A Hobbit's tumble. The chink of chain against unnaturally hardened gold. A warrior's back, too rigid suddenly for grace. The subtly grasped hilt of a nameless sword.
I am not surprised, although the rising terror I have known this Age swells a little. Pity, too, as Frodo's face contorts, providing a brief vision of his doom. Looking past Man to Man, I see reflected in my old friend all I need to know of Boromir's quiet struggle. The still, ready hand, the wary set of mouth and veiled plea in grey eyes show me the vision of another's doom.