Methods of treating insomnia

King Théoden came back to the Golden Hall, and a feast was held in the capital on the evening of his return. Edoras welcomed the survivors of Helm’s Deep and mourned the fallen there. Ale flowed like a river, and the throne room (the only large hall of the royal palace) was crowded. The lords shared the table with ordinary warriors, and loud toasts to health and victory were interspersed with minutes of silence for the repose.       Aragorn hardly drank. He watered down the wine that was poured for him and took only one sip from the deep cup that Éowyn, who traditionally served at the royal table, handed him. Few followed his example. By the middle of the evening, Gimli and Legolas started a competition to see who would drink the most, and the hobbits sang and danced on the table, splashing the ale from their mugs on the heads of grateful spectators. However, one person who could be expected to drink a little more actively remained surprisingly sober, and this worried Aragorn.       Boromir was sitting apart from the feasting, there was a mug next to him, but the cupbearer who ran past, looking into it, raised his eyebrows in surprise every time and went on with the jug. Boromir did not drink, but he did not go to bed either, although beds for distinguished guests were already prepared in the back rooms. He looked at the Hobbits, smiled from time to time, quite sincerely, but still looked sick and gloomy.       Aragorn stopped nearby, leaned his hip on the edge of the table, looked not at Boromir, but at the drunken people. He knew that if he asked directly, Boromir would most likely run into abuse. He had to tread carefully.       “These people are going to drink themselves half to death today,” he said, half-jokingly, half-grumblingly, as if to no one, watching the new barrel of ale that the servants rolled into the hall.       “I’ve never forbidden my soldiers to drink after a victory,” Boromir replied. “Strictly forbade drinking before battle and severely punished those who disobeyed. But after… they could have all day to puke.”       “And then they went back into battle,” Aragorn shook his head.       “Let it be so. Hungry and with a hangover, they are scarier in battle than teetotallers”.       “You know how to inspire people,” Aragorn laughed and got a wry smile in response. Taking this as a good sign, he turned to Boromir and asked directly. “How are you?”       “I’m well,” Boromir grimaced and moved his wounded shoulder. “It’s good that the hand is left.”       “I’m not talking about wounds,” Aragorn bowed his head, carefully examining Boromir. “They are clean, I bandaged you myself. But you look terrible.”       “What were you waiting for? I came back from the dead ten days ago. What should I look like?”       “Like a person who was able to defeat death, and not like someone who is going to lie down in the grave,” Aragorn replied irritably, but immediately relented. “I’m worried about you. You avoid friends, you hardly sleep. I can see that something is gnawing at you. Do you have nightmares?”       “I’d certainly have them,” Boromir answered slowly after a pause and covered his face with his hands with a sigh. “If I could sleep.”       “Then go to bed,” Aragorn sat down on the bench next to him. “If you want, I’ll make a herbal decoction, it will help you sleep.”       “It won’t help,” Boromir waved off, pulled the mug towards him, frowned, took a sip, grimaced, set it aside. “I’m terribly tired, it’s true. But I won’t fall asleep. If I close my eyes, then in the morning for a couple of hours, and I will become even more tired than I went to bed.”       “I can help,” Aragorn gently reminded.       “You can’t. I’m not sick.”       For a few minutes there was silence at the table, strange against the background of the hum of conversations, songs and music around. Boromir was looking straight ahead, Aragorn was looking at him, and he really wanted to find words of support and comfort. He touched Boromir’s hand lying on the table next to him, squeezed his palm.       “It’s not your fault what happened between you and Frodo—” he began.       And then he was cut off literally in mid-sentence. Boromir snatched his hand away, staggered back, almost dropped the mug. He got up from the table, looked at Aragorn angrily, threw words like stones.       “It’s just my fault,” he said softly, but anger bubbled in his voice. Aragorn did not even immediately realize that this anger was directed at himself. “You, the elves, Gandalf and the others told scary stories about how the Ring can take over someone else’s mind. But it’s all a lie! None of you attacked the little hobbit. Whatever the Ring was doing, what happened was my mistake, my choice. Death would have been my payback, but you intervened. I’m grateful, and maybe I’ll be more useful being alive if I don’t make more mistakes. But you don’t have to convince me that I’m not to blame for anything. It’s all but my fault! And I’m responsible for it.”       He kicked the bench out of the way and rushed straight through the buzzing crowd. People jumped aside in surprise and followed him with surprised looks. Sighing heavily, Aragorn got up and went to look for Éomer.       He was found in a noisy company of young people. Almost everyone there was the same age as their commander, young, but already serious, and therefore almost unstoppable in fun — when the oppression of duty lets go, the noisiest parties are thrown by the most responsible and strict people. Now the young people were drinking their third keg and were still on their feet.       “Éomer, I need your help,” Aragorn without preamble grabbed the third Marshal of the Mark the collar and dragged him to a secluded corner. “Do you have anything stronger in the bins?”       “How strong do you need?” Éomer was surprised. He was obviously drunk, but his eyes remained attentive and clear. “Gimli and Legolas were poured strong ale, even the elf felt sick.”       “I need something that would bring down even a bull.”       Éomer looked at Aragorn with even greater surprise, as if he had never seen him before. Then I looked over his shoulder. Aragorn could not see with the back of his head, but by the cunning that played in the young warrior’s eyes, he realized that Boromir’s shadow flashed in the doorway of the hall.       “What are you up to?” Éomer asked slyly, probably having already managed to imagine who knows what.       “No debauchery!” Aragorn hastened to stop this flow of fantasy liberated by wine. “Exclusively for medicinal purposes. Like a soporific. He needs it.”       “What a waste,” Éomer grimaced. “Will you drink some good wine in order to sleep well? Aren’t there any herbs for this?”       “I offered them, but he growls that he is not sick and does not need any treatment.”<br />“You know,” Éomer was already smiling with might and main, “compared to you, I’m a child… But there is a way to put a person to bed much easier and more pleasant for both sides than just to get drunk.”       “It doesn’t suit us,” Aragorn shook his head.       “Why? I thought you both found a common ground.”       “He has acquiesced to the inevitable and just tolerates me.       Éomer said nothing and smiled. He didn’t look drunk at all; he was looking over Aragorn’s shoulder again. He turned around and followed the direction. Through the wide-open doors of the hall, one could see the porch, the sad guards who were not supposed to drink, the banners splashing in the wind and the lonely figure of a tall warrior standing on the very edge of the parapet. Boromir seemed at the same time mighty, like an Argonaut, as if carved out of stone, strict and unshakable. And at the same time so lonely.       “Okay, let’s go,” Éomer beckoned Aragorn to follow him.       They went down a narrow spiral staircase to the cellars. Under a very modest hall, there were truly royal cellars full of food, wine and weapons. They didn’t take all this with them when they left Edoras, and the orcs didn’t come here. Near one of the distant barrels, Éomer stopped, took a large mug that someone had carefully left on the hook and poured thick purple wine to the top.       “We rarely drink this wine, and if we have to, we dilute it with water,” he said, handing the mug to Aragorn. “One mug is enough to dump a healthy man under the table.”       “What can you say about a hangover?”       “No headaches, no nausea. But, sometimes, partial amnesia is possible,” Éomer chuckled and winked at Aragorn.       “Thank you,” Aragorn smiled. “Let me give you a piece of advice in a gratitude: don’t drink any more today, your whole mind is already in your pants.”       Éomer kindly laughed and returned to his comrades. Aragorn did not ask him to keep the conversation a secret, he knew that the faithful heart of this young man, who had already become a good friend to him, would not let him down. He won’t tell anyone anything and won’t even let his people tease him as a joke.       Aragorn would like to reach the same understanding with Boromir. He felt an amazing attraction to this man, asked him for friendship, and received in response distrust and contempt. However, during the journey Boromir softened in his judgments. They had a lot to talk about, Boromir was naturally intelligent and well educated, even if he did not trust the sages, but he himself was endowed with wisdom. And age… Yes, he’s half Aragorn’s age, but what does that mean? Time is a funny thing, a man who has lived a hundred years can compare wisdom with an elf who has lived a thousand. History, as you know, repeats itself, and in order to learn its lessons, you do not need to experience all the epochs of the world. Burned to the core by the enchantment of the Ring, Boromir mentally aged by years in a few days. However, fatigue was taking its toll, and his face now also looked more like an old man’s face.       Boromir did not immediately turn around when he heard footsteps.       “I’m sorry,” Boromir said when he saw who was in front of him. “I shouldn’t have snapped at you, it’s not your fault. This damn insomnia—”       “I didn’t come for an apology,” Aragorn replied. And she handed him a mug of wine. “I was treated, the cupbearer said that the wine is light and delicious. Want a drink?”       Boromir hesitated for a moment, accepted the mug and took a small sip from it. Then he suddenly grinned.       “Did the cupbearer give you this?”       “Yes, he did.”       “And he said that this wine was easy to drink?”       “Is something wrong?” Aragorn already realised that his plan had failed, but decided to play to the end.       “I’m trying to find out if it was the cupbearer who wanted to get you drunk, or if you wanted to get me drunk.” Boromir smiled and looked condescendingly at Aragorn. “I have already been to Rohan, and Éomer gave me this wine. However, they dilute it with water twice, so that at least in the morning they can remember what happened at night. They had such a game when the guys were younger — who would last longer on their feet from this thing.”       “And who won?” Aragorn asked. The fact that Boromir wasn’t angry was definitely encouraging.       “I don’t remember. I even managed to get into the saddle, and that’s all, I don’t remember anything else about that evening. So in the morning we couldn’t find out who won.” Boromir looked into the mug he was holding in his hands, the smile left his lips. “I don’t think it will help me now.”       “Try it, maybe it will help,” Aragorn gave the only advice that seemed appropriate to him now.       Boromir gave him a long look. Then he picked up the mug and slowly drained the thick sweet drink. Aragorn watched in fascination as he tilted his head back, as the adam’s apple moved on the tense neck.       “Well, that’s it,” Boromir turned the mug over and put it on the edge of the stone parapet. “In half an hour, head will become your problem. And I won’t be able to think.”       “Then I’ll keep you company,” Aragorn promised.       Boromir smiled broadly and licked his lips.       “I hardly need a basin and cold compresses, but shackles and a baton are quite possible.”       “In that case, let’s move to a safe place,” suggested Aragorn.       They returned to the hall, crossed it along the wall and ducked into the back door. Here began narrow corridors and small rooms, more like hermit cells. Horse breeders did not like luxurious houses, but they loved their fields and freedom. Houses were built in order to survive the cold and sleep all night long, and therefore even the largest room could fit no more than a bed, a chest and a stool under the washbasin.       The chambers to which Boromir brought Aragorn could be called luxurious. There was a low, wide cot covered with a soft feather bed and animal skins, a washbasin with a bowl under it was attached to the wall, softly tanned horse skins lay on the floor, there was even a hearth in the corner. The fireplace in it was built a long time ago, the logs burned out, and there was almost no heat left. Aragorn began to light the hearth.       He left Boromir alone for a few minutes to bring firewood, but he did not even think about fighting. Boromir threw all his ammunition into a corner, threw his weapons and chain mail into one pile, took off his shoes and climbed into bed. Having made a sort of nest among the furs and blankets, he lay with his eyes open and watched Aragorn busy at the hearth.       The raw wood burned badly, crackled and sparkled. There was smoke, I had to open the shutters. Aragorn did not know how much time had passed, he did not notice, but Boromir remained calm, although the wine should have worked long ago. Would he really just fall asleep? Aragorn sometimes glanced at the cot, but he could see the gleam of his eyes from under half-closed lids — Boromir was not asleep and did not take his eyes off him. Aragorn tried to figure out what the phrase about shackles and a club meant. Surely, he’s not going to attack with his fists?       “Well, it will be warm now,” said Aragorn, getting up from his knees and brushing himself off. “The smoke will come out and I’ll close the shutters.”       He turned around and immediately jumped aside in surprise. Boromir was standing right behind when he just managed to sneak up? His eyes glittered like those of a feverish man.       “Are you feeling unwell?” Aragorn asked, simultaneously looking for ways to escape. However, he was standing in the very corner of the room, from where there was nowhere to run.       “Are you afraid of me?” Boromir chuckled. And then he rushed at Aragorn, pressed him against the wall and kissed him on the lips, rudely and uncouth.       “What are you doing?” Aragorn asked excitedly. He gladly responded to this kiss, but tried to understand what Boromir was guided by in such a strange impulse. “You’re drunk, remember? It’s not you, it’s not your desires…”       “I warned you,” Boromir chuckled. “That all this will be your problem.”       “I didn`t imagine the scale of the tragedy,” Aragorn tried to joke.       “Tragedy? Yes, that’s the right word,” Boromir took over his lips and mind again.       Aragorn was absorbed in what was happening. This was not how he imagined taking care of a drunken comrade. Maybe incoherent conversations, strange frankness or long-pent-up anger would find a way out but not passion! But how good it was! Aragorn suddenly felt that he was dying of thirst near the spring — he drank the kisses showering him and could not stop. But he had to do it.       When he belatedly woke up, he felt Boromir’s hands already making their way under his clothes. Muttering some obscenity, Boromir was distracted, trying to cope with the knot on the belt, Aragorn took advantage of it. I grabbed him by the hair, pulled his head back, forced him to look into his eyes.       “You’re not yourself. I can’t allow it,” he said.       “No one here is interested in your opinion,” Boromir grinned in response.       “You’ll be very ashamed in the morning,” Aragorn reminded him.       Boromir pressed his whole body against him, burning Aragorn’s temple and ear with his breath. “No, that’s not going to happen. I don’t remember anything. At dawn I’ll still remember how I attacked Frodo, but not how I sucked you off. I won’t be ashamed of it.       There was so much pain and bitterness in these words that Aragorn gave up. He wriggled out of the painful embrace, but instead of rushing to the door and calling for help, he locked the door from the inside. And turning back to Boromir, he saw a new fire in the depths of his eyes.       “All right, have it your way,” said Aragorn.       Boromir nodded thoughtfully and then, getting tangled in his legs, began to fall sideways. Aragorn caught him and threw him on the bed, collapsing on top.       “He will kill me,” thought Aragorn, as he stripped Boromir of his clothes. “In the morning, he’ll remember what happened last night and kill me. I bet he’ll sleep it off and remember everything. But maybe if he gets enough sleep, for the first time in these days, he will kill me quickly and without suffering.”       Boromir seemed to have a hard time thinking. His gaze clouded, he reached out for kisses and affection, from rude and assertive, ready to take what he wanted by force, he became affectionate and begging. He leaned his hips towards the caressing hands and threw his head back with a groan, whispering Aragorn’s name and crumpling the sheets.       “You are cruel,” said Aragorn quietly, not hoping that Boromir could hear him. “You hope that you will forget this night, but what do you order me to do?”       “Remember this night,” Boromir breathed faintly. “And remember it well. When I get too stubborn and angry again, remind me how I squirmed under you and what I asked you for. Keep this memory as a weapon.”       “That’s what you think of me, isn’t it?” Aragorn bent low, looked into Boromir’s eyes, punctuating the words with kisses. “Why do you see in me only a rival and an enemy? Why can’t we be friends?”       “I cannot be your friend,” Boromir replied gravely and sadly. “And I never could.”       Aragorn looked and saw in his face everything that could not be said out loud, everything that is so little, in fact, there are definitions in the languages of any peoples. He saw the answer to all his questions and accepted it.       Morning came too early. If it were up to Aragorn, he would have extended the night to the end of eternity. But in the steppes the sun rises earlier than in the mountains, and now the scarlet rays have crept into the room, ran along the walls, the light spread in the air. Aragorn sat naked on the bed and was looking at the sleeping Boromir. He really slept a calm sleep, his breathing was deep and slow, and his face relaxed, the hard folds around his mouth and the wrinkle between his eyebrows were smoothed out. He immediately became ten years younger.       “You are cruel,” Aragorn repeated to himself again. “You knew that wine would take away all your memories, but what should I do with my heart now? Get up, get dressed, leave, come back, wake you up as if nothing had happened, make a joke about the head and pelvis? Or stay here, hug you, wake you up with kisses and see the hatred and anger in your eyes? You’ll think I got you drunk on purpose and took advantage of your weakness. And you’ll be right.”       Aragorn finally got out of bed and dressed. Underwear, trousers, shirt, tunic — he found everything in different corners of the room, at the same time collecting and folding Boromir’s clothes. What and where they threw, they did not look at night. Already dressed, he sat down on the edge of the cot. Boromir stirred, winced, pulled the edge of the blanket over his face, hiding from the light. Aragorn reached out to stroke his hair, to slow him down a bit, but changed his mind. After all, this was what Boromir needed—a dream. So let him sleep now, at least until lunch.       As if hearing his thoughts, the sonorous song of the Rohan horn came mockingly from somewhere in the street. Aragorn sighed, Boromir groaned and tried to burrow deeper into the blankets.       “And I have already decided not to wake you up until lunch,” said Aragorn with a laugh, looking with one eye at the disheveled comrade peeking out from under the blanket.       “It’s the sober garrison taking revenge on those who have been drinking all night without them,” Boromir muttered.       He sat up in bed, ran both hands through his hair, ruffled himself even more, rubbed his face and eyes. Then he froze for a moment, realizing that he was completely naked. He waved his hand and reached for the shirt. Aragorn handed him the clothes.<br />“How’s your head?” he asked sympathetically. Aragorn was still having doubts about whether to talk about last night. But every minute it seemed that silence would be the best way out.       “It’s pretty well”, Boromir froze, listening to the sensations. “Like a bell without a tongue. My head doesn’t hurt and buzz, but it’s empty somehow, the feeling that something has fallen off and got lost there.”       “A memory of last night,” Aragorn replied, but to himself.       “I don’t remember anything that happened yesterday,” Boromir said, as if he had heard his thoughts. “Wait… I remember saying something rude to you at the table in the hall. Oh, no. I’m not—”       “No, you weren’t too rude,” Aragorn hastened to reply. “Don’t you remember anything at all?”       Boromir frowned, clearly beginning to suspect something. His gaze became thoughtful for a moment, as if Boromir had gone deep into himself and was looking for something. Traces of an interesting night? Aragorn made sure they weren’t there. That night Boromir, although physically he was on the bottom, because in his condition he was no longer capable of anything other than lying flat, technically he was still on top. This somewhat mitigated the damage done during the night, at least the rape charges could have been avoided.       “I had a strange dream,” Boromir finally said. “Are you sure I didn’t hurt you?”       “No, you didn’t do anything I could regret,” Aragorn replied evasively.       Boromir seemed satisfied with this answer. Another detail that Aragorn did not take into account, and when he found it, he tried to hide — a door locked from the inside. Aragorn removed the bolt while Boromir fumbled with the scabbard, hoping that he did not notice anything.       The throne room that morning resembled a battlefield. The tables were pushed up against the walls, and most of the feasters fell asleep right there on the floor. In some places were heard various moans, sobs and prayers. Boromir and Aragorn walked, stepping over the bodies. Along the way, food was intercepted from the tables, tearing off a piece of game and bread. The sun had not yet risen high and a cool morning breeze was blowing through the open gate.       Boromir went out of the gate, stretched, closed his eyes and turned his face to the sun. He looked rested and almost happy, and Aragorn’s heart was filled with joy. He still wasn’t sure if he had done the right thing by sacrificing his own soul for Boromir’s peace of mind, but the sight of his calm smile dispelled all doubts.       “I’d like to wet my whistle,” Boromir said, looking back at the hall left behind.       “Here’s your mug, my lord,” a young warrior standing guard at the door suddenly answered him. More precisely, sitting on the parapet. He looked tired and unhappy like a puppy.       “My mug?” Boromir asked doubtfully.       “You left it here last night, m’lord.”       Boromir came over and picked up a large mug, neatly standing upside down on the stones. Aragorn suddenly realized what was about to happen. I was delighted and at the same time cursed this bored boy who so wanted to call out and attract my lord’s attention. Boromir turned the mug in his hands and brought it to his face. Of course, the aroma of a rare but familiar wine with specific properties has not disappeared anywhere. He looked up, and Aragorn realised that he remembered. The dream came true and overgrown with details.       “Run,” said Éomer, standing right at the gate. The snide royal nephew was chewing an apple and watching the action unfolding in front of him with interest.       Aragorn had never run at such a speed before. He was torn apart by laughter, the excitement of some long-forgotten youthful prank. He heard cursing after him, and then the whistle of a mug launched at his head. She miraculously missed the target, whistled at the temple and crashed on the rocks.       All day Aragorn tried not to cross paths with Boromir. He rode with Théoden and Gandalf, only occasionally noticing a familiar shadow flickering somewhere nearby. And already at dusk, not far from the halt, the royal detachment overtook a group of the Rangers of the North, friends and comrades in arms of Aragorn. In the wild joy of meeting old friends, Aragorn completely forgot about what happened last night for a while.       Only in the evening, when the travellers set up camp for the night, and the Rangers pitched tents, lit bonfires, a shadow appeared next to the place where Aragorn was sitting with Halbarad and his closest friends. Boromir approached inaudibly, as if he was sneaking up for an attack. Halbarad was the first to notice him and cast a questioning glance at Aragorn. He remembered that he had not introduced Boromir to his friends. Rising to meet him, Aragorn tried to find the words, but did not know how and what to say in the crowd listening attentively and shifting their gazes from their leader to the sudden guest.       “I came to ask if you’d like to say good night to me,” Boromir asked innocently.       However, his tone, look and grin were eloquent. Coughing, giggles and all sorts of “wow” were heard among the Rangers.       “Will I be able to leave your tent in the morning safe and sound?” Aragorn asked in turn. “Or will my comrades pick me up in parts?       “It all depends on you. If you wish me a good night from the bottom of your heart and I get some sleep, I`ll be kind.”       “Should I bring some wine?”       “Probably not,” Boromir shook his head. “We won’t need it this time.”