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The wounds were… bad. Aragorn wasn’t about to deny that. Even if they hadn’t been coated in orcish poison, the arrows alone would have been enough to kill a lesser man already, and Boromir was clearly holding on without really understanding why he was doing so, except that if he didn’t hold on, the enemy would overwhelm them.
Orcs were dirty, dirty fighters, and not just because of their cheap tricks, which honestly Aragorn was not above using to hunt them back. And yet, to shoot a man in the back while he was crossing swords? Even Aragorn hesitated to say he could do so.
Boromir’s grip in his own was tight, however, and the man whispered about the hobbits, the little ones, already feverish. Asked about his homeland, asked if the King (not his king, not yet, Aragorn was not yet worthy to rule for this man’s loyalty) would return and save them. He would, he swore; the White City would not fall.
He thought he might be lying. How could he not be, when this brother-in-arms who should be beside him was dying?
“Aragorn,” Legolas called, soft, a tremulous sound. “Aragorn, look.”
He tore his gaze away from Boromir’s to spy the elf, and then followed his attention to the ground. Dirt and black orc blood and moss—
Tiny speckles of white. A whole bed of stars on green.
He knew they’d have to go after the hobbits. That every breath here was time not spent hunting them, rescuing them. But his heart surged into his throat. “Hurry!” he hissed. “Help me strip him!”
“Aragorn,” Boromir gasped, grasping at his fingers. “No, let me..”
“Do not fight me,” he didn’t let go of his one hand, couldn’t with the strength he was held, but Gimli was there, a dwarf-made knife in hand that cut through lesser mail and cloth like it was nothing, and there was Legolas, scooping down to grasp at Boromir’s other side, Gimli at the legs, and Aragorn grasped him, and all together they hauled him to the bed of athelas and laid him in it.
“I need water and a knife. Clean water, boiled—”
Gimli turned over his knife, the both of them their waterskins, and Aragorn dove into work, digging free arrows, washing out tainted blood, packing the wounds full of kingsfoil and sealing the skin with a hot knife. Boromir passed out somewhere in the process, but his heart still beat and eventually his breathing evened.
The fever took longer to break; Aragorn let him rest as long as possible as they accounted for provisions and gear. Frodo was gone as well, and Sam likely with him, for he wasn’t on the bank but there was a boat across the way. Merry and Pippin were gone, but not yet lost; Boromir would weigh them down somewhat, slow them, but Aragorn would not leave him to live or die alone, so once they had assorted their supplies, he hauled the captain upon his back.
They’d have to rest eventually, or take turns carrying him, but for now, his king would bear his burden.