Disclaimer: No profit will be made from these stories. All quotes from the works of J.R.R.Tolkien are reproduced here without the permission of The Tolkien Estate or New Line Cinema. No copyright infringement is intended.

To Cairistiona and Estelcontar: my most grateful thanks for their ongoing encouragement and support.

And thanks to Cairistiona for the beta.

A/N This chapter is one of my personal favourites and I hope you enjoy reading it as much as I enjoyed writing it.

I wish to thank both Shirebound and Meckinock for the images in their wonderful stories of Bilbo tending an injured Aragorn as those inspired the beginning of this story.

Chapter 18: All That is Gold

I am Aragorn and those verses go with my name.

Strider                                                                                         The Fellowship of theRing

~oo0oo~

Aragorn slowly emerged from his dreamless sleep. It was dark, a shaft of moonbeam the only light penetrating the gloom around him. As his half open eyes tried to make sense of his surroundings, he wondered where he was. He furiously willed his mind to focus, but he could remember nothing. He realized he was no longer outside in the open, of that he was sure; beneath him he felt the rare sensation of a comfortable bed and against his skin was smooth linen. He opened his eyes further as a sound beside him alerted him that he was not alone; someone was in the room with him. But as he tried to move, pain assaulted every part of his body. He froze as he desperately tried to master it.

   Whatever could have happened to him?

   As the nauseating waves subsided, he once again tried to raise his head, but as he did so, a hand appeared on his shoulder, gently holding him to the bed.

   “Be still, child,” said a familiar voice. “Do not attempt to move, yet.”

   It was his father. Those few words conveyed such kindness and such love, that Aragorn immediately felt all his fear and uncertainly drain away. Elrond was here; he would take care of everything, as he always had. It no longer mattered what had befallen him. He was safe and he could rest. He closed his eyes and felt the comforting presence of his father’s hand on his forehead for a moment before that same hand slid under his neck and his head was gently tipped towards a cup. A not very pleasant liquid entered his mouth. He only managed a few sips as swallowing had suddenly become exhausting.  His eyes searched for Elrond as his head was lowered back onto the soft pillow, but his body abandoned the struggle to maintain consciousness and he drifted away into darkness again.

~oo0oo~

   The next time he woke the sun was streaming through the windows and birds were chattering noisily on the balcony outside. Remembering how he was punished for stirring the last time, Aragorn cautiously turned his head a fraction, expecting to see his foster father sitting in vigil beside him. Instead, to his complete surprise, he saw a middle-aged hobbit perched on a chair, quietly reading a book. His mind reeled at this unexpected vision. In his bewilderment, he began to wonder if Elrond had only been an illusion, conjured up by his mind in his time of need. But, glancing around the familiar room, there could be no doubt; he was definitely in his old bedroom at Rivendell.

   Suddenly the hobbit looked up and noticed the injured man’s eyes upon him. He immediately jumped down from his chair in surprise, dropping his book in his haste.

   “Oh goodness me, you’re awake!” he said as he cautiously approached the bed as if its occupant might bite him. “Oh my word, I wonder if I should fetch Master Elrond. No, wait a minute, now what was it I had to do? Oh yes! Water! Don’t move; I’ll fetch some right away.”

   He went to a low side table and poured a cup of water from the pitcher placed there. He returned to the bed and quite competently raised Aragorn’s head, allowing him just a few sips, as he had been instructed.

   “Is that better?” he asked anxiously as he returned the cup to the table. “How do you feel? Oh dear, you do look very ill you know; quite terrible in fact. Did the water not help at all?”

   Aragorn wondered briefly if he was supposed to answer all these questions. Instead he managed a trace of a smile for the little gentleman.

   “I am well enough,” he said, struggling to find his voice and still watching the hobbit in amazement. The halfling seemed to relax a little at that and once more came and stood beside the bed.

   “Good, I am very pleased to hear it,” he said, much relieved that Elrond’s patient was not about to do something disconcerting that might demand some action on his part. He really did not know what to think of this wild, dangerous looking man. He was very unkempt and scruffy; his shaggy hair appeared never to have seen a comb. He may be injured, but the hobbit had no doubt he could cause mischief if he chose to.

   Still, Elrond had been very concerned about him when he had been brought unconscious to the house late last night. And who was he to judge by appearances. The man was obviously in need of care and he was happy to help out and do his bit, though now that he had given him something to drink, he was not at all sure what else he could do. Nor did he know quite what to say to him. Perhaps he could simply start by asking him his name if it would not be considered forward to do so. Then in total dismay at his own lack of protocol, he realized he had been standing there staring at him, all the while having completely neglected to make his own introductions.

  “Oh forgive me, I am quite forgetting my manners; Mister Bilbo Baggins at your service and your family’s,” he said, bowing deeply.

  Aragorn managed to reply politely: “I am very pleased to meet you, Bilbo Baggins.” So this was the hobbit he had heard so much about. He hesitated for only the merest moment before adding: “I am Aragorn son of Arathorn.”

   “Well, Mister Aragorn, I am very pleased to meet you too, though I must say, you do seem to have got yourself into something of a pickle; falling down the side of a mountain by all accounts.”

   Aragorn frowned. He had no recollection of doing any such thing, but with throbbing aches and stabbing pains coming from every part of him, he could not deny that it was a distinct possibility.

   “I don’t remember,” he said weakly. “How long have I been here?”

   “Only since last night,” said Bilbo, trying his best to sound reassuring. “There was quite a commotion when you were carried in unconscious; everyone running around, this way and that, fetching and carrying. It was lucky the scouts came across you at all, you know.”

   “Do you know what happened?” asked Aragorn. His head was swimming violently now that he was trying to hold a conversation but it troubled him that he had no memory at all of the previous day’s events.

   “Well, it seems there was a land slide of sorts, up in the hills. All this recent rain brought on a rock-fall, or so the Elves are saying. Those who found you said you were quite a way below the path. Lucky really you weren’t killed, what with all those falling boulders crashing about. Quite terrible it must have been.”

   Aragorn closed his eyes and tried not to allow his thoughts to dwell too much on what had obviously been a narrow escape. Life after all was full of such ill chances. All the same, he realised he had been very fortunate.

   At that moment the door opened and Elrond walked in.

   “Oh, Master Elrond, I am so glad you have come,” said Bilbo. he smiled triumphantly at the Elf lord. “See, your patient is awake and has already drunk a little water. I was just beginning to wonder what to do with him next.”

   Elrond’s troubled face broke into a beaming smile at that news. He leant across the bed and placed a hand on Aragorn’s forehead. To his relief there was still no sign of fever. His foster son’s skin now felt comfortably warm and his face had lost its deathly pallor.

   “Welcome home, Estel,” he said, looking at Aragorn critically as he took his hand and felt for his pulse. “You gave us all quite a fright last night, but I’m pleased to see you are faring a little better today. Are you in much pain?”

   “It is bearable,” said Aragorn, not wishing to worry his father any more than he clearly had already. “I can’t remember anything of what happened, but I am sorry for all the trouble I have caused. It sounds as if I should have taken more care. Some of those ledges are unstable at the best of times. It might have been wiser to have taken a different route.” He knew Elrond would have been badly shaken by his being brought home in a coma and he much regretted all the anxiety he had obviously caused him.

   Elrond squeezed his hand. “I hardly think this was your fault, so there is no need to blame yourself. Fortunately I somehow do not think it is your fate to end your days under a landslide. I doubt your memory of the incident will ever return and perhaps that is as well.”

   He had, however, been extremely worried for his foster son. The Elves had heard rumour of trouble in the Trollshaws and scouts had been sent out immediately to investigate. Aragorn had been found unconscious and dangerously cold from exposure. Elrond doubted he would have survived until morning had he not been found.

   “Elrond, exactly how hurt am I?” asked Aragorn. He tried not to betray the fear in his voice, but he was actually in considerable pain and was beginning to fret a little as to what damage he had done to himself.

   “Nothing that rest and time will not heal,” said Elrond with all the reassurance of one who is well versed in such matters.

   He gently brushed the hair out of his son’s eyes with his fingertips, but then his tone changed and he spoke sternly: “You have three broken ribs and I suspect several muscles are severely damaged if not torn. You are very bruised and sore over much of your body and that is to say nothing of the bang on your head. It is only through immense good fortune that you do not appear to be more seriously injured than you are. It is to be hoped that you might perhaps begin to feel a little better in a few days; however, on no account are you to get out of this bed until I have given you permission to do so. Is that understood?”

   Aragorn nodded, not daring to disagree. He might be over seventy but Elrond could still make him feel like a little boy again when he adopted that tone. Then Elrond’s face softened and he smiled at him, saying: “I think perhaps I ought to get you something for that pain now; don’t you?”

   Aragorn managed to look slightly abashed at being caught out, but in truth he enjoyed being fussed over by Elrond. He felt safe and cherished in a way that, of late, he only ever felt when he was home again and under the care of the Elves.

   Elrond then turned to Bilbo who had been hovering close by.

   “Would you mind sitting with Estel for a little while longer, Bilbo, while I go and prepare a draught for him?”

   “Of course not, Elrond, it would be a pleasure,” said Bilbo, glad to still be of some use. He was becoming quite curious about this unexpected guest.

   When Elrond left, the strange-looking man closed his eyes. Bilbo guessed he needed to rest, so, with nothing else to do, he picked up his book and once again climbed up onto his chair, turning his attention back to the text. He had barely found his page again when a voice from the bed disturbed him.

   “What are you reading?”

   Bilbo looked up and saw the man watching him. He smiled his apologies for thinking he had fallen asleep.

   “It is an Elvish tale,” he said, expecting that to be the end of the conversation.

   “Might I ask which one?”

   “If you must know, it’s the Aldudénië’,’ said Bilbo. “I am trying to render it into the Common Speech. My Quenya is still not yet quite up to the mark, but I am getting better.”

   Aragorn was surprised. He had automatically addressed the hobbit in Westron and he had replied in kind. He knew of no other halflings who spoke even a few words of Sindarin, let alone Quenya. Certainly he had never come across any in Bree. But then he remembered that this was no ordinary hobbit.

   “It is a demanding poem,” said Aragorn sympathetically, “I remember struggling with it as a child.”

   Now it was Bilbo’s turn to be surprised. Apart from the Elves, he had had few dealings with the ‘big folk’ and the only men he had spent any time with were those from far away in Laketown and that had been many years ago. He had never heard them converse in anything but the Common Speech. But this man was obviously not from there. He was most likely a Ranger from the look of him. Bilbo had encountered one or two of these dour men when his journeys in the Shire had taken him close to the borders. They never had much to say and Bilbo, like everyone else in the Shire, was suspicious of them and not a little afraid too.

   “You read this as a child?” he asked, hoping some more information might solve this riddle.

   “Yes I did,” said Aragorn, “I seem to remember having to translate it from Quenya to Sindarin. It took me weeks as I recall. But I imagine creating a text in the Common Speech would be even more difficult.”

   “Well I am certainly finding it hard going, I must admit.”

   Aragorn shifted awkwardly on the bed as he tried to relieve the pain that persistently coursed through him. He knew he ought to be resting but he was too intrigued by his extraordinary attendant to let the conversation drop.

   “Then perhaps, Mister Baggins, I might be of assistance to you. It would seem I shall be remaining at Imladris for a while yet and I would gladly aid you in your task when I am well enough.”

   Bilbo considered this offer and found he was actually quite pleased with his suggestion. He often became stuck on a word or phrase and hated to pester the Elves too often for answers. They were all very kind to him in Rivendell, but sometimes he found living among the Firstborn a little overwhelming. They were all such great lords and so impossibly ancient, to say nothing of being extremely tall.  Perhaps this scruffy man, who it appeared could read two Elvish languages, might be the ideal person to help him. He seemed approachable enough and, while he was confined to his bed, he had nothing better to do. And in that position Bilbo would, at least for a while, have someone to talk to at his own level. 

   “I should be most appreciative of your assistance,” he said, grinning happily at the Ranger. “There are so many fascinating books and manuscripts in Master Elrond’s library that I hardly know where to begin.”

   They were then interrupted by Elrond bringing the draught for Aragorn who grimaced when he smelt the evil looking concoction his father had prepared for him. However he gulped it down dutifully. Elrond then released Bilbo from his vigil.

   “You have been a great help, Bilbo, but I need to sit with my patient myself for a while now,” he said.

   “Of course, Master Elrond,” said Bilbo, “but please ask me again, any time. I was quite beginning to enjoy our conversation.”

   “I am glad to hear it, and I shall be grateful for your assistance again very shortly,” said Elrond smiling at him. Bilbo picked up his book and turned to leave.

   “I will pop in again later then,” he said. “It’s been most interesting to meet you, Mister Aragorn, I’m sure.”

   “The pleasure has been all mine, and thank you,” said Aragorn.

   After Bilbo had gone, Elrond turned his attention to Aragorn’s injuries. He pulled the blankets back and frowned at what he saw. The mass of bruising on his son’s chest and abdomen had spread beyond the bandages and now discoloured much of his body. With the gentlest brush of his fingers, he traced the worst blackened patches, but as he did so, he was aware of Aragorn tensing at even this slight touch. He decided not to investigate further at the moment and instead he checked the many cuts and scrapes on Aragorn’s arms and legs. The previous night, it had been a long and difficult task removing all the dirt and grit from his wounds. He still looked terribly sore, but at least the cuts were clean.

   Satisfied there was nothing more to be done for now, Elrond retied the bandages and, pulling the bed clothes up to his chin, he told his son to rest. But Aragorn no longer felt particularly sleepy. Now that the draught was beginning to take effect and his pain was easing, his mind was turning to other matters.

   “How long has Bilbo been living here?” he asked. Gandalf had told him the hobbit had left the Shire and gone north to Erebor to visit the Dwarves, but was possibly intending to settle in Rivendell when he tired of travelling. As Aragorn’s mind slowly began to clear, he remembered he had been coming here specifically with the hope of meeting him.

   “It must be nearly six months,” said Elrond. “He seems very at home here now.”

   “It sounds as if he has taken up residence in your library. I had no idea hobbits had such interests.”

   “I think, Estel, you have a lot to learn about this particular hobbit,” said Elrond. “Don’t forget, I first met Bilbo when you were just a lad of ten summers. It was a pity you could not have met him then, but I considered it prudent to keep you hidden from all those Dwarves. By the time he returned here on his way back home, he had changed enormously.”

   Aragorn smiled. “I remember I was very disappointed at having missed such unusual visitors. Do you recall, adar, how suspicious I was for years afterwards whenever Elladan and Elrohir offered to take me on a camping trip? I was quite convinced all manner of exciting people would be coming here in our absence.”

   Elrond laughed as he remembered the fury in Estel’s eyes when he learned that, for the second year running, he had missed meeting a wizard and a hobbit whilst he was away in the woods with his big brothers. “I remember that well, Estel. I don’t think I have ever seen you so livid. I must confess we all found your indignation rather amusing. Unfortunately after that, we felt obliged to tell the story of the dragon and the treasure as often as you requested it, which was very often as I recall.”

   “It was one of my favourite bedtime tales,” said Aragorn, smiling fondly at the memories. “Bilbo certainly greatly influenced my impressions of hobbits. As a boy, I thought they must all be these intrepid, fearless warriors. I have since learned that many men in Bree still see hobbits as only funny, timid little creatures who think of nothing more important than where their next meal is coming from, but, thanks to Bilbo’s story, I know there is much more to them than meets the eye.”

   “Well it looks as if you will have the chance to hear more of that adventure, at least,” said Elrond.

   “I am greatly looking forward to hearing the tale straight from the horse’s mouth as I believe they say in the Shire,” said Aragorn, with a laugh, but the sudden movement caused pain to shoot through his tender chest and he gasped aloud.

   Elrond, who had been sitting in the chair beside the bed, immediately jumped to his feet, most concerned.

   “You really should rest now, my son, and let that draught do its work,” he said. “Then we will see if you are up to eating anything. I’m afraid the blows you took to your head may leave you nauseous for a while yet.”

   Aragorn sighed resignedly. He knew it was dangerous to take liberties with head injuries and, in truth, he was much too sore to contemplate doing anything other than rest for a good while yet.

~oo0oo~

   So he did indeed do as his foster father asked and slept for much of the next few days. His tired body was desperate for some proper rest. When travelling in the wild, he seemed to spend his life in a state of perpetual tiredness, unable to relax from his constant vigilance. It was only on his visits to Rivendell that he could completely drop his guard and indulge in some much needed deep, reviving sleep.

   Bilbo visited Aragorn often and, for the most part, he talked while the man listened. He told him amusing tales and anecdotes of the Shire; light, gentle stories which helped Aragorn take his mind off his troubles. Bilbo was quite fascinated by the Dúnadan, as he soon learned he was frequently called. He found himself strangely drawn to him and not just because he was the only other mortal in Imladris. Something about the man did not quite square with his wild ruffian appearance. He was obviously well known and respected here in Rivendell, and not least by Elrond himself.

   For his part, Aragorn began to look forward to the hobbit’s visits. He was glad Bilbo seemed content to do most of the talking, which made him an undemanding visitor. His tales of the Shire intrigued him enormously. He had spent long years guarding that land but, he realised with regret, had never actually spoken more than a few words to any of its inhabitants before now. Bilbo was an excellent story-teller and Aragorn delighted in hearing the simple but heart-warming tales he told so well.

~oo0oo~

   After a few days, Aragorn was allowed out of bed to sit on the balcony outside his window; a site which provided spectacular views across the whole valley. It was late in the year, but for a few hours each day, the weak winter sunshine was strong enough for him to sit outside and benefit from the sun’s warming rays without risk of a chill. The fresh air and the intoxicating fragrance that was uniquely Rivendell raised his spirits enormously and helped him shake off his sick bed stupor. His skin was a patchwork of black and purple bruises, but he was not as sore as he had been and he had learned how to breathe without disturbing his ribs more than necessary. His head still throbbed and he had a lump on the back of it the size of a goose egg but, for all that, he was enjoying being home and the constant care and attention being lavished upon him was something of a rare treat.

   On his mind however was his main reason for coming to Rivendell and a few days later he decided to broach the matter with Bilbo. He had seen more of the hobbit in the last day or so as he began to recover further. Bilbo had begun to bring his texts to Aragorn’s room and Aragorn tried to translate the occasional word Bilbo did not recognise or explain some point of interest about the Noldor or the Valar.

   That afternoon Aragorn had been home about a week and was feeling considerably better as his headache had gone at last. Bilbo had joined him on his balcony for a discreet smoke. The hobbit had been delighted to discover that the Ranger had a passion for pipeweed. Aragorn knew Elrond would be furious with him if he found out that Bilbo had been secretly supplying him with leaf, but the conspiracy made him feel young again even if he did pay for his foolishness when the smoke made him cough and the pain seared his ribs.

   As he and Bilbo sat side by side blowing smoke rings, Aragorn decided to launch straight into the matter he needed to discuss with him.

   “Bilbo, I need to speak to you about Gollum.” The abruptness of this statement caused Bilbo to cough and splutter in surprise.

  “Gollum?” he asked in alarm. “Whatever do you know about Gollum?”

  “Not enough it would seem,” said Aragorn. “I need your help to find him.”

  “Find him?” screeched Bilbo. “Why in the world would anyone want to find that miserable creature?”

  “Do not be alarmed,” said Aragorn, “but I believe it could be important that he is found. I know something of your adventure with the Dwarves from Gandalf as well as from what Elrond has told me, but it is your encounter with Gollum that I am most interested to hear about.”

   “I didn’t realise you knew Gandalf,” said Bilbo almost accusingly. He wondered what other business of his the wizard had told the man.

   “I have known Gandalf a very long time, though not as long as you have,” said Aragorn with a gentle smile. “A couple of years ago, he came to me asking for my help.” Bilbo’s eyes widened at that. Gandalf was the most resourceful person he knew and he wondered what help this man could possibly be to him. Then with an uneasy sense of foreboding he remembered his magic ring that had once belonged to Gollum.

   “This has something to do with my old ring; doesn’t it?” he asked.

   “Yes, I am very much afraid it does,” said Aragorn. “Gandalf has his suspicions about the nature and origins of that ring. I will not go into details now, but if he is proved right, the consequences for all of us could be very terrible.”

   Bilbo was shocked.

   “In what way?” he asked. He had been much attached to his ring and very reluctant to let it go. It was extremely beautiful and jolly handy for evading the likes of the Sackville-Bagginses, but it was hard to think of anything sinister surrounding it.

   “I can not say yet,” said Aragorn. “But it would be helpful to know how Gollum came by it. Also there is no knowing what trouble he might cause, especially if he ended up in the wrong company.”

   “What sort of trouble?” cried Bilbo, immediately thinking of his nephew. “Frodo! He has the ring now! Gandalf was very keen that I should pass it on to him. But is he in danger? Aragorn, you must tell me.”

   “You are getting ahead of yourself,” said Aragorn soothingly in an attempt to calm him. “The Shire is not as vulnerable as you may think. It is guarded night and day, and, at Gandalf’s request, I have doubled the number of Rangers watching it. Frodo will be safe enough.”

   “What guard on the Shire and what do you mean, you have doubled it?” Bilbo was becoming quite flustered at the turn of the conversation.

   Aragorn decided it was time to offer some explanations.

   “My kinsmen and I have long guarded the Shire from the many evil things that walk in the wilds. I know this surprises you,” he said at the look of wonder on Bilbo’s face. “And I do not expect you to know of this for we keep our movements secret from all except the Elves. In this way we have protected the little folk for many years and gladly have we done so.”

   Bilbo was quite speechless for a moment, but as he thought about it he realised it had to be. He alone of all the inhabitants of the Shire had travelled far and wide. He had a fairly sure grasp of what sort of evil creatures existed out there beyond the borders of their land. And odd though it seemed, he could understand the Rangers desire to do this task without the knowledge of the Shire’s inhabitants. Knowing little of the dangers beyond their cosy world, they would either not believe the necessity of a guard beyond that provided by their own Bounders or would worry themselves silly over the potential troubles, real and imagined. But it still came as something of a shock to Bilbo to discover that the happy, carefree existence they all enjoyed in the Shire was not theirs by right, but by courtesy of the vigilance of these strange men.

   “Well, I suppose I should offer you my gratitude,” said Bilbo, not feeling particularly grateful. “You are quite right; I had no idea. Tell me though; you said you doubled the guard. Am I to take it then that you are their leader?”

   “I am their chieftain.”

   “Oh!” Bilbo was both amazed and yet not by this revelation. It explained many of the anomalies about the man, but at the same time he could not help but wonder what sort of downtrodden people he led if he was their top man.

   Aragorn smiled, as if guessing his thoughts.

   “I do not much look like a leader of anything, I know,” he said. “If you like, I will tell you all about myself, if it will help you to trust me. But do not be too concerned for the Shire at the moment. Neither Gandalf nor I would see any harm come to its inhabitants. I’m sure your nephew will be quite safe. I would prefer it though if this creature was found. I would like to know how he came by the ring. You are the only person who has seen him, so anything you can tell me about your encounter with him could be of interest. Gandalf and I have already searched the area where you and the Dwarves were captured, in case he had returned to his old haunts, but the mine tunnels under the Mountain were deserted. We found no clues as to where he may have gone, but after sixty years that is not to be marvelled at. I would be grateful for anything you can tell me of him, Bilbo.”

   “I’m not at all sure I can tell you anything that will be a help, but here goes,” said Bilbo, taking a deep breath. He then told his tale from when he awoke, lost and alone, in a mine under the Misty Mountains, having somehow escaped from the orcs, and how, by chance, he came across his gold ring. He told of how he found the strange underground lake where Gollum lived on his little island and of their bizarre riddle contest which Bilbo won, and how, when Gollum failed to give him a prize, he instead showed him the way out of the labyrinth of tunnels that ran under the mountain.

   But now, unaccountably, Bilbo could no longer meet the Ranger’s gaze and he began to look decidedly uncomfortable. Aragorn noticed the change in the hobbit and wondered at its meaning, but made no comment. He listened carefully as Bilbo went on to describe Gollum in detail. He did not sound a very dangerous creature, being small and hobbit-like, though Aragorn knew better than to judge such things at face value.

   “That really is all I can tell you,” said Bilbo, coming to the end of his tale. “I am not surprised he left the orc tunnels. Without his ring he would be very vulnerable and I imagine he got out as soon as he could. As you say, that was sixty years ago. He could be anywhere by now.”

   “Yes he could, but thank you, Bilbo, for telling me all that,” said Aragorn. “We have so little to go on that every detail could be useful. As soon as I am able I will meet with Gandalf again and we will decide how best to resume our search.”

   Aragorn started to shift his blankets as if making to move back inside to his bedroom.

   “Aren’t you forgetting something?” said Bilbo, causing the Ranger to pause and look at him questioningly. “I have told you my tale, now I want to hear yours.”

   Aragorn groaned involuntarily.

   “Unless you are too tired of course,” said Bilbo quickly. “We could always save it for another day.”

   “Another time would be better if you do not mind,” said Aragorn. “Forgive me, Bilbo, but I am too tired now.”

   “Of course, there is no rush,” said Bilbo, jumping up to take the Ranger’s arm and steady him as he tentatively made his way back to bed.

~oo0oo~

   The next day was bitterly cold and Aragorn could not sit out on his balcony. Instead, with the aid of a stick that Erestor had found for him when Elrond pronounced him fit enough to take short walks within the house, he set off to potter slowly down the long corridors of the Last Homely House. His legs felt shaky and inadequate for the task after a week in bed and his chest complained at the activity, but he stubbornly persevered. He was not heading anywhere in particular, but he soon found himself in the kitchens, drawn without thought by the aroma of freshly baked bread. The cook was delighted to see him and fussed over him as he always had done since he was a boy. He chastised him for being too thin and made sure he did not leave until he had been suitably fed on several of his favourite pastries.

  Aragorn then resumed his tour of the house, vaguely wandering back to his room, but by a different route which took him past his father’s library. He was beginning to feel a little bored now with lying in bed and wanted to find something to read. The door was ajar and, as he approached, he could hear muttering coming from inside the room. He smiled as he recognized the voice. On entering he found the hobbit sitting at a table, pouring over a large tome while simultaneously frantically scribbling notes.

   He decided to retreat and leave Bilbo to his work, but the hobbit’s sharp ears picked up the rap of the stick on the stone floor.

   “Ah, Aragorn,” said Bilbo, looking up from his work. “I am so pleased you are up and about. You can help me with my latest project.”

   Aragorn smiled and came and sat beside him, lifting the cover of the book to see what he was reading.

   “The ‘Akallabêth’?” he said, surprised. “What happened to the ‘Aldudénië’? Did you finish it?”

   “I did indeed,” said Bilbo who obviously felt very pleased with himself for having done so. “What a tale that is too! And what a nasty piece of work that Melkor was! The Elves have certainly had their troubles, though I don’t mind saying, this Sauron in the ‘Akallabêth’ seems almost as bad. What a most dreadful sort of ruffian!”

   Aragorn laughed; only a hobbit could talk in such terms of the two most evil and feared beings in the whole history of Middle-earth.

   “And how are you finding the ‘Akallabêth’?” he asked. “‘The Downfall of Númenor’ is a tragic lesson to us all, is it not?”

   “It is a quite frightening tale really, I think,” said Bilbo. “Who after all would imagine that a whole island could just disappear under the waves like that; quite extraordinary, a whole race of people wiped out because of their disobedience. And yet it wasn’t really their fault, I don’t think; they were so egged on by Sauron and he, curse him, survived.”

   “He did unfortunately,” said Aragorn. “But not all the Númenoreans were deceived by Sauron and some of them survived the drowning of Númenor. Elendil, who wrote this tale, and both his sons, Isildur and Anárion, together with many of their people, were all able to sail to safety in Middle-earth.”

   “Yes, ‘The Faithful’ as I understand they were called,” said Bilbo. “Great Men they must have been to resist Sauron and remain true to the Valar the way they did. And to think they then came to Middle-earth and established their kingdoms here. It is such a tragedy the line of kings died out. We could do with some men like them now to stand against the Power rising in the East.”

   Aragorn hesitated before speaking up at this obvious opening for him to reveal his true nature. He had after all promised to tell Bilbo all about himself, but now, before he had even spoken, Bilbo had virtually voiced the expectations that would inevitably be laid upon him once he revealed who he was. And if he failed to deliver, Bilbo would be one more person for him to disappoint. However he now thought of the hobbit as a friend and knew he could not continue this conversation without telling him the truth.

   “Bilbo, the line of kings may have ended, but the line of Elendil still endures; it has survived from father to son through many generations.  The descendents of the Númenóreans have not completely died out either; there are still a few of us left, although we are now a secret, wandering people; the days of our glory long gone. The Dúnedain we are called, the ‘Men of the West’.”

   “Your people were originally from Númenor; the descendents of the Faithful?” asked Bilbo in wonder.

    Aragorn nodded.

    Of course, now that he thought on it, it was obvious. The strange men that guarded the Shire and roamed the wilds were not like other men. They looked different for one thing; they were taller and their faces were fairer. And perhaps they were not quite the ruffians they were widely believed to be if they were still selflessly protecting the innocent even though their kingdom had long since been destroyed.

   “And what of Elendil’s heirs; you say his line has survived, then just who are his descendents?” said Bilbo, but even as he asked the question, the answer came to him.

   “You! You are the chieftain! It has to be you!” Bilbo jumped up from his seat in his excitement. Aragorn smiled and nodded again.

   “Well of all the amazing unlooked for revelations, this has to take the biscuit. I knew there was something odd about you.”

   Aragorn laughed. “I don’t think I would have put it quite like that.”

   “But come now,” said Bilbo, suddenly intrigued. “You must tell your tale. I want to hear all about you. For one thing, what are you doing going about like some ragged down and out?”

   So Aragorn told his tale. He told of the death of his father and his upbringing in Imladris; he told of his time serving as a soldier in Rohan and Gondor, and of his many journeys throughout Middle-earth. He told of his most recent years leading the Dúnedain and of his lonely life as a Ranger. Bilbo was such an interested and sympathetic listener that he even found himself telling him of his visit, now over twenty years ago, to Lothlórien and his engagement to Arwen. He then could not help but tell of the condition Elrond had placed upon their marriage and his ongoing struggle to fulfil it.

   Bilbo listened in wonder at the tale he was hearing and found himself deeply moved by the man telling it. When Aragorn finished, Bilbo was silent for a moment and then he reached over and took his hand in his.

   “My dear Aragorn, what a life you have led,” he said quietly, “and it seems you still have a long road ahead of you. I take my hat off to you, I really do. Yours is not an easy path by any means. I do not envy you one bit, but I want you to know you have another friend in Rivendell now and anything I can do to help, well, you only have to ask.”

   Aragorn was enormously touched by Bilbo’s offer and thanked him sincerely. His heart was easier now that he had told him the truth and his burden felt no heavier as Bilbo had not, after all, placed any expectations upon him. He still looked upon him as just his friend, nothing more.

   All the talk however had tired him considerably and he was very glad of Bilbo’s shoulder to rest a hand upon on as he made his way back to his room.

~oo0oo~

   A couple of weeks later, Aragorn felt well and truly on the mend and started preparing to take up his life on the road again. To regain his fitness, he went riding with Elladan and Elrohir, and he sparred daily with Glorfindel. At last Elrond pronounced him fit to leave, but the weather then suddenly turned wintry and blizzards meant the path out of Rivendell was blocked. Bilbo was thrilled as it meant Aragorn was available for a while longer to help him with his translation of the ‘Narn i Hin Húrin’.

   The Dúnedain festival of Mettarë came and went. It was always celebrated by the Elves of Imladris when one of the Heirs of Isildur was in residence, but this year was Bilbo’s first experience of the feasts that marked the winter solstice and the start of the New Year as the Dúnedain accorded it in the King’s Reckoning. The food was a wonder, even for a hobbit, and the festivities such a joy that Bilbo at last felt he well and truly belonged in his new home.

   Eventually, two weeks after Mettarë, the snows thawed and Aragorn could delay his departure no longer. Having made up his mind to go, he decided to set out the very next morning. Much as he yearned to stay longer, he knew leaving would only become harder the more he postponed it. As it was, he still dreaded taking that first step that would set him on his way out into the wilds again where hardship and danger were his constant companions. He would head south to Sarn Ford and meet with the Rangers there. Hopefully they would have received some word of Gandalf. Once he had found him, he expected they would travel east together to continue their search for Gollum. It was going to be a bleak time tracking the elusive creature in the coming winter months. He really felt they had little hope of success.

   That evening the cook prepared one of his favourite meals in his honour and, by the time everyone retired to the Hall of Fire, Aragorn felt very sated and soporific. He struggled to stay awake as the Elves settled down to an evening of music-making. Soon the air was filled with the sound of their beautiful, clear singing voices and the strumming of their delicate harps and lyres.

   However Bilbo was sitting excitedly in a corner all by himself. He had decided to honour Aragorn in his own way and wished to use his departure as an opportunity to unveil the poem he had felt compelled to write about him. When there was a lull in the singing, Bilbo seized the moment. Jumping up on to a chair, he cleared his throat and addressed the gathering as loudly and clearly as he could.

   “May I have the attention of all of you,” he said. It took a few moments but eventually a hush descended. “I have written a little poem that I would like to present to you all tonight seeing as Aragorn is leaving us in the morning. I hope the sentiment expressed in it will cheer and encourage him somewhat as he returns to the life he must lead.”

   Elrond, sitting beside Aragorn, nudged his son to ensure he was awake and everyone waited expectantly for Bilbo to begin.

   “All that is gold does not glitter,

   Not all those who wander are lost;

   The old that is strong does not wither,

   Deep roots are not reached by the frost.

   From the ashes a fire shall be woken,

   A light from the shadows shall spring;

   Renewed shall be blade that was broken,

   The crownless again shall be king.” [2]

   As Bilbo finished, the Elves voiced their approval and Aragorn was nearly moved to tears. No one had written a poem about him before. And this one had such confidence in his success. So Bilbo had placed his expectations upon him after all, but he found, to his surprise, that they inspired and comforted him rather than burdened him. He rose from his seat and crossed the hall to embrace his friend and thank him.

   “Did you like it? Oh I hoped you would!” beamed Bilbo. “It describes you to a tee, doesn’t it? You won’t ever forget, will you, Aragorn, when you are out there all alone in the wilds, that you are never truly alone; there are those who care about you, and who love you.”

   Aragorn felt he could hardly speak for the emotion choking him. “Thank you, Bilbo, I shall try to remember that and now I have your poem to remind me. Will you recite it for me again before I leave so I can commit it to memory?”

   “Of course I will. But first though, if you don’t mind, I’d like to give you a bit of advice. You never can tell when good advice will come in handy,” said Bilbo. “We have a saying in the Shire which I very much doubt you’ll have heard before; I may even have been instrumental in introducing it, come to think of it. Remember, Aragorn, never laugh at live dragons [1]. I was one of the lucky ones who did just that and lived to tell the tale. Most wouldn’t get the chance to make that mistake twice.”

   Aragorn roared with laugher. “A most useful piece of advice that I will be sure to remember should I ever have the misfortune to stumble across any.” He marvelled at the funny little hobbit smiling up at him, with his round, cheerful face. He was the most unlikely looking hero he had ever met; no one would ever guess there was such a great heart beating within that small frame.

   “It’s been a pleasure to meet you, Bilbo Baggins, it really has; I’m going to miss you very much, very much indeed.”

~oo0oo~

   ‘I made that up myself,’ Bilbo whispered to Frodo, ‘for the Dúnadan, a long time ago when he first told me about himself.’

‘The Council of Elrond’                                                           ‘The Fellowship of the Ring’  

[1]  Inside Information                                                                                  The Hobbit

[2] Strider                                                                                   The Fellowship of the Ring