Thanks to Lhaewin for her never-ending support.

REGRESSION. The Awakening.

When he arrives for our next session, he is full of enthusiasm, and anxious to begin. He becomes susceptible almost immediately, and starts to talk about his birthday.

"How old are you?"

"15."

"How do you celebrate it?" I ask.

"Boromir takes me to an inn," he replies with a smile. "He's a soldier now, and doesn't live in the Citadel anymore, but he's come back specially."

"And your father – is he with you?"

He laughs. "He wasn't invited. My father can't be seen frequenting the taverns of Minas Tirith."

"Did your father acknowledge your birthday?"

He smiles again. He looks very content, and I surmise that his moods seem to be linked to whatever the situation in his home life.

"He gave me a horse," he replies, "A horse from Rohan. And a flute. The flute is a surprise – he's never encouraged me to be musical."

"So at this time, your relationship with your father is quite good?" I ask.

"Yes – I sometimes wonder if it's because Boromir isn't there as much – that maybe he's lonely. But it doesn't last anyway, because Mithrandir arrives a few days later."

"Mithrandir?"

"Gandalf – the wizard. My father despises him, but I feel close to him. He's always treated me with respect and affection, and has taught me so much. I feel comfortable with him, and he encourages me to believe in myself."

"Why do you think your father hates him?"

"My father only trusts what he understands – the history and security of Gondor, and the rule of the Stewards. He doesn't approve of magic – or the elves. Mithrandir is close to the elves....."

I close my eyes briefly and wonder if I should continue with this case. His reference to wizards and elves all but convince me that what's in his mind is not memory, but vivid imagination – and yet I'm intrigued by the fluency with which he relates his story. There is no hesitation over detail; names of people and places are spoken of so naturally, there is no question in my mind that everything he talks about is real to his sub-conscious mind, for I have never encountered a patient who could relate so effortlessly a total fabrication.

I suggest that we move forward to the next significant moment in his life.

"Ithilien," he says. "My father sends me to Ithilien to serve with the Rangers. It's not easy – they resent me because I'm young and inexperienced, and the son of the Steward. It's dangerous – we are constantly on alert for war parties of orcs and Haradrim."

I can't help myself, and I interrupt to ask about these strange- sounding adversaries.

"Orcs," he says, his face contorting with distaste. "Abominations of life – evil creatures with no compassion, no code of ethics or morals, just a lust for killing and depravity. And the Haradrim – humans but hardly deserving of the title. They are cruel and merciless. Neither Orcs nor Harad have little use for prisoners – certain slow death follows capture if rescue is not possible."

He talks for a while about his life with the Rangers of Ithilien – how the soldiers eventually accept him, and how, at 25 years of age, he became their Captain.

Despite my doubts, I was enthralled by his account of life in the realm of Gondor, a life in which he suffered continual denigration by his father, but he speaks with pleasure of the close bond he shared with his brother, and who he saw far too rarely.

"We fight together sometimes," he says. "We fought to regain Osgiliath – it was a great victory, especially for Boromir. Father makes it plain that it was my fault the city was lost....." His voice tailed to a whisper. Boromir tries to reason with him, but to no avail. He doesn't want to know....my uses are few......" He falls silent, and when I look at him I see the trace of a tear on his cheek. Whatever he remembers, it has stirred his emotions, affecting him deeply.

"He left that day. I never saw my brother again....only in a dream."

"What happened to him?" I ask gently.

"He died." Despite his emotions, his voice is firm and controlled. "In my dream I saw him in a boat – he had a warrior's funeral. He died bravely – trying to save Merry and Pippin."

His brow furrowed. "Pippin........?"

I am both encouraged and excited by this...it's obvious to me that in his sub-conscious state, he is not only remembering, but is registering some knowledge of what is to come, for he has just spoken of something we have not yet reached.

"Tell me about your dream," I ask. I don't want him to become confused by memory of too many events at one time.

"When I woke, I knew it to be true. I knew in my heart that my brother was dead, and then his horn, the Horn of Gondor, was washed up on the banks of the Anduin. It was cloven in two. I ask the hobbits......."

"Hobbits?"

"Frodo and Sam - halflings – we captured them in Ithilien, and took them to Henneth Annun for questioning. They were with Boromir on the quest on which my father sent him – they don't know Boromir is dead. They're shocked when I tell them. I discover that Frodo carries the One Ring, which my father greatly desires. It's in my grasp. I want to take it to Minas Tirith – in my mind I imagine presenting it to my father, and seeing him smile. He rarely smiles anymore. The Ring is tempting me, putting these thoughts into my head, telling me it will earn my father's love – I see him looking at me with pride.....then Frodo shouts out and the image passes, but I tell him that the Ring will go to Gondor. I can't let a halfling just walk into Mordor with the Ring of Power........and I want to show my father that I am of some worth."

Despite my misgivings, I anticipate eagerly what he has to say. He seems to be totally immersed now in this flood of memory or imagination. He rarely falters unless to contemplate – the story he tells still flows with ease. I feel myself drawn into this world, with concern for its inhabitants. I almost start to believe in its existence.

"I believe I'm doing the right thing – it seems logical and sensible. It's vital that Sauron is not reunited with the Ring – but in Osgiliath I see for myself how it corrupts and destroys. Sam tells me that Boromir tried to take the ring from Frodo – he says he tried to kill the hobbit, but my brother was no murderer! I don't believe Sam, but then I see him at the mercy of Frodo, a sword at his throat until Frodo comes to his senses. I know then I have to let them go – to continue with this mission that has already taken the lives of my brother, and of Mithrandir. I can't let their deaths be in vain."

"So you let them go?" I'm not exactly sure what the significance is of his actions, or indeed the significance of "the ring", but it's apparent that it was some important artefact, and that his father wanted it desperately.

"Yes," he says softly. "And my life could be forfeit because of it – I have allowed strangers to wander at liberty in Ithilien which is a crime in itself. But I have released them, knowing they have the One Ring – my father's rage will be implacable. Inside I feel terrified of his reaction, but my heart tells me I have done the right thing."

"And your father does learn of this?" I ask the question calmly, hoping to soothe him, for he is becoming agitated and nervous.

"He disowns me – he says I am no longer his son. I don't deserve to be his heir – he nearly strikes me, but controls himself. I leave and go to my chambers to contemplate my future; the hobbit Pippin follows me and tells me how Boromir died - that he was trying to save Pippin and his cousin from Orcs – that's why he has sworn service to my father, to honour what he perceives to be a debt. I give him the black and silver livery that I wore when I was but 10 years old, and he says he is proud to wear it. He talks to me about Boromir, and I feel better – he died with honour, not as a man who tried to kill another living being for gain. He redeemed himself. I tell Pippin I want to be alone, and he understands. He knows I have to grieve for my brother.

I'm alone for the first time in days, and my grief is overwhelming. There's nothing now to distract me, and all the emotions I suppressed because there was no time to deal with them are unleashed. I cry, and throw everything I can get my hands on – I know not what, nor care. My chamber is all but wrecked, and I sink to my knees and call out in anguish. I know it's me that I hear, and yet it seems remote, like a dream or a noise in the distance. Then I'm calm, but still shed tears. I feel alone – no-one was there for me in my torment, and though that was how I wanted it, I realise that this is how it will be in the future. Boromir is never coming back – those words go round and round in my head, and I feel like my soul has been ripped in two. Wherever Boromir is, he has part of me with him. My brother – my best friend – my protector is gone. I know I have many strengths for which I receive little recognition, but it was Boromir who laid the foundations for those strengths, with his support and his unconditional love when I was a child, and beyond. I am still kneeling on the floor, my head bowed, and there's an arm around my shoulders – a comforting arm that tightens around me, and it gives me a sense of relief. I look up expecting to see my father, but it's Mithrandir looking at me, with tears in his eyes also. I've never witnessed him weeping....and although I am grateful that he has been returned to us...that he wasn't dead as feared... I feel like there's a knife in my heart because it's he who is comforting me, and not my father."

I say nothing, deciding to let things run their natural course. I will not prompt him unless he chooses to continue, for these images are causing him great distress. Finally though, he speaks again.

"My father wishes I'd died instead of Boromir. He says so when I ask him. He tells me to retake Osgiliath – he cares not that it will be suicide. We are outnumbered – I feel the sharp stinging pain of an arrow piercing my shoulder – there is noise and confusion – there's pain and I feel as though I'm choking, for the air around me has become heavy and rancid. I vaguely hear the voice of one of my men urging my horse to take me home...but I'm hit again by another dart and I fall. I'm aware but not alert....then I'm lifted up and carried somewhere – I think I'm in Minas Tirith for I hear the voices of Pippin and my father...it's like a dream from which I can't waken... I want to say I'm alive but my body will not obey my commands. My father believes me to be dead – I can hear Pippin telling him I need medicine but he doesn't heed....inside I feel panic for I can't communicate........"

I look at him sensing that we are finally about to confront his demons. He is sweating profusely and trembling, and I need to reassure him.

"This is a memory," I say, "It can't harm you.....relax and remember, but you are quite safe."

"I'm wet," he continues. "I feel it seeping through my clothing – thick greasy liquid – the smell reminds me of my night light when I was a child. I don't know where I am...there is shouting, and I try to open my eyes, but still I see nothing, and then there is heat, terrible heat, and the crackling of flames......I feel my flesh burning, and someone is pushing me, and I fall........and then I see my father....and flames all around him. He looks at me and says my name – and I can't see him anymore, just flames........just flames......" His voice is rising in panic, and I reach out and touch him.

"I'm going to count back from 5, and you will wake up, and remember everything, but you will feel no fear."

He is quiet for several minutes, as though struggling to come to terms with what he had learnt. Finally, he spoke, his voice husky and emotional.

"Well, now I know."

I saw him as a client on two more occasions – it seemed wise not to just abandon him to deal with such trauma alone. There was no more regression, but we talked, and I voiced my theory that his sub- conscious had been severely influenced by events such as those he had recounted, and that it was possibly a collection of memories from different lives, some real, some imaginary, some possibly taken from works of fiction that he had read at some point in his soul's long history.

He was dubious, for the world he had described still felt very real to him, but his present-day persona had benefited from the experience, and he was confident he would conquer his nightmares and phobias.

The whole experience had had an effect on me also....I found myself thinking of the events of his regression on more than one occasion, and was in fact doing so when the telephone rang.

"Dr. Creagh? You don't know me, but I was given your name by a mutual friend, who attended the Case Study Conference in New York. The kid who called himself Faramir? Do you still treat him?"

"No," I replied. "Although I am still in contact with him."

"Well," he continued, "I think maybe you and I should meet. I work at a hospital in Vancouver, where one of my patients who suffered a breakdown, has been having regression treatment. He claims that in a past life he was the Steward of Gondor."

TBC

A/N: Sorry about Faramir's "tantrum". It seems to me he never really grieved properly, and I figure a sensitive person under great strain might well go a bit crazy.