"Fly, you fools!"

His last sight, as he feels his fingertips sliding helplessly from the chasm's edge, is of eight horrified faces staring into the abyss. I have failed them. The knowledge cuts deeper than the Balrog's whips of flame.

And yet, even as they plummet wrestling together into endless dark, as he smells hair and beard scorching and his nerve-endings sing with heat and pain, that thought kindles an answering flicker of anger within him which burns up into a fire of rage:

No;  I have not failed them yet!  Olórin summons all his power, and lifts his sword...