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 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.

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