Faramir Fiction Archive

War of the Wizards (PG)

15 July 2010 | 120215 words | Work in Progress

Title: War of the Wizards
Author: KC
Rating: PG
Pairing(s): Faramir
Warnings: Spanking
Disclaimer: The characters are not mine. They belong to Tolkien.<br>,Please let me know what you think of this story by leaving a comment.

This is number seven in the series that started with Grief, Elf, Wasps and an Angry Wizard and Stubborn Stewards and Bright Red Paddles, Human King, Elven King & One Stubborn Steward, Sweet Revenge or Let Licking Dogs Lie and Elves, Orcs and the Road to Recovery.
Added: Chapter 52

Part 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.

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