Disclaimer: Tolkien created the moment, PJ put the image on screen.
Aragorn slumped, his back against the comforting solidity of a massive beech. His eyelids drooped... He jerked awake, pulled the laces to free his chest... and felt his hand shakeing... He held it out... trembling, aspen-like, until he dropped it, a dead-weight, to his thigh.
So... hard... to... move...
Time, frantically rapid when fighting - turns and slashes were lightening flashes... now plodded, oozed like honey, like pine resin... and he not quick enough to escape. For his slothfulness, he was caught in the moment... a fly in amber, held fast, his eyes forever beholding three arrows... sunk in blood.
Legolas and Gimli acted with solemn precision. Each time Aragon’s eyes flared open... the scene had changed. Their movements flowed against the heavy air with the lazy grace of swimmers underwater... here... there...
A sharp crack
Legolas broke three bloodied arrows across his knee. Aragorn fought his way to the surface, away from the cling of time-past...
They carried Boromir to the river, washed his face, laid him snug, folded his hands over his sword. Their words, slow and heartfelt, rolled across the water, to be lost in the fall’s thunder... until the Anduin’s lazy persistence eased him from them.