Faramir Fiction Archive

Tales from Gondor (R)

Written by Minx

23 September 2012 | 36179 words

Title: Sleep
Author: Minx
Characters: Aragorn/Faramir
Rating: PG
Warnings: None, really
Feedback: Would be loved:)
Summary: Written for the ‘Nightmare’ prompt on the 25fluffyfics LJ community
A/N: Many thanks to Iris for reading through and for the title:)

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Aragorn shook his head in exasperation when he entered Faramir’s study after he’d kept his dinner appointment with his chief councillor. The younger man was at his desk. His paperwork was spread out on the table in front of him, a half-eaten plate of dinner had been pushed to one side, and he lay fast asleep in his chair. The king stood quietly for a few moments at the doorway watching him. The fading light played on the steward’s lean face, accentuating the shadows that still lingered over it after a recent illness. His head had slipped to an uncomfortable angle, and Aragorn realised he ought to rectify that or Faramir would be left with a severe pain in his neck and shoulders. He would have to speak to him about his meals too. A half-eaten apple and a few bites of bread and cheese were hardly a meal.

He walked in and paused to observe the relaxed features again, a little thankfully. Faramir’s sleeping habits had changed so much in these months he’d known him. In their earlier days together, Aragorn had fast realised that his young lover slept for a mere few hours, and would often wake in the middle of the night, sleep disturbed by nightmares that left him shaken and on some occasions even tearful. On each occasion, Aragorn had woken too at the sound of the soft sobs that the younger man subconsciously seemed to stifle, and then held and soothed the younger man lovingly, reassuring him that all was fine.

Faramir would always feel guilty each time his restless movements and pain-filled cries woke Aragorn. It had taken Aragorn many weeks and a few nightmares of his own to convince Faramir that there was no ill in having bad dreams. As the long winter nights after they had first come together had progressed, the two men had comforted each other, each helping the other come to terms with their grief, past and present, as they had gradually grown deeper in love.

Faramir did still have nightmares though, especially as he’d been ill just recently, the changing seasons having brought on a severe bout of fever that had left Aragorn extremely worried about him.

Even now though, it took barely a touch to the shoulder to rouse the young Steward who sat up suddenly, stared at the papers on the table and then glanced around frantically. Upon seeing Aragorn his face broke into a weary smile. The king smiled back as he noticed the ink smudge left on the younger man’s nose.

“I’m sorry I fell asleep,” Faramir murmured, “But I’ve finished here I think and –”

Aragorn sighed and leaning forward gently wiped at Faramir’s nose with his sleeve, “You have ink on your nose,” he announced.

Faramir wrinkled his face, and smiled.

“You would be more comfortable in bed,” Aragorn suggested, gently brushing a lock of hair off his forehead, at the same time checking the creased forehead for any sign of warmth. He wiped away the smudge of ink with his sleeve.

“As long as I’m in your arms,” Faramir murmured still sounding half-asleep, making Aragorn chuckle, and wrap his arms around him.

Faramir yawned.

“To bed, young one,” Aragorn declared teasingly, “Should I carry you there, and tuck you in?”

That made Faramir come awake. He gave Aragorn a slightly exasperated look and rose, “I’ve finished going through these petitions, and I’ve jotted down the relevant points here,” he said, showing Aragorn the notes he’d made at the margins in his neat script.

“I’ll look into them tonight,” Aragorn promised, taking them from him, “But it is time you got some sleep. You look tired,” he added reprovingly, “And you haven’t finished your dinner.”

“I’ve been inside all day,” Faramir almost pouted, “And the kitchens kept sending me something or the other to eat.”

He continued speaking about the petitions as they walked to the king’s rooms, Aragorn going deliberately slowly for he could see Faramir was weary.

When they reached his rooms, Aragorn helped him change out of his clothes, batting away his protests with a stern, “You’re asleep on you feet! And you are still not fully recovered; remember?”

Faramir shook his head, smiling, but let Aragorn help him into bed nevertheless. When the older man had settled by his side, he turned to him, and reached for the bindings of his tunic.

Aragorn stopped him gently. “Sleep now,” he urged instead.

Faramir sighed, leaned forward and pressed his lips against Aragorn’s before murmuring, “Very well, but only if you do too. You look tired too. You spent so much time out in the city today.”

“I will,” Aragorn said smiling. He had every intention of doing so, and ensuring that he kept Faramir’s dreams at bay. The younger man was still recovering from his latest illness and the healers had warned that he was still weak and susceptible to falling ill again. He needed all the sleep and rest he could get.

He nudged Faramir back against the pillows, and kissed him on his lips before pulling him into his arms, holding him against his chest as he fell asleep. He looked through the papers while stroking the sweat-damped locks of hair gently, and smiled as Faramir murmured approvingly at his touch. It didn’t take him long to go through them, and soon he too was ready to get some rest. Carefully, so as to not awake the sleeping man, he put out the lamp by his bedside. Faramir snuggled closer. Aragorn sighed in contentment and let his eyes close.

Perhaps on the morrow, he could ask the kitchens for a huge breakfast, and they could eat out in the gardens.

Bright morning sunlight filtered through the golden leaves of the trees, imparting its pleasant, warm hue across the woods as the two men walked across a clearing, talking quietly and cheerfully to each other. As they neared the edge of the woods, one of the men broke away laughing and dashed towards the woods, “Come on,” he called out laughing.

The other man found himself laughing in joy as well as he ran after his friend, through the clearing, feet crunching softly on the fallen leaves.

“Come back,” he called out laughing, as he entered the woods.

He came to a stop after he crossed the first line of trees. The woods were suddenly darkening, the golden light changing to a grey mist and the carpet of leaves giving way to hard, dark riverbank. Inky water glistened beyond.

His friend had stopped and now stood there staring at the water. He was no longer laughing with him he realised, dully. His friend stepped into the water.

“Don’t leave me,” he cried out, and stepped forward to follow, only to find he could not move further.

“Please,” he called out frantically, as the water began to swirl around his friend’s ankles, “Please don’t leave me!”

The weary looking figure turned, and the man on the riverbank let out a strangled groan, before sinking to the hard ground, tears coursing down his cheek.

“Aragorn,” his friend spoke sadly, almost desperately.

“Aragorn!” Faramir’s voice was louder now and more insistent, and suddenly his hands were clasping Aragorn’s shoulders, even as his voice grew increasingly frantic.

The king opened his eyes and stared into his Steward’s worried face.

“Faramir,” he breathed heavily, trying to sit up, “You –”

Faramir grabbed him and pulled him into his arms. Aragorn let his aching head fall against the younger man’s chest, as he tried to reign in his breath.

“It’s all right,” Faramir murmured gently, running his hands through the king’s hair soothingly in a motion that he knew would help the older man.

“I’m fine,” Aragorn murmured tiredly, “It was just a bad dream.”

“I know,” Faramir soothed him gently.

Aragorn glanced around. It was just about nearing daybreak outside, and their room was still dim.

“Forgive me for waking you,” he said softly.

“There is nothing for me to forgive,” Faramir said gently, “I have given you some tiring nights these last few days. The healers said you looked tired too. Should I get you something? Your herbs?”

“Nay, I’m fine,” Aragorn sighed, and wrapped his arms around Faramir, keeping him close. He was not unused to bad dreams coloured with memories of losses now past. But Faramir’s recent illness had left him more worried than he had thought, and he’d realised then that he needed Faramir as much as the younger man needed him.

“Don’t leave me,” he said softly, resting his head against Faramir’s.

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