An Offer of Friendship
With quotations from Bk. II, Chapter 10: The Breaking of the Fellowship, and Bk. III, Chapter 5: The White Rider.
Boromir sat beside Pippin and Merry. Across the fire, Aragorn and Legolas were deep in conversation.
'We are nearer to my homeland than to the Elf's', the Man of Gondor thought resentfully. 'Why does Aragorn not ask my opinion?'
Just then the Elf must have said something that amused the Ranger, for Aragorn laughed softly, the lines of worry on his face momentarily vanishing. Boromir arose and strode away from the fire to be alone with his thoughts and his mounting anger.
His list of grievances was long, starting as it did in Rivendell at his first encounter with the Dúnadan. Aragorn had been reading a book in one of his preferred sanctuaries. This was the quiet chamber wherein were kept the shards of Narsil, the sword shattered by Sauron and destined to be reforged when the heir of Isildur arose to confront anew that Dark Lord. Boromir had spoken politely to the Ranger, addressing him as 'friend' and acknowledging their shared kinship as Men who had journeyed to Imladris on the same errand. But Aragorn had been reserved, studying Boromir carefully—'appraising me like a head of cattle', Boromir thought angrily. Uneasy at being perused so steadily and calmly, Boromir had spoken disparagingly of the broken sword, whose edge had nicked his finger, and he had tossed it carelessly aside and stridden from the chamber as peremptorily as he now departed the campfire.
Their next encounter had gone no better. At the Council of Elrond, Boromir had proposed—and quite sensibly, too!—that the Free Folk strike at the enemy by wielding his very own weapon against him. Aragorn, this Ranger of decayed lineage, this, this Strider, had bluntly contradicted him. Indeed, the Dúnadan had not even troubled to find diplomatic words with which to cloak his disdainful dismissal of Boromir's counsel! And the Elf, he had leaped into the fray on Aragorn's behalf, insisting that Boromir owed fealty to a scruffy Man who had been wandering the wilds for the Valar knew how many years.
Once the Company of the Nine had set out from Rivendell, matters had not improved much. The Halflings were in worshipful awe of Aragorn, for it was he who had shepherded them to Rivendell in the face of great peril. (This latter Boromir had to grudgingly concede.) The Dwarf, for all his prickliness, could sometimes be found smoking companionably by the side of the Ranger. The Elf was of course forever exchanging comments with the Dúnadan in an elvish dialect that only they and the wizard could understand. And that wizard! He had deferred endlessly to the exiled scion of the Northern Kingdom, consulting him in all matters. Why he did not trouble to consult Boromir, who was the son of Denethor, Steward of Gondor, latest in a long and distinguished line of rulers—yes, Boromir did not shy from the word 'ruler'!—this the Man from Minas Tirith could not understand.
There had been that one moment of understanding and respect, however. It had been brief, but Boromir treasured it. It had been in Moria, in Balin's tomb. A mighty foe, a Cave Troll, had flung Boromir against a wall, knocking him momentarily senseless. As the Man sprawled upon the floor in a daze, an Orc raised his weapon to hew his body. It was Aragorn who had saved him from his assailant. There had been no time for an elaborate exchange of thanks, but the glance and nod had been enough. From Aragorn, loyalty to a fellow-warrior whom he respected; from Boromir, gratitude—yes, gratitude and the first stirrings of loyalty to one whom he might accept as a leader. How Boromir wished that there had been more moments like that!
Instead, jealousy had intruded once again. Gandalf fell into both darkness and fire, but before he did so it was Aragorn, not Boromir son of Denethor, in whose hands he placed the welfare of the Fellowship. And when the survivors of Moria had issued forth from that fatal place, it was Aragorn who at once assumed the mantle of leadership, calmly wiping the blood from his blade and ordering his fellows, however grief-stricken, to arise without delay and make for Lothlórien. Once in the land of that witch Galadriel, who could insinuate herself into one's mind, probing relentlessly, it was Aragorn who led in negotiating with the Elves, Aragorn who went aside to take counsel with the Lord and the Lady of that place.
It was in Lothlórien that Boromir had first heard the Voice. Aragorn had gone a little aside from the others and stood listening to the laments for Gandalf that filled the air, sung by Elves hidden somewhere within the great trees that surrounded them. Boromir covertly studied him. For a moment, Aragorn's face convulsed, and then the Dúnadan mastered himself, hiding the lines of grief that had briefly etched his face.
If you had fallen, would he have lamented for you, as he does for Gandalf?
Boromir startled and looked about to see who had spoken to him. He saw no one. Nevertheless, someone addressed him yet again.
You know he would not.
"Aragorn knew Gandalf for many years," Boromir said aloud. "Of course he feels his loss more deeply than he would the loss of someone he barely knows."
Aragorn spun about. Wrapped in his memories of Gandalf, he had not known Boromir was there.
"What is it you say, Boromir?"
"I was saying," Boromir said smoothly, "that you knew Gandalf for many years. His loss must be hard for you to accept."
"That is true, Boromir," said Aragorn sadly, his emotions once more briefly breaking through. "Indeed, I do not think I accept it yet. I do not think I will ever accept it—or, at least, I do not think I will ever believe it, no, not truly, not in my heart of hearts. But, come, let us return to the others."
Aragorn resumed his mask of leadership and strode back toward the Company. Boromir followed him unwillingly.
Now, on the banks of the Anduin, Boromir heard the voice again.
You stand alone.
"Of course I stand alone," Boromir said irritably. "You don't see anybody next to me, do you? What of it?"
You stand alone.
"I have left the campfire, and thus I am standing by myself. I will return to the campfire, and then I will no longer be alone. And there will be an end of it!"
With determination, Boromir turned his steps toward the camp. As he entered the clearing, he saw Sam anxiously hovering over Frodo, urging him to eat just a bit more to 'keep your strength up'. No doubt Sam had cooked up some dish that he knew to be one of his master's particular favorites.
When is the last time anyone troubled himself to cook up a delicacy expressly for you?
"Be still," Boromir muttered aloud. Everyone's attention was engaged, so no one noticed the slip-up. Merry and Pippin sat side by side, their arms thrown over each other's shoulders, and laughed at some tale being told in animated fashion by Gimli—no doubt some story in which his exploits with the ax were a major element. Sam still nursed Frodo, cajoling him to take 'just one more bite'. Aragorn remained deep in conversation with Legolas. Boromir stood alone.
After a time, Aragorn clapped Legolas on the shoulder, a gesture that the Elf would have bridled at had it been given at the hand of anyone other than the Ranger. Then he arose and approached Boromir.
"It is good that you are back, Boromir." ('Not', Boromir thought bitterly, 'I am glad to see you, Boromir'.)
"Our provisions run low," Aragorn continued, "and I mean to leave the company for several hours to both scout and hunt."
"You will go alone?"
"I will take Legolas."
Disappointed that he was not the chosen one, Boromir came near saying, "You like him better than me!" Fortunately, he realized how childish that would have sounded and managed to hold his tongue.
'Besides,' he said to himself, 'how can I blame Aragorn for being at ease in the Elf's company? He grew up amongst Elves, for he was fostered by Elrond at Rivendell. He is friends with the Prince of Mirkwood, whom he has known of old. But what am I to him? A stranger. Aye, and a stranger whom he may view as a threat, for he must know that my father does not look with favor upon any plan to restore the kingship. Aragorn has every reason to be chary of me, and none to befriend me'.
Keeping such facts as these facts in mind, for weeks Boromir had tried not to resent every sign of friendship between Elf and Ranger.
Aragorn's voice jogged Boromir's attention back to clearing.
"You and Gimli will see to the safety of the Hobbits in our absence."
Boromir nodded, his face impassive. He watched Elf and Ranger depart the clearing, and then turned toward the Halflings and the Dwarf. It was then that he heard the voice again.
I will be your friend.
Boromir looked sharply at each of the remaining members of the Fellowship. Was it Merry? Pippin? No, Merry and Pippin were practically joined at the hip, for they had been friends since childhood, sharing all manner of adventures and scrapes. Sam? Even less likely. The gardener was Frodo's minder, and, while kind and thoughtful toward all members of the Fellowship, he could spare neither the time nor energy to befriend the Man.
Gimli, then? No. The Dwarf, strange as it may seem, had developed an unlikely friendship with the Elf. The animosity that each had felt for the other at the outset of the journey had for a time been expressed in a subtle but constant bickering that would on occasion drive Gandalf wild. Now the bickering had been replaced by bantering in the guise of a competition over the merits of their respective races. Boromir knew better, for the repartee reminded him of the exchanges between siblings, light-hearted but tinged with rivalry.
These thoughts put Boromir in mind of his own brother, Faramir.
Faramir. Younger and yet it sometimes seemed to Boromir—although not to their father!—that Faramir was the wiser. Denethor mistook his younger son's quietness and reticence for weakness and cowardice, but Boromir knew better. Faramir lacked nothing but impulsiveness—and that was no flaw in a Man who would lead his warriors into battle and then lead them safely out again. The deaths of several soldiers weighed upon Boromir, and he suspected that his brother did not labor under a similar burden of guilt and shame.
I will be your friend.
Boromir's memories of his brother were interrupted by the insistent voice. He returned his attention to his companions and studied Frodo. No, he thought after a while. No, not the Ring-Bearer. The Halfling's task was draining him of the ability to focus on anything save the single-minded pursuit of his quest. He would not be seeking the friendship of the son of Gondor.
Frodo looked up and caught the intent gaze that Boromir had fixed upon him. He shifted uneasily and whispered something to Sam, who glanced over his shoulder at the Man. Boromir, who had seated himself, abruptly stood up.
"The fire burns low," he declared. "I will fetch more wood."
With that Boromir strode off into the forest. Only when the Man was both out of sight and out of hearing did Frodo relax and listen to Sam's entreaties that he lie down and rest a little.
In the woods, Boromir began to relax as well. The further he ranged from the camp, the softer the voice became. At last he could hear it no more. Taking his time—he had no wish to hurry his return!—he slowly amassed an armful of branches. Finally, and reluctantly, he turned his steps back toward the camp. There it was again. The Voice, and getting louder with every step.
I will be your friend.
Boromir gritted his teeth and resisted the impulse to fling down the armload of wood and flee into the forest.
'There will be no friend for me', he silently answered the Voice.
Stillness reigned in Boromir's mind for a few minutes, and the Man began to hope that whoever sought to sway him had given up the attempt.
If not friendship, then would you have respect?
Respect? Respect was no trifling thing. Many were those who did not enjoy the fellowship of Men and yet commanded respect. 'Yes', thought Boromir, 'I would have respect."
Embrace me and it will be yours.
Respect. The awe of Men, tinged perhaps with their fear rather than their friendship. Boromir suddenly realized that this was how matters stood with his father. Gondor stood in awe of Denethor, but no Man called him friend.
'I am indeed my father's son', he thought sadly, kneeling by the fire and feeding it with sticks. The flames writhed and gathered themselves into an eye that seemed to gaze knowingly at Boromir. With a sudden flash of insight, Boromir understood Denethor's antipathy for Faramir. Faramir's warriors respected him, yes, but there was something more. Faramir's Men followed him not only out of respect but also out of love. No one had ever followed Denethor out of love; no one ever would.
As he thought on his father, Boromir found himself looking at the face of Denethor. It was a face wreathed in flame. It flickered in and out of his vision. Sometimes his father's fiery face glowered before him; sometimes the flaming eye. Sometimes he could not tell the difference between the two. Mesmerized by the images in the fire, Boromir allowed his head to droop, the flames drawing closer and closer.
"Boromir!"
Boromir jerked awake. Gimli stood before him, his ruddy face expressing concern.
"Boromir, you were nigh falling into the campfire. Are ye ill?"
Boromir shook his head and stood up.
"No, merely more tired than I realized. I will fetch more wood."
Puzzled, Gimli watched Boromir as he disappeared into the forest. The Man had certainly been gathering a lot of wood lately. Then the Dwarf shrugged, dismissing the matter. After all, Boromir's willingness to collect fuel meant that no one else in the Fellowship had to bother with that particular chore.
A few hours later, Aragorn and Legolas returned to the camp, a deer slung over Aragorn's shoulder. Gimli beamed at the sight. While he had quickly overcome his prejudice against lembas, the elven waybread, that did not mean he would be averse to a savory cut of venison grilled over a fire.
"Good work with the bow, Aragorn," he enthused, "although I'm partial to axes myself."
"'Twas not my arrow that brought it down," replied Aragorn. "The carrying of the carcass is my sole contribution, for it was Legolas who felled it. He had a clear shot; I did not."
"Well," harrumphed Gimli, "it is only fitting that the pointy-eared princeling should on occasion make himself useful."
"And for that gibe, Gimli," Legolas retorted, "your lot shall be the neck bones."
"No! no! no! My dear Elf, I was merely saying that it was only fitting that a prince such as yourself, whose hearing is excellent, should prove to be a great comfort to his companions."
"Ah, well, in that case, a loin cut shall be yours."
"Excellent!" said Gimli, rubbing his hands in both glee and anticipation.
'So Legolas has furnished us with supper', thought Boromir. He suddenly understood why Aragorn had chosen the Elf for the hunting trip. Boromir wielded a sword to great effect, but he carried no bow. It would have been silly of Aragorn to have taken Boromir with him. No one ever brought down a deer with a sword! The Man of Gondor grinned, his private hell receding into the distance as he imagined himself stumbling after deer with sword and buckler. His glance happened to fall upon Aragorn. The two Men exchanged smiles.
"Well," said Boromir jovially, "as Legolas has shot it, and Aragorn has carried it, I suppose I should dress it. And, then," he added, "Sam and Gimli can see to cooking it."
Aragorn, surprised at Boromir's sudden cheerfulness, willingly agreed to this plan, and added his own contribution.
"Which means, of course, that the washing up shall be left to Merry and Pippin."
The two youngest of the company made a perfunctory show of protesting, but everyone was in fact satisfied with the arrangement. No one commented on the fact that Frodo alone amongst the Fellowship had not been assigned a task. In the eyes of his comrades, Frodo would be doing his part if he did no more than force himself to swallow a few bites of venison at the behest of Sam. That in itself was a mighty battle for the Ring-bearer.
The Voice remained silent the rest of the evening, but the next morning it began to whisper to Boromir as soon as the Fellowship entered the boats to continue their journey down the Anduin. Frodo and Sam went in a boat with Aragorn. Boromir wondered if Aragorn would not trust the Ring-bearer to anyone else—to Boromir, especially.
Embrace me and it will be yours.
'Respect?'
That and much more.
'How can I embrace you?'
You know what you must do.
'I am sure that I do not!'
I am sure that you do.
The Voice was sardonic as it gave this reply, and Boromir was afraid that he did know what he had to do.
'I have taken an oath', he protested.
Do you not desire to help Gondor—and your father?
'Of course'.
If you were powerful, could you not do so?
Boromir tried not to reply, but he could not help but see the logic of the Voice.
'It is madness to throw it away', he muttered. 'Madness!'
Legolas shouted a warning.
"Boromir!"
Boromir roused himself from his reverie and realized that he had almost driven his boat into the one that bore the Elf and the Dwarf. It was fortunate that Legolas was so skilled with the paddle, else the two would no doubt have been dumped into the cold current.
Aragorn looked back.
"Steady," he called. "We are almost to Parth Galen."
A little while later, within sight of the Falls of Rauros, the company drew its boats onto the shore at the landing of Parth Galen, at the base of Amon Hen. It was a moment Aragorn had been dreading, for certain decisions, long postponed, could be delayed no longer. Should some members of the company, among them Aragorn, turn west, toward Gondor, or east, toward Mordor? As for the Ring, only Frodo could decide whither it should be taken, but Aragorn knew that the Hobbit would welcome counsel—and counsel Aragorn feared to offer, for him himself was uncertain of their course.
"If only Gandalf were with us," he muttered to himself. "The Hobbits look to me for wisdom and guidance, but I can provide neither."
This moment sat heavily upon Frodo as well. He did expect guidance from Aragorn, yes, but he knew that in the end only he could make the decision. Some of the Fellowship would follow him no matter what course he chose, even if that meant journeying to very pit of Orodruin. Sam, Pippin, and Merry, surely. As for Gimli and Legolas, they would accompany him if he asked it of them. Aragorn? The Ranger longed to raise his sword in defense of Minas Tirith, but, like Gimli and Legolas, he would go with Frodo to Mordor if this was the wish of the Ring-Bearer. Boromir? Ah, another matter altogether. He could not ask Boromir to turn his back on Gondor. 'And maybe I wouldn't want him to, anyway', Frodo thought. He was not altogether comfortable with Boromir's presence in the Fellowship. 'Perhaps', thought Frodo, 'this will be a perfect opportunity to be shut of him, in a polite fashion, of course. I shall say that I release him from all obligations so that he can return to Minas Tirith and marshal its defenses'.
Yet in the back of his mind was the fear that Boromir would return to the City only if the Ring went with him. And would it matter to Boromir if the Ring were then borne by Frodo or by some other member of the Fellowship—perhaps Boromir himself? Frodo didn't think so.
The next morning, still as uncertain as he had been the night before, Frodo begged leave to go aside into the forest so that he might think over his choices. Aragorn reluctantly agreed. He was wary of granting the Ring-bearer's request: first, because he did not think Frodo should go anywhere alone, second, because a decision had to be reached quickly. There would have been very little time no matter their situation, for in the wider world events were moving, of that Aragorn was sure. Moreover, in addition to the general need for haste, Legolas had confided to Aragorn that he felt the approach of something evil. Aragorn had felt it, too—a shadow and a threat. They could not linger long in the vicinity of Parth Galen.
After Frodo left the camp, Boromir looked for awhile at the fire that Sam tended. A goodly pile of branches was stacked nearby. 'Still', Boromir murmured to himself, 'you can never have enough wood'. He arose and slipped into the forest.
For a little while, Boromir picked up branches until he had an armful. At length, as he wandered, he heard the Voice. This time, instead of fleeing it, he moved with deliberate steps in its direction. Still holding the armful of wood, he came up behind Frodo as the Hobbit meditated his course beside one of the monumental pieces of fallen statuary that were scattered all about. Hearing Boromir come up, Frodo spun about to face him. The fear on the Hobbit's face did vanish when he saw that it was Boromir, but a wary expression replaced it. This fact did not escape Boromir's attention, and he began by carefully adopting the guise of a friendship that he had abandoned hope of ever achieving. His first words therefore gave Frodo no real cause for suspicion—nothing that he could point to in particular—but the Hobbit remained suspicious nonetheless. For always as the Man spoke, his eyes strayed to the chain from which, safely out of sight, dangled the Ring. He urged Frodo to come with him to Minas Tirith, to but lend him the use of the Ring. He began to spin pictures of the future that would be Gondor's—that would be his, Boromir's!—if only the Ring were to hand. His plans went from the grand, to grandeur, to the grandiose. So far was he carried as he declaimed excitedly, that at last he himself was startled at his words. 'I sound so much like my father', he thought with surprise. 'When did I begin to talk so?'
Indeed, the voice and the words issuing forth from Boromir's mouth did not at all sound like those of the Man who had toiled alongside the other members of the Fellowship for so many weeks. No surprise, then, that Frodo continued to back away from the advancing Man. Boromir, after pausing a moment in confusion, was again possessed by his desire for the Ring. By now he had thrown down his armful of wood, and he stalked toward Frodo.
"You are not yourself!" the Hobbit exclaimed in a panic. "You speak with the voice of another'.
"No," insisted Boromir, "I do not. This is who I am."
"Then it is only a part of you," retorted Frodo, "and it is the part that I do not wish to know. I want to see the Boromir who laughed as he gave Merry and Pippin lessons in sword-handling. I want to see the Boromir who begged of Aragorn that we be given more time to recover from the horror and grief of Moria."
"Aragorn did not listen to my plea," snarled Boromir.
"No, for he could not. But that signifies nothing. What matters is that you asked. For your prayer arose out of kindness and compassion. I beg of you, show that kindness and compassion in this matter."
"Very well, then. I shall compassionately relieve you of your burden," sneered Boromir. He lunged for the Hobbit, who—vanished.
Embrace me! called the Voice, which now in its turn sounded very much like Denethor's. 'Strange that I never noticed that before', thought Boromir.
Bewildered, Boromir staggered all about the clearing, his arms flailing, searching for Frodo, all the while half expecting to see his father momentarily. At last he caught his foot upon a rock and fell in a daze upon the ground. As he lay there, incapable of moving, the voice of his father rapidly receded into the distance, crying as it went with frantic tone: Embrace me! embrace me!
Boromir suddenly understood that the voice had not been his father's voice, and he hoped it never would be. Nor had Boromir's own voice belonged to him when he had confronted Frodo. The voices were to be found with the Ring-bearer, yet they were not of the Ring-bearer—although perhaps someday they would be if Frodo fell prey to their spell. For now, they accompanied the Ring-bearer, tempting him and all who drew near. With Frodo—and the Ring—gone, Boromir knew that he would never hear them again. For that he could be thankful.
Slowly Boromir recovered himself. Arising from the ground, he walked sadly and wearily back toward the camp. 'Now', he thought miserably, 'I possess not even self-respect, let alone the respect of others'.
Upon Boromir's return, the others grew alarmed when he reluctantly reported that he had quarreled with Frodo and that the Hobbit must have made use of the Ring. Almost instantaneously, the camp was thrown into confusion. Sam and the two youngest Hobbits at once dashed away in search of Frodo, and even Legolas and Gimli ran off without first taking counsel with Aragorn. Only Boromir, who had bridled at following the orders of Aragorn, remained to do the bidding of the Dúnadan.
"Boromir!" cried the Dúnadan, "I do not know what part you have played in this mischief, but help now! Go after those two young Hobbits and guard them at the least, even if you can not find Frodo."
Boromir obeyed without hesitation, striding after Merry and Pippin with the same determination with which he had once stalked Frodo. Guard the Hobbits. That was his charge now. In this he would not fail. "I will make Faramir proud of me," he vowed. Why he thought of his brother then and not his father, he did not know, and there was no time to reflect upon the question.
A tall Man, Boromir had a stride in keeping with his height, but the Hobbits, fearing for their friend, had run swiftly. Boromir did not catch up with them until their progress had been checked—by Uruk-hai. Merry and Pippin, in their impetuousness, had stumbled right into the midst of a band of the foul creatures. For several minutes, the Halflings had fended off their foes with the blades gifted them by Galadriel, and then Boromir, his sword at the ready, had sprung into the glade. 'Yes', Boromir vowed grimly as he took up his position between the Hobbits and the onrushing Uruk-hai. 'Yes, I will have respect, even if it is only mine and my brother's'. This had not been the way he had hoped to win it, but win it he would. Not or die trying, neither. He would die trying. This he knew with a terrible clarity that had eluded him until Frodo had fled, taking the Ring with him.
Aragorn found him sitting against a tree, riddled with the shafts of his foes, many of whom had gone before him into death. There was little life left in his body. Three things only he was able to gasp out. He confessed that he had tried to take the Ring, he told Aragorn that the Uruk-hai had taken Hobbits prisoner, and he begged the Dúnadan to go to the defense of Minas Tirith. His last words were "I have failed." Aragorn swore to him that he had not, but the only reply he received was a smile, whether of disavowal or of gratitude he could not tell.
They sang in his honor. Elf, Man, and Dwarf, they sang such songs as had once been sung in Lothlórien in memory of Mithrandir.
It was many days later when Aragorn, reunited past hope with Gandalf, was able to tell the wizard the tale of Boromir's final days. At first, when they encountered one another in Fangorn Forest, the Dúnadan recited only the bare bones of the narrative, partly because they were in haste, but partly also to spare Boromir's memory. Later, after the battle of Helm's Deep, Aragorn was more forthcoming as he sat with Gandalf in camp the evening after they had ridden to Isengard to confront Saruman.
"I doubted him at the outset of our quest," admitted Aragorn. "He seemed over-bold, to the point of recklessness. Nor did he accept counsel willingly. But during our journey, I grew to respect him. He carried a burden little less than Frodo's, and he strove manfully with it. It came near to overcoming him, but in the end he behaved with courage and honor."
"I hope you told him so," said Gandalf. "It would have comforted him at the end."
"I told him he had not failed, that he had won a great victory. I hope that sufficed, for there was no time to say more."
Gandalf nodded approvingly.
"Yes. With the wisdom that approaching death confers, no doubt he had no need for anyone to explain the nature of his victory."
The wizard raised his cup.
"I drink to the honor of Boromir, son of Gondor, who did not flee his fate but embraced it."
Aragorn heard words that seemed to come from far away, a distant echo of an echo.
Embrace me.
"I do—I will," he declared with a fervor that caused Gandalf to pause, his cup at his lips. The wizard did not, however, ask Aragorn to explain himself. He had no need of explanations.
'Aragorn will be haunted by many such voices', he thought sadly to himself, 'for it is his fate to lead into battle Men doomed never again to sit by hearth with wife and child. And my fate? It is to see that this will happen and to be helpless in the face of the doom of Men'.
Embrace me.
"I do," said Gandalf softly, but with sorrow rather than fervor. "I will."