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The Dreams of Kings (PG) Print

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!

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.


“Since being with me?”

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


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.

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

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3 Comment(s)

Aaaw, the fluff! :))) No, seriously, sleepless nights are even more horrible when they´re spent next to somebody blissfully drowsing. Not only because the one struck with insomnia feels like the loneliest person in the world; but also for all the other tiny though terribly annoying details. That is one of the various reasons why I love your fics so much: you always manage to ground your stories by mentioning these little relevant irrelavancies. Like, his leg is about to fall asleep and he would love to turn around, but then he would awake the other one, BUT HELL, TURNING AROUND WOULD BE HEAVEN. These are the things the big fat tall heroic epics never talk about. X)

I can´t even tell you how much I enjoy to dive into one of your stories to stick around in there for a while. After a long day of hard work there is nothing better than a cup of tea (whiskey? Dwarvish malt beerrr? (Gímli promounciation) Gondorian ale?) and a freshly printed fic right out of Eora´s kitchen of wonders! :)

— raven22372    Wednesday 27 June 2012, 19:05    #

Oh dear…I do believe in my latest email I did assure you that despite ‘life getting in the way’ I was indeed on MY way to reply to your extremely lovely comment immediately?! And of course, I must have meant ‘immediately’ as in ‘tomorrow’ because here I am, better rudely late than not at all! I’m so sorry!

So, thank you! :D Haha, and yes I did enjoy including that little nugget of reality, namely Faramir’s dead leg :P I think we have all been in that situation where one doesn’t wish to disturb the other occupant of the bed, or indeed, one is merely far too tired to move despite the fact a leg or arm is piping up rather loudly with a cry of ‘Hello? Hello? Fine then, pins and needles it is…’ :P I’m always the last person to fall asleep (and suffer insomnia regularly) so I do indeed share Faramir’s frustration here! And generally the whole piece was just a lovely little piece of fluff to remedy the angst-ridden creative state I’d gotten myself into with the last few stories :P I’m so glad it went down well! There’s nothing better for me than to come home after a long day and spend a little time writing something (that may or may not ever make it off of my computer) so it brings me great joy to see that when something DOES actually make that giant leap for mankind onto the internet it brings someone else some pleasure too! :)

Eora    Wednesday 18 July 2012, 22:10    #

Oh noes, do not worry! RL has its stranglehold on me as as it has on you, so I more than understand it! Besides, I´m absolutely sure that, due to the Encyclopedia Britannica “immediately” is a term that covers a range from “right now after finishing my scrambled eggs” up to “maybe next week, if the car won´t break down”. So, you´re perfectly in time! :D

The “dead leg” – that is such a pithy term, it should find an iconic place in history, like the “Hole in the Wall” gang or something – it reminded me what I once heard some actor saying about playing sex scenes. That it is far less fun than it looks like and “you spend hours in positions that might look hot, all the while your arm is just dying a slowly death”. It´s hard work being sexy… XD

And you lucky fellow are able to write after work! I shall be wrapped into bacon and be served for breakfast if I ever get something done after a long day of brain-squeezing. I always knew you are an extraordinary writer, but being an extraordinary writer who is able to lure in the words whenever they are needed… ENVYYYYYYYYY! (text fades to green)

(Except serious writer´s blocks. Keep fingers crossed! :) )

— raven22372    Thursday 19 July 2012, 6:14    #

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About the Author


Hello, I’m Eora :) As well as on this site I collect my writing (and general ramblings) on my journal. If you want to ask me anything you are more than welcome to comment/befriend me there :)