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In Dreams (PG-13) Print

Written by Empy

31 December 2006 | 3375 words

Title: In Dreams
Recipient: Kimber Leigh
Author: Empy (empyreus@gmail.com)
Pairing: Boromir/Faramir
Rating: PG-13/R-ish
Warnings: consensual sibling incest
Disclaimer: the characters belong to Professor Tolkien, I merely play with them.

Note I: I have considered the trothplighting in Meduseld to be a promise of a wedding, and instead set the ‘actual’ wedding in Minas Tirith. Hopefully this doesn’t cause confusion.

Note II: She asked for “Smutty is good, as is a bit of angst, but please don’t make them drown in the emo”, and I hope I haven’t made this too sad or too sappy.

Also: I’m so sorry for being terribly late with the fic. I blame endless computer troubles.

Written for the 2006 Midwinter Swap.

Request by Kimber Leigh: Boromir comes to Faramir on the eve of his wedding to Éowyn. Either in a dream or as a ghost. Smutty is good, as is a bit of angst, but please don’t make them drown in the emo :) And no Éowyn bashing please.

On the eve of his wedding to Éowyn, Faramir found himself restless and unable to sleep, despite the large evening meal and the wine he had taken with it. His bride-to-be had given him a gentle parting kiss before being swept away by fussing ladies in waiting who seemed impatient to get on with arranging the last details of a wedding that, to Faramir’s mind, surely was fully planned already. All of Minas Tirith seemed to be bustling with people involved in one way or another, and it seemed they thought it nearly as great a celebration as the wedding of Lord Elessar and Lady Arwen. It was a small consolation that Éowyn seemed equally bewildered, and together they had attempted as best they could to avoid the fussing dressmakers or the bards insisting that they pass judgement on this song or that.

He wandered the halls, his fingers following the familiar cracks and decorative carvings on the stone walls, and paid little heed to where he was going. Before long, he found himself outside a familiar door, and a chill came over him. Boromir’s rooms. They had been closed off out of respect as soon as word of his demise had reached the city, and Faramir himself had not set foot in them after that.

The hinges of the door did not creak as he expected them to, and he stepped inside with an odd sense of dread weighing his heart. The room was dark and chill, and he returned to the hallway to fetch a lamp he might use to kindle a fire and light candles.

As he returned to the door that stood ajar, revealing nothing of the room behind it but a sliver of black, he stopped in his tracks and drew a deep breath before stepping inside. It felt like a transgression, even though he had opened that selfsafe door so many times in so many situations before.

But not after his death.

He carefully closed the door behind him, hearing the latch click into place. The lamp he carried seemed to dim when confronted with the compact and silent darkness of the room, but he squared his shoulders and crossed the floor to the fireplace. As he set the lamp down on the mantlepiece, he gave a little laugh. Flint and tinder were set there, and dry kindling had been carefully bundled and set next to the firewood. Trust Boromir never to leave little details unattended. The hearth had long since been swept clean of ash and cinders, and Faramir found it easy to build a new fire.

The familiar hangings of the room swam before his eyes as he blinked back tears he reasoned were caused by smoke, and he rose from his kneeling position. He did not know precisely why he had come there, but perhaps it would allow him a few minutes of rest. He had felt strangely unsettled all day, and had taken to wandering the halls in an attempt to empty his mind of the thoughts that had been troubling him. The Citadel seemed cold to him still, even though the new King and Queen had brought life and light there.

And that is the rub, he thought. They bring life to a city too long besieged by death, and take as Steward one dragged from death’s door. The very last scion of a dying house; an orphaned youngest child who has seen his only brother dead.

He crossed the floor to sit in a large chair to the side of the fireplace, frowning as his movements unsettled dust that had greyed the polished wood and leather. Another unwelcome reminder of what was missing, he thought, leaning his head into his hand as he stared into the flames morosely. He had every reason to be joyous, a man on the eve of his wedding to a fair and beloved lady, and yet he felt lacking somehow. Had things been as he had imagined them as a youth, then he would have sat in the same room, but accompanied by this brother and giddy with mirth and wine as he listened to ribald tales of seduction. As it seemed now, he was without both wine and mirth, and he rose with a sigh. Wine had been brought to his own rooms, but he had touched little of it.

The hallway seemed even more vast and silent as he stepped out of the room, and a chill draft whispered along the floor as he walked the short distance to his own rooms, which, for all their warmth, suddenly seemed inhospitable. He fetched the decanter and goblet set on his desk, snuffed a candle that had been left burning, and then headed for the door. On his way, he stopped by the large mirror-glass set next to the bed. The mirror was an heirloom, a large and cumbersome thing that had stood in the room for more years than Faramir had lived. As a child, he had been frightened to pass by it at night, fearing he might see ghosts rather than his own image. Now, however, he only saw himself: a tall man with worry written on his features. It was not the image of a man, a prince at that, who was due to wed the woman he loved. Shaking his head, he walked past the mirror and out of the room.

Back in Boromir’s rooms, he sat down once more in the lone chair by the fire, not bothering to light candles. He took a deep draught of wine, barely tasting it.

That is no way to celebrate your last day as an unwed man.

The phrase seemed spoken aloud, whispered in a way that echoed in the room despite being so soft, and Faramir started where he sat. The room was still empty apart from him, and he was certain he would have noticed if someone had entered. What was worse, the voice had been so familiar. It was a voice he had loved, and still loved, a voice he knew as well as his own. “Boromir,” he said, his own voice raw with sudden emotion. Was this madness at last, to hear the voice of a dead man?

It is not madness, Faramir. The voice seemed to take shape, if such a thing were possible, weave substance about itself, and Faramir closed his eyes tightly as his hands gripped the goblet he held. Cold fingers seemed to trace his hands, and he held his breath. Drink for me, not to me. No need to be so morose. Drink to your future and the future of Gondor, to your bride and the union of Rohan and Gondor. The air seemed to move about him where he sat, to take the shape of a man walking, but he would not open his eyes.

“You would have me drink my sorrows?” He gave a bitter laugh. “I think there is not a goblet large enough.”

You are tired, and the wine makes your mind bitter. You never had a head for wine, Faramir. Half a goblet and your tongue ran. He nearly felt the hands gripping his shoulders. I did not come to make you weep, nor to stir up old hurts. A spectral touch whispered along his cheek. I came because I loved you. As I love you still, if you would have a ghost love you. The voice seemed very near, as though Boromir had leaned in and spoken directly into his ear. If he made a small effort, he could feel the nearness, and felt that if he opened his eyes, he would be able to catch the dark gloss of Boromir’s hair out of the corner of his eye.

You should sleep, Faramir. Take rest, or else you will be as irritable as a starved Warg tomorrow, earning the reproach of bride and King alike. There seemed to be pause enough for a smile before the spectre spoke again. Sleep in my bed, as you did when I was away.

Faramir opened his eyes at last, feeling relieved yet disappointed when he found the room was still empty. As the turned in the chair, looking over at the wide bed, he found he had to stifle a yawn. There was reason in the argument, though the way it was delivered in seemed to overturn all arguments based on reason, and he stood up, wincing at the stiffness in his back.

The covers of the bed had not been touched, and he knew the bedding would be cold despite the warmth of the season. Kicking off his boots, he sat down on the edge of the bed. Foolish though this action seemed, it also brought him comfort. He had done this before, both as a child and as a youth; crept into Boromir’s rooms and slept in his bed when they had been separated by campaigns or schooling. There had been comfort in the familiar, in the scent that lingered among the linen. He settled to lie in the wide bed, creeping under the covers and feeling the chill weight of the bedsheets. He closed his eyes, the weight of the day’s tension a dull ache in his muscles.

He fancied he could still feel a faint whisper of cedar, of the myriad different scents that combined to form something heartbreakingly familiar. He breathed in deeply, a slow smile spreading on his features as memories of happier days drew him down into sleep.

Open your eyes.

It was Boromir’s voice once more, and Faramir started awake, opening his eyes to stare into the darkness. The room still seemed the same, and the fire he had built still crackled merrily, casting a soft golden glow, but something was amiss. He wearily turned his head, reasoning his own unsettled mind had woken him, and fought to hold back a cry as his eyes accustomed themselves to the dim light and let him see what was before him.

“Boromir,” he said, his heart beating painfully quickly. It could not be, he told himself sternly. And yet it seemed so real, from the solid figure in front of him to the way the bedding gave way under it. Boromir, lying on the bed next to him, his eyes glittering and a familiar smile playing about his lips.

“Faramir,” the spectre said, the voice low but audible.

He gave a choked sob, but kept his eyes open for fear of finding that it was a trick of the light or of his eyes. It did not seem to be that way, for when he at length blinked and opened his eyes anew, the figure was still there.

“Cry not, little one. I know it is hard to bear. It is for me also.”

“That is not the reason,” said Faramir, his voice hushed. “These are tears of both pain and joy, for you cannot know what elation I feel now that I see you once more. You have not changed since last I saw you.” He halted suddenly. “Since last I saw you alive,” he said, hesitantly reaching out to touch Boromir’s chest, his hand halting before he touched the fabric. “Your garb is the same as when you set out, and it…” He paused. “I speak like a fool,” he said. “I do not know if I am asleep, having woken from a dream into another, or if I now have at last lapsed into the madness which makes me see ghosts wherever I walk.”

“It is one but not the other, or perhaps neither,” said Boromir. “You are not mad, though you see ghosts. It is your heritage which lets you see me. Here, at least, is one benefit of the Long Sight. I am now as your mind would have me, and your senses will perceive me as though I were indeed touching you.”

Boromir smiled before brushing the tips of his fingers over Faramir’s cheek. “Do you see?” he asked, giving a little laugh as Faramir seized his hand. “You can feel my touch.”

“My mind seems addled,” said Faramir, “for it feels foolish to speak thus and even more bewildering to realize that I am able to touch you.”

“You think too much, Faramir.” Boromir smiled as he stroked a strand of hair out of Faramir’s eyes. “That was always your bane. Let us have this moment, and let us see to that you are a joyous groom tomorrow, not the gloomy figure you cut today. You are well worthy of your bride, little brother. I would have approved of her. She is strong and proud; a daughter of Kings she seems to me. And she is fair. Your children will be harvesters of hearts, surely, and as able as their parents.”

“She sets my mind and heart reeling,” said Faramir. “She woke something in me that I thought I did not possess, and her grace and beauty make me feel as though I have been gifted with a rare treasure.”

“Ever the poet, little one. It is well that there is someone who gives you joy.”

Faramir smiled. “That she does, each day and in each moment we are together.” He paused. “I love my White Lady dearly, and yet… and yet I am not sure I ever wish to wake from this reverie.”

“You should know that living in dreams is not a wise choice, Faramir. You have a life to live, one given you anew by your King, and a beautiful woman to love. And a kingdom to rule,” he added. “Make your brother proud by leading your people well.” He smiled. “Prince Faramir, fair and just and able. You will be held in high regard, and ladies and lords alike will swoon and seek your favour.”

Faramir gave a soft laugh. “You have not changed. You still tease me, as though we were but boys.”

“Is that not the way of all brothers?”

“It is,” said Faramir, attempting to push aside the rude voice of reason that threatened to steal his joy. I know this cannot be real, he acquiesced, but let me have this fantasy, this dream. Let me enjoy it without doubt.

They lay close, legs twined together and elbows touching, as they had done since they had been mere children. After a moment’s hesitation, Faramir shifted closer, moulding his body along Boromir’s in a bid to be as close as possible. He had sorely missed this, missed being so close to the one person he knew as well as himself.

“How I loved you,” whispered Boromir, his breath hot on Faramir’s cheek, and Faramir wondered at the sensation. How was it that he could feel the touch of a ghost? “I loved you in ways both pure and tainted, brother mine.” He pressed a kiss to Faramir’s lips, the gesture suddenly as real as one in waking life, and Faramir cast his misgivings aside. Should he not now enjoy this boon as it had been given to him? He tightened his hold on Boromir, his hands feeling out solid flesh and hard muscle, and answered the kiss with fervour.

“I can feel your skin,” said Faramir, “I can feel it as though this were a night like any other, as though you were still here with me in the flesh.” He cupped Boromir’s face in his hands, feeling the heat of skin and the light rasp of stubble.

Boromir leaned back slightly, propping himself up on one elbow. “Consider it my gift,” he smiled. “And I will gift you with more if you are willing.” He deftly undid the lacings of the tunic Faramir had worn when he fell asleep, folding the fabric aside to bare skin. “Though this is a dream, all your senses are keen as lances.” He stroked the exposed skin with the backs of his fingers, the touch light, and Faramir gave a pleased shudder at the sensation of skin on skin. “Surely you can feel all this?”

“I can,” gasped Faramir. “And your touch burns me, kindles a fire both beautiful and forbidden in my veins. It brings back memories of so many nights and so many lovely misdeeds.”

“Lovely misdeeds,” smiled Boromir. “Yes, that is what they were. Misdeeds more enjoyable than anything else, transgressions I could not get enough of. There was no one else capable of stirring up such emotions in me.”

“I would say the same,” said Faramir, “and yet lie if I did. My Lady inspires wild emotions also, lust and love, but they are not of the same kind entirely.”

“No,” said Boromir. “Not of the same kind, perhaps, but of the same intensity. Fear not, your love for her will not be tainted or diminished.” He leaned in to steal a light kiss, and let his hand map the bared skin of Faramir’s chest. “How I wish there was more I could do, and more time in which to do it. I wish time could be undone, but that would bring about ruin.”

Faramir shushed at him, pulling him down into another tight embrace. “Speak not of it now. I will repeat your words: let us have this moment.” He laced his fingers into Boromir’s hair, the grip tight, and buried his face in the crook between Boromir’s neck and shoulder. “Let me indulge in my memories.” They were as close as they might get, but it was not enough, Faramir lamented. Had they been in one another’s skin, it would not have been enough. “I miss this,” he breathed, unsure for whose benefit he had spoken. “I miss you, and all the times we lay like this and closer still, skin on skin and heart in heart.”

“I know,” said Boromir, his voice hushed. “I know. But spirits may dwell in hearts and minds, and memories also.” He shifted to be able to look into Faramir’s eyes. “As long as you remember me, I will be here. I promise that.”

Faramir nodded before claiming a swift and hard kiss. “I will never forget you. Never.”

Boromir did not voice a reply, merely nodded, but Faramir knew what the gesture meant. There was no need for words. He settled down, resting his head on Boromir’s shoulder, lacing his fingers with Boromir’s as he had done so many times in the past. The simple deed brought him comfort, and he found his eyes closing of their own accord, his body giving in to fatigue.

“This is as strange as all that has befallen this night,” murmured Faramir as he sought to fight the sleep that curled its tendrils around him. “I am falling asleep though I am already sleeping, and dreaming within a dream.” He frowned. “I do not wish to sleep, for it means I must leave this reverie.”

“Sleep,” said Boromir, pressing a light kiss to Faramir’s forehead. “I am here, in you mind and in your heart.” He settled his hand over Faramir’s heart, and that touch was the last thing Faramir felt before deep sleep claimed him once more.

Rest easy, little brother. I will watch over you as I always have, and I will guard your steps both in waking life and in dreams.


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Empy For more stories, visit "LiveJournal":http://empy.livejournal.com/tag/fic.