The rap on his door startled Bilbo. He had been engrossed in Hildifons' journal again. "Come in," he called, wondering who it could be this morning. The Elves rarely came to his rooms uninvited.

"Good morning, Bilbo!"

"Aragorn! How pleasant to see you! When did you return to Rivendell?"

"I arrived last night, just ahead of the snowstorm."

"Snowstorm?" Bilbo looked out the window. A light powder of snow lent an attractive sparkle to the landscape, but it certainly did not appear that there had been a snowstorm.

"The snowfall was much fiercer outside the Valley, Bilbo. Winter here is never harsh."

"Oh." Bilbo had never been quite certain if the mild and beautiful weather of Imladris was simply due to the location of the Valley, or if it was some hidden Elven magic, but he supposed it did not really matter. "I have missed your company," he said. He had met the Dúnadan only a few weeks after returning to Rivendell, and they had struck up a firm friendship during their brief acquaintance.

Aragorn's eye fell upon the journal in Bilbo's hand. "Ah, I see you found your uncle's book. I used to read that often when I was young."

"Did you really? Did you ever meet him-- or, no, I suppose not..."

"Oh, but I did. I do not remember a lot, for I was very young. I was only two when I first met him, and only six when he died. But I can recall seeing him here from time to time. He was very old by that time, and did not often venture from his rooms. I think sometimes he forgot who I was-- he often called me 'Thorn', which I understand was his name for my father."

"He seemed taken with your father from the first time he met him."

Aragorn smiled. "I think that the feeling was mutual. I have been often told of what dear friends they were."

Bilbo grinned and laid aside the book. "And I hope that I shall be so dear a friend to 'Thorn's' son! Tell me, what have you been doing in the months since I last saw you?"