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Lightning split the sky in an arc of white light that left a dazzling imprint on Frodo’s vision. Mere seconds later, thunder rolled through the ground.
Despite himself, Frodo flinched where he crouched against cold rock. Next to him, Sam was trembling.
This was nothing like thunderstorms in the Shire.
Back home, a sudden thunderstorm was a welcome reprieve: a ready-made excuse to hole away in the study at Bag End with a well-read book and a mug of hot tea. Sometimes Frodo could even coax Sam to join him—although sometimes, if the lightning was far off, Sam preferred to work in the garden in the rain. He talked about the ground being softer. Privately, Frodo thought he liked getting muddy. But sometimes Sam would come inside too, and Frodo would read aloud, or Bilbo would share stories—before Bilbo left.
This was different. The bare rock of the Emyn Muil provided no shelter. The rain was ice-cold, even through their elven cloaks, and the wind howled sharply and threw the rain into their eyes. And worst of all was the fear that lightning would strike the rockface against which they huddled.
“We’re all right,” Sam was chanting quietly through chattering teeth. “We’re all right. We’re all right.”
Frodo swallowed hard and, unable to think of anything to say that would be both true and comforting, said nothing.
Another jagged splinter of lightning cracked overhead, this time close enough to make the hair on Frodo’s feet stand on end.
Sam’s breath in his ear came in short, shallow gasps of terror.
“Sam,” Frodo whispered impulsively—and found he had to raise his voice to hear himself over the following thunder. “Do you remember Bilbo’s story about the stone-giants?”
Sam’s head jerked towards him, his eyes wide and shining in the darkness. “The stone-giants?”
“Yes, they threw rocks at each other as part of a game in the middle of a thunderstorm. Remember?”
Sam let out a tiny laugh, barely audible in the din. “Are you saying this straight we’re in ain’t so bad, nohow? Because there isn’t any stone-giants throwing rocks at us?”
“Yes,” Frodo said firmly. “Exactly.” Though he’d been meaning to say no such thing; their circumstances seemed quite bad enough, stone-giants or not. He simply found it comforting to remember Bilbo’s old stories. “And no goblins, either.”
“Not that we know of, anyway,” Sam muttered, peering out from under his hood. He apparently suspected the Emyn Muil of hiding all kinds of murderous creatures.
Frodo nudged him, and partially drew Sting from its sheath. There wasn’t the slightest hint of a glow coming from the blade.
Sam nodded, and seemed to relax slightly—until lightning struck an overhanging rock not far from where they hid. The rock disintegrated.
“Save us,” Sam whimpered, shaking.
“Here.” Grabbing Sam’s cloak, Frodo turned him until he faced inwards, until they both faced each other. There was no point looking out at the storm—if the lightning would be their end, there was simply nothing to be done about it. “Imagine we’re back in Bag End, listening to Bilbo’s stories. With—with a roaring fire, and tea, and pipeweed.”
“Fresh plumb cake,” Sam added with a forced smile that looked more like a grimace.
“None of this lembas,” Frodo agreed. “Plumb cake and apple tart and bacon. Thick slices of it.”
Sam pulled his hood farther over his face. “And how about a story, Mr. Frodo? One I haven’t heard ’afore?”
One he hadn’t heard before? Frodo wracked his mind for such a tale, when Sam had heard Bilbo’s stories almost as often as Frodo had. And thinking of his stories just made him miss the old hobbit desperately. Not that he would ever wish for Bilbo to be trapped out here like this. He longed for Gandalf or Aragorn.
But Gandalf was gone, and he could not bear to bring Aragorn this far. Although he still struggled with the choice to let Sam come, either.
Let? a voice like his own echoed ruefully in his head. You didn’t let Samwise Gamgee do anything—he would have swum the whole river to follow you.
Frodo cleared his throat. All this thinking was bringing to mind a story that Sam certainly didn’t know. “There’s one story I can think of, but…it isn’t altogether encouraging.”
“Anything’s better than just thinking on this storm,” Sam insisted.
“All right, then.” Frodo huddled closer to him, for warmth and to block out the storm raging around them. “I never told you why I decided to leave the rest of the Fellowship.”
“No, sir.” Sam’s brown eyes blinked gravely up at him. “You just said it’d be the death of me to come with you, but I don’t see why that would be such a problem all of a sudden. We all knew it’d be dangerous when we agreed to come with you.”
“The physical danger is bad enough,” Frodo said quietly. “But I finally knew I had to leave because of another danger. See…on the other side of the river, right before the attack…Boromir found me.”
Sam went very still, waiting.
“The Ring had taken him, Sam. Completely. He wasn’t who he used to be anymore. He tried to take the Ring.” Frodo clenched his jaw at the memory of gripping fingers with terrifying strength. “I had no hope of fighting him off. In the end, I had to put It on to escape.”
Sam shuddered.
Frodo closed his eyes against the memory of Boromir’s face, twisted beyond all recognition. “That’s the danger that terrifies me more than anything. Of course at any moment, any of us could be captured or killed, and that would be awful enough. But to see, say, Merry or Pippin turned into my enemy? Or you?”
“Never,” Sam swore. “I’d never turn against you like that, Mr. Frodo. You must know that!”
How could he? How could either of them know that? Frodo swallowed the words and looked away.
“Boromir always made me uncomfortable anyway,” Sam went on, a dark and protective light now glowing in his eyes. “There was always something not quite right about him. I hated the way he’d look at you, the way he was always—”
“Stop,” Frodo said softly.
Too softly to be heard in this downpour. Sam kept going. “The way he was always acting like he thought the Council’s plan was a bad one. Like he didn’t trust you, like he thought he’d do a better job of it! And then he turns around and breaks his oath and attacks you! And makes you put the Thing on and everything!”
“Sam.” Frodo raised his voice. “Do not blame Boromir.”
Sam stared at him, that light still in his eyes.
Its warmth was a little too hot. “Don’t blame Boromir,” Frodo repeated more quietly. “He was a good Man. Don’t you remember how selflessly he took care of all of us hobbits?”
“He was proud,” Sam grumbled. “It was plain as day he always thought he knew what was best.”
“He was also desperate,” Frodo countered. “Think how close his city is to Mordor. If the Enemy’s power spreads, Gondor will be the first to fall. Sam, imagine if the Shire were so imperiled.” He turned his eyes out towards the storm, looking west, towards home. “Imagine if the Shire might fall at any moment, and a powerful weapon was found that you thought might save it, and then…it was decided that you could never use it.”
The Ring seemed to grow heavier on its chain.
Frodo’s voice had dropped to a mere breath. “What would you do, Sam?”
For a moment, all he could hear was the thunder and rain.
Then Sam sighed loudly, a weary exhale. “That’s about what Lady Galadriel asked me, back at that Mirror of hers, and I said I’d stick by you.”
In all the darkness, Frodo laughed. “Yes, I remember.” He turned his eyes back to meet Sam’s. “Not everyone is like you, I suppose.”
Clearly suspicious of a compliment, Sam ducked his head and huffed.
“Well, then.” Frodo pulled his cloak closer around himself. “That wasn’t a great story, was it?”
“Not so much, begging your pardon. How about a happier one, even if I’ve heard it before?”
“Good idea. How about a story about Elves?”
He didn’t have to ask twice. They passed the next hour or so in that way: Sam listening, enraptured, forgetting the storm, as Frodo wove a story together with threads as delicate as Elven rope.
Before the story ended, the thunder rolled away, and the rain slowed to a drizzle, and then to a stop. The sun remained veiled behind clouds, but a little light filtered down. The hobbits were left still wet and cold, but Frodo got to his feet.
“Come on, Sam. We’ve got to keep moving before nightfall.”
Sam stood without complaint, as if walking on bare rock didn’t seem so bad no compared to the thunder and lightning. “All right, but you have to finish the story.”
Frodo hesitated. He did not like the thought of speaking loudly now that the world was quiet around them again. The storm had brought them concealment; now the old feeling of being watched returned. It had haunted him since setting foot in the Emyn Muil. He could not quite tell if it was the result of the sharpening of his senses by the Morgul knife and the Ring, or if it was nothing more than paranoia.
But there was Sam, looking at him with such gentleness.
Frodo cleared his throat a little and smiled. “Yes, of course. If you stay close, I will finish the story.”