Faramir Fiction Archive

The Dreams of Kings (PG)

Written by Eora

25 June 2012 | 1200 words

Title: The Dreams of Kings
Pairing: Faramir/Aragorn
Rating: PG
Warnings: Slash.
Disclaimer: None of these characters belong to me! All written in good fun with no offence intended!
Author’s Note: This is just a little mushy one-shot that I wrote in one sitting after finishing (what I’m now calling) the Electrum arc. Yes! It’s another of my infamous Bedroom Scenes!

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Faramir wonders what kings dream of.

Aragorn sleeps on his back, and always drifts off first, while Faramir lies on his side watching him through half-shut eyes, waiting for sleep to claim him too but he knows that it will take hours to slip beneath the dark waters of oblivion. Studying Aragorn, seeing him at peace, breathing steadily, the corner of an eyelid twitching, a sigh perhaps, brings him some comfort and chases away the worries of nightmares to come. Faramir does not sleep much at all any more; when he does wake, he lies on his belly, face turned to the side, just another of the little differences between him and the man who shares his bed. Back and front, sleep and wakefulness, king and second-man, always, but Faramir doesn’t mind that last part.

They have tried many things to give Faramir the peace of easy slumber. When Aragorn realised the source of the dark circles beneath his companion’s eyes, the reason for his lethargy and his slightly dulled wits he came up with any number of practical solutions, much to Faramir’s chagrin; to be made a fuss of was never to his liking even if he knew it was only because the king cared about him. They tried lying together only before bed, hoping the soothing waves of receding pleasure would lull him into restfulness. When that did not work, after a fortnight they tried only doing so in the mornings, then not at all; they lasted a long month before it was Faramir himself who strode into the bedchamber one evening, door banging, to proclaim that if he was going to be sleepless regardless he would rather be able to sleep with his lover and would you please stop gaping and get undressed?

They tried switching sides of the bed. They slept in Faramir’s rooms instead. Knowing it was hardly helping that he was first to drop off Aragorn avowed that he would stay awake each night until Faramir was lost to the world, and would hold him against his chest, stroking his hair, but these soft hours would end with Faramir’s eventual looking up and telling him it was alright, it was no use, get some sleep. Frustratingly, as a ranger he was long used to finding rest wherever he happened to be; not knowing when you might next be granted a moment’s peace was an effective sedative in wartime.

“Have you always suffered like this?” Aragorn asked him one evening, though the answer is known to him.

“No.”

“Since being with me?”

Faramir takes a long time to reply, even though Aragorn knows the answer to this one too.

“Yes.”

When Faramir does sleep, for a few blessed hours, he dreams. These hours are so-blessed not for the peace they bring, but for their brevity. His dreams are dark, they disturb him, he lies anxiously wishing for rest and yet can’t bear to think that his next night-vision might turn out to be prophetic. This was how Aragorn figured out the cause of his insomnia.

“I’m not going anywhere.”

“I know.”

Faramir dreams of death, of parting, of loss, of solitude, of a life without love. Occasionally he awakens to find Aragorn’s arms cradling him, affection whispered into his ear, a kiss, a warmth pressed all along him, comfort given, a safe harbour. Sometimes he is being rocked, gently. He must have cried out, or thrashed so much that he woke the king. He apologises once he remembers where he is, and Aragorn only ever draws him closer.

The king lies still, and Faramir resists the urge to push aside the frond of hair that curls across the royal forehead. The quiet song of rain can be heard from the window. Faramir sighs through his nose; the wait for dawn is long, no matter how used you are to it. He can tell Aragorn is dreaming; his eyes rove beneath their lids, the edge of his mouth moves just a fraction, his fingers clench slightly against the sheets. Sweet, welcome dreams; there is no distress here. Faramir smiles to himself for at least one of them sleeps easy, and then Aragorn is smiling too, just the merest ghost of happiness upon his face and then it is gone, the dream ended; he shifts suddenly onto his side, facing Faramir, and he is still as stone once again, snoring softly. His half-closed fist brushes against Faramir’s bare waist, fingers curling inwards.

Faramir doesn’t want to move for the view is so pleasant, but his leg grows stiff and numb and so he rolls onto his back, stretching out carefully so as not to jostle Aragorn, but it appears his caution was unnecessary for Aragorn is awake. The hand that nestled against him spreads itself out, a warm flat plane that sweeps over his belly and wanders upwards, coming to shield his heart from harm. The king’s chin prickles his shoulder; a kiss is printed upon his temple.

“Still wakeful, dear one?”

“Mmh,” Faramir says, hoping maybe he will fool Aragorn into thinking he is at least near sleep, and so halt undue worrying. The king is no fool, however.

“I dreamt of you,” he says, and aligns his body with Faramir’s. It’s not an erotic gesture; the warmth that blossoms within Faramir’s breast is due to his words rather than his actions. The king’s speech is slow and sleep-laden. “I‘ve dreamt of you all my life.” He settles himself, face buried in Faramir’s hair. “It was a good dream,” he adds, and Faramir places his own hand over Aragorn’s upon his chest.

Soon, inevitably, almost cheekily, Aragorn is snoring again, but this time Faramir doesn’t feel left behind. He catches himself mid-yawn, surprised at how exhausted he feels and how he is only realising that now. He knows the king loves him, he knows, but the part of him that taunts him with nightmares also sees fit to whisper into his hidden mind notions of betrayal; Aragorn can say he loves him all he likes, but words are no more permanent than wind. When he catches himself thinking along these ridiculous lines Faramir chides himself severely; how can he not trust Aragorn? And how much longer must he battle his subconscious mind?

No longer, it seems, or at least not this night. If Aragorn is dreaming of him then how can anything be wrong? The king is smiling at him, pulling him into an embrace and capturing his mouth with his own. His hand dives beneath the collar of Faramir’s shirt, fingertips trailing along the ridge of his collarbone and Faramir is so happy, though cannot quite recall when they rose and dressed, nor left the bedroom. It’s daytime, and the rain has gone.

If this is a dream, he thinks, let it never end.

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