For what do we toil all our days?

Glory …

approval …

love …

fulfillment of our secret heart’s desire …

Now mine is offered me. There it sits, a hand’s breadth away … all that I have worked for, for all I have abhorred.

In this strange land every thing – the very air! – has its voice. I am assailed by whispers. They drown out memory of my father’s reason, my brother’s heart … even the constancy of light misleads.

I have lived only to oppose the hordes and armies of Mordor, but that struggle here is dwarfed.

I fear my strength will not be enough.