faramir was rolling around on the ground and laughing so hard that he had to hold his ribs to stop them from hurting so much. Boromir, also laughing heartily, looked upon his brother fondly, delighting, as he always did, in his brother’s beautiful, musical laughter. Gimli, Legolas and Aragorn were also laughing hard. Arwen was a little more subdued in her laughter out of consideration of the young Knight’s ‘put-upon’ expression and obvious embarrassment. The elder elves were smiling broadly, Thranduil’s eyes twinkling and Elrond’s a little rueful at sons’ antics. Imrahil also laughed but softened the sting by embracing his brightly blushing youngest son. Although embarrassed beyond measure, Amrothos could not help delighting in Faramir’s laughter even if it was at his expense. From the corner of his eye he could see Denethor looking wanly upon the scene. He also saw Boromir looking at his father with sympathy in his eyes before they returned to Faramir and sparkled.

The laughter abated… eventually. Men, elves and dwarf wiped tears of mirth from their eyes. Faramir caught sight of the twins in the distance. Lowering his mental shields he scanned for the twins’ thoughts, sensing their smugness. The fact that he was able to sense them surprised him, as he was not able to sense their thoughts usually, which he had always supposed resulted from practice over the millennia in hiding their misdeeds from their ada.

Sitting up and keeping his mental shields lowered, Faramir caught his cousin’s eye. Amrothos looked perplexed for a moment by the look of unfettered mischief that graced Faramir’s features. The same look that in the past had his older brother Elphir and Boromir yelling for someone to ‘batten down the hatches’ and yelling ‘thar she blows’ when the object of the mischievous expression had been ‘got’ eventually by his cousin.

“What dress was the twin wearing?” Faramir asked in an innocent, innocuous tone, sensing both his cousin’s momentary confusion at the question and the twins’ discomfiture, their keen elven hearing having allowed them to hear the question.

As a true descendent of the old fox, Adrahil, Amrothos discerned Faramir’s intent a few moments later.

“Alas, it was that lovely blue gown worn by the Queen at the feast held for my fellow Knights. The one that was commented upon so favourably by the women at the table that evening,” Amrothos replied with just the right amount of innocence and regret.

Faramir felt a spike of terror emanating from the twins.

“Aieeeeee!” Arwen shrieked, setting eyes upon her brothers. With the speed only an elf could manage, Arwen jumped to her feet staying only long enough to grab ‘Faramir’s Bane’ from Maglor who had produced it from thin air as usual, before chasing after the twins, wielding the paddle aloft like an elven warrior and shrieking in elvish like a banshee, which surprised the humans, with the exception of Aragorn, and the dwarf. The elder elves just shook their heads at the twins’ stupidity in purloining from their sister. Legolas smirked.

“You are dead meat!!…”

“… Faramir Thranduilion!!…”

“… Do you hear us!!…”

“… Dead meat!!” the twins yelled, glaring at Faramir before turning tail and bolting from the elven warrior who was bearing down upon them with astonishing speed.

Thranduil looked askance at his Seneschal, wondering, yet again, where he managed to hide the paddle upon his person.

“You are evil, muindor tithen,” Legolas laughed, impressed, as always, by his brother’s deviousness and quick wit. “Very good… but evil.”

Just then, cackling could be heard coming from above. Misto, who had remained silent in the tree above content to watch the show, found the entire ‘goings on’ very funny.

Part 37

The twins were not seen for the rest of the afternoon thought generally to be somewhere private licking their wounds, avoiding their sister and, in all probability, plotting their next act of retribution. Arwen had, according to one of the many guards that had witnessed the Queen’s rage who told his sweetheart, a maid, who told the cook, who told the King’s valet, who told the King who told his ada and friends, managed to lay several heartfelt whacks to the twins’ respective posteriors, all the while snapping in a waspish manner at the hapless pair, in elvish. Needless to say there was a newfound respect for the Queen of Gondor amongst the guards and staff regarding her warrior prowess and her deadly accuracy in swinging a paddle.

Early in the evening, Maglor went in search of Gandalf who also seemed to be absent, suspiciously, to discuss the morning’s ‘activities’. The elf found the wizard eventually, ducking around a corner having seen the elf first. It never ceased to amaze Maglor as he hurried after Gandalf, how quickly the old wizard could move when wishing to evade expected ‘unpleasantness’.

Undeterred, the Mirkwood Seneschal brought to mind a mental map of the surrounding rooms and corridors, smirked, and set off in the opposite direction. Flying down corridors and through rooms he came eventually to a corridor in which he stopped and waited. A few moments later Gandalf came hurrying around the corner only to stop abruptly on seeing the dratted Mirkwood elf standing in front of him leaning against the wall with his arms crossed, eyebrow raised and a feral glint in his eye.

Gandalf cleared his throat, coughed, and was just about to bluster but thought better of it, exhaled in a long breath, his shoulders drooping as he leaned on his staff gripping it with both hands. Maglor continued to regard the deflated wizard; eyebrow armed and at the ready. Gandalf wondered fleetingly if the ability to speak volumes through a raised eyebrow was passed on to elflings through their mother’s milk or whether they practiced daily to get their eyebrow to lift just so to express ‘this’ and just a little further to express ‘that’.

“You can disarm that,” Gandalf grumbled indicating the raised eyebrow with a waggle of his finger, still leaning heavily on his staff. “Thranduil and Elrond have already waxed lyrical about the incident this morning and my ‘lack of empathy’ for my wizardling’s struggles with the changes in his life and his temper.”

“Good! Then I do not have to wax lyrical on the subject as well. However, do you accept how close you came to disaster this morning and the need to be more considerate of the young one’s temperament?” Maglor challenged.

“Aye. I accept that I may have underestimated how much of Adrahil had been passed down to my wizardling and how little of Ecthelion,” Gandalf grumbled.

“How so? Adrahil would have thrown you off the tower; be damned the consequences. It was the will of iron passed onto Faramir from Ecthelion through Denethor, that allowed him to regain control over his temper despite being pushed so close to the edge and thus it was Ecthelion who stayed your flight off the tower,” Maglor admonished.

“You may be right,” Gandalf conceded, ungraciously.

“There is no ‘may’ about it, Mithrandir,” Maglor retorted. “I suggest you go soothe your wizarling’s still ruffled fur,” he added before turning on his heel and walking away.

“Pushy elf,” the wizard grumbled after Maglor retreated from sight.

“I heard that, mellon-nin!” Maglor’s voice was heard to say, much to the wizard’s embarrassment.

Huffing and then chortling to himself, Gandalf went in search of his wizardling, knowing that Maglor was right and that he had been too hard on his pupil.

After setting Arwen onto her brothers, Faramir remained in the garden with his friends and family until the early evening when he made for his chambers, with Boromir walking beside him and Misto scuttling behind him, to bathe and change for dinner, which was to be had later that evening in the King and Queen’s private dining room.

Instincts on high alert and mental shields down scanning for the twins, Faramir chose not to enter his chambers through the normal means, being the front door, but via a trellis that led from the garden below and up to the balcony that led to his sleeping and living chambers, much to the amusement of both Boromir and Misto, the latter of who was impressed by how well his mama could climb, having so few legs.

The Steward, followed by his ghostly brother and familiar, entered his favoured drawing room just in time to see the door open. Faramir had no time to warn whoever it was of the trap he could see laid at the door’s entrance before Gandalf entered the room and a rope net he had walked onto closed around him and swept him off his feet aided by netted rocks that had been dislodged by the act of opening the door. Faramir watched in horror as the contents of a barrel poised over the hanging wizard, having been divested of a cork by the falling of the netted rocks, emptied its contents, cooking oil by the look of it he thought, onto the bellowing wizard. Mental shields still lowered, Faramir felt a spike of terror emanating from the twins who were obliviously in a position that enabled them to witness what was transpiring without being seen. Faramir felt their panicked thoughts retreating as the ‘duo horribus’ scampered away from the scene.

Boromir howled with laughter causing Faramir to break out into fits of hysterical giggles impeding his ability to focus enough to extricate the angry wizard from his predicament. To make matters worse, Misto decided that it would be fun to jump onto the rope net as it swung in circles.

“Get me down from here!” Gandalf bellowed, glaring at his giggling wizardling and attempting to hit him with the staff that he held in his hand and had managed to slip through the rope net. His action only succeeded in making him turn in faster and more forceful circles, still dangling above the floor.

Faramir tried to focus enough to levitate the wizard down to the ground but found it impossible as Boromir rolled around on the ground laughing heartily and Misto was calling out ‘wheeeeee’ with every circle completed and the old buzzard attempting to hit him with his staff at every circuit.

The wizard’s bellowing brought others onto the scene very quickly. Thranduil and Legolas were the first to arrive. The elven King’s eyes fair danced with mirth and Legolas’ eyes were wide, making him look very much like the elfling of old. Amrothos and Imrahil were next on the scene both looking as stunned as Faramir had looked. Amrothos skidded to a halt on the oily floor, almost losing his balance. He saw and heard Boromir who was in paroxysms of laughter and trying unsuccessfully to rise to his feet. Legolas leapt up and onto the rafter above. Taking a knife from his boot he waited for Faramir to focus enough to be able to levitate the wizard before cutting the rope. Faramir lowered Gandalf to the floor.

Aragorn, Arwen and Elrond arrived just in time to see the angry wizard attempt to get to his feet on the oily floor. Needless to say he was having extreme difficulty in finding his feet, that is, until Faramir and Amrothos assisted him up and guided him away from the oil on the floor.

“Demons of the deep!” bellowed Gandalf as soon as his feet were on solid ground and took off after the twins.

Faramir felt another faint spike of terror from the twins who seemed to be far away but still within hearing distance of the wizard’s bellowing, although the whole of the White City was probably within hearing distance of the wizard’s bellowing he thought.

After the wizard had gone, Faramir fell victim to further fits of hysterical giggling, setting off Boromir who had just gained control over his laughter. The giggling soon turned into the musical laughter that so lightened the hearts of those who heard it and proved so infectious. Soon all present were laughing including the Lord of Rivendell, although somewhat ruefully wondering if his sons would ever outgrow their elfling tendencies or survive the angry wizard.

The twins managed to avoid the wizard and thus pain and indignity to their posteriors, for the moment. Bellowing that they could not hide forever and promising a walloping they would not soon forget, Gandalf went to his chambers to bathe away the oil that covered him from head to toe.

The evening meal in the King and Queens private dining room, minus the twins and Gandalf, was filled with laughter and light-hearted conversation fuelled by the memory of the wizard swinging from the rafter and covered in oil. All noted that Faramir seemed lighter of heart due, they suspected, to the knowledge that Denethor had loved him and was sorry for his treatment of his youngest.

Thranduil noticed his human son’s eyelids begin to droop from exhaustion when, after the meal, they sat in lounge chairs around the larger of the fireplaces at the end of the room. The elven King marshalled him off to his chambers and into bed. Faramir did so without complaint, which told loudly of his exhaustion.

The next morning Faramir arose quite late, as it was the seventh day; his day of rest. He greeted Misto who was in his usual place in his web above the large four-poster bed. The young spider, for he could no longer be referred to as a hatchling as he had grown so much, seemed a little agitated.

“What is wrong, little one?” Faramir asked, looking perturbed.

“Not know,” Misto replied, descending from his web.

Thinking no more of it Faramir bathed, dressed and went in search of his family.

“You are finally awake, ion-nin,” greeted Thranduil when Faramir emerged into his drawing room. “I thought you would sleep the day away,” he teased.

Faramir smiled, rather sheepishly, and greeted his uncle and Amrothos who were also seated in chairs by the fire. A servant arrived to advise that the morning meal was being served in the Steward’s dining room. As they walked to the dining room they were greeted by a sight that made them all stop and stare, eyes wide and eyebrows raised. Legolas, looking like a decidedly annoyed, soaked cat, came storming towards them. His normally immaculate hair was plastered to his face and all askew. His clothing was absolutely drenched. Faramir could not stop himself from chortling, which he tried to cover with a cough, when Legolas, quite unconsciously, shook a front paw and then a back paw in the same disgusted way, as do cats when they have received a thorough dousing.

“What happened to you, my elfling?” Thranduil asked his eyes twinkling and a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth.

“They cornered me and threw me down a well!” growled indignantly.

Faramir and Amrothos tried valiantly to maintain serious expressions and would possibly have succeeded had it not been for Boromir. The ghostly Gondorian arrived at the scene via a wall and was about to greet his brother and cousin when he saw Legolas and did a double take.

“Who drowned kitty?” he asked, causing both fox cubs to snort before breaking into peals of laughter. Legolas started growling, sounding so alike to the drowned cat he resembled, that the cousins’ laughter rose to ever-greater heights.

Annoyed and growling still, Legolas continued his journey towards his sleeping chamber; once again shaking a front paw and then a back as he did so. Faramir had no hope of trying to control his laugher after that. It was some time before the Steward was able to continue to the dining room, let alone think about eating. As they arrived at the dining room, Maglor was there to greet them. Thranduil gave his Seneschal a mock glare and a questioning eyebrow.

“At least they made sure that the well was full,” Maglor retorted.

Thranduil snorted, thinking his Seneschal evil indeed and it was a long time before Faramir could cease his musical laughter long enough to eat the morning meal.

Faramir spent the day in his mother’s garden, resting and reading, Misto in the tree above. By mid afternoon the others had gravitated to the same spot and all were present with the exception of the twins who were still avoiding the wizard. Faramir decided to feed the ducks in the pond the remnants of the bread he and the others had eaten for the midday meal. He had just thrown the bread to the ducks when his instincts became alerted. Turning on his heel he saw the twins pounding towards him, looking very feral. Before he could determine an escape route the twins were upon him. They tackled him to the ground and then grabbed an arm and leg each and hoisted him into the pond.

Faramir came up spluttering in the waist deep water. The twins stood laughing with huge smirks on their faces until they saw the feral glint in Faramir’s eyes. Raising his hand and before the twins could escape, a blue bolt of energy pulled the elves into the water with him. When they came up spluttering, it was to the laughter and chortles of the others who had heard the commotion and came to see the show.

Faramir held out a hand to each twin, which they both eyed with suspicion before shrugging and taking hold. The Steward hoisted them to their feet and the very wet trio made their way back to dry land. The twins gulped when they saw Gandalf standing before them, glaring, but before the wizard could do or say anything everyone’s attention was diverted by a familiar elven call.

“Finrod!” Legolas greeted the Mirkwood elf.

Finrod’s eyebrow almost took flight at the sight of the sopping twins and human before he turned his attention back to Aragorn, looking at him intently.

“You have found Saruman,” Aragorn discerned by the intent, feral glint in the elf’s eyes.

Part 38

“Where? When?” Legolas began firing off questions.

“It appears your journey has been an arduous one,” Aragorn interrupted, looking around furtively and deciding to move the conversation to a more secure location. Besides which, Aragorn thought, the elf looked tired and travel worn; for an elf that is. “Come, come,” Aragorn said, guiding the Mirkwood elf towards the palace. “We will gather in the red drawing room in an hour,” he said, turning back to the others gathered before turning back towards the palace.

Faramir, still dripping wet, and Amrothos began the walk to the palace. Misto was in the distance still, paying close attention to something that was on the ground.

“I think sprog…” Boromir’s voice came from behind the cousins as they arrived in the main courtyard of the palace, startling Amrothos who had not realised that his ghostly cousin had arrived upon the scene, “that Elphir is still somewhat vexed with you,” he said, smirking, nodding towards the Swan Knight officers who had just arrived and were in the process of dismounting and being greeted by Prince Imrahil and Arwen. The rest of the detachment was being billeted in various locations around the city.

Amrothos groaned, muttering some very choice words under his breath. Faramir blushed realising that some of the words were ones that often came from his own mouth when angered and his cousin had probably been learned them from him. Boromir smirked at his little brother’s discomposure guessing the source.

“Oh, now, really! That is a low blow even for Elphir,” he complained, his face scrunching in the same way, as did Faramir’s when vexed, as he looked upon the dark haired knight who had just removed his helmet.

Faramir recognised the knight as his cousin’s equivalent to his own nemesis Lord Atiel, but whereas Atiel was a congenital idiot, the consequence of too much inbreeding within the family over successive generations or so Faramir thought, and a bully, Lord Dragor possessed an unhealthy measure of unadulterated rat cunning and was anything but the characteristic chivalrous, if sometimes a little vacant, Swan Knight.

“Surely you expected retaliation when you delivered Elphir’s message to uncle in such a public forum?” Faramir queried, alluding to the night when Amrothos delivered his brother’s plea for the return of their father to Dol Amroth in front of not only their father but the King, Queen, various noble men and women of Gondor and knights of Dol Amroth present. The same night that Faramir found out that Amrothos could see Boromir, much to Boromir’s annoyance at the time for Amrothos had not acknowledged to anyone that he could see his ghostly cousin.

“Aye, but this reaction is a little excessive,” Amrothos whined, turning his back on his nemesis, lest his feelings be seen clearly in his face.

“Speaking of weasels…” Boromir said maliciously, looking at the Knight approaching.

“Aye, but you are right Brom, he does resemble a weasel. That long face with the long pointed nose and tiny eyes and all that fur,” Faramir said in a conversational tone as if discussing the weather, commenting on the Knight’s abundance of facial hair.

Resigning himself to the inevitable, Amrothos assumed an innocuous, or so he hoped, expression before turning around to face the weasel-faced knight.

“’Prince’ Faramir, ‘Prince’ Amrothos,” the man acknowledged emphasising the word ‘prince’ in such a way that it teetered on the brink of an insult but not enough to be called upon, noting Faramir’s soaked condition with a lingering look up and down the Steward’s body.

“It seems you are in the weasel’s bad books as well, Fara. Whatever have you done to the man?” Boromir asked.

Faramir and Amrothos smirked evilly at Boromir’s comment, both remembering a time or two when Amrothos was younger and Faramir’s superior wit and mental prowess had gained the upper hand over Dragor, much to the man’s embarrassment and Amrothos’ amusement at the time. The twin smirks took the man aback, momentarily.

“Lord Weas… Dragor,” Amrothos corrected, trying not to blush at the slip of his tongue.

“Well saved, sprog,” Boromir snorted sarcastically, rolling his eyes.

“May I enquire as to why you are in Minas Tirith?” Faramir ventured.

“I am here for the joint manoeuvrers to be held next week. Elphir thought it would be in Dol Amroth’s favour if a more experienced commander was present,” the Knight replied with a smile that bordered on a sneer as he looked meaningfully at Amrothos and back to Faramir.

“Experienced!” Boromir snorted. “Elphir would not have let the greasy git anywhere near a real battle for fear of those under his command.”

Amrothos, flushing all the way to the tips of his ears matching the colour of his hair, was just about to make an impolitic reply to the weasel when Prince Imrahil who was still standing with Arwen and the other knights, saw the danger signs in his youngest, sighed and called for Lord Dragor to attend him thus stopping the conversation short. He would have much to convey to his oldest son in the next missive he sent to Dol Amroth he thought. Whatever possessed his heir in sending the pretentious twerp he could not fathom.

“Let me go! I want to strangle the weasel,” Amrothos growled struggling fiercely and trying to lung at the departing Knight but unable to move a muscle.

“Mama, mama, look!” Misto said excitedly, as he scuttled up to Faramir holding onto something that was small and wriggling.

“I hope you are not planning on eating it?” Faramir asked as he looked down upon what turned out to be a small ginger kitten that seemed not at all distressed about being held by a giant spider and was indeed – purring.

Amrothos, struggling still against Faramir’s wizard hold, turned very pale and stopped his struggles.

“Not… eat!” the young spider replied indignantly looking up at Faramir. “Friend!”

“Well, I think you should return your little friend to his mama,” Faramir told his familiar. “Go on,” he shooed, seeing that Misto was about to argue.

Reluctantly and muttering to himself, very much like his mama did when annoyed Boromir noted with a smile, the young spider scuttled back to where he had found the kitten.

“That is one strange little creature, Fara,” Boromir said, his gaze following the annoyed spider and shaking his head.

“Will you_ please_let me go!” growled, glaring at his cousin.

“Sorry, sprog,” Faramir apologised. “But it would have pleased Elphir to no end knowing that his plan worked on the very first day of the weasel’s arrival.”

“And what plan would that be,” Amrothos huffed, anger still evident.

“You ending up over uncle’s knee being well and truly chastised for trying to wring the obnoxious weaselly git’s neck,” Faramir replied exasperatedly.

“How do you know that?” Amrothos muttered mutinously but realised that his anger had once again pushed all of his reasoning faculties aside and that his cousin had, in all likelihood, surmised correctly.

“Because it is what Boromir would have done and Elphir is in the same mould,” Faramir explained.

“You wound me, little brother,” the ghostly Gondorian countered putting his hand to his heart and assuming a dramatic pose. Faramir snorted. Amrothos sniggered, garnering a ‘mock’ glare from the ghostly Gondorian.

“Come, the dampness of these clothes is seeping into my very bones,” Faramir said as he made for the palace.

Freshly bathed and dressed in blessedly dry clothing, Faramir arrived at the King’s red drawing room. Entering, he found that Aragorn, Gimli and the elves, including Maglor and Finrod, were present already. He just sat down next to Legolas on one of the four large sofas arranged invitingly in front of the fireplace, when his uncle, cousin and Gandalf arrived.

“So where is he?” Legolas asked the question in the forefront of the minds of all present.

“In Mordor, not far from the pass that leads to Minas Morgul,” Finrod replied the feral glint back in his eye.

“What!!” several voices exclaimed at once.

“We have had reports of Haradrim gathering in Southern Gondor and of increased Corsair activity in the Bay of Belfalas,” Faramir replied perplexed. “Why would he be so far from the gathering troops and so close to Minas Tirith with the increased risk of being detected?”

“Because the Haradrim and Orcs have found a way through the Ephel Duath (Mts of Shadow) in Southern Gondor and into Mordor, where they are gathering in large numbers and readying to strike at Minas Tirith from Minas Morgul,” Finrod replied.

“How many wizards are being trained and how close are they to being deployed?” Faramir asked.

“There are twenty four wizards of varying abilities and Radagast believes that they are about two months away from completion of their training,” the Mirkwood elf responded.

“Which means we strike in four weeks,” Aragorn stated decisively.

“You are in a position to do so?” Finrod asked, surprised, knowing that they all thought originally that Saruman would take longer to train wizards and gather troops.

“Aye, mellon-nin,” Aragorn smiled. “There are manoeuvres planned for next week. We have several detachments of troops on their way from Dol Amroth and Rohan. In addition, we have freshly trained Gondorian detachments.”

“That is indeed good news,” Finrod smiled.

Later that evening after the completion of the evening meal and whilst the men, wizards, elves and dwarf discussed military tactics, Arwen retreated to her private drawing room to contemplate on what was about to occur and what preparations would need to be made for and by the civilians; women, children and men, left behind when the troops departed. She had not long settled when her keen elven senses detected movement up in the rafters and she heard faint mewling. The Queen looked up to see Misto descending on a silken thread and land on the carpet in front of her.

“Hello, tithen pen. What do you have there?” she asked.

“Not know what eat,” Misto replied as he showed her the small ginger kitten, which was mewling piteously. “Not eat mice,” he added plaintively, holding the mewling kitten out to the Queen with his two front legs.

Arwen put her hand to her mouth to hide her smile as she visualised the hapless young spider trying unsuccessfully to get the kitten to eat live mice, not much smaller than the kitten itself, in the dungeons.

“He is a bit young to eat mice, tithen-pen. He will though, when he is older,” Arwen soothed. “Does your mama know that you have the kitten?” she asked knowingly.

“No,” Misto replied, abashed. “Not find mama cat.”

“How about we take him to the kitchens and get him some warm milk and meat,” Arwen suggested wondering just how ‘thoroughly’ the young spider had looked for the kitten’s mother. Misto looked up at Arwen adoringly before following her to the kitchens holding the kitten, which was still mewling piteously in hunger.

Late into the evening, after having fleshed out a military strategy with his friends and relatives for dealing with the impending threat from Saruman, Faramir retired to his sleeping chambers finally. Thinking back over the discussions and planning, the Steward realised the combined formidable military prowess and ability his friends and relatives represented. Even Boromir, through him and Amrothos, was able to impart his considerable military experience and knowledge during the discussions. It was strange Faramir thought that Boromir almost seemed to gain substance during the discourse.

Distracted as he was by the discussion of the evening, Faramir did not at first notice Misto who was ensconced in his web above the four-poster bed. With a start, the Steward realised that his familiar had been absent from his side, or from above, for most of the evening. Looking up at the spider suspiciously, he noticed a telltale bulge in the webbing just below where the spider was sleeping. On closer inspection he saw that it was the kitten, curled up asleep, in a small basket that his familiar had secured to his webbing.

Misto stirred, awoke and looked down upon his mama.

“I thought I told you to return the kitten to its mother,” Faramir admonished mildly.

“Not find mama cat,” Misto replied. “Can keep?” he asked tentatively.

“It is a big responsibility, little one,” Faramir said as he looked at the sleeping kitten. “You will have to look after him and feed him,” he added, berating himself silently for his own soft spot for cats. It was something Boromir had oft teased him about, telling him about birds of a feather, or in this case, felines of a fur, alluding to his little brother’s notable feline tendencies such as seeking his brother’s body heat on many a cold winter night when he was a child.

“Yessss, will,” Misto promised sincerely.

Part 39

The next morning, after enjoying his break-of-fast with his elven and human family, Faramir was called unexpectedly to a meeting by Aragorn. Faramir made his way to the designated room minus Misto who had gone, kitten in hand – so to speak, in search of Arwen for more advice on the care of kittens. When the Steward arrived at the meeting room, the small room adjacent to the largest meeting room used for council sessions and suchlike, he found Gandalf, Thranduil, Elrond, Maglor, Finrod and Imrahil already in attendance. He sat down at the table in the vacant chair between his ada and Maglor and looked over at Aragorn who sat at the head of the table, expectantly.

“I have called this meeting this morning so that we can better understand the threat posed by the wizards being trained by Saruman,” the King explained.

“There are very strict rules governing wizards of dark magic, more so than wizards of the light…” Gandalf began.

“But why?” Faramir interjected, blushing when given the ‘look’ by Gandalf he recognised from his earliest memories of the white wizard.

Many, many, many times in his youth and beyond he had asked ‘why’ before the wizard could complete the first sentence. Knowing looks of amusement were exchanged around the table, Thranduil’s eyes twinkling and Faramir’s blush growing ever deeper by the scrutiny.

“It has to do with the type of magic they choose to use combined with their innate ability, my inquisitive wizardling. Having chosen to use dark magic, a dark wizard is excluded from using the more powerful but harder to master magic of light,” Gandalf explained. “Because that is the way it is,” he added, eyebrow raised, forestalling the question he could see in Faramir’s expression, eliciting a chuckle from Imrahil who had also wrestled with his nephew’s inquisitiveness and keen intellect on many occasions.

“So what abilities and limitations do these dark wizards possess?” Elrond asked.

“There were five wizards whose sole abilities seemed to be in healing wounds or blinding opponents with light,” Finrod replied.

“They would be clerics,” Gandalf reasoned.

“A rather innocuous name for a dark wizard, not to mention damned useful abilities,” Imrahil said ruefully.

“The good thing is that they tend to be poor fighters. What other abilities have you witnessed?” Gandalf asked.

“There were six wizards who could heal and displayed control over both plants and animals, bending them to their will,” the Mirkwood elf recalled.

“They are druids, possessing the ability to turn your own mount against you, not to mention trees, vines, birds etcetera, etcetera,” Gandalf said shaking his head.

“We were almost discovered on three separate occasions by three very sneaky wizards,” Finrod supplied somewhat embarrassed.

“Rogues I would assume, unfortunately. They are very good at not being seen or heard and creating the greatest amount of mischief,” Gandalf replied with a sigh. “The good thing is that they do not generally, possess extensive fighting skills.

“And hopefully cannot heal wounds, which seems to be a common theme with these dark wizards,” Imrahil interjected, seemingly to take it very personally.

“Five were exceptionally good fighters. They displayed fighting abilities more akin to elves and Uruk Hai than humans, no offence intended,” Finrod added a little ruefully.

“None taken, mellon-nin,” Aragorn assured, a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth.

“The exceptional fighters are just that, fighters, but generally speaking, not very good at the tactical or strategic, or anything that involves thinking for that matter,” Gandalf muttered.

“The other five possessed very strong sorcerer abilities, more akin to those displayed by you and Radagast,” Finrod concluded with a shudder.

“That is… unfortunate. I was hoping that there would only be one or two wizards in the pure sense. They do have limitations in how much they can do in the way of spells in a day but they will prove formidable,” Gandalf mused.

Faramir muttered a curse that was followed immediately by a yelp of pain when Maglor pinched the fleshy bit at the top of his ear, hard.

“Owwwww! I am sorry Maglor but I am not overly ecstatic about this! You and I both know that I am probably going to prove more a liability than an asset as a wizard!” Faramir snapped, followed immediately by a yelp of pain when Thranduil pinched the fleshy bit at the top of his other ear, hard.

“I think you will surprise yourself, ion-nin,” Thranduil stated firmly, his expression stern.

“I would listen to the man… elf, if I was you Fara,” Boromir chortled from the rafter above. “If you want to keep those ears intact, that is.”

“How long have you been skulking up there!” Faramir demanded, wincing in pain as the movement of his head pulled on the vice-like grip that still held the top of his ear.

“I never skulk, little brother, and long enough to know what we are up against,” the ghostly Gondorian replied with a smirk.

When Thranduil released Faramir’s ear finally, the rest of the meeting was dedicated to determining how best to fight the threat posed by the wizards.

After the meeting, the Steward walked back to his apartments in the company of Thranduil and Maglor. Before reaching his apartments the trio were stopped by a guard hurrying towards them.

“What now?” Faramir moaned in exasperation, recognising the serious expression on the young guard’s face.

“I am sorry to inform you, sir, that Prince Amrothos is being held in custody currently by the Sheriff,” the young guard whispered.

“Oh let me guess,” Faramir said sarcastically, annoyance evident. “Brawling, mayhap? And was Lord Weas… Dragor involved?”

“Aye, but he has not been arrested. Witnesses have verified that it was Prince Amrothos who threw the first punch,” the soldier replied apologetically.

“Does unc… does Prince Imrahil know what has transpired?” Faramir asked tentatively.

“Not to my knowledge, sir. Prince Amrothos asked, or more to the point, begged that we contact you about the matter and not Prince Imrahil,” the soldier stated.

“I will need to see to this… matter, ada,” Faramir said waving his hand in a vague gesture as he turned to the elven King and Maglor, both of who were trying to contain smiles. “How he expects to keep this from his father is quite beyond me!” he complained. “Uncle Imrahil has more sources in Minas Tirith than Denethor ever had and sources ever more willing to impart juicy gossip!” he added turning on his heels and lead the young soldier towards the goal.

“I swear, mellon-nin, Adrahil will never be dead!” the elven King chuckled. “He lives still, through his son, although Imrahil would deny so, and his grandchildren. And between you and me, I think the old fox’s influence is gaining strength with each successive generation!” he concluded, sharing a wry smile with Maglor.

The Steward arrived at the old stone gaol to be met by an apologetic Sheriff who walked him to the room in which he was keeping Prince Amrothos.

“It is not your fault, Sheriff. You cannot have one law for the people and another for the nobility,” Faramir assured.

“He is free to be released into your custody, my Lord, as Lord Dragor will not be pressing charges,” the Sheriff said as he guided the Steward into the room where Prince Amrothos was seated upon a wooden bench.

Surprisingly, Legolas was seated beside him with a comforting arm around the young human’s shoulders. Faramir sighed as he looked upon his bruised and dejected cousin.

“You could not stop him?” Faramir asked his elven brother.

“Nay, I could not, nor could the twins. He is almost your equal when on a tear,” Legolas chided, causing both fox cubs to blush. “Although, to be fair, he was sorely tested by Dragor.”

“Whatever am I going to do with you, sprog?” Faramir shook his head affectionately.

“Nothing compared to what I am going to do with him,” a familiar voice sounded from behind Faramir, in a quiet well-modulated tone reminiscent of his nephew.

All colour drained from Amrothos’ face as he looked past his cousin and up at the sombre expression of his father.

“How did you find out?” Faramir asked in the same conversational tone.

“I have my sources, foxling,” he replied not looking away from his wayward son. “Did you indeed throw the first punch?”

“Aye, father,” Amrothos replied reluctantly.

“Follow me, son,” Imrahil commanded before turning on his heels and walking out of the room.

Amrothos stood, looked forlornly at both his cousin and Legolas and followed his father dejectedly.

“Sorry, sprog,” Faramir said as the young man passed.

“My own fault, Fara. I should have strangled the bloody weasel when I had the chance and hidden the body,” Amrothos muttered as he followed his father, causing Legolas to cough in an attempt to suppress a giggle that was about to erupt.

Imrahil led his son back to the palace and into the King and Steward’s private garden.

“Alright, sprog. You know how I feel about that temper of yours, or I should say your grandfather’s, and about throwing the first punch, regardless of the provocation,” Prince Imrahil said as he sat down upon a bench surrounded by trees and shrubs. “Come, sit beside me,” he said, patting the bench beside him, his expression softening as he saw his son’s genuine repentance.

Amrothos sat down beside his father and was pulled immediately into a comforting embrace.

“I am sorry, father,” Amrothos sighed.

“Who did he use this time to bait you, sprog? Elphir? Echirion? Lotheriel?” Imrahil asked. “Ahhh, your sister,” he reasoned when he felt his son stiffen.

“Aye,” the young man murmured.

“I can imagine what he said. There is no way that your sister would ever marry the sleazy git, however much he attempts to delude himself about his chances. He should count himself fortunate because if she ever did marry him she would emasculate him within the week with that razor-sharp wit of hers. Did you at least count to ten before hitting him? Hmmmm?” Imrahil asked his eyes alight with mirth.

“I counted to fifty,” Amrothos grumbled.

“Fifty! I am impressed or I would hazard a guess that such a large count was due the ‘trio horribus’ holding you back,” Imrahil smiled.

“Aye,” the Knight confirmed, sighing and wondering yet again how his father managed to know just about everything that happened in Minas Tirith within moments of the event.

“How far would you have got had they not been holding you back?” Imrahil probed gently.

“Five… three,” Amrothos corrected sheepishly upon reflection, sighing yet again.

“Oh, sprog!” Imrahil exclaimed, eyes alight with mirth as he tightened his embrace. “Do you know how blessed I am, tempers notwithstanding, having both you and foxling in my life. Both of you remind me so much of your grandfather and your Aunt Findulas. However, youngest son, you needs must learn to control that formidable temper you possess. If your grandfather was able to achieve such, albeit somewhat late in life,” he added wryly, letting go of his son and patting his knee, “you can”.

Grumbling that it was not his fault that he had taken after his grandfather, temper-wise, Amrothos stood, loosened the ties of his leggings, pushed them down to his knees and lowered himself over his father’s lap.

Imrahil wasted no time in peppering the exposed buttocks and thighs with stinging whacks. Not for the first time, as he grunted in pain at each whack, Amrothos marvelled at how much strength there was in his even-tempered father’s hand. It was not long before grunts gave way to whimpers and whimpers to sobs when the young man’s thighs took on an alarming shade of red, due mostly to the normally very fair complexion of the fox-haired youth. With so much practical experience gained from disciplining all his offspring, Imrahil was able to judge the moment when Amrothos let go of his guilt, upon which he ceased the chastisement promptly.

He eased Amrothos off his lap, allowing the young man to pull up his leggings before opening his arms inviting his son into an embrace. Amrothos did not hesitate as he snuggled into his father’s arms, relishing the love his father always managed to convey, even on occasions when bitterly disappointed by his offspring’s behaviour. It was at times like this, he really felt sorry for his cousin’s past relationship with Denethor.

Faramir sought his cousin out, a jar of numbing salve in hand, to see how he fared. As gentle and loving as his uncle was, he never stinted when it came to administering chastisement. The Steward found his cousin lying facedown, minus leggings he suspected as his cousin was covered by a blanket, on a padded bench, located on the balcony outside his sleeping chambers in the Steward’s apartments.

“Do you ever get the feeling that grandfather had the last laugh?” Amrothos asked in all seriousness, as he twisted and looked up at his cousin.

“Every time I am upended over someone’s lap for losing my temper,” Faramir smiled, pulling the blanket aside and wincing at the rosy colour of his cousin’s posterior. “I see uncle has not lost any of his strength,” he added, applying the numbing salve before replacing the blanket.

“I am going to give Elphir ‘what for’ the next I see him for sending the sleazy git,” Amrothos growled.

“The kind of thinking that has got us both into trouble many times, sprog,” Faramir counselled.

“Whatever possessed him?” he asked perplexed.

“The same imp that often possessed, or should I say possesses, Boromir. As I have said before, they are two peas in a pod,” Faramir replied.

Aragorn, who was in his library with Arwen, Elrond and Thranduil, received word that the Rohirrim detachments had arrived and several of the mounted warriors were making their way to the palace. Inviting both his ada and Thranduil to accompany him, he met the Rohirrim as they stopped at the bottom of the palace steps, dismounted and removed their helmets. The tallest Rohirrim walked over to Aragorn.

“Éomer!” the King greeted, smiling from ear to ear as he grabbed Éomer’s arm in a warrior greeting. “I did not expect you to accompany your troops.

“Where is Éowyn?” Arwen asked, looking around, expecting to see her friend.

“Back in Edoras, Lady Arwen, probably still cursing my name as we speak,” the Rohirrim King said ruefully, rubbing the back of his neck. “I left her in charge of the city during my absence.”

“And yet you live,” Aragorn teased. “The White Lady must be mellowing.”

“Nay, I have detected nonesuch. My sister, fortunately for me, did not have a sword to hand but her right hook is still formidable indeed,” he said fingering the faded bruise around his right eye, sheepishly.

“You know our father, Lord Elrond,” Aragorn nodded towards his father.

“My Lord,” Éomer replied in greeting, bowing his head.

“And this is King Thranduil of Mirkwood.”

“Father to Prince Legolas,” Éomer said, seeing the elven King’s resemblance to the Mirkwood Prince.

“Aye, and to Faramir of Gondor also,” Thranduil replied, eyes narrowing as he scrutinised the young King.

“Faramir!” the Rohirrim exclaimed, perplexed.

“It is a long story, the short of which is that King Thranduil has adopted Faramir, who now bears the name Faramir Thranduilion,” Aragorn explained. “Come, let us go inside so that we may talk further and you can take sustenance. The midday meal should be served soon.”

Éomer turned to the other Rohirrim and instructed that they go back and get the men settled. Aragorn guided Éomer up the palace steps and towards the hall where the midday meal was being served. Arwen, Elrond and Thranduil followed.

“Why did you leave Éowyn in Edoras, Éomer?” Arwen asked as they walked towards the dining hall, suspecting the answer.

Éomer was about to give a political reply when he looked at Arwen and realised that she elf would know it to be an evasion.

“To be honest, I have heard some disquieting news about the Steward of Gondor. Strange unnatural things,” Éomer replied. “I did not want to expose my sister to anything untoward until I have examined the truth of the rumours.”

“I am sure everything can be explained…” Aragorn said as the guards standing outside the doors to the dining hall opened them but then stood frozen by the sight revealed before him.

“Oh dear!” Arwen exclaimed, putting a hand to her mouth.

Elrond and Thranduil just shook their heads and rolled their eyes. Before them stood Faramir, with his back turned to them. His hair was standing on end and blue energy crackled around him. In front of him both Amrothos and Lord Dragor were hovering above the floor, several feet above the floor.

“Let me go, Fara!” Amrothos growled as he struggled trying to get to the other man he so wanted to strangle.

Lord Dragor looked absolutely terrified by his current situation and the display of wizarding power. All colour had drained from his face and he looked as if he was about to faint.

“Mama, angry,” Misto hissed as he appeared suddenly before Aragorn and Éomer, dangling on a thread and still holding the ginger kitten.

“Ahhhhhhhhhhhh!” both Éomer and Lord Dragor yelled at the sight of the giant spider.

Unbeknownst to Lord Dragor, Misto had been up in the rafters watching the scene unfold. It was the first time the Swan Knight had seen the Mirkwood spider as Misto had been elsewhere engaged or out of sight when the Knight made his appearances. The Lord from Dol Amroth fainted. Éomer, made of sterner stuff than the Swan Knight, stumbled backwards away from the spider and would have drawn his sword if Aragorn had not stayed his arm.

“What!!” Faramir yelled in annoyance as he turned around to see what the fuss was about, thinking that it was the domestic staff. With his expression angry, blue energy crackling about his body and hair standing on end, he looked maniacal. “Oh, crap!” he cursed, seeing the look of horror on the King of Rohan’s face and his ada, with what looked suspiciously like a twinkle in his eyes, Elrond and Aragorn shaking their heads. Arwen stood on the other side of Éomer, eyes wide and a hand to her mouth. To make matters worse, his uncle and Maglor arrived upon the scene and he could hear Boromir’s hooting wheezing laughter coming from he knew not where.

Part 40

“Ooops,” squeaked Amrothos, wincing when he saw a Rohirrim, who he suspected to be the King of Rohan, his cousin’s future brother by law. Although by the look of horror on the King’s face, he was not so sure about that.

Faramir turned back around towards his cousin.

“Well, as our grandsire was wont to say on such occasions, sprog,” said Faramir, in the deathly calm conversational tone and with the maniacal glint to his eyes that never failed to cause a shiver to run up and down the recipient of that tone and look’s spine, “In for a penny, in for a pound.”

Faramir made a mental push at the glass doors that led onto the balcony that overlooked the main garden and pond, whilst still maintaining a hold on his cousin and Lord Dragor who was just coming around from his faint. The wizardling, however, misjudged the force necessary, almost causing the glass to crack and the doors to fly off their hinges.

“Now, now, Fara. Whatever it is you are thinking…” Amrothos gulped in reply, hands raised in front of him attempting to placate his angry cousin upon realising the trouble he was in, which given his position hovering several feet of the ground, was quite amusing, or so thought Boromir who was standing not far from his cousin, bent over double, hooting and wheezing still.

“Will you cease that abominable wheezy honking, Boromir and help me out here. You sound like a goose with ‘black lung’!” Amrothos admonished.

Faramir snorted.

“Boromir?” Éomer frowned, looking at the spot upon which the young man’s eyes were focussed and seeing nothing.

Aragorn winced thinking that Boromir was something else that would need to be explained to the young King.

“Father?” Amrothos pleaded, finding absolutely no help from his ghostly cousin.

“He may not be the heir or the spare, foxling,” Imrahil replied in a calm well-modulated tone and with a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth, alluding to a running family jest, “but he does have some sentimental value.”

“Father!” the Swan Knight responded indignantly, sparing a glare at his ghostly cousin who whooped with laughter at his father’s jest, before his gaze returned to his living cousin.

Faramir smirked evilly causing Amrothos to shudder again. Thranduil and Maglor exchanged amused looks at the antics of all the descendents of Adrahil present.

Under his cousin’s wizarding control, Amrothos hovered out of the room through the glassed doorway and over the balcony. The young Prince dropped out of sight with a startled and indignant “Oi, Fara!” which was followed almost immediately by a splashing sound and the tinkling of elvish laughter and the familiar deep rumbling laughter of a certain dwarf.

‘As for you, weasel. If I so much as get wind of you goading my cousin like that again, there will not be enough of you left to return to Dol Amroth by carrier pigeon!’ As if the threat was not enough, Lord Dragor paled even further as the Stewards lips did not move but heard the Steward’s voice sounding clearly in his head.

“Do… you… understand… me?” Faramir snarled aloud, enunciating each word as if talking to a simpleton.

It was Éomer’s turn to pale as he realised, from the man’s terrified reaction, that Faramir had spoken directly into the distressed man’s mind.

The Steward released the terrified Swan Knight who turned and ran from the room; assisted by a blue bolt of lightning zap to his retreating posterior, causing the man to yelp in both pain and fear and exit the room that much faster. Faramir took a deep breath before turning to face the King of Rohan.

“I take it that Éowyn is in Edoras still?” Faramir said in a deceptively calm tone; more statement than question, as he looked Éomer squarely in the eyes. “It also appears that my lady got you good before you took your leave of her,” he added, examining the faded bruise around the young King of Rohan’s right eye, eliciting a blush from the Rohirrim and a look of guilt. “Good!” he snarled, causing Aragorn, Imrahil and Arwen to wince and Thranduil’s eyes to twinkle brightly, before storming out of the room. Elrond and Maglor just shook their heads.

“Where are you going, Faramir?” Aragorn called out after his retreating Steward.

“Down to the quarry!” he growled back.

“Well that should supply the stone masons with enough split rocks for quite some time, I should imagine,” Maglor observed dryly, which earned him a look from his King that said distinctly ‘you are not helping’; the unspoken admonishment sabotaged somewhat by the still twinkling eyes.

“Ohhhhh, mama annoyed,” Misto hissed as he scuttled, purring kitten in hand… er… leg so to speak, after his mama.

“Mama?” Éomer asked perplexed as he continued to look at the spider as it disappeared around the corner. “And you can explain?” he questioned, turning to Aragorn, eyebrow raised.

Aragorn sighed, letting out a whoosh of breath. Maglor snorted.

“So that is how he became a ring bearer and a wizard-in-training with a Mirkwood spider as a familiar,” Aragorn summarised, trying to sound more positive than he felt; given the frown that dominated the young King of Rohan’s face.

Éomer, having bathed and partaken of a meal; for Aragorn had not wished to tell the tale whilst the Rohirrim was travel stained and hungry, had retained the same frown during the entirety of the tale’s telling.

“The question remains, do I want an unstable wizard’s pupil, marrying my sister?” Éomer asked, frown deepening.

“Oh, I can see how it could be considered an undesirable match,” Thranduil began, garnering expressions of surprise from Aragorn and Imrahil and knowing smirks from Elrond, Arwen and Maglor. “She will be the revered wife of the most powerful wizard left in Middle Earth, who also happens to be the second most powerful man in Arda; Steward of Gondor, Prince of Ithilien,” he continued, indicating by omission where he thought the King of Rohan was, or more precisely was not, in the Middle Earth power stakes. “Rohan, through this one marriage would be allied to Gondor, Dol Amroth and Mirkwood. Aye, I can see why it may be considered an unfortunate match.”

The elven King watched for the meaning of his words to be comprehended finally by the young man. Éomer flushed with anger, his posture stiffening only to deflate when he saw the elf’s eyes twinkling with humour.

“I can understand that you want what is best for your sister and do not wish to see her hurt, Éomer,” Arwen crooned in her lilting tone. “But Faramir loves Éowyn dearly and would never do anything to hurt her. And I am very sure that if you attempt to keep them apart, Éowyn will find a thousand ways of making your life a misery,” she concluded not mentioning what she thought Faramir would do to him.

A smile tugged at the corners of her mouth when Éomer, unconsciously, fingered the fading bruise around his right eye. The Rohirrim’s expression turned sheepish when he realised his unconscious gesture and the Queen of Gondor’s amused regard.

“I am yet to be convinced that this would be a suitable match for my sister,” Éomer maintained obstinately. “But I will not rule the match out… for the moment.”

And if Éowyn is even half as obstinate as her brother, Thranduil thought facetiously, the offspring of a union between the White Lady and his much loved but very stubborn human son should prove quite the handful, but in all probability highly entertaining. He was looking forward to the future possibilities.

“Why is my wizardling blasting rocks? He has the citizenry all a flutter thinking he will destroy the very foundations of the city and if he keeps at it he may very well do so!” Gandalf spluttered as he entered the room, startled momentarily on seeing the King of Rohan and then wondering briefly if the man ever smiled or if his expression was always dyspeptic.

Aragorn groaned.

After expending almost all of his energy trying to diminish his still considerable anger, much to the delight of the stonemasons and quarry labourers who had watched in awe as weeks worth of back-breaking labour was accomplished in but a little over two hours, Faramir decided that he could do with an ale… or twelve. He decided to forgo his usual drinking establishment for a more disreputable one located on the second level, one that he and sprog used to frequent in their younger days and that boasted a gargantuan of a pig for a mascot, which had been used so successfully in a recent prank against the twins, so that anyone who came looking for him, would find the task hopefully more difficult or impossible.

Swaying with exhaustion, Faramir shooed Misto off back to the palace telling his familiar that the spider needed to see to the needs of his kitten, which was being entertained currently by a piece of string that Misto was dangling in front of it; utilising one of his eight legs. The kitten kept jumping for the string only to have it pulled out of the way. Misto looked up at his mama suspiciously before complying with the instruction, reluctantly, hissing as he made his way back to the palace.

Entering the pub, Faramir made his way to an unoccupied darkened corner at the very end of the establishment and ordered a large tankard of ale from an old and haggard looking barmaid. He was onto his third tankard of ale when he was joined by Boromir, who sat down beside his brother and looked at him intently.

“Do not shhtart on me,” Faramir slurred. “I have had a very baaad day.”

“Alright, little brother. I will let you wallow alone,” Boromir said, before he left the pub through the wall, surprising Faramir who had expected more argument from his brother. He picked up his tankard of ale and took another mighty swig.

Faramir was on his sixth tankard of ale when Boromir returned in the company of Amrothos.

“Tattle… tattlet… taddlet… rat fink!” Faramir admonished his ghostly brother.

Boromir smirked.

“You are pickled, cousin!” Amrothos chided as he pulled the unfinished tankard of ale out of his cousin’s hand.

“Ammmm not!” Faramir retorted as he made to grab the tankard back but missed as he had grabbed for the wrong one of the two tankards he could see in his cousin’s two right hands.

He closed one eye in the hopes of reducing the number of tankards he could see to one, which seemed to work, but missed the tankard again as with one eye closed he could not judge the depth.

“There you are, muindor tithen! You have half the palace out looking for you and the other half trying to entertain Éomer,” Legolas admonished as he arrived upon the scene after seeing Amrothos make his way to the second level with determination and seemingly talking to himself. “You are very lucky that the feast for Éomer is to be held tomorrow evening!”

“Éomer!” Faramir snarled.

“I am thankful you have arrived, cousin,” Amrothos said in genuine relief. “I was just wondering how I was going to get his pickledship back to the palace by myself,” he added ruefully.

Before Faramir could even utter a protest, Legolas grabbed one of his brother’s arms pulling it over his shoulder and Amrothos grabbed the other and they hauled the soused Steward to his feet. The Swan Knight grabbed a few coins from his purse and threw them onto the table as they left the establishment. It was not long before Faramir’s face developed a certain green tinge, evident even in the fading light of sunset and so familiar to Legolas, Amrothos and Boromir. Both Legolas and Amrothos let go of Faramir, who stumbled over to a small rose garden, fell to his knees and was violently sick. The elf held his brother’s hair back with one hand and held his forehead with the other.

“This is a distressingly familiar scene, ion-nin,” Thranduil sighed as he approached, his keen elven sight having detected his sons from a higher vantage point in the city and his swift elven feet carried him to his sons.

Faramir groaned from where he knelt still, hoping that the dry heaves had truly stopped and wishing fervently that the city would stop spinning.

“S-s-sorry, ada,” Faramir stuttered in a hushed whisper.

“You will be ion-nin,” Thranduil chided softy as he scooped his inebriated son into his arms and Faramir’s head rested on his ada’s shoulder. “Why do you do this to yourself? You do not have a head for ale and what little numbing takes place is soon overcome by the ill effects that must outweigh the benefits. I will cure you of this unfortunate habit of not voicing the depth of your distress and of attempting to find solace at the bottom of a tankard of ale, ion-nin.”

“Several tankards actually,” Amrothos murmured under his breath and then blushed when he realised that both Legolas and Thranduil had heard his comment evidenced by the identical expressions of amusement. Damned elven hearing he thought as they made their way back to the palace.

Faramir moaned at his ada’s words before passing out.

Part 41

The elven King carried his inebriated human son back towards the palace in the company of his elven son, Amrothos, and unbeknownst to either elf, Boromir. On the way they were met by Maglor who had been trawling the various drinking establishments, of which Minas Tirith boasted more than a few, in search of his young charge. Rolling his eyes at the unconscious state of said charge, he too walked with Thranduil back to the palace.

Not wanting to tarnish further the Steward’s reputation in the eyes of the King of Rohan, Maglor guided Thranduil through the less used parts of the palace in the hopes of not meeting any domestic staff or Rohirrim guests. Thranduil’s eyes twinkled at the lengths to which his Seneschal went in an effort to protect his young charge, demonstrating clearly the depth of affection the elf held for Faramir. They approached a large open doorway to a room that if they cut through, led to a hallway close to the entrance to the Steward’s apartment. The elves stopped on hearing voices coming from the room. Maglor put his head around the corner and saw that Imrahil was standing by the fireplace, directly opposite the open doorway. Sitting in chairs by the fireplace were Éomer, Aragorn, Arwen, Elrond and Gandalf. Fortunately, Éomer’s back was to the open doorway

The Mirkwood Seneschal was just about to backtrack when his keen elven hearing detected the approach of several men, around a corner further down the corridor. He caught Imrahil’s attention and pointed to the door in the room to the right, hoping that Imrahil would understand his meaning. It was not until Thranduil, with Faramir in his arms, stepped into the open doorway that Imrahil discerned Maglor’s intent. A true son of Adrahil, he took a step forward, his knee seemingly to fold beneath him, and fell to the floor. Éomer and Elrond jumped to their feet to assist the Prince to his feet. Aragorn would have done so had he not been distracted by the sight of his obviously unconscious Steward being carried through the room and through a doorway to the right, preceded by Maglor and followed by Legolas and Amrothos. The Rivendell elves and wizard also detected the movement; Mithrandir harrumphing as he glared at his unconscious wizardling and Elrond’s eyes widening and eyebrows !
seeming to take flight. Éomer remained blissfully ignorant thankfully, as he assisted Imrahil to the closest chair.

“Weak knee, getting old,” Imrahil apologised, patting his knee.

Aragorn snorted, evoking a questioning look from the Rohirrim.

Finding the sanctuary of the Steward’s apartments finally, Thranduil carried Faramir into his son’s sleeping chamber preceded by Maglor.

“Mama sick?” Misto asked, concerned, from his web in the corner of the room, looking down upon his mama. The well-fed ginger kitten was asleep in its basket attached to the web.

“All is well, tithen pen,” Thranduil said as be began to divest Faramir of his clothing. “He just had a bit too much to drink.”

Maglor snorted at the gross understatement as he walked into the adjoining bathing chamber to collect an empty bucket for use if his young charge awoke unwell.

After divesting the young man of his clothing, the two elder elves gave Faramir a quick sponge bath, dressed him in his nightshirt and put him abed. Faramir mumbled crossly before turning onto his side and falling into a deeper slumber. Legolas and Amrothos entered soon after Faramir had been settled and sat down on opposite sides of the large four-poster bed’s end. Boromir had entered the room earlier and stood at the foot of the bed near Amrothos.

Thranduil sat down beside his human son.

“Why do you do this to yourself, ion-nin?” he sighed, brushing Faramir’s locks back to better see his son’s face. “What hurts you so?”

“Boromir says it is because in his heart he does not believe he deserves the love of the White Lady, a belief he feels is also held by King Éomer,” Amrothos winced remembering the look of horror on the Rhohirrim King’s face and his own complicity in the cause of that look.

“What does Boromir advise I do?” Thranduil asked.

“You would not, Brom!” Amrothos exclaimed, looking up at his ghostly cousin.

“What would he not do, pen-neth?” Maglor asked, a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth.

“Take him down to the Quay and throw him into the Anduin!” the young Swan Knight replied. “Aye, I know that you have done so before but we were on a ship at the time and you were being a right royal curmudgeon! And when he was going down for the third time, you threw me into the river to fetch him back up and I was in little better shape than he was!” he added indignantly.

Legolas sniggered. Thranduil and Maglor’s eyebrows took flight.

“So, as I suspected, loathing of self is the cause. What is its cure?” Thranduil asked, expression turning sombre again.

“Bor-o-mir!” Amrothos whined quietly.

“Aye?” Maglor asked giving Amrothos his full attention, making the young man squirm.

Amrothos squirmed even more when Thranduil and Legolas added their intense elven attention, and Boromir demanded loudly that he tell them.

“An application of ‘Faramir’s Bane’ until he acknowledges his fears about Éowyn, followed soon after by a trip to the orphanage,” replied Amrothos eventually if reluctantly, scrunching his nose up in distaste at the thought of his cousin being paddled by that red demonic ‘thing’ again.

“The orphanage?” Thranduil and Maglor said as one.

“Children adore Fara. They flock to him whenever he ventures into the city and he is the patron of the orphanage,” Amrothos began with a smile, remembering times when Faramir had taken him to the orphanage as well and watched his cousin’s defences lower under the barrage of children wanting the ranger to tell them stories. “Boromir says that it will be easier in the presence of children who have lost much to get Fara to acknowledge that as much as he believes they are deserving of love, so is he.”

“I see the fox cubs are not the only ones who have inherited much from their grandsire, Boromir,” Thranduil smiled, eyes twinkling as he looked down upon his sleeping son. “Your words bespeak of a depth of understanding and love for your brother that I would have thought not possible in the race of man until I met your grandsire. Your words also bespeak of man, who in life it seems, hid behind the façade of a philandering warrior.”

Amrothos chortled at seeing his spluttering ghostly cousin’s expression caught between indignant and sheepish.

“I will sit with him this night if you wish, mellon-nin,” Maglor offered.

“Nay, mellon-nin,” Thranduil replied with a small smile. “I will guard his sleep tonight and contemplate on how best to proceed upon his awakening.”

Legolas and Amrothos both winced at the thought of what was likely to happen to Faramir in the morning as Maglor produced Faramir’s Bane from seemingly thin air and left it on the floor near Thranduil and then moved a chair from against the wall and placed it near the bed, before taking their leave followed by the Mirkwood Seneschal.

It was not long after they left that a gentle knock at the door heralded the arrival of Aragorn and Elrond. The Rivendell healer walked over to the unconscious Steward and put his hand upon the young man’s brow.

“Imbibed too much again?” Elrond guessed.

“Pissed as a newt, I believe is the human phrase most appropriate,” Thranduil replied.

“Mind you, with Faramir achievement of that state takes surprisingly little ale and even less wine,” Aragorn said ruefully.

“Éomer?” Thranduil questioned.

“Saw nothing thanks to Imrahil and is being entertained by he and Arwen,” Aragorn replied.

“Good. It would not do to have drunkenness added to his list of reasons why Faramir should not marry Éowyn.”

Faramir chose that moment to regain consciousness. Groaning, he opened his eyes, groaned again when he saw who was present in his sleeping chamber and, turning slightly green, clamped a hand over his mouth and leaned over the side of the bed. Thranduil grabbed the bucket that his Seneschal had placed near the bed for just such a purpose and held it in front his heaving son. Dry heaves only ensued as Faramir had forgone both the midday and evening meals.

“It is obvious that you have not eaten for some time, pen-neth,” Elrond admonished as he held Faramir’s hair back from his face as the young man continued to heave. “Estel? Fetch me a glass of water, please.”

“Aye, ada.”

Elrond added a few drops from a small vial he had secured before coming to the Steward’s apartments to the glass of water given to him by Aragorn. He made sure that Faramir drank the entire contents, a small smile tugging at the corners of his mouth as the young man eyed him and the glass suspiciously. It was not long before Faramir fell back into a deep slumber.

“He should rest peacefully until the morning when you can deal with his unfortunate habit of attempting to drown his anger and sorrow,” Elrond advised in a tone that caused Aragorn to wince.

“To be fair to my son, mellon-nin,” Thranduil reasoned. “He did attempt to address his anger at the quarry. It is an indication of the depth of his feelings that it was not enough even though he was swaying with exhaustion before he entered the drinking establishment, apparently.”

“Aye, that is true,” Elrond agreed. “Still waters…” he mused. “Very little shows on the surface with this one until he is pushed over the edge, unlike his grandsire,” he added smiling as he remembered some of the more memorable displays of temper by his fox-haired friend from Dol Amroth.

“Another of Denethor’s legacies,” Aragorn growled, wishing yet again that Denethor lived still so that he could have the pleasure of kicking the man from one end of Middle Earth to the other and back again. “What my Steward must have endured throughout his childhood and beyond for him to subjugate his feelings so and that against his very nature. It makes my gut churn with anger to think upon it. I see his twin in his cousin but a twin raised in love, impish, happy, confident of his place in the heart’s of others making the contrast between the two all the more tragic because it should never have been.”

“And that is why I need to proceed cautiously on the morrow and not, as Boromir recommended, throw Faramir into the Anduin,” Thranduil said, his eyes brightening with humour at the ghostly Gondorian’s suggestion.

“That is Boromir!” Aragorn chuckled. “No beating around the bush or skulking in the shadows or behind enemy lines for him. A frontal assault, he would oft say, saves much time and energy. He would have made a terrible Ranger.”

After a few more moments, Elrond and Aragorn bid a goodnight and took their leave of the Elven King and the slumbering Steward.

Thranduil sat beside his son still well after dawn the next morning when Faramir, laying on his stomach and his face buried in the pillow beneath him, struggled finally towards consciousness. Misto had awoken earlier and taken his kitten out so that it could answer the call of nature and be fed. With his head pounding ferociously, the inside of his mouth feeling rancid and his breathing sounding far to loud to his sensitive ears, Faramir sent out his awareness in the vain hope that he was alone in his room. He let loose a muffled but virulent Rohirrim curse when he detected the unnaturally loud thoughts of his ada and his ada’s steely determination to ‘deal’ with the events of the day before.

‘You are very fortunate, ion-nin, that Maglor is not present,’ Thranduil thought, knowing that Faramir was scanning his thoughts.

‘Mercy, please! Do not shout so,’ the hapless man projected into his ada’s mind, eliciting a verbal chuckle from the elf at the distinct whine in his son’s ‘mind voice’.

A quiet knock at the door of his sleeping chamber had Faramir whimpering as he removed the pillow upon which his head had been resting and then put it over his head.

Lord Elrond entered; his eyes alight with mirth at the muffled whimpers coming from Faramir. He held in his hand a tumbler containing a brew, the recipe of which he had developed specifically for Estel’s bouts of overindulgence of ale and wine over the years.

Thranduil removed the pillow from on top of Faramir’s head and gently coaxed his son over and into a sitting position. Faramir opened his eyes tentatively ready to close them immediately at the slightest hint of light, which he suspected would cause his pounding head to explode. He sighed with relief to find that the room was darkened and the curtains drawn.

“Ahhhhhhh! Boromir, you bastard!” Faramir yelled and then whimpered as his shouting sent spikes of pain reverberating through his head and closed his eyes at the blinding light that had flooded the room suddenly.

Boromir had entered the room, his voice booming out a ‘good morn, little brother’ at the same moment he had managed somehow to draw back the curtains allowing overly bright morning light to flood the room.

“Be thankful, little brother, that you did not end up thrown into the Anduin as I would have done!” Boromir admonished, loudly.

Faramir drank the brew offered by Elrond with unusual alacrity and without comment in the hopes of lessening the pain in his head.

“It is not as if you never got drunk,” Faramir muttered mutinously. “And how did you do that?” he asked waving vaguely at the windows, squinting because of the bright morning light.

“I rarely used drink to avoid anger or avoid expressing what truly pained my heart, which are the only reasons you turn to drink,” Boromir countered. “And as for the curtains, I am not sure myself,” he added quite taken aback but inordinately pleased with himself.

Faramir sighed with relief when the pain in his head subsided to a more bearable level, surprised that he did not feel sleepy as he would normally after consuming a draught for pain.

“I adjusted the ingredients to about one quarter strength,” Elrond replied to the unasked question he received from Faramir’s unshielded mind. “As I was loathe to have you fall asleep before your ada has had the opportunity to deal with your recent lapse.”

Colour drained even further from Faramir’s face and he winced, knowing what was almost certain to ensue. He cursed inwardly.

“Your mind is unshielded, pen-neth,” Elrond advised, eyebrow raised and expression stern, causing Faramir to blush furiously and then to pale again as he raised his mental shields once more. “He is all yours, mellon-nin,” Elrond said as he took his leave of them.

Faramir looked so forlorn and dejected that Thranduil could not help but envelop his human son in a King-sized hug.

“Faramir Thranduilion,” he began gently, tightening his arms around his son. “You know that I love you deeply, do you not?”

“Aye, ada,” Faramir replied in a hoarse whisper, revelling in the comfort provided by the physical contact and words.

“Whilst I love you dearly, ion-nin, I am not enamoured with your propensity for using ale and wine as a means of dealing with deeper emotions,” the elven King chided gently.

“I am sorry, ada,” Faramir apologised.

“Like my elfling, ion-nin, you are always sorry after the fact but quite oblivious before the fact,” Thranduil chuckled. “Now, whilst I have my suspicions, I want you to tell me the cause of your anger yesterday.”

Faramir sighed but remained silent, as he did not want to explore his feelings for fear of inciting them further. He flinched occasionally informing Thranduil that Boromir was present still and, in all probability, yelling at his little brother.

“All right, tithen-pen,” Thranduil sighed. “We will have to take the harder route, it seems.”

Giving his son another hug, he let go and bent down to retrieve ‘Faramir’s Bane’; elvish version, from where Maglor had placed it on the floor the evening before. He rose to his feet and walked over to an armless chair that Maglor had placed not far from the bed and sat down upon the chair.

Faramir sighed, pulled the covers from off his legs, rose and walked over to his ada. As he wore his nighshirt still and therefore was sans leggings, he lowered himself over his ada’s lap. Thranduil pulled the nightshirt up to his son’s waist, exposing his bare posterior.

“What is this chastisement for, ion-nin?” the elven King asked as he landed the first few whacks to his son’s exposed buttocks.

“For losing my temper and getting drunk,” Faramir replied mutinously, gaining his breath after the first stinging swats.

“All who knew him thought your grandsire stubborn but you, ion-nin, make him look positively pliable!” Thranduil exclaimed as he increased the intensity of the swats to his son’s buttocks. “I ask again. What is this chastisement for?”

Faramir remained silent; his anger growing by the moment as Boromir was yelling at him to admit the truth and the ring of power had decided to join in the attempt.

“Nay, nay, nay nay!” Faramir kept repeating in between gasps for breath.

Thranduil moved his attention to Faramir’s thighs, setting a blistering pace, not willing to lose this battle for he knew in so doing, he would lose the war. Faramir’s buttocks and thighs turned an alarming shade of red and still the young man would not relent.

“All right! All right, Brom!” Faramir wailed finally. “I do not… deserve… love… especially Éowyn’s.”

Thranduil let out a whoosh of breath at his son’s relenting finally and naming his fear. He stopped the chastisement immediately, rubbing Faramir’s back in gentle circles.

“Why not, ion-nin?” he asked gently as Faramir lay limply over his lap, panting.

“Weak… emotional… fool… burden,” Faramir spat out the same words Denethor had used to berate him time after time after time.

Thranduil threw down ‘Faramir’s Bane’ and proceeded to whack his son’s bright red posterior with his bare hand landing whack after whack until Faramir was wailing, something that he promised would happen the next time Faramir used those words to describe himself.

“You are not weak! You are compassionate! You are not a fool, but sometimes behave foolishly and you are… _no_… burden!!” Thranduil bellowed, punctuating each point with a flurry of whacks.

“Daro, daro! (stop, stop),” Faramir pleaded in elvish, sobbing his heart out.

Thranduil ceased the punishment, pulled down his son’s nightshirt, turned him over being careful of the much abused buttocks and thighs and pulled him into a tight hug; all the while murmuring that he was deserving of love and was loved. Faramir continued to sob into his ada’s shoulder.

“Nay, nay, nay,” he denied repeatedly, but in ever diminishing volume.

Undaunted, the elven King continued his litany of words of comfort and love at the same time he thought longingly of the ability to see and thrash a certain former Steward of Gondor ghost.

Part 42

Faramir’s sobs quieted finally to hitched breaths. Encircled by the strong arms of his ada he fell into a deep sleep eventually, aided by Elrond’s brew, to the sounds of his ada’s lilting voice crooning to him of his how much he deserved love and how much he was loved. Holding on to his precious son, Thranduil pondered anew the set of contradictions that was his human son. A cunning warrior, a natural leader of men, quiet, gentle, compassionate, loved by so many in all walks-of-life, but ever vulnerable to the opinions of those whom he holds in high regard or are in positions of authority and influence over him. The elven King rose to his feet eventually and put his son abed, laying him on his stomach and pulling the covers up over him.

Maglor entered the room accompanied by Misto still carrying his kitten. Thranduil wondered briefly if the kitten was ever going to find it necessary to walk, although it appeared contented enough judging by the loudness of it’s purring. The young spider took one look at his mama and hissed.

“Do not start with me, tithen-pen,” Thranduil chided mildly. “He got exactly what he deserved.”

Grumbling, Misto carried his purring kitten into a corner of the room and began to play with him, using string and a small cloth ball that had been given to him by Arwen but kept several of his eyes on his mama. Thranduil smirked at the incongruous picture. Maglor drew back the blankets that covered Faramir and lifted his nightshirt. He whistled softly at the deep shade of red that covered his charge’s buttocks and thighs and looked at Thranduil, eyebrow raised, before replacing the nightshirt and covers.

“I can say, with all honesty, that on matters pertaining to self-worthiness and preservation of self, he would, without doubt, be the most stubborn being in all of Middle Earth and Valinor, past and present!” Thranduil complained quietly.

“He admitted to his fear finally, I hope?” Maglor asked.

“Aye, he admitted to his fear of not being deserving of love, but only because Boromir was there as well… assisting,” Thranduil replied, a small smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. “I admit that I was overly harsh with him though. I asked him why he felt that way and he used Denethor’s words…”

“Let me guess. Weak, stupid, emotional, useless, worthless,” Maglor counted off on his fingers angrily. “I hope you are listening you old fool and understand truly what you have wrought on the child that was, unfortunately and through no fault of his, sired by you!” he growled, hoping that the former Steward was present in spirit or that Boromir was and would, hopefully, add his voice in outrage.

“The timing is ill, we march out for Minas Morgul in seven days. I fear the tension between Faramir and the young King of Rohan will make him even more reckless,” Thranduil sighed, grave concern evident in his expression and tone.

“You concentrate on this one and leave me to deal with the King of Rohan,” Maglor replied with what Faramir termed ‘a Mirkwood glint ‘ to the eye, a look that would have had the Steward protecting his behind quite unconsciously.

“Hannon le, mellon-nin,” Thranduil smiled, feeling a pang of sympathy, if only momentarily, for the Rohirrim King.

“Come, tithen-pen,” Maglor called to Misto, leaving Thranduil to sit with Faramir. Misto picked up his kitten and followed the elf happily enough although he did spare a small hiss for Thranduil as he passed. The elven King chuckled shaking his head at the departing spider.

Faramir awoke again just before midday, feeling slightly less delicate head-wise but with a fearful throbbing in his hindquarters. Tentatively, he sent out his awareness. He detected the amused, but thankfully less loud, thoughts of his ada.

“Aur Vaer, ion-nin,” Thranduil teased from his position seated on a chair beside his son’s bed in the same tone and intonation used by Legolas when his brother was in the process of awakening upon the morn or was under-the-weather.

Faramir groaned, grumbling into the pillow beneath his face a reference to the sadistic nature of certain elves of his acquaintance.

“My arse is afire, ada,” he whined into his pillow.

“I am sorry that I was so harsh with you, ion-nin, but I will not have you use the malicious and unjust words of that man who sired you to malign yourself,” Thranduil said leaning forward and pushing back the hair that covered Faramir’s face.

“Even if they are true?” Faramir whispered.

Thranduil took a deep calming breath before opening his mouth to answer when matters were taken out of his hands; somewhat dramatically. The blankets covering him flew off Faramir, seemingly of their own volition, coming to rest at the end of the bed. The young man’s nightshirt gathered at the waist as if an invisible hand was at play, exposing very rosy buttocks, followed in quick order by the unmistakable sound of hand meeting flesh and Faramir’s subsequent yelps of pain.

“Boromir! H-how did you do that!” Faramir yelped in indignation, pain and shock at what he recognised to be definitely a Boromirian wallop and at full strength at that. “And stop bellowing at me!” he snarled, turning onto his side to better protect his vulnerable and much abused posterior.

Thranduil watched the scene unfolding with much amusement and more than a modicum of astonishment. He watched as Faramir flinched as if from a loud sound and then looked sharply towards the door of his sleeping chamber, which was closed. Tentatively, the door opened admitting a reluctant Amrothos who sidled into the room, looking as if he was entering a very large, very dangerous beast’s den. Boromir had found his cousin, chatting with a very pretty young noblewoman, and demanded that he go to Faramir’s room. His ghostly cousin’s expression was very like his brother Elphir’s when on a tear and it did not bode well for Faramir.

“You bellowed, cousin?” he asked, looking beyond the bed at his ghostly cousin.

A strange conversation ensued where Amrothos relayed to Thranduil the words Boromir was bellowing… er… growling… er vocalising.

“We are having it out here and now, little brother!” Boromir growled, causing Faramir’s eyes to widen in astonishment and not a little fear. “You are not weak, nor are you useless, nor are you a burden, nor are you any of the negatives father, in his stupidity and self absorbed grief, called you! You are weak headed at times, I grant. You are very, very, stubborn, I more than grant. You are reckless with your life, I grant but you are not… weak… useless… a fool… nor… a… burden!”

Each point was emphasised by the resounding sound of hand meeting buttocks and Faramir appeared to be struggling to turn over onto his back to avoid the invisible swats even as he yelped in pain. Amrothos also yelped but in shock as he had not, in all his years of seeing ghosts, encountered a ghost that could do what Boromir was doing. His ghostly cousin was swinging his hand with all his might at Faramir’s posterior. The hand did not appear to meet flesh but the sound and his cousin’s pained yelps were unmistakeable. Thranduil’s eyes twinkled at the comical look of abject astonishment bordering on horror that graced the young Swan Knight’s face.

“Will you please cease hitting me!” Faramir whined.

“Father has told me that you bore very harsh punishments by him in silence. That is not the sign of a man who is weak,” Boromir argued.

“My s-silence was due to f-fear of bringing more of f-father’s ire d-down upon m-me,” Faramir retorted, falling into the stuttering that had plagued his speech, especially with Denethor, throughout his childhood and youth, eliciting ever greater scorn and derision from the former Steward.

It was then that Amrothos saw his uncle on the periphery of his vision, looking sad, dejected and with an air of guilt that made him look ancient. The Swan Knight also witnessed the glare of towering rage Boromir sent towards Denethor and how it made his uncle seemingly wilt even more and become even less substantial, as he continued to relay to Thranduil what Boromir was saying.

“No sane man is fearless, little brother,” Boromir replied, his expression turning melancholy. “A weak man would not have borne what you have borne over the years. You saved my bacon on any number of occasions including when we reclaimed Osgiliath, for Eru’s sake!”

“And according to f-father, I-I w-was the o-one who l-lost O-Osgiliath,” Faramir countered.

Another sound of hand meeting flesh was followed by another yelp from Faramir.

“Balderdash! Father lost Osgiliath by not supplying you and your Rangers with the food and equipment that would have enabled you to defend the city! Aye, little one, something else father has confessed to me,” Boromir added at Faramir’s startled look for he had never told Boromir of the promised stores that never reached Amon Hen.

“H-he said I was a b-burden on you,” Faramir stuttered again.

Boromir felt his heart shatter anew at the reappearance of his brother’s stutter, indicating the depth of the hurt that he carried within him.

“I know, Fara. You have never been a burden, little brother. You are my pride and joy. You are the only reason that I was able to keep fighting…”

“A-and I-I am the r-reason you are… as y-you are,” Faramir finished lamely, alluding to his brother’s deceased state.

“You are not responsible!” Boromir bellowed, causing Amrothos to cringe and Thranduil to raise an elven eyebrow at the young man’s reaction.

“I-if f-father had t-trusted m-me, it i-is I who w-would have g-gone to R-Rivendell,” Faramir said, his embarrassment over his stutter showing.

“Bunkum, Fara! Regardless of what father ordered, I would have forbidden you to go on the quest, and I would not have been gainsaid on the matter. So get thoughts of responsibility out of that very stubborn head of yours!”

“Nay, it was my fault… owwwwwwch, Boromir!” Faramir yelped as he again felt the full force of his brother’s right hand on his bottom.

“You… are… _not_… listening, Fara!” Boromir yelled, exasperated. Each word was followed by the sound of a slap and a yelp from Faramir.

“I am listening, I am,” Faramir yelped.

“Not with your heart, little brother,” Boromir contradicted, his expression softening. “I know that father hurt you deeply, Fara. He was wrong and is very sorry for what he did to you. Will you try to listen with your heart, miel neth nin? For me.”

Faramir’s eyes welled with tears but they did not fall. Regaining his composure, he nodded his head in affirmation that he would try.

“Aye, for you,” Faramir whispered and then gasped when he felt Boromir’s hand slide down his cheek in an age-old gesture of affection. “What is happening to you, Brom?” Faramir asked tears welling again and then overflowing.

“I do not know, miel neth, just that I yet have a part to play and a more active one than I had envisaged it seems. I will leave you for a while to think on what I have said,” he added before turning and exiting the room through the wall of stone.

Faramir held his hand out to Thranduil in a silent plea for much needed comfort from his ada. Within a heartbeat, Thranduil sat beside his son on the bed and embraced him. Faramir sighed, relaxing into the safe, strong arms of his ada. Looking up he gave his ada a tremulous, watery, smile, eliciting a brilliant smile from the elf in return.

“The coast is clear, you can enter,” Thranduil chuckled having been aware for some time that his Seneschal and elfling were eavesdropping on the other side of the door.

Legolas entered the room first, looking a little sheepish, followed by Maglor who looked not at all sheepish as he carried a tray of food and drink for his young charge. Faramir took one look at the amount of food and sighed. He was definitely not hungry.

“Were my ears deceiving me or did Boromir actually spank Faramir?” Legolas asked Amrothos tentatively, causing Faramir to blush furiously at the ‘s’ word and turn his head towards his ada’s chest to hide his embarrassment.

“Aye, that he did indeed,” Amrothos replied in the vague preoccupied way a person does when still within the grip of a severe shock.

“Is that normal for a ghost?” Legolas questioned.

“Nay, not such in my experience, but then my cousin was an atypical man, so why should I think he would be a typical ghost?” Amrothos reasoned in the same preoccupied manner.

Faramir groaned again at his cousin’s words, eliciting another chuckle from Thranduil.

After Faramir had eaten enough to satisfy Maglor, bathed and dressed, Amrothos, on Boromir’s orders, suggested a visit to the orphanage, as they would be leaving the city soon and should check that all would be well in the absence of the orphanage’s patron. Faramir eyed his cousin suspiciously, receiving a bland expression in return, but acquiesced to the request.

Part 43

The orphanage was located on the fourth level of the city, much to the annoyance of certain members of the nobility who did not like the idea of having the poor and dispossessed – commonly referred to as ‘street rats’ – living near where they resided also. The orphanage had been located originally in a disused, dilapidated, damp and dingy warehouse in the industrial quarter of the first level and had been there for many years. One of the first things Faramir did after he was confirmed as Steward, having surrendered the White Rod of the Stewardship only to have it handed straight back by the King, was to have the orphanage moved to a mansion on the fourth level that had refurbishment completed only recently. Prior to the War of the Ring, Faramir had purchased the mansion unbeknownst to Denethor who believed that his brother-by-law Imrahil had purchased it, which indeed he had but with his nephew’s money and, unbeknownst to Faramir, a fair amount of his own money, for the purp!
oses of relocating the orphanage. Faramir knew that the council and indeed his father would have refused him permission to move the orphanage but had hoped at the time that Boromir would have been able to sway their father and thus the council. Unfortunately, the war took over and Faramir’s plans and the completion of the refurbishment and relocation were delayed.

There were many orphans left in the wake of the War of the Ring and in particular the Siege of Minas Tirith. Faramir was determined that the orphaned children of the city would be housed, fed, clothed, educated and treated with dignity, something that had not been afforded them except through the limited resources that he, Boromir and some of the wealthier inhabitants could muster and the more larcenous of them, steal; something at which Boromir, surprisingly, proved exceedingly adept. The Steward had engaged the services of Gimli and his resident dwarven brethren in completing the refurbishment. When Gimli discovered what the mansion was to be used for, he pulled out all stops and he and his fellow dwarves completed the refurbishment in an amazingly short period of time but with no reduction in quality.

The King and Queen had both been appalled when Faramir had taken them to visit the orphanage on the first level not long after they had been wed and they witnessed for themselves the conditions in which the children lived. Their regret turned to joy when Faramir showed them through the refurbished mansion. When Aragorn found out from Imrahil that Faramir had used his own funds to purchase and restore the mansion, he reimbursed his Steward from public monies, much to the annoyance of certain nobleman. Some of the councillors, those that had served on the council when Denethor was Steward, maintained that Gondor could not afford such lavish accommodation for what amounted to street rats and if the Steward was idiotic enough to pay for such lavish accommodation then more fool him. Faramir’s eyes widened, not at the slight aimed at him for he would have expected nothing else from his father’s old cronies but at the use of the term ‘street rats’. He exchanged a knowing smirk with!
Imrahil and both just sat back in their seats to enjoy the fireworks and it was not long in coming. Aragorn exploded into a ranting rage, which took the councillors aback for it was the first time they had been privy to the King’s temper. Aragorn waxed lyrical on the subject of so called ‘street rats’ telling the councillors, in no uncertain terms, that if Lord Elrond had not taken him in when his father Arathorn had been killed, he would have been a ‘street rat’. Needless to say the councillors acceded grudgingly, knowing that the King had right of veto anyway and not wanting to risk being any further entrenched on his bad side.

So the children were moved to the new premises where they had cleaner and warmer sleeping conditions, a well equipped school both academic and vocational, open to the poorer children of the city also, and safe surrounds in which to play. Faramir devoted whatever time he could, time reduced unfortunately since discovering that he was a wizard, to visit the children and observe for himself if they continued to be well cared for. He had been forced on two occasions to release staff members from duty for negligence and abuse.

Faramir arrived at the front gates leading into the orphanage in the company of his ada, Maglor, Legolas, Gimli, who had decided to join them when he discovered where they were headed when he spied them leaving the palace, Amrothos and Misto with his kitten riding on his back. Many of the children were out in the yard playing, having just finished their midday meal. The children went into a frenzy when they saw Faramir accompanied by his cousin, elves, a dwarf and Misto, enter through the gates. As one, they swarmed towards the Steward, laughing and shouting in delight, to the amusement of their adult carers who were watching them from the steps that led up into the entrance of the house. The children showed no fear of Misto as they had seen the spider grow from a hatchling, as the young spider had accompanied his mama on previous visits.

The Steward ran a critical eye over the children as he lowered his mental shields, looking for any signs that not all was well. When all appeared fine he relaxed, smiling indulgently at the children who were all vying for his attention. As Faramir eyed the children, Thranduil observed his human son, once again marvelling at how well Boromir knew his little brother. The Faramir he was seeing now, smiling, laughing and more importantly relaxed, he would do all in his power to see become his son’s normal everyday persona.

The elven King felt a tug at his tunic and looked down to see the same young female child, sister to one of the palace servants, who had been used as bait to lure Faramir away from his family and into the hands of the Orcs and Haradrim.

“Hello, tithen pen,” he greeted as he crouched down beside the child only to have small arms wrap around his neck and a kiss planted squarely on his cheek, eliciting a raised eyebrow from Faramir and a blush from the elf.

Legolas chuckled, explaining how their ada and the child had met, when in search of a certain stubborn, wayward little brother who had decided to go off on a hare without telling anyone. Faramir had the grace to blush. Several children surrounded Misto and his kitten. The young spider allowed the children to pet and hold his kitten but was ever vigilant that they did so carefully.

“Wot’s his name?” asked a boy with black hair and blue-grey eyes.

“Not know,” Misto replied truthfully for he had not thought to name the kitten.

“Do any of you have a suggestion?” Faramir asked.

“Shasta,” said a little girl with a blue ribbon in her hair.

“Squee” another girl, with ginger curls, squealed, laughing,

“Ginger”, the smallest boy suggested.

“Naurfin. It means fire hair in Elfish,” the young girl that had given Thranduil a kiss on the cheek, said shyly.

“Well, what do you think, Misto?” Faramir asked.

“Naurfin Ssssqueeee,” Misto said, liking the sounds.

The children laughed, bringing smiles to the faces of the adults present.

The afternoon passed very pleasantly. The children managed to pull the human cousins, elves and dwarf into their play. Amrothos marvelled at how much enthusiasm the elves and dwarf showed for play despite their many thousands and in the case of Gimli hundreds of years on Middle Earth. The two fox-haired cousins, despite the elder having very sore hindquarters, and elves proved very adept at the local version of football and Gimli at horsehoes. Misto proved very good at ‘chasings’ and ‘catchings’ having so many legs and eyes.

During a lull in the football game, Faramir stood back, leaning against the trunk of a large oak tree, and watched as the children played. Gimli walked over and stood beside him.

“It is a credit to ye, laddie. The young laddies and lasses are so happy here,” Gimli praised, voice gruff with emotion.

“I could do no other, my friend. Each one of them has a story to tell. Each one has lost so much and each one so deserving of love,” Faramir lamented quietly.

“And so do ye and did ye, laddie,” Gimli said softly.

Faramir had no time to answer as he found himself taken down, literally, by several of the children, at Amrothos’ instigation. He landed on his rump, almost letting out a howl of pain, causing Amrothos and Legolas to wince in sympathy. At Amrothos’ urging the children began to tickle the Steward of Gondor mercilessly, coaching them on the places his cousin was most ticklish. Faramir tried to squirm away from the insistent tickles, laughing and trying to catch his breath. Laughing the children stopped finally, allowing the Steward to breathe. He sat up, cross-legged, and sent a mock glare towards the children surrounding him, causing several of the children to giggle. He was quite taken aback when the child who had kissed his ada on the cheek, put her arms around his neck.

“Love you, thank you,” she smiled, bringing tears to the Steward’s eyes.

Suddenly, Faramir found himself in the centre of a group hug as the children repeated the words of love and appreciation.

Maglor, recognising that his young charge’s emotions were just about to spill over, distracted the children and guided them away from Faramir with the assistance of Gimli and Amrothos to begin another game. Thranduil held out his hand to Faramir and hauled him to his feet and into a hug, which the young man returned.

“I love you, ada,” he said in a hoarse whisper, filled with emotion.

Thranduil held his trembling human son until the wave of emotion passed and the trembling ceased, exchanging a rueful look with his elfling which bespoke of the hope that Faramir accepted in his heart finally, the love that was his due.

Legolas put a hand on his brother’s shoulder, squeezing it in unspoken support. Faramir, still in the embrace of his ada, put his hand up to his shoulder and over his brother’s hand. Unseen by the trio was Boromir, sitting high up in the tree under which they were standing, looking down upon the touching

Relieved that the children were being welled cared for, Faramir and the others bid the children farewell and left for the palace to prepare for the evening’s feast in honour of the King of Rohan and accompanying Rohirrim.

After bathing and changing into formal attire, Faramir, with Misto and Naurfin in tow, Thranduil, Legolas and Maglor left the Steward’s apartments for the Grand Hall where the feast was to be held. On the way to the hall, they were met by the King of Rohan, Aragorn, Arwen, Elrond and Imrahil as they emerged from a drawing room where they had been entertaining the young King.

Aragorn looked at his Steward intently, seeing how he fared after the chastisement he knew Faramir had received from Thranduil that morning and the one that Imrahil had told him, having been told by Amrothos, was given him by, of all people… er ghosts, Boromir. The look on his face when he heard that piece of information must have been truly comical for his ada had told him to close his mouth as it was unseemly for the King of Gondor to be imitating a fish out of water. Though to be fair to the King of Gondor, the Lord of Rivendell looked somewhat shocked as well.

Éomer also looked at the Steward intently, not to ascertain his wellbeing but as one would appraise an opponent. His frown, always formidable, deepened as Faramir’s expression became more closed. The Rohirrim’s eyes widened slightly and he paled a little. Faramir’s expression turned somewhat bemused at the strange behaviour. He could see Aragorn rolling his eyes, what looked suspiciously like a twitch tugging at the corner of Elrond’s and Arwen’s mouths and open amusement in his uncle’s eyes. He turned on his heels abruptly only to see the three Mirkwood elves with their boot-knives drawn, being used seemingly to clean their nails and each with a feral ‘Mirkwood glint’ to their eyes.

Faramir threw his head back and laughed, the same musical laughter that always brought smiles to those who heard it, with the exception in this instance of the King of Rohan who was still looked at the elves; somewhat warily.

“Oh subtlety, thy name is certainly not wood-elf,” Faramir said with affectionate exasperation at the trio. “And I love you all dearly,” he sighed quietly, before turning back to the King of Rohan.

Part 44

“King Éomer,” Faramir acknowledged solemnly, dipping his head slightly as protocol dictated.

“Lord Steward,” Éomer responded, equally solemnly but with a formidable frown.

“Did no one ever tell you, my friend, that if you keep scowling so fiercely you will end up looking like that permanently? And will that not be a frightful sight for your subjects,” Faramir said in his normal, quiet, well modulated, conversational tone, before continuing on his way to the Great Hall accompanied by three smirking wood-elves and a giant spider, cradling a slumbering kitten.

“Claws in, miel neth (kitten),” Boromir chuckled, having arrived just in time to hear his little brother’s comment to the King of Rohan.

“Oh pipe down you!” he replied. “Ouch! Brom!” Faramir growled as he felt a mighty whack to his still sore rear end.

Éomer’s frown turned to one of bemusement for a moment, not knowing whether he was being made fun of or not. Aragorn had the utmost trouble keeping his face impassive. Prince Imrahil looked at his departing nephew with tolerant affection, ever impressed with his foxling’s ability to keep an opponent off balance.

“The elves seem exceedingly… protective of Lord Faramir,” Éomer noted eventually, his expression still bemused.

“Aye, they are. I feel I would be remiss in my duty to you if I did not offer some advice, my friend; advice which you can choose to think upon or discard, the choice is yours” Aragorn began, putting an arm around the young King’s shoulders guiding him towards the Great Hall. “Do not fall victim to the assumption that all elves are alike in temperament to the ones you fought beside during the war. With the exception of Legolas, all the elves you met during the battles were from Rivendell or Lothlorien…”

“And they are different from the elves of Mirkwood?” Éomer discerned. “How so?”

“They are wood elves…” Aragorn replied.

“But I thought all elves lived in woods,” Éomer interjected, eyebrows lowering in consternation.

“Wood elf is more a state of… being than an indication of location of residence,” Aragorn responded, the corner of his mouth twitching. “What I am trying to convey is that wood elves are somewhat more… wild…”

“Wild as in… feral?” Éomer questioned, eyebrows rising in surprise.

“Aye, that is indeed what I mean,” Argaorn replied in a matter-of-fact manner. “Do not let their grace and beauty blind you to the fact that they are, by nature, extremely protective of loved ones and have but the thinnest patina of domesticity. I do admit that there are elves of my acquaintance, not of Mirkwood, who I would apportion closer to wood-elf in state of being than not,” he added, thinking of the twins in particular, evoking knowing looks from Elrond and Arwen who both knew exactly what he was thinking. “But even they would not incite truly the wild spirit of a wood elf, knowingly.”

“Surely you jest with me. Prince Legolas…” Éomer began, his expression suspicious.

“Nay I do not. I grant that Prince Legolas is exceedingly tolerant of the behaviour of men; however, few wood elves are. I would advise you most strongly not to incite them and in particular I advise that you not cross swords with Maglor,” Aragorn advised.

“Maglor, not King Thranduil? Why so?” asked, intrigued.

“Maglor is ancient even by elven standards. He knew both Thranduil and my ada, Lord Elrond as eflings and is still known to refer to them as such from time to time. We all have the utmost respect for him, not to mention sincere respect for the strength of his right arm; the strength of which I, Legolas and Faramir can attest to personally,” Aragorn said, causing Éomer’s expression to turn to one of stunned shock. “Whilst he would not cause you severe harm, for that is not the elven way, wood-elf or other, he would not hesitate in registering his displeasure upon your posterior most forcefully.”

“He could not… he would not dare strike… a… a King…” Éomer spluttered indignantly.

“He could, he would, and I can assure you he most certainly has,” Aragorn replied to the stunned Rohirrim.

“You mean… you… Legolas… and Faramir…?” Éomer asked, not able to find the appropriate word to continue so great was his shock.

“Aye, amongst others, my friend,” Aragorn acknowledged, trying not to smile at the King of Rohan’s expression of stunned horror. “Only a few months ago he felled his King with but a single chop to the neck when Thranduil was in full fighting fury and in the middle of a fight with Orcs and the Haradrim because he felt Thranduil endangered himself unnecessarily. So, my friend, he is more than capable of dealing with a young man, King or no.”

Further conversation on the matter was arrested by their arrival at the entrance of the Great Hall. They entered the hall to be met by the grandeur, splendour and colour of representatives of Gondor, Dol Amroth and Rohan in formal attire.

Three rows of tables, consisting of several smaller tables, were arranged around three sides of the room, leaving ample room in the centre for dancing and entertainment. At the table at the head of the room, arranged in a large curve, sat Gandalf to the right of the empty chair awaiting the King. Next to the Gandalf sat Prince Imrahil thence Thranduil, Faramir, Gimli and Legolas. At the other end of the table sat Elladan and Elrohir. Aragorn sat down next to Gimli. Arwen sat beside Aragorn then Éomer and Lord Elrond next to Elladan.

At the table that ran perpendicular to the main table near Legolas, sat Maglor, Finrod, Amrothos, representatives of the Knights of Dol Amroth and several noblewomen and men of Gondor. At the table opposite sat representatives of the Rohirrim and other Gondorian noblewomen and men. Musicians, located in the far left corner at the end of the Great Hall, were playing music designed to entice a festive mood.

The evening meal was served shortly after the arrival of the King and Queen. Whilst engaged in conversation with Arwen and Elrond, Éomer watched Faramir surreptitiously, or so he thought. Elven father and daughter exchanged knowing looks occasionally. Although Éomer could not discern what was being said, Faramir was talking animatedly with those around him and breaking out into musical laughter occasionally, much to the Rohirrim’s surprise as he had always thought the Steward an exceedingly reserved and serious man.

At the conclusion of the meal and welcome speeches and on a signal from the King, the musicians stopped what they were playing and switched to lively dance music. Aragorn rose and held out his hand to Arwen and escorted his Queen out onto the dance floor that the long tables surrounded. It was not long before Faramir was approached by a veritable gaggle of beautiful, if somewhat giggly, young maidens which again surprised Éomer as he had always thought the noblewomen of Gondor to be demure and reserved. They appeared to be as forward as the women of Rohan.

Éomer watched Legolas and Amrothos ask two of the ladies to dance. The young ladies seemed pleased enough with the Princes, judging by their broad smiles. Five young noblewomen were left standing in front of the Steward. Éomer noted that Faramir looked decidedly uncomfortable, he supposed at having to decline four young ladies. Faramir was saved from embarrassment by the arrival of two Swan Knights and two of his own Rohirrim who each escorted a visibly disappointed young lady onto the dance floor. The Steward escorted the remaining young noblewoman, who had long black hair that reached her waist, onto the dance floor. Éomer felt a spike of anger at the look of triumph on the woman’s face as Faramir took her by the hand and waist and flowed elegantly into the dance.

The King of Rohan continued to watch the Steward of Gondor dance with several women. At the end of each dance Faramir was surrounded by young women all vying for his attention.

“Is something amiss, pen-neth?” Thranduil asked innocently as he sat down beside the frowning young King, but not before sharing a smirk with Elrond who still sat on the other side of the Rohirrim.

“They are all but clambering over each other to gain his attention,” Éomer said, disgusted by the behaviour of the women even though their behaviour was no different to that of the Rohirrim women. “I did not know that the women of Gondor were so forward.”

“They are not usually so but have learned to be so in their attempts to gain my son’s attention,” Thranduil replied, eyes twinkling with amusement at the young man’s look of disgust. “The Steward of Gondor is considered by the ladies to be an excellent catch.”

“Is he truly as oblivious to their wiles as he appears?” Éomer asked, frowning.

“Completely,” Elrond began.

“Undeniably,” Gandalf chuckled.

“Categorically,” Imrahil interjected, eyes alight with humour.

“Utterly,” Gimli concluded.

“He is a bit… thick, meaning no disrespect,” Éomer mused distractedly.

“He does have his moments,” Thranduil chuckled. “Although to be fair to him, I am given to understand that he has eyes for one lady only and that lady is not here,” Thranudil said pointedly.

Éomer’s response was stayed by a commotion in the middle of the dance floor. Imrahil rolled his eyes at the sight of his son getting up from where he had fallen on the floor and making a beeline for a smirking Lord Dragor.

“Speaking of thick, I swear that man is as far from a typical Knight of Dol Amroth as it is possible to achieve without actually leaving Middle Earth,” Imrahil said, indicating Lord Dragor, shaking his head as he rose to feet to head off his son’s fiery temper if possible. He sat back down when he saw Faramir restrain his cousin with the use of his wizarding skills.

Éomer could not discern what the smirking Lord Dragor was saying but saw Amrothos’ face turn bright red as he struggled anew against what seemed to be invisible restraints. Éomer saw a look of exasperation cross Faramir’s features and then Prince Amrothos rise aloft towards the ceiling and onto a rafter to which he clung to immediately, squawking a protest down at Faramir. Éomer held his breath on seeing the thunderous look on Faramir’s face as he turned towards the Swan Knight, who no longer smirked but had paled considerably.

Whatever the Steward was about to do, which Éomer was certain would have proved very painful for the Swan Knight, was halted by the door of the Great Hall opening to admit yet another Swan Knight, attired in travelling clothes.

“Erchirion!” Faramir exclaimed, smiling broadly and embracing the approaching Knight in a fierce hug.

“Faramir! It is so good to see you again,” the Swan Knight laughed, returning the hug and lifting the Steward off his feet momentarily. His smile turned into a frown and holding onto Faramir’s shoulders, he pushed the Steward gently away from him so that he could look him up and down. “You have never been weighty, Fara, but you are stick thin even by your meagre standards. I have seen skeletons with more meat to their bones than you have presently. Do they have no food in the White City? Do they not feed you?” he chided, only partly in jest.

“I have seen vast quantities of food disappear regularly into my Steward with little effect it seems,” Aragorn replied with amusement.

Faramir rolled his eyes and groaned quietly.

“I would like to present…” Faramir began in way of introducing the Swan Knight.

“Erchirion, second son of Prince Imrahil I would hazard a guess. You have the look of your sire,” Aragorn interjected, looking at the tall Prince of Dol Amroth.

“Your Majesties,” Erchirion said, going down upon one knee and then rising at a signal from Aragorn and to a warm smile from Arwen.

“Greetings, father,” Erchirion smiled as his father approached and enveloped his son in an embrace.

“Where is sprog, father?” the Prince asked, looking around for his brother. “Whatever are you doing up there, little brother?” he asked as his gaze was directed ever upwards by both his father and King.

“What do you think I am doing …inspecting the rafters,” Amrothos replied sarcastically as he let go of the support, walked along the rafter and then jumped up and down on the spot as if testing its sturdiness, eliciting gasps from the ladies standing below and some of the men, including the King and dislodging not a little dust.

Imrahil, Erchirion and Faramir did not so much as raise an eyebrow, for each had seen the young Prince scurry like a squirrel along the mast rigging of the tallest of the ships of the famous fleet of Dol Amroth.

“And how fare they, little brother?” Erchirion asked dubiously.

“Sturdy enough I suppose,” he said jumping up and down on the spot again, eliciting more gasps from the audience below. “Though I regret to inform the King that I think I may have discovered signs of woodworm,” he added in such a dry tone that it set the women giggling and the men chuckling.

“I warned Elphir that there would be severe consequences from dropping the poor mite on his head so often as a child,” Erchirion said in a similar dry tone to his brother, eliciting more laugher from those within hearing distance of the comment. “Going somewhere Lord Dragor?” he asked when he spied the Knight backing up towards the entrance of the hall, knowing instinctively that his brother’s current predicament had something to do with the man.

Lord Dragor froze, looking like a rabbit caught in a very bright light as the gazes of many centred on him.

“Will you get me down from here, Fara?” Amrothos asked plaintively.

“Sweet Eru!” Erchirion exclaimed as he saw the biggest spider that he had ever seen in his life scuttling towards his brother. “You and I will need to discuss your disconcerting habit of understating a situation, little brother. Our cousin’s familiar is vastly larger than you described in your last letter.”

“I beg to differ, brother. He was the size I described at the time. It is not my fault that he is growing so quickly,” Amrothos replied as Faramir raised his hand and lowered his cousin back onto the floor.

Erchirion’s eyes, not to mention several of those present who had not seen the Steward’s wizarding powers, were as wide as saucers at the formidable wizarding display. When Amrothos had both feet on the floor, Erchirion swept his younger brother off his feet into a brotherly bear hug.

Amrothos spied Lord Dragor over his brother’s shoulder. Scowling, he made as if to move towards the man but was stopped immediately when both Erchirion and Faramir moved in front of him, blocking his access. The cousin’s just looked at each other rolling their eyes both thinking that some things never change. Erchirion and Faramir, both of an age, had invariably been the ones that saved Amrothos from his own temper, and repercussions thereof, when they were younger – although Erchirion also remembered he and Elphir doing the same for Faramir.

“What are you doing here, child?” Imrahil asked as he drank in the sight of his normally sea faring second born. “The last word I received of you, you were chasing down Corsair pirates in the Bay of Belfalas.”

Part 45

“Aye, well…” Erchirion began rather sheepishly before clearing his throat, a blush showing through his seaman’s tan. “I have been banished from Dol Amroth… temporarily,” he finished in a quiet rush, wincing as he did so, knowing what the reaction would be from his father.

“Whatever have you done?” Imrahil asked his expression one of stunned concern.

“I should change out of these travelling clothes and settle the troops that accompanied me…” the Swan Knight said hoping to escape all the eyes that were fixed upon him currently.

“Oh no, my son. Not until you have told me why you were banished from Dol Amroth by your brother,” Imrahil interjected.

“Come sit at the table, Chiri, so that we can at least ply you with wine to make the telling easier,” Faramir said, using his cousin’s pet name and sensing quite the tale behind his normally unflappable cousin’s blush, as he pulled the man to the seat that his ada had vacated.

The Prince was settled and poured a very large goblet of wine by Faramir, who stood beside him. The King asked for the dancing to resume but forwent dancing himself as his curiosity, not to mention that of Arwen, had been aroused. Aragorn sat down on one side of the Knight next to where Faramir stood and Arwen on the other, next to where Amrothos stood, increasing the poor Prince’s embarrassment tenfold. Even Éomer moved to stand within hearing distance, near Gandalf, as eager as the others to hear the Prince’s explanation. With such keen hearing the elves stayed where they were seated.

“Well?” Imrahil prompted as he stood on the other side of the table in front of his son.

“I… I… ah…” Erchirion said clearing this throat again as he tried unsuccessfully to find a diplomatic way of saying what he had to say. How he wished he had his cousin’s gift for words.

“Just spit it out, child,” Imrahil chided gently.

“I… sort of… sank his ship,” Erchirion confessed eventually, wincing and taking several gulps of wine.

“You did what!” both Imrahil and Amrothos exclaimed.

“He loved that old bucket.” Amrothos added, causing his brother to wince again and take another gulp of wine. “And what do you mean sort of? Is that not like a woman saying she is sort of with child?” he asked, eliciting a small involuntary giggle from the Queen, a frown from his father and assorted snorts and chuckles from those within hearing distance.

“You sank the Black Swan and you live still? How?” Faramir asked, his eyes wide, knowing what Elphir’s reaction would have been; very similar, if not identical, to what Boromir’s would have been under similar circumstances.

“I stayed out of arm’s reach,” the Prince replied immediately, taking another gulp of wine remembering his brother’s murderous expression at the time. “Actually, I stayed out of sword’s reach also, and I was never so thankful in the knowledge that he is not so skilled with bow and arrow as you, Fara,” he added upon a moment’s reflection.

Faramir and Amrothos could hear Boroimr’s hearty laughter coming from the rafters above.

“Nay, nay, you dunce!” Faramir chuckled affectionately; hitting the back of his cousin’s head, eliciting more snorts and chuckles from the audience. “How, pray tell, did you sink Elphir’s much beloved, if barely seaworthy, Black Swan?”

“It is no laughing matter, Fara!” Erchirion complained. “He was so angry. The vein in his temple was throbbing, you know, like Boromir’s would when he too was murderously angry. Where did that come from, father? I do not remember ever seeing such a thing in other family members, not even grandfather when he was very angry,” he rambled, remembering vividly his brother’s rather protracted anger.

Any who had known Boromir knew exactly to what the Prince was referring. Legolas, Aragorn, Gandalf and Gimli all remembered such instances on the quest when the vein on Boromir’s temple stood out and appeared to be throbbing. The hobbits – even Pippin – learned very quickly to give the Gondorian a wide berth when that throbbing vein in his temple was evident.

“That was from your great grandfather Angelimar, child, and your grandfather was very well acquainted with the phenomenon, having been the cause of its appearance so often,” Imrahil replied, causing the elder elves to chuckle in remembrance. “Now, back to the issue of concern. How did you sink your brother’s ship?” he asked.

“It was as you said, father. I was chasing down pirates in the Bay of Belfalas. I received intelligence that a Corsair ship had been met by orcs in South Gondor, near the Isle of Tolfalas, and had yet to set sail for Umbar. I knew that Saruman had been in contact with the Corsair’s and thought to lure the ship into a trap to see what information I could discern. So I set a decoy,” Erchirion said as he made a grab for the goblet of wine again.

“And you used your brother’s ship,” Imrahil surmised, removing the goblet of wine from his son’s reach.

“That ship should have been decommissioned years ago, father,” the Prince complained. “It was barely suitable for training cadets in calm seas. Besides which, it was the closest ship available – as it had been moored in the bay of an isle near Tolfalas by the Master of cadets because the seas had turned from calm to mildly choppy – that could fool the Corsair’s into believing that it was indeed in trouble and easy pickings.”

“Did the decoy work?” Aragorn asked.

“Aye, it did, Sire,” Erchirion replied, feeling light-headed from consuming so much wine so quickly.

“How, then, did you sink the ship?” Amrothos asked perplexed.

“By the time we had removed the cadets and sailed the Black Swan to a suitable location, leaving a few experienced hands and over forty soldiers hidden on board and then ordering the rest of the fleet to hide behind the nearest island, the seas had turned rough. I never expected the idiots to ram the ship. I mean, it was dangerously low in the water as it was. It was nothing short of a miracle that we stayed afloat long enough for us to board the pirate vessel and for the rest of our ships to make their presence known,” the Prince explained, feeling more light-headed and so did not notice his father’s thunderous expression. Amrothos and Faramir; however, noted the familiar expression and both winced.

“You remained on the Black Swan and then boarded the pirate vessel?” Imrahil asked incredulously. “It is little wonder that the vein in your brother’s temple was throbbing.”

“Nay, father,” the seafaring Prince countered in wine induced innocence. “I did not tell him that part. He was angry enough as it was.”

The young man’s expression paled when he realised finally, to what he had just admitted and to whom. Seeing his cousin pale in realisation, Faramir grabbed the goblet of wine and foisted it into his cousin’s hand. Immediately, the young man threw back the rest of the contents of the goblet. Imrahil glared at his nephew who did not appear the least bit contrite.

“We will discuss that part, in detail, later, son,” Imrahil promised in a dangerously quiet tone.

“Aye, father,” Erchirion replied with the air of a man just condemned.

“Was there information of value on the ship?” Aragorn asked, his expression sympathetic.

“Aye, but I think we should discuss that in private later, Sire,” he responded.

“I suggest you go see to the troops, son,” Imrahil commanded.

“Come, Chiri,” Faramir sighed, assisting his tipsy cousin to stand and dragging him from the hall, followed by Amrothos, Misto and kitten, but not before Imrahil embraced his second born, eliciting a small, sheepish smile from his son.

Prince Imrahil walked back to his seat, sat down heavily and let out an exasperated whoosh of breath, thinking on what could have been.

“I must admit, mellon-nin, your collective brood is vastly entertaining,” Thranduil laughed, eliciting a wry look from the Prince of Dol Amroth.

“They are certainly causing me to re-evaluate the ‘trio horribus’,” Elrond said, causing the trio concerned to blush. “Was there ever a time when they were all together including Faramir and Boromir?” he asked out of curiosity.

“Many times in their youth and a few times in their adulthood,” Imrahil replied.

“I assume they got into much mischief?” Elrond asked, already knowing the answer.

“You have no idea,” Imrahil groaned as some of the memories surfaced briefly.

“However did you survive, mellon-nin?” Thranduil asked.

“There were a few times when I was not certain I had in mind and many more times I felt sure my right arm would give out,” Imrahil replied, earnestly.

“How did your daughter, Lothiriel, fare?” Arwen asked, knowing something of her through Amrothos.

“With five doting older brothers and cousins to boss around, my youngest was in her element,” Imrahil replied affectionately.

Arwen suspected that they were not the only ones to dote on the Princess.

“I have never met her, nor seen a likeness of her. Do you perchance carry one?” Arwen asked innocently.

The three elder elves looked at her intently recognising the ‘innocent’ tone; Arwen Undomiel was scheming.

“Aye, I do, most certainly,” Imrahil replied, pulling a thin silver case of what appeared to be elven design and about the size of his hand from a pocket in his outer robe.

Imrahil opened the case to reveal on one side a painted portrait of his four children, and on the other, a portrait of Boromir and Faramir.

“She is very beautiful indeed,” Arwen said in genuine admiration for the girl was indeed stunning to look upon, with long wavy raven black hair and beautiful grey-blue coloured eyes. “What think you Éomer?” she said, passing the portrait to the Rohirrim.

Éomer looked upon the portrait and seemed transfixed for several long moments before he replied, his face flushed.

“Princess Lothiriel is indeed very beautiful.”

The Rohirrim did not see the small smirk tugging at the corners of the Queen’s mouth. Elrond did however and rolled his eyes. Éomer parted with the portrait seemingly a little reluctantly, handing it back to Imrahil.

“Aye, she resembles her mother,” Imrahil replied wistfully, his expression turning sombre at the thought of his beloved wife who had died not three years prior of a wasting disease. How he had loved her and was ever thankful that a part of her lived on through their wonderful children.

Faramir, Amrothos and Erchirion returned to the Great Hall eventually. Misto had taken his kitten and retired to his web. Erchirion looked much refreshed, having bathed and changed into more formal attire after he had seen to arrangements for the newly arrived detachments from Dol Amroth to be billeted. Faramir noted that Lord Dragor had disappeared, indicating that the man did possess a smidgen of commonsense.

The feast concluded not long after their arrival. Aragorn invited his family and friends back to his private drawing room, where they settled in chairs and lounges arranged around a large fireplace.

“Now tell us, mellon-nin. What have you discovered?” Aragorn asked Erchirion.

“As you are aware already, a way has been found by the Haradrim and Orcs through Ephel Duath (Mts of Shadow). What you may yet be unaware of is that Saruman has amassed an army of some twenty thousand, consisting of Orcs, Haradrim and Easterlings and lay in wait near the pass that leads to Minas Morgul,” the Prince responded, looking at Aragorn to see if it was indeed news to the King.

“It is more than we hoped but not outside the realm of our planning,” Aragorn sighed; thinking the loss of life was likely to be so much greater than they hoped.

“On board the Corsair ship was a missive from the leader of the Corsair’s to Saruman,” Erchirion began, a familiar predatory glint to his eyes. “The missive indicated that the requested supplies would be shipped within the month, with further shipments to be made. We know what supplies are being gathered, when and how they will be shipped and the destination point. There is only one river that is suitable for ships bearing so much cargo…”

“We can cut off their major supply line,” Faramir reasoned with a similar predatory glint to his eyes.

“Elphir has sent our best spies to keep watch on the situation,” Erchirion advised.

“This is welcome news indeed,” Aragorn said, smiling broadly. “Although, will Saruman not become suspicious when he receives no response to his request?”

“Ships sink at sea all the time. The Corsair pirates are cooling their heels currently in our dungeon, and will continue to do so until the current hostilities have ceased,” Erchirion smirked.

The discussion turned to more mundane subjects for a time. Eventually, Imrahil stood and taking his leave of the King and Queen, walked over to Maglor and held out his hand. In the blink of an eye, Maglor produced ‘Faramir’s Bane from Erchirion knew not where and handed it to Imrahil. The seafaring Prince paled when he saw the familiar, yet not, implement of past torture. His wide-eyed and somewhat panicked gaze darted to Faramir as if seeking an explanation. Faramir simply shrugged apologetically, with a look of sympathy.

“Come, Chiri. We still have much to discuss,” Imrahil said as he walked out of the room.

Like a man condemned he followed his father. Many sympathetic younger eyes watched him leave.

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.

Part 47

The next morning Faramir, with Misto and Naurfin Squee in tow, entered the King and Queen’s private dining room. There he was greeted by Aragorn, Arwen and others present. Already seated were Elrond, the twins, Gimli, Gandalf, Éomer and the Mirkwood elves, including Finrod,. The Steward sat down in the vacant seat between his ada and Legolas. Misto, after seeking and receiving a caress from Arwen and a pat for Squee, which he held out to the Queen, scurried over to a corner of the room to play with his kitten. Faramir noticed Éomer shaking his head at the, admittedly, strange scene.

Faramir was not seated long when his uncle and cousins entered the room. He looked at Erchirion and noted that his seafaring cousin was not moving with his normal powerful grace, effects of the chastisement the evening before evident still. Prince Imrahil and Amrothos moved to the other side of the table to be seated. Identical expressions of surprise and amusement graced their features before they sat down, leaving a seat vacant between them. Erchirion looked down at the vacant chair, blushed furiously through his seaman’s tan, and looked up sharply at Faramir. Expression at first bemused, Faramir leaned back and looked askance to see what had elicited such reactions from his kin. On spying the brightly coloured pillow that had been placed upon the chair Faramir rolled his eyes, at one point looking cross-eyed at his cousin.

“Your new kin are wondrously strange, Fara,” Erchirion whispered loudly, eliciting chortles, snorts and nods of agreement from Aragorn and the Rivendell elves and slightly feral looking smiles from the Mirkwood elves, having guessed correctly that Faramir had not known about the pillow and one of the Mirkwood elves, in all likelihood, was responsible. He seated himself gingerly upon the pillowed chair sighing unconsciously in relief, eliciting a smile from his cousin.

At the conclusion of the morning meal all present, with the exception of Arwen, Misto and kitten, walked to the large council meeting room where a council of war was due to begin. Present were high-ranking commanders and some captains from the combined forces of Gondor, Rohan and Dol Amroth.

Plans for the march to Minas Morgul were finalised. The broad strategy of attack that had been agreed to previously was refined in the light of the new information brought by Erchirion. The seafaring prince would leave on the morrow to rendezvous with ships of his fleet, already on their way past the Isle of Tolalas, off the coast of South Gondor, to blockade the only river capable of being utilised to transport food and armaments to where the Haradrim and Orcs had found a way through the Ephel Duath (Moutains of Shadow) and were gathering forces.

A contingent of ground troops from the combined forces, to be led by the surviving remnants of the old and elements of the new Ithilien rangers, would be transported by ship and taken up the river to seek out and plug the hole, so to speak, ensuring that the passage being used through the Ephel Duath by the Haradrim and Orcs could not be used for escape if the main force was successful in routing the enemy at Minas Morgul.

“So we begin the march in two days time,” Aragorn said, signalling the conclusion of the meeting.

The commanders and captains stood and began leaving the room.

“Lord Dragor!” Erchirion called out to gain the attention of the man over the noise of the dispersing officers. “A moment of your time, if you please.”

“Aye, my Lord?” the knight replied warily, being very careful of his manners as he was in the presence of five princes, three Kings, high ranking elves and dwarf and a wizard.

“Elphir has requested that I advise you of a change of orders. You will not be joining the troops as they march for Minas Morgul,” Erchirion advised.

“I am to be returning to Dol Amroth?” he asked with an expression close enough to a lust-filled smirk as to make Faramir and Erchirion grab the back of Amrothos’ overtunic just as he went to lunge at the man. The last place Amrothos wanted the weaselly git was in Dol Amroth, anywhere near his sister.

“Nay… nay… that is not what I have been advised” Erchirion replied, seemingly confused for a moment but maintaining hold of his brother’s tunic even though he suspected that Faramir was using his wizarding skills to hold his hot-tempered brother. “Nay, you will be joining my fleet,” he added with a bright guileless smile.

“But… but… I-I am no sailor!” Dragor blustered, indignantly.

“There is no time like the present to learn such skills,” the seafaring prince reasoned.

“But, I get seasick!”

“A few months at sea will see you past that. And if not, the old remedy of tying a rope around the waist of one so afflicted, throwing them overboard, and dragging them behind the ship has cured many a man of seasickness,” Erchirion replied in the same conversational tone that Imrahil and Faramir affected occasionally, much to the consternation of those at the other end of the tone and to the amusement of others within hearing distance. “Well… of the ones that could swim, or at least float, that is…” he added as if thinking seriously upon the subject, leaving the rest of the sentence to the imagination of Lord Dragor.

Lord Dragor turned positively green for he could not swim to save his life.

“Buck up, ‘milad. The fresh sea air will do you good,” the prince said in a merry tone. “You had best go and pack as we leave on the morrow.”

Looking as if he were about to faint, Lord Dragor turned to exit the room appearing, for all the world, like a man facing the hangman. He began muttering mutinously to himself causing more than one elven eyebrow to raise at the seditious content of the muttering, and then yelped when what looked like an invisible kick to the behind propelled him forward. The startled Knight turned quickly to confront the assailant but saw none within kicking distance. He glared at Faramir, suspecting that Mithrandir’s pupil was to blame. Both Faramir and Amrothos smirked as they saw Boromir aim another kick at the man’s unprotected posterior. Propelled forward yet again, Lord Dragor paled as he realised that Faramir was not the cause, as the man had not moved a muscle nor raised a hand, which could only leave… Boromir. Éomer also paled, coming to the same conclusion about whom was responsible for what he was seeing. He had little experience of the supernatural and was finding Boromir’s very real presence… confronting… to say the least and felt a wave of brotherly protectiveness flow through him at the thought of his sister exposed to such… unnaturalness.

Before Boromir could land a third kick, Dragor ran from the room, leaving thoughts of his dignity well and truly behind.

“Well played, sir!” Amrothos exclaimed, smiling broadly, impressed by his brother’s skill.

“None of the acorns have fallen far from the old fox haired tree, I see,” Gandalf said, shaking his head at the collective looks of innocence he received in return from the descendents of Adrahil.

“I am just thankful that they are on the side of Gondor, for there would be no hope for Gondor if it were otherwise,” Aragorn said with such heartfelt conviction that it elicited laughter from the elves and dwarf.

As Amrothos left the council chambers in the company of his brother, younger elves, dwarf and cousin he was heard to say in a plaintive voice, the sort of voice known to be used by younger siblings seeking to solicit favours from older ones.

“Could you not somehow manage, Chiri, accidentally of course, to lose the obnoxious git somewhere along the way.”

Faramir enjoyed the midday meal in the company of his human and elven family. The company and conversation were lively and very amusing, although Faramir did find Erchirion’s watchful eye over what he was eating and how much… disconcerting, more so than with the others, maybe because they were of an age.

After the meal, Amrothos decided to enjoy the company of his brother and cousin before his brother’s scheduled departure the next day, so he invited them, the younger elves, including Finrod and master Gimli to join him at the not-so-reputable pub on the second level of the city that boasted a gargantuan of a pig as a mascot, the same pig that had featured so prominently in the recent prank played upon the ‘duo horribus’.

Faramir was sitting at a table in the pub between his cousins when the twins arrived. Misto was up in the rafters above Faramir – minus the kitten, which he had left in the care of Arwen. Boromir was also present, leaning against a wall at the end of the table. Elladan did a double take when he spied the monstrous pig, remembering the last time he set eyes on the beast, which was passed out drunk and sleeping it off next to him in bed, glared at the oblivious pig that was sniffing around Amrothos and Faramir, hoping to be given its beverage of choice – ale. Erchirion snorted guessing by the elf’s reaction that it was Elladan that had awoken in bed next to the pig. Elladan glared at the fox cubs both of who returned innocuous looks that made him want to hit their heads together and sat down on the other side of the table. Elrohir, who had not awoken next to a drunk pig was more forgiving and smiled at his brother’s reaction.

Soon after Legolas arrived in the company of Gimli, Finrod and Éomer. Legolas looked somewhat apologetic at the inclusion of Éomer but Faramir simply shrugged his indifference, as he knew he would have to deal with the situation between them eventually.

The ale flowed freely and the men, dwarf and elves began to exchange amusing anecdotes and stories. Erchirion and Amrothos related several stories of the trouble they got into in their youths under the influence of their wild cousins from Gondor, Boromir and Faramir. Both Faramir and Boromir snorted and exchanged amused looks. If any were wild, in their opinion, it was their Dol Amroth cousins, for their Uncle Imrahil had a greater tolerance for youthful shenanigans than Denethor had ever possessed.

The young King of Rohan, plied with much ale by Amrothos who was attracting warning glares from his cousins and brother, related his own stories of his youth in Rohan, with his sister and cousin Théodred. Faramir listened, rapt, as he got a glimpse of what his, hopefully, soon to be bride’s life was like, growing up in Rhohan.

As the afternoon progressed to early evening, Éomer became more and more intoxicated. He seemed to be attempting to keep pace with the elves which Gimli knew from experience was a big mistake. He had once, silly fool that he was, challenged Legolas to a drinking match, a match that the elf won hands down, although he would never admit so to said elf.

Amrothos plied the Rohirrim with ale in an attempt to ascertain what kind of drunk Éomer proved to be. Faramir, for instance, was a morose drunk as he only drank to excess when attempting to avoid dealing with deeper, darker emotions. This assessment may have been unduly harsh however, Amrothos thought upon reflection, as it was difficult to judge what kind of drunk Faramir was in truth as he tended to go from drunk to exceedingly sick with lightening speed and on very little ale or wine. His brother, Erchirion, was a merry if somewhat co-fuddled drunk in that he was never belligerent, generally jovial but was prone to bouts of foot-in-mouth disease revealing his own and family member’s secrets. Interestingly enough, it did not appear to apply to state secrets, which he never revealed; regardless of how drunk he was at the time. Boromir had also been a jovial drunk as was Elphir, however neither was loose lipped.

Éomer appeared to be quite reserved when he arrived in the company of Legolas, Finrod and Gimli, which Amrothos assumed was partly shyness in the company of mostly strangers and partly his rather… taciturn attitude towards Faramir. As he drank he relaxed and became more open but still stole glances at Faramir that were at best wary and at worst judgemental.

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.

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!”

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.

Part 51

Faramir watched until the last of the Swan Knights disappeared from view, the faint sense of dread lingering still. He turned away eventually, only to receive a murderous glare from the King of Rohan before the man turned on his heel and stalked off, away from the palace. Sighing mightily, for what felt like the umpteenth time that day and it was not even noonday, Faramir looked over at his ada whose eyes were twinkling with suppressed humour, although the elven King did manage to look somewhat sympathetic. Smiling inwardly, Thranduil walked over to his human son and pulled the despondent young man into a much-needed hug. Legolas and Maglor stood near, the rest of those gathered having moved on.

“I do not find this whole situation in the least bit humorous, ada,” Faramir grouched softly, causing his elven brother to smirk and his ada to smile more broadly at his Seneschal. Neither smirk nor smile could, thankfully, as it would have added insult to injury, be seen by the Steward who had his face buried in his ada’s shoulder. “I can feel you laughing, ada,” he added, his quiet voice bordering on whining.

“I am sorry, ion-nin,” soothed the elven King. “But the thought of your brother, who is a ghost, and your familiar, a very… unusual spider of Mirkwood, allied against the King of Rohan has tickled my sense of the ridiculous.

Faramir groaned into his ada’s shoulder, eliciting a chuckle from the elven King and a tightening of his embrace. Sighing again, he disengaged from the embrace and gave his ada such a put-upon look before turning towards the palace that Thranduil could not help but put his arm around his son’s shoulders as they walked up the stairs that led into the palace.

Already feeling melancholic with no end in sight, Faramir decided that he may as well tackle what could prove a very awkward subject with his young familiar, a subject that he had been putting off but could no longer as his departure loomed.

Misto, as expected, was ensconced in his web in a corner of the main sleeping chamber near Faramir’s bed, still hissing and grumbling to himself as he watched his sleeping kitten, which was in a basket attached to the web.

“Well, little one,” Faramir said in a conversational tone. “You are full of surprises.” Misto’s hissing and grumbling, whilst decreasing in volume, did not cease completely. “I think you should stay in Minas Tirith,” he said finally.

The quiet hissing and grumbling ceased abruptly.

“Not ssstaaayy!” Misto hissed adamantly.

“Who will look after your very young kitten?” Faramir reasoned, hoping that blackmail, emotional or otherwise, worked as effectively on spiders as it did on certain humans and elves of his acquaintance. Unfortunately for the Steward, it did not.

“Aaarwennn said would,” Misto replied without a moment’s hesitation.

“You asked the Queen to care for your kitten?” Faramir queried eyebrows raised, his surprise evident.

“Yessss,” Misto replied with a look that Faramir could have sworn indicated quite distinctly that his young familiar thought he was stating the bleedingly obvious.

“I may not be able to protect you, little one,” said Faramir, trying a different tact. “You have no armament.”

Misto jumped out of his web, careful not to disturb Naurfin Squee, and crouched down beside the bed. He had grown so much that he was no longer able to scurry under the bed easily, even though the bed was a good distance from the floor. Utilising several of his legs, the young spider pulled out pieces of metal, with long strips of leather attached and separate pieces of leather with ties, from under the bed.

Faramir stood in stunned amazement. From the shape of the pieces of worked metal and the location of the strips of leather attached, he discerned the purpose as being armament for a spider. The pieces would fit over the spider’s abdomen and parts of his legs with the strips of leather securing the leather in place and allow for growth, something that showed no indication of stopping anytime soon; much to Faramir’s dismay. Other pieces of leather with ties, not attached to metal, looked as if they would cover portions of the spider’s legs.

“How did you…? Who did…?” Faramir stammered, at a loss for words as he bent down to pick up a piece of the worked metal, impressed by the workmanship.

“Giiimmmliii made,” Misto replied excitedly.

“I will have to remember to thank the little bugg… Master Gimli,” said Faramir, through gritted teeth, although he was impressed with the light but surprisingly strong metal, evidence of the dwarf’s abilities with working metal. “And have you, perchance, thought about how you will get to Minas Morgul? You are too large to ride double on a horse.”

“Foood Waagoonn,” Misto replied without hesitation.

“And who’s idea was that little one?” Faramir asked.

“Brrrommm,” Misto answered with the utmost satisfaction and not a little awe at Brom’s intelligence.

“I should have guessed,” Faramir sighed as he sat down on his bed, shaking his head in defeat. “I do not like it, little one, but I will not stop you from coming.”

“As if you could… stop him that is, little brother,” came Boromir’s voice from the rafters, causing Faramir to start and then to sigh yet again. He suspected that the trip to Minas Morgul would prove a tiresome one, filled with dark glares from the King of Rohan and constant vigilance necessary to subvert any plotting by his ghostly brother and familiar against said glaring King.

The rest of the day went very quickly for the Steward, filled as it was with last minute preparations for the journey to Minas Morgul.

The meal that evening was a subdued affair. Present were those closest to the King and Queen. Lord Elrond and Imrahil were in attendance. It had been agreed that both would remain in Minas Tirith to assist the Queen in running the day-to-day affairs of the city as well as deal with any military and intelligence matters arising. Their presence would also ensure that the more ambitious councillors were reined in, more for the councillors’ protection than Arwen’s Aragorn had reasoned facetiously as the councillors had yet to deal with a vexed she-elf. The Queen’s guard, a company of hand picked seasoned soldiers, were also to remain in the city to protect the queen.

Also in attendance were Gandalf, Faramir, Amrothos, Gimli, Legolas, Finrod, Maglor, Thranduil, the twins and a very foreboding looking Éomer. All, with the exception of Finrod, were to leave Minas Tirith with the rest of the army on the morrow. Finrod’s orders were to take a couple of Ithilien Rangers, handpicked by Faramir, meet up with Radagast and his previous travelling companion, the Ithilien Ranger known only as Lieutenant, as he hated his name with a passion and would not divulge it to anyone, who had remained with the brown wizard when Finrod had returned to Minas Tirith with information about Saruman’s location. The Mirkwood elf would ride out ahead of the army to a predetermined meeting point near Minas Morgul, where he would look for ranger signs and wait for contact to be made by the ranger. After gaining the latest intelligence from the wizard and lieutenant he would rendezvous with the troops at another predetermined location.

Finrod was looking forward to meeting up again with his ranger friend to see if he had survived the rather whimsical, and at times, downright scatterbrained, brown wizard. The twins had wanted to accompany Finrod but one quelling look from Maglor was enough to change their minds, much to the amusement of Elrond.

Misto, although he should have been in his web, was watching his mama and the others from the rafters, still holding his kitten close. Faramir knew that his familiar was disobeying his orders, but turned a blind eye in this instance, in the light of what they were about to face.

Throughout the meal, Éomer stole disapproving glances at Faramir who he seemed to blame for his morning predicament, making the young Steward uncomfortable. It would have continued if not for Maglor who produced ‘Faramir’s Bane’ from what appeared to be thin air, and letting Éomer see the glaringly red implement when he judged others would not see. Éomer got the message and the meal passed without further dark looks from the King of Rohan at the Steward of Gondor.

At the conclusion of the quiet meal, all parties repaired to their beds as all had an early start in the morning and most a long journey ahead of them.

Early the next morning the courtyard in front of the palace was filled with humans, elves, wizard and dwarf.

Imrahil embraced both his fox cubs about the shoulders, pulling them close.

“Heed me, cubs,” he began, showing just how much strength was apparent still in the elder Swan Knight. Both Faramir and Amrothos felt very constricted in the iron grip. “You will both do your utmost to control your tempers. You will both refrain from haring off into danger and you will both heed the advice of your elders. Have I made myself perfectly clear?” he concluded in such a tone as to make both cubs blush furiously, blushes that deepened when they both caught sight of Boromir, standing with his arms crossed and a huge smirk dominating his expression.

“As crystal, uncle,” muttered Faramir at the same time as his cousin mumbled, “Aye, father.”

“Good, because if you do not you will face me when you return and I can assure you both that you do not want to do that!” said Imrahil, tightening his hold on both of them. “Now, be off with you and for Arda’s sake, take care.”

Faramir and Amrothos walked over to where a young soldier, who was trying very hard not to smile at the Prince of Dol Amroth’s admonishment, was holding the reins of several horses, theirs included.

“Do not worry, mellon-nin” Thranduil reassured the Swan Knight. “Be assured that we will all keep a very close rein on both cubs.” The number of heads nodding that they would indeed be keeping a watchful eye on both men, made the cubs blush again, quite endearingly, as they mounted their respective horses.

Aragorn hugged his ada and then his wife, kissing her deeply, before walking to where the horses were waiting. He mounted his horse and waited for the others embarking on the journey to mount theirs.

The twins farewelled their ada and sister, but not before getting a similar warning from Lord Elrond as both Faramir and Amrothos had received from Prince Imrahil. The twins assisted Gimli onto Legolas’ horse before mounting their own. Gandalf, Maglor, Thranduil and Éomer mounted their horses in quick order.

Misto, utilising several of his legs in holding a basket and his kitten and his armament in a bag, scuttled over to Arwen and held out both the basket and kitten to the Queen who took both, holding the kitten close.

“I will take good care of him, tithen-pen,” soothed Arwen upon seeing how upset the young spider appeared. “You go look after your mama.”

Misto turned and followed the company as they made their way slowly out of the courtyard and down the levels of the city.

It seemed as if the entire citizenry of the White City were on the streets to farewell and bless the riders on their dangerous journey. Entreaties for their safe and speedy return could be heard echoing through the crowds.

Both Aragorn and Faramir were singled out for special blessings as both were loved by the citizens; Aragorn partly due to his station but Faramir because he had been beloved of the city from the moment he had taken his first breath, a mere scrap of a infant. His compassion, his caring and non-judgemental nature, even as a child, had ensured that this son of Gondor had a special place in the hearts of the populace.

Even Misto, who scurried at the side of his mama holding his bag of armaments, was cheered on by the citizens, even though he sent shudders down those with an aversion to spiders, for they knew how protective he was of their beloved Steward.

At the lowest level of the city, the company rode through the gates, recently restored to their former glory by dwarven skill, and out onto the plain where the troops from Gondor, Dol Amroth and Rohan were gathered. A mighty cheer went up from the troops when they saw the King of Gondor and their respective leaders. The company rode to the front of the cheering troops, and in the stirring voice of a man used to command Aragorn gave the order to ride forth. Thus began their journey to Minas Mogul to face the gathered might of Saruman.

Part 52

With a wave of his hand in farewell, Finrod and the two Ithilien rangers handpicked by Faramir peeled off from the rest of the combined forces and rode ahead on their mission to rendezvous with Radagast the Brown near Minas Morgul.

Aragorn recognised the warning signs that his brothers were just about ready to bolt after Finrod and the rangers; however, one very quiet “at your peril, elflings” from Maglor was enough to stop them dead in their tracks. Glaring at the Mirkwood elf the twins decided to sulk instead, much to the amusement of their brother, friend and dwarf.

In line with the strategy agreed by the military leaders, the combined army of the West divided into three contingents. Two small contingents, consisting entirely of mounted Ithilien rangers and a mixture of the few Mirkwood and Rivendell elves that had stayed in the White City to assist in the rebuilding efforts, broke away from the main force. One contingent rode to the North and the other to the South. Their objective was to cross the Anduin at points not observable by the enemy, make their way to the top of the cliffs that flanked both sides of the pass that led to Minas Morgul and secure that high ground; sweeping away any enemies located without, hopefully, alerting the enemy at Minas Morgul.

Faramir, with Amrothos riding by his left side, watched his rangers as they disappeared into the distance; wanting desperately to be with them for he knew the danger they faced in the days and weeks ahead. In addition, the Sionnarch of Ithilien was not yet used to the restrictions placed upon him by his office as the Steward of Gondor. He wondered briefly if he ever would be. The Steward knew that if he had a snowball’s chance in the fires of Mordor of escaping his collective nannies, he would have followed his men in a trice.

“Do not fear, Fara,” consoled Amrothos, feeling for his cousin’s longing to go with his men. “Of all our forces, they are the most skilled in the arts of concealment and fighting with stealth and have the added advantage of the support and abilities of the Elves. And I can say with the utmost confidence that neither of us has any chance of escaping the watchful eyes of the King or the Elves”, he added wistfully.

Faramir looked askance at his cousin and chuckled.

“Annoying, is it not?”

“Exceedingly,” Amrothos replied wryly.

Although Minas Tirith was only a relatively short distance, ‘as the crow flies’, from Minas Morgul; being barely twenty leagues away, it would take the combined army, which included both foot and mounted troops, close to four weeks to arrive at its destination as the route devised by the King and his commanders to take the army to Minas Morgul was more circuitous one in an effort to hide numbers and intent from the enemy for as long as possible. Instead of progressing in a straight line to Minas Morgul, the combined forces would turn South, angling towards the Anduin to cross the river near Emyn Arnen using the hills of the region to hide their movements. The army would then make for the Harrad Road and, turning North, follow the road to Minas Morgul. This would enable to the two small contingents of rangers and elves enough time, hopefully, to clear the cliffs on either side of the pass of Minas Morgul of all enemy forces that could raise the alarm, and set their own positions to offer cover to the combined forces from above.

A halt was made at the end of the first days march on a very large clearing near a small stream, allowing enough daylight remaining to set up camp, as setting up camp in the dark was much harder. A lone, tall and very old chestnut tree sat in the middle of the clearing. Support personnel, with the aid of many of the soldiers, started to set up camp and erect small four man tents. As the troops, generally, had had much previous experience in long marches, the process of setting up the camp went very smoothly.

Amrothos and Faramir dismounted and as all good horsemen do, they saw to the needs of their mounts before handing the reins of their horses over to the young squires waiting. Amrothos screwed up his nose in distaste as he saw Éomer dismount as if he had gone for a short ride and had not been, as had been the case, riding for hours. The young knight of Dol Amrothos knew he himself was more suited to ships and sea than riding a mount. He ached and needed to stretch out the kinks a day’s riding had caused.

Eying the old chestnut tree speculatively and knowing his cousin’s sorrowful mood at being forbidden to ride out with his rangers, the young swan knight threw his cousin a look that put Faramir immediately on alert.

“Last one up helps the cook peel vegetables,” said Amrothos as he shrugged out of his armament and heavy clothing down to his leggings and undershirt, sans boots and socks.

Accepting the challenge with a laugh, Faramir followed suit and both fox cubs bounded first to their mounts, which had been tethered with the other horses by the two young squires, grabbed their respective small standards, that is, flags representing their allegiances to their homes that were tied to their horse’s manes and then bounded off towards the tree at full pelt.

“Whatever are they doing?” Aragorn asked looking decidedly bemused as he stood with the three Mirkwood elves, Gimli and Misto. Unbeknownst to all but Misto, Boromir was watching the fox cubs with a look of utmost fondness.

“Something that I have seen the descendents of Adrahil do from the time they could climb, and in the case young Amrothos there before he had truly mastered the art of walking; much to his sire and grand-sire’s horror at the time when they found the young rapscallion sitting on the very edge of the outer wall of the palace, laughing merrily and clapping his hands in delight at the pretty ships in the harbour below,” Gandalf replied with a hearty laugh as he walked over to the bemused King, with Éomer and the twins close behind. “The one who does not make it to the top of whatever they are climbing first, generally volunteers to do some task that neither enjoys”.

Aragorn watched Amrothos reach the tree first, opting to take the easier route by jumping onto the first branch on the right side of the tree trunk, located about seven feet from the ground. This left Faramir with no option but to launch himself at the first branch on the left side of the tree trunk, which was located about ten feet from the ground. The King released a breath he did not realise that he had been holding as Faramir leaped high into the air, grabbed onto the lowest branch, hauled himself up quickly before launching himself onto the next branch above him.

“I knew Faramir was an excellent climber,” Legolas said, remembering how easily his brother had assisted him in hoisting up the trouble-making elf Amras and securing him to the highest beam in the Mirkwood hall, garnering a look from his sire that indicated his sire knew exactly from which memory his elfling was drawing. “But I now realise that the skill comes from his Dol Amroth connection,” he added quietly, blushing and attempting to ignore his sire’s knowing look.

Legolas noted that all movement had stopped within the camp as all eyes watched the progress of the young men to the top of the tree. Amrothos would have reached the top first, having the advantage of having reached the tree first, if he had not been snagged momentarily on a small branch thus allowing Faramir to pass him and reach the top branch first and then tying his standard, being that of Gondor, to the top of the tree.

“The tree cheated!” Amrothos cried foul but with mirth clearly writ in his features as he surveyed the countryside from his vantage point, feeling his muscles and vertebra stretched nicely.

Faramir’s gaze went distant for a moment as it was wont to do when he was listening to sounds that others could not hear.

“The tree says nay cousin,” he laughed, delighting in the feeling of merriment from the tree which had not felt the feet of elves in a very long time. “Men,” Faramir corrected automatically much to the tree’s confusion as it had never seen such behaviour before from the race of men.

The two men descended the tree at a speed that had Maglor and Thranduil frowning and Aragorn unknowingly holding his breath again. Even Éomer looked concerned, although no one else noticed as all attention centred on the fox cubs. Both men jumped lightly to the ground from the lowest limb and then bowed, and in the case of Faramir; shyly and with a mighty blush, to the cheering and laughing crowd that had gathered around the bottom of the tree.

“Well, I am off to peel vegetables then,” Amrothos sighed, morosely.

“We will both peel vegetables,” Faramir replied with a chuckle as he put his arm around his cousin’s shoulders and guided the young knight towards the area where food was being prepared, both still sans boots and socks.

“I am pleased that young Amrothos is with us on this march,” Gandalf smiled as he watched the cousins walk away in the opposite direction. “He has ever been a foil to my wizardling’s more sombre moods”.

“If I had not seen proof with my own eyes and with such frequency at that, I would not have believed that either possesses such lightening quick tempers of such magnitude,” the King of Gondor shook his head as he turned and walked slowly back to the recently prepared campfire followed by the others. “When they are not planning some devilment or in the midst of a temper conniption, they both have such open, comely faces of such innocence, you would not think butter would melt in their mouths,” he added in a tone that was half complaint against the innate unfairness of the forces that be in such circumstances, causing the elves and dwarf to chuckle and Boromir to snort. Éomer, as ever when Faramir was mentioned, just frowned and listened intently.

“As was the case with Adrahil,” Thranduil snorted as he sat upon on a ground sheet that had been set down in front of the King’s campire. “And all of them all the more dangerous for it; as the explosions of temper can take one by surprise no matter how many times one has witnessed them before.”

“What was Adrahil like in his youth?” Elladan asked from his seated position next to Gimli on the other side of the campfire.

Thranduil chucked at the memory of his first meeting with the young Knight of Dol Amroth.

“Faramir favours him most in looks, the same colour eyes and hair, mouth, height and build, although nowhere near as thin as my son is at the moment. His nose though, was more like young Amrothos’,” Thranduil replied, with a distant look of remembrance in his eyes as he pictured his friend.

“Where did you meet? Elrohir asked from his position between his twin and Maglor.

“Now that is a story!” Thranduil laughed at the memory. “Angelimar, Adrahil’s father, had had enough of his son’s youthful antics involving wine, women and the murderous husband of one of the women; when Mithrandir suggested that he could use the services of young Adrahil that would remove him from Dol Amroth for several months. Needless to say, Angelimar fair jumped at the opportunity to see his son safely elsewhere”.

Gandalf, who was sitting on a camp seat that had been provided for the elderly Istari, snorted at the memory. If he had been present and not have gone scuttling after his ‘mama’, only Misto would have seen Boromir’s ghostly blush as he remembered his uncle’s comment about how alike his nephew was to his grandsire where wine and women were concerned.

“Mithrandir had sent word to both Elrond and I that he wanted us to chase down some rumours in Harad about the location of the ‘one ring’. He advised that he would not be able to join us on the mission, but that we were to meet with a young human prince by the name of Adrahil at an inn located in a border town between Gondor and Harad. He advised that the young prince had further information that would assist us and asked that we take the young human under our wings, as he was uncommonly intelligent and devious but warned that did have an issue with his temper…”

“This is the inn,” Thranduil said to Elrond as he opened the door to reveal, pandemonium.

Goblets and tankards sailed through the air, as did pieces of furniture and even some bodies as it seemed that every patron within the establishment was bent upon knocking senseless another patron. Both elves stood against the wall, just inside of the front door, in an attempt to make sense of the scene.

At what appeared to be the centre of the maelstrom, the elves could see a young human with clear blue eyes and fox coloured hair attempting to knock out a man who stood at least twelve inches taller and was twice his weight. The young man appeared to be doing quite well though, as he made up in speed and agility what he lacked in height and volume.

“Let me guess,” Thranduil said shaking his head ruefully as he looked at his long time friend. “Prince Adrahil of Dol Amroth?”

“I suppose we should intervene and assist the young fool,” Elrond sighed just as he saw the young man’s attention divert momentarily, as he looked in their direction, and recognition register in his features, which was just long enough for the giant to land and uppercut to the young man’s jaw that sent him flying backwards and crashing into the wall behind. The young man slipped slowly down the wall as his eyes rolled back and he settled in an unconscious heap upon the floor of the inn.

To Be Continued

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