The Flight to the Ford

The Flight to the Ford is the desperate, breakneck climax of the first book of The Fellowship of the Ring, the sequence in which the Ring-bearer, already wounded by a Morgul-knife on Weathertop, is hunted across the last leagues of Eriador by all Nine Ringwraiths and is saved at the very threshold of Rivendell by a flood that combines Elrond's command of the river with Gandalf's added magic. It is the first open defeat of the Nazgûl in the War of the Ring and the moment that brings Frodo—and the Ring—safely into the house of Elrond, where the fate of Middle-earth will be debated.

The Pursuit from the Cutting to the Ford

After Glorfindel meets the fugitives on the Road, he urges them to ride without rest. On the third day, as they approach the Ford of Bruinen, the Road runs through a deep cutting with steep red stone walls; echoes multiply the sound of their own feet, and a rushing noise rises behind them as if a wind were pouring through the pines. Glorfindel turns, listens, and then springs forward with a loud cry: "Fly! The enemy is upon us!" The white horse Asfaloth leaps ahead; the hobbits run down the slope; Glorfindel and Aragorn follow as rearguard. They are only halfway across the flat before the gate when a Black Rider rides out of the trees, reining in and swaying in his saddle. Another follows, then another, then two more—five in all. Glorfindel shouts to Frodo to ride forward, but a strange reluctance seizes the hobbit. Checking the horse to a walk, he turns and looks back. The Riders sit on their great steeds like threatening statues, dark and solid, while the woods and land recede as if into a mist. Frodo knows in his heart that they are silently commanding him to wait. Fear and hatred awake in him; his hand leaves the bridle and grips the hilt of his sword, and with a red flash he draws it.

The Ride and the Ambush

Glorfindel cries again, "Ride on! Ride on!" and then calls to the horse in the elf-tongue: noro lim, noro lim, Asfaloth! At once the white horse springs away and speeds like the wind along the last lap of the Road. At the same moment the black horses leap down the hill in pursuit, and from the Riders comes a terrible cry that fills the woods with horror. It is answered: to the dismay of Frodo and his friends, four other Riders come flying out from the trees and rocks on the left. Two ride toward Frodo; two gallop madly toward the Ford to cut off his escape. They seem to run like the wind and to grow swiftly larger and darker as their courses converge with his. Frodo looks back over his shoulder. He can no longer see his friends. The Riders behind are falling back—even their great steeds are no match in speed for the white elf-horse. He looks forward again, and hope fades. There seems no chance of reaching the Ford before he is cut off by the others that have lain in ambush. He can see them clearly now: they have cast aside their hoods and black cloaks and are robed in white and grey. Swords are naked in their pale hands; helms are on their heads. Their cold eyes glitter, and they call to him with fell voices.

The Crossing and the Flood

Fear now fills all Frodo's mind. He thinks no longer of his sword. No cry comes from him. He shuts his eyes and clings to the horse's mane. The wind whistles in his ears, and the bells upon the harness ring wild and shrill. A breath of deadly cold pierces him like a spear as, with a last spurt like a flash of white fire, the elf-horse, speeding as if on wings, passes right before the face of the foremost Rider. Frodo hears the splash of water. It foams about his feet. He feels the quick heave and surge as the horse leaves the river and struggles up the stony path. He is climbing the steep bank. He is across the Ford. But the pursuers are close behind. At the top of the bank the horse halts and turns about, neighing fiercely. There are Nine Riders at the water's edge below, and Frodo's spirit quails before the threat of their uplifted faces. He knows of nothing that will prevent them from crossing as easily as he has done, and he feels that it is useless to try to escape over the long uncertain path from the Ford to the edge of Rivendell if once the Riders cross. In any case he feels that he is commanded urgently to halt. Hatred again stirs in him, but he has no longer the strength to refuse. Suddenly the foremost Rider spurs his horse forward. It checks at the water and rears up. With a great effort Frodo sits upright and brandishes his sword. "Go back!" he cries. "Go back to the Land of Mordor, and follow me no more!" His voice sounds thin and shrill in his own ears. The Riders halt, but Frodo has not the power of Bombadil. His enemies laugh at him with a harsh and chilling laughter. "Come back! Come back!" they call. "To Mordor we will take you!" "Go back!" he whispers. "The Ring! The Ring!" they cry with deadly voices, and immediately their leader urges his horse forward into the water, followed closely by two others. "By Elbereth and Lúthien the Fair," says Frodo with a last effort, lifting up his sword, "you shall have neither the Ring nor me!" Then the leader, who is now half across the Ford, stands up menacing in his stirrups and raises his hand. Frodo is stricken dumb. He feels his tongue cleave to his mouth, and his heart labouring. His sword breaks and falls out of his shaking hand. The elf-horse rears and snorts. The foremost of the black horses has almost set foot upon the shore. At that moment there comes a roaring and a rushing: a noise of loud waters rolling many stones. Dimly Frodo sees the river below him rise, and down along its course there comes a plumed cavalry of waves. White flames seem to flicker on their crests, and he half fancies that he sees amid the water white riders upon white horses with frothing manes. The three Riders that are still in the midst of the Ford are overwhelmed: they disappear, buried suddenly under angry foam. Those that are behind draw back in dismay.

The Aftermath and Rescue

With his last failing senses Frodo hears cries, and it seems to him that he sees, beyond the Riders that hesitate on the shore, a shining figure of white light; behind it run small shadowy forms waving flames that flare red in the grey mist falling over the world. The black horses are filled with madness, and leaping forward in terror they bear their riders into the rushing flood. Their piercing cries are drowned in the roaring of the river as it carries them away. Then Frodo feels himself falling, and the roaring and confusion seem to rise and engulf him together with his enemies. He hears and sees no more. He is found lying on his face at the top of the bank, with a broken sword under him, the horse standing guard beside him. Elrond's folk meet them, carrying him slowly toward Rivendell. Later, Gandalf explains that Elrond commanded the flood—the river of the valley is under his power and will rise in anger when he has great need to bar the Ford. Gandalf adds that he himself added a few touches: some of the waves took the form of great white horses with shining white riders, and there were many rolling and grinding boulders. The Ringwraiths' horses perished, and without them the Riders are crippled, though the Ringwraiths themselves cannot be so easily destroyed. Frodo is safe in the Last Homely House east of the Sea.