“You shall not pass!” he cried, and his staff shattered against the Balrog’s sword. The bridge collapsed. The Balrog fell into the abyss—but its whip lashed out and caught Gandalf by the ankle. He fell, crying, “Fly, you fools!” and vanished into the darkness.
Had Arwen, the Elf-queen of Rivendell, not come riding like a storm wind on a white horse, Frodo would have faded into a wraith himself. She carried him across the rushing Ford of Bruinen, where she raised her hand and called down a flood of water shaped like charging horses, sweeping the Nine away.
The Fellowship fled, weeping, into the golden woods of Lothlórien. There, the Lady Galadriel revealed her great power: she showed Frodo a vision of the future—of the Shire burning, of Samwise weeping, of a world enslaved—unless the Ring was destroyed. And she gave him a phial: the Light of Eärendil’s star, to be a light in dark places.
He left the ring behind for his young cousin, Frodo, along with a warning from the wizard Gandalf the Grey: Keep it safe. lord of the rings film 1
Their journey led them to the village of Bree, to a crumbling inn called the Prancing Pony. There, they met a grim, weathered Ranger named Strider, who sat in the shadows with a broken sword at his belt. “You draw far too much attention, young hobbits,” he muttered. And when the Ringwraiths attacked their inn room, stabbing empty beds with wicked knives, Strider led them into the wild—through marsh and moor, under the gaze of ancient watchtowers, until they reached the hill of Weathertop.
In the peaceful green hills of the Shire, where hobbits thought of nothing more than second breakfasts and the blooming of the mallorn tree, a quiet darkness was stirring. For sixty years, the hobbit Bilbo Baggins had kept a secret in his pocket—a golden ring that made its wearer invisible. On the eve of his eleventy-first birthday, he vanished during his own grand speech, using the ring to slip away from his startled guests.
As Aragorn, Legolas, and Gimli knelt by the dying Boromir, Frodo stood alone on the far bank of the river. Samwise, who could never be left behind, waded into the water after him, nearly drowning. Frodo pulled him up. Sam gasped, “I made a promise, Mr. Frodo. Don’t you leave him, Samwise Gamgee. And I don’t mean to. I don’t mean to.” “You shall not pass
Frodo looked at Sam, then at the dark mountains of Mordor rising in the east. He nodded. The two hobbits turned their backs on the Fellowship and walked alone into the unknown—into a land of ash and shadow, where no hope had gone before.
Frodo awoke in Rivendell—the Last Homely House east of the sea. There, Elrond the Half-elven healed him. And there, a great council was called. Representatives of Elves, Dwarves, and Men gathered to decide what to do with the One Ring. But as they argued—Boromir, son of the Steward of Gondor, urging them to use the ring as a weapon; Gimli the Dwarf shattering his axe in rage at an ancient insult—the ring revealed its true power: it turned friends against one another with whispers of glory and fear.
Frodo, who had never ventured farther than the edge of his own field, was given a burden heavier than any hobbit had ever carried. “You must leave,” Gandalf said. “And you cannot take the road you know.” He fell, crying, “Fly, you fools
Their path led them south, over the frozen pass of Caradhras—a mountain that roared with unnatural snow. When the mountain defeated them, they dared the dark road beneath the world: the Mines of Moria. In the great hall of Dwarrowdelf, they found only dust and bones. The Dwarves had dug too deep. A terror from the deep ages—a Balrog, a demon of flame and shadow—rose against them. Gandalf stood on the Bridge of Khazad-dûm, facing the creature of fire.
On that lonely height, the Ringwraiths found them. Frodo, defying the terror, put on the ring to escape—and was immediately plunged into the wraith-world, a pale, shadowed realm where the Dark Lord’s servants were terrible and clear. The Witch-king of Angmar drove a Morgul-blade into Frodo’s shoulder. A shard of ice-cold evil lodged near his heart.
The Fellowship was born. Nine companions against the nine Ringwraiths: Frodo, Sam, Merry, Pippin, Gandalf, Aragorn (for Strider was the heir of Isildur), Boromir of Gondor, Gimli the Dwarf, and Legolas the Elf. Their mission: to carry the Ring into the black land of Mordor and cast it into the fires of Mount Doom.
The Shire was no longer safe.