Black rocks
The path zigzagged up the sheer valley side, shaded by trees and high walls of stone. Bilbo paused for breath, resting his hand against the mossy surface of the rock. Small fronds of fern brushed his fingers. "I don't think," he gasped, "that I'm quite as sturdy... as I used to be."
It was late summer, but even here, there were places where sunlight dappled. He could no longer hear the sound of running water. Trees lower down the valley hid the roofs of Rivendell, but very faint and far away, he could still catch the echo of a song.
He pushed himself away from the rock, and continued to climb. "Not far now," he said, because at the top was heather moorland, purple as far as the eye could see, and beyond that mountains, and the river, and the distant sea.
When he reached the top, he threw himself down, and lay for a while on his back, gazing up at the sky. His face prickled with sweat. A bee came over to investigate him, buzzing around his face. "Go away, bumblebee," he murmured, "dumbledore, humblebee."
He rolled onto his stomach, then scrambled awkwardly into a sitting position. "Not as easy as it used to be," he said. "I think I'm getting old."
He hadn't felt old, not really, before he had left the Shire. He had felt restless and wrong and stretched too thin, but seldom old.
"But I've still got plenty of years in me," he said cheeringly. "One day I'll find somewhere nice where I can rest, but there's still time to travel to oh so many places."
Beyond the heather, the mountains were grey. Clouds clung to the highest peaks.
"But not today," he said, and closed his eyes, and turned away.
When he opened them, a tall elf was approaching across the moorland, heading towards Rivendell on foot. "At least," said Bilbo, "I think it's an elf, because who else is it likely to be?" He decided to stay where he was, in case the elf had news he was willing to share, or songs and stories that he was willing to tell.
It was only when the traveller was almost upon him that Bilbo realised that it was a man. Men were altogether more chancy than elves. But even though the moorland looked wild, it was well within the Elrond's realm, and the hidden watchers at the bounds had allowed this man to pass, so that meant there was no danger in him.
Bilbo rose to his feet. The man drew closer still. There was something familiar about his face, Bilbo realised. He frowned at him, struggling to place the memory.
"The Dunadan!" he cried. "Is that you?"
"It is indeed, Master Hobbit." The Dunadan looked less like a statue in the daylight, of course. Sunlight was merciless, showing the sweat on his brow, and the dust of the road that marked the fine lines on his face. But then he smiled, and Bilbo was reminded quite unexpectedly of Elrond in a rare, merry mood.
"I knew I was right to trust you," Bilbo said. "Well, apart from the whole thing when you didn't kill me while I slept. But they wouldn't let you be here unless you were an elf-friend and a good man."
"I am glad you have your approval, Master Hobbit." The man's voice was grave, but his eyes were sparkling, and Bilbo thought that for some strange reason, he really meant it.
"Oh, that won't do," Bilbo said. "You can't go on Master Hobbiting me, not now. Come. Come. Sit down for a bit. Are you going down to Rivendell? We can walk down together in a minute. Oh, but where was I? Names. Yes, names. I am..."
"Bilbo Baggins," said the Dunadan, "unless I am very much mistaken."
"Oh," said Bilbo. "Yes. Yes, I am. How did you know?"
"You are quite a famous hobbit, Master Baggins." The Dunadan settled down beside him. "In truth, I suspected who you were when we met last year, but I could not take the risk of counting upon it. Traps have been set for me before now. Sometimes people chance-met in the wilds are other than they seem."
"Traps." Bilbo swallowed. "That all sounds very... dangerous, and... important. I don't think anybody sets traps for me."
"And let us hope that they never do," the Dunadan said with surprising fervour.
Bilbo shivered, although no cloud had passed in front of the sun. He remembered the malice of Smaug, and although he had long tried to forget it, the hatred of Gollum, shrieking in the dark.
"What a gloomy thought," Bilbo said, "on a lovely day like this. Look at the roofs of Rivendell, sparkling in the sun! You can never feel sad in the House of Elrond, you know; that's what they say." He let out a slow breath. A bird rose up from the valley, wheeled, and flew away to the south.
"Indeed," said the Dunadan quietly. "This was my home once."
Bilbo turned towards him. "You! A man?"
The Dunadan smiled. "I was raised here. When I was a foolish boy of ten years old, the most curious group of travellers came to stay. I stayed up past my bedtime to catch a glimpse of them. Dwarves I had heard of before, and Gandalf I knew from tales, but the last member of the party was new to me. They told me afterwards that he called himself a hobbit."
"That was me!" Bilbo clapped his hands together. He frowned, struggling to remember. So long ago, it seemed; so long! "I don't remember..."
"You would not have seen me," the Dunadan said. "I was kept well away from travellers then." He quirked a half smile. "My mother was quite cross with me that night, I remember."
"Why would she...?" Bilbo tilted his head, considering. "Traps, again, I suppose."
The Dunadan looked at him in surprise. "Your eyes are keen, Master Baggins. I have, perhaps, already said too much, but you are a guest in the House of Elrond, so little harm can come of it. My name is Aragorn son of Arathorn."
"Aragorn." Bilbo smiled. "So now we are properly introduced. What a shame there's no tea! And cake; cake is good for an introduction."
"I have lembas," the Dunadan offered.
"No." Bilbo shook his head. "Lembas is food for the road, and this is..."
He stopped. He sighed. Clouds were rising in the west, soft and white and lovely. Bilbo had been in Rivendell for three quarters of a year.
"Have you travelled?" he found himself saying. "Since I last saw you, I mean. I... meant to. I was going to. I came here just for the winter, but then spring came, and... " He ran his hand through a sprig of heather, until the flowers sat like pink beads between his fingers. "And then the summer, and it's nearly autumn now. Maybe tomorrow. Maybe next week. Maybe next spring."
The Dunadan said nothing.
"Have you travelled, Dunadan?" Bilbo asked urgently. "Aragorn, I mean."
"Dunadan will serve," Aragorn said gently. "Let it remind us of our first meeting, when neither of us could trust each other with names. And, yes, I have travelled."
"Tell me." Bilbo snatched his hand upwards, ripping flowers from the stalk. "I have such pictures in my mind, but they're veiled, always veiled."
Aragorn was silent for a while. "At the start of summer," he said at last, and quietly, "I stood on the edge of a high plateau. It was moorland like this, but the heather was white, and it was speckled all over with yellow flowers, their four petals like a star. Rising from the moorland were stacks of black rock, formed into towering shapes."
Bilbo closed his eyes. "What sort of shapes?"
"Curious ones. Some were like a man, and some you could almost imagine to have the shape of a beast. Some were so slender at the base, that it seemed impossible for them to stand without toppling over, but stand they did. The stone was black, but when sunlight shone on them, as it did, they sparkled, because the black rock was embedded with a myriad tiny crystals."
"Ah," Bilbo breathed. "I can almost see it."
"There were no trees," said Aragorn, "but as I walked, a grey bird rose up from the nearest rocks, and then another and another. For a moment, the sky was dark with them, but then they were gone, and I was alone."
"I want to see it some day." Bilbo pulled his lower lip in with his teeth, chewed it, and let it go. "I will see it one day, or somewhere like it. I will." He opened his eyes, and almost shouted it. "I will, Aragorn. I will."
Aragorn looked at him solemnly, his expression unreadable. "I trust you will," he said. "One way or another, you will."