Okay, second time lucky. I did have this posted already but a reviewer I had for one of the prequels said that Faramir seemed a little immature. Re-reading it, I had to admit that she was right so I took it down and made a few adjustments. Hope this works better of you liz.

Disclaimer: Yes they're mine, all mine. My precious! (wakes up from dream) Or not. (wistful sigh) As much as I am saddened to admit, anything you recognise in this tale (characters/places/etc) are the brain child of the wonderful Professor Tolkien. I promise not to cause too much damage, and I will put them back once I've finished with them.

A/N;

 This is a continuation of Looking through your eyes and Don't Promise. It can be read on its own or along with the other two stories.

 It is AU. The age gap between Faramir and Boromir is 15 years.

 The time line is a little off (about 12 years) The events of LOTR still happen when they are supposed to but Boromir is 31 rather than 42. Faramir is 16.

 I must point out that the character descriptions are the ones that coincide with the MOVIE because this is how I picture the characters

Life in Minas Tirith got gradually worse the longer Boromir was away. The black cloud which hung over Mordor thickened with each passing day, the only light coming from the orange orb at the top of Barad-dûr. Attacks on the defences were becoming more and more frequent and Minas Morgul glowed an eerie, unnatural green. To cap it all, Faramir was still receiving dreams. They had been mainly about varying attacks which were happening throughout Gondor, but usually little more than shadows.

On February 16th, (the same day that the Fellowship set out from Lothlórien) Faramir was received another dream. He had been laying by the fire in his father's sitting room along with the Steward's hound, Súldál, simply enjoying the peace and quiet, when he fallen asleep, the dog resting in front of him. Denethor had come in to find his foxy-haired cub and the chocolate hound curled together. Smiling he sat in his favourite chair and simply watched the child sleep.

As he sipped his glass of warm wine, Denethor mused over the life his sons had. Both had entered the military in the summer of their fifteenth year. Boromir, having practically been born with a sword in his hand, took to swordplay instantly. Faramir however was clumsy with the sword. Archery was more suitable to his lithe form and he excelled at it. Denethor was immensely proud of his sons, both of their battle skills but also the way that they had accepted what Fate had given them.

Denethor smiled as Faramir snuggled closer to Súldál a lazy smile forming on his relaxed features. Faramir had been training what seemed like non-stop for the past three weeks, concentrating mainly on his swordsmanship, and now he was completely exhausted. He was getting better but had the unfortunate task of living up to Boromir's standing, which no one could ever achieve but at least it gave the younger son something to work towards. In his turn, Boromir strove to reach Faramir's standard in archery.

A little friendly competition never harmed anyone though Denethor with a smile.

Pouring himself another drink, Denethor noticed Faramir becoming restless. The movements caused Súldál to wake and she began to nuzzle Faramir's neck in an attempt to calm him. It didn't work so setting down his glass, Denethor moved to calm his son.

"No," moaned Faramir, struggling against the hold the dream had on him.

"Hush, Fari. Don't fight it," whispered Denethor, running a hand through the wayward hair. Faramir was not settled though. Instead he became even more restless, causing Súldál to yelp in concern.

"Father!" yelled Faramir. Denethor's eyes grew wide. What was his son seeing that caused him to yell out in such a pained voice? Faramir began to whimper, all the while asking for either Denethor or Boromir.

"Hush, child. Come on Faramir wake up. It's only a dream," said Denethor, kneeling on the floor beside the youth. He spent the next few minutes alternatively soothing and commanding. After about five minutes Faramir inhaled sharply and his eyes flew open. He gazed around uncertainly and released a choked gasp when his eyes came to rest on Denethor.

"Papa?" he whispered, and wrapped his arms tightly around Denethor's broad shoulders. Denethor realised how much of a shock the dream must have been to Faramir's system when he heard the endearment. That and Faramir had rarely thrown himself at his father as he had just done. Faramir hadn't used the name or carryout the action since Finduilas had died ten years previously.

Faramir had been only five and had not understood why his mother simply refused to wake up one morning. Faramir had hurried to find Boromir and explained that 'Mama wouldn't wake up'. When Boromir had returned to their mother's bedchamber, the twenty-year-old had of course recognised what had happened to Finduilas and immediately removed Faramir from the room before calling a servant to find the Steward. It had been Boromir who explained to Faramir why their Lady mother would not waken.

A change then came over the small boy. He seemed to have matured almost overnight, his speech and manner becoming a lot more proper (except around Boromir) and his childhood innocence seemed to have been stripped from him. Now to have him call Denethor 'Papa' once again and to have his son wrapped around his neck scared Denethor slightly.

"Yes Faramir. It's alright," stated the man. "What did you see?"

It took Faramir a minute or two to compose himself before he was able to recount his vision; "The White Tree," he whispered. "It was surrounded by smoke. The City was burning. Flames were everywhere."

"What else?" asked Denethor. Faramir shook his head. "Faramir, I know there was something else. You called for me. You sounded in pain."

"I watched you fall," whispered Faramir, turning his head away to hide his tears. His father could not see him cry!

"Fari?" asked Denethor, reaching out a hand and turning Faramir's face so that their eyes met. "Fari, why do you feel you have to hide?" asked Denethor.

"So you don't think I'm weak," replied Faramir. "Look at me! I'm crying because of a dream!"

"Faramir I would never think you weak," chided Denethor gently. "I used to have these dreams. I know they can be very violent and seem very real. I received them as an adult and I still woke up screaming or in some cases crying. I convinced your mother thought I was loosing my mind! You are still a child, no matter how much you pretend otherwise, and your body's reaction is telling you that. It is no shame to cry. In fact, it takes a lot of courage to show emotions."

Something broke within Faramir and before he could blink, Denethor had an armful of teenager. Faramir buried his face in Denethor's clothed shoulder and sobbed out his pain. All the while Denethor held him tightly, whispering calming words, both pained to see his son in such a sorry state but at the same time, glad that his innocent little cub had returned.

"The future can be changed, Faramir," he whispered. "Not everything think you have seen will come to pass."

Why does he always have to see the death of loved ones? wondered Denethor. And why does he always have to see the truth?

Unfortunately, the one thing that both Faramir and Denethor had been dreading since Boromir had left seven months ago did come to pass. Faramir had been sitting in the courtyard, having some lengthy (and incredibly boring) discussion with his tutor about the history of Minas Tirith, when an errand rider rode up and almost fell from his horse in his haste. There was something clasped in his hand but Faramir could not see what it was clearly. He thought it was a piece of white driftwood but why on earth would the rider be sprinting up the Citadel steps with a piece of driftwood?

As the rider turned slightly, Faramir caught sight of the object and gave a strangled yelp. His tutor looked at him sharply.

"What is the matter?" the man demanded, but Faramir was already on his feet and dashing after the rider.

He burst into the Throne Room where the rider was standing in front of Denethor, holding out the object and speaking in a low voice. Faramir crept closer, not wanting to disturb the rider's report, but wanting to get a better look at the object, just to make sure that he wasn't dreaming. Are rather, to hope that he was dreaming. The moan of pain the Denethor let out told him otherwise and Faramir fought back the urge to scream. Not caring about proprieties Faramir dashed to his father's side and held him as he slumped. Denethor turned his head and Faramir saw tears swimming in his grey eyes.

"Leave us!" Faramir called to the people in the Throne Room, setting Denethor back on the chair. A few, including the errand rider, left but other's did not look impressed at being ordered around by a sixteen-year-old. "LEAVE US!" yelled Faramir, his own emotions beginning to come to the surface. Those that remained hurried out quickly, leaving Faramir and Denethor alone.

"Fari," whispered Denethor. "I'm so sorry."

"No," replied Faramir. He removed the cloven horn from his father's grasp and turning, reverently placed the halves, on the steps which led to the King's Throne.

"I sent him to his death," murmured Denethor. "You told me what fate awaited him and still I sent him from your side."

"Our side," asserted Faramir. He swallowed the lump which was forming in his throat. Now was not the time for tears, he could cry in private. For moment, his father needed him to be strong. "When was he found?"

"Anborn said a funeral boat passed by Henneth Annûn three days ago. Boromir had puncture wounds in his chest."

Faramir nodded. "I heard the horn," he whispered. Denethor looked up sharply.

"When?" he demanded.

"Six days ago. When I was outside with Súldál, I heard the horn blow. From the northward it seemed, though dim, as if it were but an echo of the mind, I've longed for Boromir to be home since the day he rode away. When I heard the sound, I thought it meant he had reached the borders of Gondor and would soon be home. Now I see that that hope was in vain."

"My dear child," whispered Denethor. "No one can hope in vain."