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.
For three years, Frodo kept the ring hidden, but Gandalf did not forget it. He returned with troubling news. The ring was not a simple trinket. It was the One Ring, forged by the Dark Lord Sauron in the fires of Mount Doom. Sauron had poured his cruelty, his malice, and his will to dominate all life into that single band of gold. And now, Sauron had learned the ring was awake. The Dark Lord’s nine servants—the Ringwraiths, shapeless terrors who once were kings of Men—had entered the world again. They were hunting for Baggins.
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. lord of the rings film 1
But the Ring had already begun to poison the Fellowship. On the grassy shores of the River Anduin, Boromir tried to take the Ring from Frodo by force. The hobbit fled, invisible, his trust shattered. The orcs of Saruman attacked then, blowing their foul horns, and in the chaos, Merry and Pippin were taken, and Boromir fell defending them, pierced by many black arrows.
Finally, Frodo stood before them all, small and wounded, and spoke the words that decided the fate of the world: “I will take it. I will take the Ring to Mordor. Though I do not know the way.” The Fellowship was born
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.
“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. For three years, Frodo kept the ring hidden,
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.