Faramir Fiction Archive

Tales from Gondor (R)

23 September 2012 | 36179 words

Title: Night
Author: Minx
Characters: Aragorn/Faramir
Rating: PG
Disclaimer: Everything is Tolkien’s
Author’s Notes: Written for the 25fluffyfics community’s ‘Blankets’
prompt. Much thanks to Iris for reading through!
Summary: Faramir is unable to sleep alone in Minas Tirith

Faramir sighed unhappily and turned over in his bed. He gazed through the open window. It was dark outside, barring the faint moonlight. There were still a few hours to go till dawn, and though he had tried hard to fall asleep he had been unable to. It had been so for the last few nights ever since Aragorn had ridden out.

They had been accustomed all these weeks to spending their nights in Minas Tirith together in the king’s bedchamber, in Aragorn’s vast bed. Since Aragorn had ridden out, Faramir had moved back into his own chambers, to the rooms and bed he had always used all these years, until now.

He shifted uncomfortably again, feeling strange and miserable and not knowing why. This was after all the bed he had used ever since he had been a child, and he was accustomed to it. As a young ranger returning from Henneth Annûn, he had welcomed this space, the softness of the down-filled mattress and pillows and the thick blanket to keep off the chill that seeped in through the stone walls in the late autumn nights.

He kicked his blanket away irritably now, and then found himself pulling it back as he felt the nip in the air on his bare skin. The pillows felt too soft against his aching head. And the down-filled mattress didn’t feel soft enough; he had become too used to lying in Aragorn’s arms. He rolled onto his side tiredly. Aragorn’s bed was a huge one, lined with soft silken sheets and soft, warm blankets. He closed his eyes and tried to imagine himself asleep in Aragorn’s arms, his head resting against the king’s chest, ears strumming with his heartbeat, the king’s hands on his bare back and stomach. He hugged himself tight and curled up, and then let out a strangled sob.

It was not as if he was unaccustomed to spending his nights alone, for he had to do so whenever he visited Ithilien for a few days. And yet, being alone in Minas Tirith suddenly seemed difficult.

He turned over again, trying to lie on his stomach, and then on his back. Finally he rose, and walked over to his window, looking out at the night sky. Morning was hours away as yet. He should sleep he knew. He’d assured Aragorn he would take care of his health, and eat his meals and sleep regularly. Well, he thought, sighing, he’d tried to sleep but couldn’t, so he might as well make the best use of his time. He glanced towards his desk, and walking over, picked up some papers though he knew he’d finished everything here before going to bed. Perhaps he could read a book, he decided and walked over to the small shelf near the hearth, only to realise that all his books lay in Aragorn’s chambers.

He pursed his lips and made up his mind swiftly. Pulling on a robe, he headed for Aragorn’s chambers. Once there he picked up some of his books off the table. There would be a few under the pillows too, he thought, and walked over to the bed.

It was a huge bed, larger than even the two of them would need, but Faramir had liked that. The king’s bed was harder, at his own insistence, used as he was to spending most of his nights outdoors. Faramir sat at the edge and laid his palm on the smooth, soft sheets. The vast bed looked strangely empty and much as he found his own bed uncomfortable, Faramir could not imagine sleeping here alone either.

They had spent each night he’d been in Minas Tirith, here on this bed. They would make love over these sheets, sometimes more than once in a night, gently and slowly, lingering over their nearness, especially after he’d return from a few days in Ithilien. And just sometimes, Faramir would get his way and they would make love with a near ferocity, that left him aching mildly yet pleasurably. After they’d made love, he would curl himself into Aragorn’s arms, and the king would hold him long into the night. There were times when he thought Aragorn was too protective of him, but at night he revelled in that feeling, as the king held him gently, the strong arms keeping him close. He hugged his arms around himself and sighed. He ran his hands over the soft bedcover and found himself pouting unhappily.

He’d known he would miss Aragorn this much. He always did in Ithilien, but in Minas Tirith, it seemed everywhere he went, he would be reminded of Aragorn. He had never thought that he would come to grow so fond of the city. He sighed, picked up the books under the pillows, and made to rise. He sat back down as he noticed the blanket folded and piled away at the foot of the bed.

It was Aragorn’s old blanket, a relic of his ranger days, the brown and green pattern now old and faded, the edges frayed. It was large and soft. He picked it up and buried his face in it, stifling the sobs that arose in his throat, as he breathed in a concoction of now familiar smells; a damp mustiness that spoke of years of outdoor use, the faint odour of horses, wet grass and mud, and lingering faintly in it all, heather and lavender, like the soap that Aragorn used.

He carried it into his chambers. He removed the robe and wrapped the blanket around himself, unmindful of the coarse roughness against his bare skin, curling into himself on the bed. It bought back memories of their days and nights together – of golden sunny afternoons spent outside – by the river fishing or just sitting together on the same blanket, of riding through the plains with the wind blowing through their hair, of walking through the woods with their hobbit friends, Aragorn’s fingers wrapped around his own, searching for berries that later left stains on the blanket when they made love on it forgetting the berries that they’d gathered, of nights spent on rugs in front of the hearth, this blanket wrapped around them as they took turns to read out of books they liked, of Aragorn laying him down on this same blanket on the bed the first time they made love, soothing away his sudden nervousness with gentle kisses and soft touches and loving words.

He sighed and stretched out more comfortably, letting the blanket spread over his body and picking up one of the books he’d brought along, opened it to the page he’d marked many days ago, having had little time to read in bed till now. He didn’t think he could sleep yet, but he did have better things to think of now while he read. Perhaps he could think of how he could convince Aragorn to let him go along the next time.

And he’d carry this blanket too.

NB: Please do not distribute (by any means, including email) or repost this story (including translations) without the author's prior permission. [ more ]

Enjoyed this story? Then be sure to let the author know by posting a comment at https://www.faramirfiction.com/fiction/tales-from-gondor. Positive feedback is what keeps authors writing more stories!