The first days of their journey from Rivendell were almost peaceful. The Nine Companions followed a winding path through the foothills of the Misty Mountains, climbing ever higher as the days passed. The air grew thin and cold, and at night they huddled close together for warmth, taking turns at watch while the others slept.
Holman walked in the middle of the company, with Folco beside him. The younger hobbit had, for once, fallen nearly silent. The grandeur of the mountains, the immensity of the sky, the endless miles of grey stone and scattered snow—it overwhelmed even his gift for cheerful chatter. He walked with his eyes on the path ahead, his round face set in an expression of determined concentration.
On the third day, snow began to fall. At first it was light, little more than a dusting of white that melted as soon as it touched the ground. But as they climbed higher, the snow grew heavier, thicker, until they were struggling through drifts that reached their knees. The wind howled down from the peaks, carrying with it a cold that bit through their cloaks and numbed their fingers.
"We cannot go on in this," Aragorn shouted above the wind. He had taken the lead, his Ranger's eyes searching for any sign of shelter. "There is a pass ahead, but it will be blocked by snow. We must turn back and find another way."
Gandalf shook his head, his beard crusted with ice. "There is no other way. The pass of Caradhras is the only route through these mountains that does not take us too far south, into lands that are watched by the Enemy. We must press on, or turn back to Rivendell and admit defeat."
Boromir, the tall man from Gondor, stepped forward. His sword was drawn, though there was nothing to fight but the elements. "The mountain is fighting us," he said grimly. "Can you not feel it? There is a will in these slopes, a malice that seeks to drive us back. This is no ordinary storm."
Even as he spoke, the wind rose to a shriek, and a great cascade of snow and ice came sliding down the slope above them. The companions scattered, throwing themselves against the rock face as the avalanche thundered past, missing them by bare feet.
Gandalf's face was pale beneath the ice. "Boromir speaks truly. Caradhras is not called the Cruel without reason. There are powers in the deep places of the world that serve no master, not even Sauron. This mountain does not want us here. We cannot force our way through."
Reluctantly, they turned back, descending through the storm to a lower valley where they found shelter in a shallow cave. That night, as the wind screamed outside and the snow piled higher, they held a council.
"We have two choices," Gandalf said. "We can return to Rivendell and wait for spring, which will give the Enemy time to mass his forces and block every path. Or we can go under the mountains."
"Under the mountains?" Folco's voice was small and frightened. "You mean... through the mines? The mines of Moria?"
Gandalf nodded gravely. "The dwarves delved deep in these mountains in ages past. Their greatest city, Khazad-dûm, lies beneath us even now. It has been empty for many years, since the dwarves awoke a terror in the deep that they could not contain. But there is a path through, if we dare to take it."
"Dare?" Glóin the Dwarf spoke up, his voice rough with emotion. "I am of Durin's folk, Gandalf. Moria is the ancient home of my people, lost to us for generations. To walk those halls again... it would be a homecoming of sorts. But you speak of the terror. Do you mean the Durin's Bane?"
Gandalf's eyes were shadowed. "I mean the thing that drove the dwarves from Moria. The shadow that dwells in the deep places, older than Sauron, older than the Elves, older perhaps than the world itself. I do not name it lightly, Glóin, for to name it is to draw its attention. But if we go through Moria, we must face the possibility that it still dwells there."
Silence fell upon the company. Holman looked at the others, at their grim faces and troubled eyes. He thought of the barrow-wight, of the cold that had flooded through him on Weathertop, of the endless whispering of the Ring. And now they spoke of something older and more terrible than any of these.
But what choice did they have? The mountain would not let them pass. The Enemy waited on every other road. If they turned back, all was lost.
"I vote we go through," he said quietly. Every eye turned to him, the small hobbit who carried the Ring. "I don't want to. I'm more frightened than I've ever been. But I'd rather face the darkness under the mountain than let Sauron win without a fight."
Folco swallowed hard and nodded. "Me too. I mean, if Holman's going, I'm going. That's what I said back in Rivendell, and I meant it."
One by one, the others agreed. Aragorn nodded gravely. Boromir gripped his sword. Legolas the Elf said nothing, but his eyes were bright with an ancient sadness. Elladan and Elrohir, the sons of Elrond, stood together, their faces unreadable. And Glóin the Dwarf bowed his head, perhaps in prayer to his ancestors, perhaps in acceptance of whatever fate awaited them in the halls of his people.
Gandalf rose. "Then it is decided. We go to the Doors of Durin, the West-gate of Moria. If we are fortunate, they will open to us. If we are not..." He did not finish the sentence. He did not need to.
They found the doors on the fourth day after turning back from the pass. They stood at the edge of a dark lake, mirror-still and utterly silent, beneath the looming cliffs of the mountains. The doors themselves were set into the rock, seamless and smooth, with no handle and no lock that any eye could see.
"But how do we open them?" Folco asked, peering at the stone. "There's no knob, no keyhole, nothing!"
Gandalf smiled faintly. "The dwarves were subtle folk, Master Boffin. They did not fashion doors for the hasty or the ignorant. Look closely. Do you see anything in the stone?"
Folco leaned closer, and Holman with him. At first they saw nothing but grey rock. But as they watched, the fading light of the setting sun fell upon the doors at just the right angle, and words appeared—faint silver letters, written in a script Holman did not recognize.
"What does it say?" he asked.
Gandalf translated: "The Doors of Durin, Lord of Moria. Speak, friend, and enter."
"Speak, friend, and enter," Holman repeated. "So we have to say a password? Some secret word that only the dwarves know?"
"Perhaps," Gandalf mused. He tried several words in the dwarven tongue, but nothing happened. He tried Elvish, and the doors remained stubbornly shut. The sun sank lower, and the light began to fade from the letters.
"It's no use," Boromir said impatiently. "We waste time while the Enemy draws nearer. Let me try my strength against them." He stepped forward and pushed against the stone with all his might. The doors did not so much as tremble.
"It is not strength that will open them," Legolas said softly. "It is something else. The inscription says 'speak, friend.' Perhaps it is simpler than we think."
Gandalf stared at the doors, his brow furrowed in thought. Then, slowly, a smile spread across his face. "Simpler indeed! I was a fool." He stepped forward and spoke a single word, clear and confident: "Mellon."
The Elvish word for "friend."
With a deep groan, the stone began to move. The doors swung inward, slowly, majestically, revealing darkness beyond—a darkness so complete that it seemed to swallow the fading light of the setting sun.
Before they could enter, however, something in the lake moved.
Holman felt it rather than saw it—a disturbance in the water, a ripple that spread outward from a point near the shore. The surface, which had been still as glass, began to churn and bubble. Long, sinuous tentacles rose from the depths, pale and glistening, tipped with fingers that grasped at the air.
"The Watcher in the Water!" Aragorn shouted, drawing his sword. "Into the doorway, quickly!"
They ran. Holman seized Folco's hand and pulled him towards the opening, the others close behind. But the creature was faster. A tentacle wrapped around Frodo's ankle—no, not Frodo, Holman realized, Folco—and began to drag him towards the lake.
"Folco!" Holman screamed. He grabbed his friend's arms, digging his furry feet into the stone, but the tentacle was too strong. They were both being pulled, inch by inch, towards the churning water.
Then Boromir was there. His great sword flashed in the dim light, and the tentacle parted, black blood spurting from the wound. The creature shrieked—a horrible, unearthly sound that echoed off the cliffs—and released its grip. Holman and Folco tumbled backward into the doorway just as more tentacles lashed towards them.
Gandalf raised his staff, and light blazed forth. The creature recoiled, its many eyes blinking in the sudden brilliance. In that moment of hesitation, the companions pressed deeper into the darkness, and the doors began to close behind them.
The last thing Holman saw before the stone slammed shut was the Watcher's tentacles, thrashing impotently against the rock, and its eyes—dozens of them, cold and hungry and filled with ancient malice—staring into the darkness after them.
Then they were sealed in the womb of the mountain, with no light but Gandalf's staff and no way back.
The passage beyond the doors was wide and high, built for the tall dwarves of old. Their footsteps echoed in the darkness, and the air was still and cold and smelled of stone and dust and something else—something old and faintly foul, like the memory of decay.
Gandalf led the way, his staff casting a pale light that pushed back the darkness only a little. The hobbits stayed close together, their hands never leaving each other's arms. Holman could feel Folco trembling, and knew that he was trembling too.
They walked for what seemed like hours, passing through vast halls where the shadows of pillars loomed like giant sentinels, through chambers where the echoes of their footsteps multiplied until it sounded like an army marching beside them. In some places, the floor was cracked and broken, as if by some great violence. In others, they passed the remains of ancient battles—broken weapons, shattered shields, bones that had lain so long they crumbled at a touch.
"This was a great city once," Glóin whispered, his voice thick with emotion. "My people's greatest work. And now... now it is a tomb."
They came at last to a place where three passages met. Here they stopped, for Gandalf seemed uncertain. He examined the walls, the floor, the ceiling, muttering to himself in a language Holman did not understand.
"I do not remember this place," he admitted. "I came through Moria once, long ago, but from the other direction. The way is not clear to me."
"We must choose a path," Aragorn said. "We cannot stay here. The air is foul, and I feel... watched."
They all felt it—a presence in the darkness, unseen but undeniable. Something was down here with them. Something that knew they had come.
Gandalf chose the leftmost passage, and they pressed on. The way grew narrower, the ceiling lower, until they were forced to walk in single file. Holman could feel the weight of the mountain above him, millions of tons of rock pressing down, and had to fight down a surge of panic. He was not meant for such places. Hobbits liked holes, yes, but holes with windows and doors and sunlight, not this endless crushing dark.
They stopped to rest in a small chamber off the main passage. No one spoke. They simply sat, listening to the silence and trying not to think about what might be listening back.
It was Folco who broke the silence, his whisper barely audible: "What is that?"
They listened. At first there was nothing. Then, faintly, they heard it—a pattering sound, like many feet moving quickly, coming from the darkness behind them.
Gandalf was on his feet instantly. "Orcs," he said. "Orcs, and they have found our trail. Move! Move now!"
They ran. The passage twisted and turned, branching in a dozen directions, but Gandalf seemed to have found his bearings at last. He led them unerringly, never hesitating, though the pattering grew louder behind them. Soon they could hear voices too—harsh, guttural cries in the Black Speech of Mordor.
"The bridge!" Gandalf shouted. "We must reach the bridge of Khazad-dûm! It is our only hope!"
They burst from the passage into a vast cavern. A chasm split the floor, and across it spanned a narrow bridge of stone—no rails, no parapets, just a curved ribbon of rock arching over the abyss. Beyond it, Holman could see the great gates of the eastern side, standing open, and beyond them, moonlight.
The others raced across, one by one—Aragorn, Boromir, Legolas, Elladan, Elrohir, Glóin, Folco. Holman was last, his short legs pumping, his lungs burning. Behind him, the orcs poured from the passage, a tide of filth and steel and hatred.
He reached the bridge and started across. The abyss yawned below him, bottomless dark, and he forced himself not to look down. Halfway across. Three-quarters. Almost there.
Then Gandalf stopped.
He stood in the middle of the bridge, facing back the way they had come. His staff blazed with light, and his sword was in his hand. Holman turned, still on the bridge, to see what had made him stop.
At the far end of the bridge, where the orcs had halted, something else was coming. It was shaped like a man, but larger, and it was made of shadow and flame. Fire flickered in the hollows where its eyes should be, and it carried a sword of fire in one hand and a whip of many thongs in the other. As it moved onto the bridge, the stone cracked and smoked beneath its feet.
"A Balrog," Gandalf whispered. "A Balrog of Morgoth." Then, louder: "Fly, you fools!"
He raised his staff and faced the creature. For a moment, they stood thus—Wizard and demon, light and shadow, facing each other across the narrow bridge. Then Gandalf struck.
The staff blazed with a light like a star, and the Balrog recoiled. But only for a moment. It raised its fiery sword and advanced, and when the blades met, the shock of it threw Holman to his knees on the bridge.
"Go!" Aragorn shouted from the far side. "Holman, go!"
But Holman could not move. He watched as Gandalf fought the Balrog, step by step, back along the bridge. The Wizard's sword blazed with a cold flame, and the demon's sword burned with fire, and where they met, sparks flew like falling stars.
Gandalf drove the Balrog back. Back, step by step, until they stood at the very center of the bridge. Then the demon's whip lashed out, wrapping around Gandalf's ankle. He staggered, fell, and for one terrible moment, Holman saw him hanging over the abyss.
"Fly, you fools!" Gandalf cried again, and then he let go.
He released his grip on the bridge and plunged into the darkness, dragging the Balrog with him. They fell together, Wizard and demon, locked in combat, their light dwindling until it was no more than a distant star, and then nothing at all.
Holman screamed. Folco screamed. On the far side, the others stood frozen in horror. Then the orcs, seeing their chance, surged forward onto the bridge.
Aragorn moved like lightning. He grabbed Holman, lifting him bodily, and threw him towards the eastern gate. Boromir did the same with Folco. Legolas fired arrow after arrow into the advancing orcs, each shot true. Elladan and Elrohir stood with drawn swords, covering the retreat.
They made it through the gates just as the bridge collapsed, sending dozens of orcs plunging into the abyss. The great doors of the eastern side slammed shut behind them, and they fell, gasping, onto the grass of a mountain meadow under the light of the moon.
For a long time, no one spoke. They simply lay there, breathing, staring at the stars, trying to understand what had just happened.
Gandalf was gone. The Wizard who had come to Holman's smial in Fen Heath, who had led him through the Thornwood, who had faced the Riders on Weathertop and the Balrog in the deep places of the world—Gandalf was gone.
Holman began to cry. He could not help it. The tears came, hot and uncontrollable, and he did not try to stop them. Folco crawled over and put his arms around him, and they wept together, two small hobbits in a vast and dangerous world, mourning the loss of the only guide they had trusted.
After a time, Aragorn came and stood over them. His face was grey with grief, but his voice was steady.
"We cannot stay here," he said gently. "The orcs may find a way through the mountains. We must move, and we must decide what to do next. Gandalf gave his life for us. We cannot let it be in vain."
Holman looked up at him, at this stern Ranger who carried the weight of ages on his shoulders. "What do we do now?" he whispered. "Where do we go?"
Aragorn looked east, towards the rising moon, towards the lands beyond the mountains. "We go on," he said. "We go to Lothlórien, the land of the Galadhrim, where the Lady Galadriel rules. It is our only hope. And then... then we go to Mordor. As we always knew we must."
Holman wiped his eyes and stood. The Ring was still in his pocket, still heavy, still patient. It did not mourn Gandalf. It did not mourn anyone. It simply waited, as it had always waited, for its chance to return to its master.
But Holman was not the Ring. He was a hobbit, and hobbits felt things deeply. He felt the loss of Gandalf like a physical wound, a hole in his heart that would never quite heal. And he felt something else too—a determination, hard and bright as mithril, that had not been there before.
Gandalf had believed in him. Gandalf had died for him. He would not let that death be meaningless. He would take the Ring to Mordor. He would cast it into the fire. He would finish what they had started, or die trying.
He looked at the others—at Aragorn, grim and determined; at Boromir, grieving and angry; at Legolas, whose Elven eyes held the light of stars; at Elladan and Elrohir, silent and watchful; at Glóin, whose people's ancient home lay behind them, lost again; at Folco, tear-streaked but brave, still holding his hand.
"We go on," Holman said. "Together."
And in the darkness, under the cold light of the moon, the eight remaining companions turned their faces towards Lothlórien, and the long road that lay ahead.