For where am I to go? And by what shall I steer? What is to be my quest? Bilbo went to find a treasure, there and back again; but I go to lose one, and not return, as far as I can see.
Suddenly, caught by the level beams, Frodo saw the old king’s head: it was lying rolled away by the the roadside. […] The eyes were hollow and the carven beard was broken, but about the high, stern forehead there was a coronal of silver and gold. A trailing plant with flowers like small white stars had bound itself across the brows as if in reverence for the fallen king, and the crevices of his stonyhair yello stonecrop gleamed.
Sam had noticed that at times a light seemed to be shining faintly within; but now the light was even clearer and stronger. Frodo’s face was peaceful, the marks of fear and care had left it; but it looked old, old and beautiful, as if the chiselling of the shaping years was now revealled in many fine lines that had before been hidden, though the identity of the face was not changed. Not that Sam Gamgee put it that way himself. He shook his head, as if finding words useless, and murmered: ‘I love him. He’s like that, and sometimes it shines through, somehow. But I love him whether or no.’
I will weep when you are weeping; when you laugh I’ll laugh with you. I will share your joy and sorrow ‘til we’ve seen this journey through.