Gold
Even in Rivendell, snow sometimes fell. For weeks, Bilbo had seldom ventured outside. He dozed whole days away, musing on the words of songs not yet written. Whenever a door opened, it bought with it a rush of cold air and a flurry of powdery snow. The firelight painted pictures, and the music of the elves swept him away into dreams.
"Not the season for travelling," he murmured in a gap between songs, "just for resting indoors."
They were strange, those dreams. He was sailing into the west, beneath a field of stars. He was crawling in the dark, seeking something he had lost, something precious to him. He saw two slender elves dressed for war, but maybe there was just one of them reflected in a mirror, because they were so alike.
People came and went. An elf maiden carried a vase of red berries and filigree seed cases, as delicate as lace. Bilbo stood at the top of a mountain and surveyed the world at his feet. He was opening his own front door, heading out with Frodo at his side. The Dunadan was there, ragged and weatherworn and wrapped in fur. Another man was with him, very like him, but not so tall. Aragorn appeared to be giving him orders, but Bilbo could not hear what was said. The man bowed his head at the end of it, and pressed his fist against his chest. He wore a brooch there, like a silver star.
Bilbo watched through half-closed lashes. This much, at least, was not a dream, he thought.
He struggled awake. The door opened, bringing in the usual blast of icy air. The other man left, but the Dunadan was approaching Bilbo, his footsteps soft on the cold stone floor.
"Who was that man?" Dreams still clung to him. "Did he bow to you?"
"One of my people," said Aragorn with a smile, "come here to seek advice."
"And now he's gone again?" Bilbo shivered. "In this weather! Some animals sleep through the winter, you know. I always used to think they were so silly." His voice was faint and wondering. He rubbed his eyes with the back of a fist, first one and then the other. "But you've been travelling, too, I can see that."
In truth, the Dunadan looked quite as villainous as Bilbo had ever seen him. Wherever he had been, the journey had clearly been hard, and it had left its mark. His furs looked warm, but as the snow melted, they turned damp and ragged. "Like an smelly old wet bear," Bilbo thought.
"Not as bad as that, I hope," the Dunadan laughed.
"Oh, I hadn't meant to…" To say it out loud. He wiped his eyes again, and yawned into his hand. "I'm still half asleep. It's easy to sleep here; easy to dream. I've been writing a lot, you know. I spent most of last year busy with it. Not the book I meant to write, but other things. 'Translations from the Elvish, by Bilbo Baggins.' That's what I'm calling it. When I've finished it, I'll travel again."
Aragorn took off his furry cape and placed it carefully in a corner, where it could steam and smell to its heart's content. His clothes underneath were, if anything, even more tatty. The back of one hand was dark with old bruises, and his lips were chapped and dry.
"Of course," said Bilbo, "there's so much Elvish here in Rivendell to translate that I could keep going forever. Master Elrond lets me read his books, or some of them, because some are too ancient and precious. They were written before the world was changed. And even if I wanted to, I couldn't travel to the places described in those tales, because they're gone, lost under the waves."
"Many places are," said Aragorn gravely, "but not all."
"Numenor is," said Bilbo. "I've been reading about Numenor a lot, and the sea kings that came from there, and the kingdoms that they founded here in Middle Earth. Master Elrond has a special interest in them, you know, because of his brother… but I expect you know that; of course you do." But Aragorn was no longer looking at him. His eyes were distant, and firelight played upon his face. It shone on the pillars, too, where pearl and silver traced the patterns of the stars. "I've been thinking about names, too," Bilbo said, "and what they mean in Elvish. I think," he said, "I have an idea," he said, "of what your name," he said, "might mean."
Aragorn said nothing. Traps again, Bilbo thought. Of course. Come on, Bilbo. Change the subject. Why should he tell you? You've only met… how many times? That first time, of course, and then the second, and several more after that, and that makes…
"I can't remember how long I've been living here," Bilbo confessed. "Is this the third winter, or the fourth? Time passes so strangely here. I always knew that Rivendell was a special place, but I've read more now, and listened to even much more than that. It's not just a special place; it's the last place. It holds all the echoes of the world that is gone. The Last Homely House East of the Sea. I thought that meant that when you walked on past it, you were in the wilds, but it means last, too; last in time."
"Not quite," said Aragorn softly. He sat down, leaning back against the pillar on its shadowed side.
"Tell me about them," Bilbo begged. "Not about the places that are gone, but those that still remain. Paint me one of your pictures. Tell me where you've been."
"Very well," Aragorn said. "In the spring…" He let out a breath. Apart from that, he was completely still. "It was dawn in late spring. I stood on rich farmland, covered with vineyards and orchards and pale pink blossom. There was a tall mountain in the west, grey in the morning mist, and cut into the mountainside, there was a great city."
"Cut?" Bilbo said. "Like the cities of the dwarves?"
Aragorn shook his head. "Not underground, no. Great circular walls of stone surrounded the shoulder of the mountain, which thrust out like the keel of a ship."
"The elves have told me about ships," Bilbo murmured, "but I have never seen one. They seem sad when they tell me about them."
"Like a stone knife, then," said Aragorn, "but the walls were built around it, in seven circular tiers, each one higher than the last, and at the top, there was a mighty tower. Even in the mists of early dawn, it gleamed, but as I watched, the sun rose in the east. It touched the pinnacle of the tower first, and then the walls…"
Bilbo clapped his hands together. "And they shone like gold!"
"Not gold," said Aragorn, "for these walls seldom shine. It was soft light, like a maiden's blush. They are made of enduring stone, not jewels. This was Minas Anor once, the Tower of the Setting Sun, and it was fashioned by men who were born in Numenor before the fall. But now it is Minas Tirith, the Tower of Guard, and seldom now does the sun rise in the east. Its walls are strong and white and turned towards war. It guards the realm of Gondor from the Shadow in the East."
"And you were there in the spring," Bilbo said.
"Not this spring." Aragorn shook his head. "It was long ago that I last saw Minas Tirith. I… I am sorry, Bilbo. I broke the rules of the game. Somewhere I have travelled to since our last meeting; that is what it is meant to be, is it not?"
"Oh," said Bilbo. "Oh, no. It doesn't matter. Truly it doesn't." You fool, Bilbo Baggins, he berated himself. Now you've gone and made him sad. He sought around for something merry to say, but nothing came to mind.
But then Aragorn was speaking again. "You are right," he said, "in what you suspect. I am Chieftain of the Dunedain of the North, descended through many fathers from Isildur, son of Elendil, High King of Arnor and Gondor."
Bilbo had clapped his hands together with joy when he had first suspected it, but now that it was confirmed, he felt strangely sad. "When the King returns…" he said. "That's what we still say in the Shire, meaning some future time when everything will be well."
Aragorn gave a quick breath of a laugh. "And also meaning a future time that will never come. I know your Shire proverbs, Master Baggins."
"But it might," Bilbo said. "It might."
"It might," Aragorn agreed. His face was still in shadow, hidden more deeply than it had been in the moonlight of their first meeting. "It was foreseen that a time will come when I will be put to the test. One way or the other, the wandering life of my people will come to an end, but whether it is because we fall into the darkness and are forgotten even by those few who now remember us, or whether we will step forth into the light, I do not know."
"Oh, the light!" said Bilbo. "The light!"
Aragorn turned his face towards him, and gave a sad smile. "I wish I had your faith."
"But you won't be forgotten," Bilbo vowed, "even if… those bad things happen, which they won't. Oh, the songs that people should be singing about you: the lost heirs of kings, tramping around looking like vagabonds, helping people, killing goblins that creep too near to foolish sleeping hobbits…"
"There are no songs," said Aragorn, "or none that any but the Dunedain sing."
"But there should be," Bilbo insisted.
And afterwards, after Aragorn had headed out once more into the snow, to resume his solitary wandering, Bilbo picked up his pen. He thought of Minas Tirith, that had been built by ancient kings from across the sea, and still endured, although it seldom shone. Not gold, Aragorn had said. Not gold, because it did not gleam.
And then he thought of a man who wandered through the snows of winter, in lands that he should rightly rule as king. He thought of a friend who brought tales to an old hobbit, without pausing to see to his own comfort first.
He started to write, and the words came easily to him, as the truest verses always did.
All that is gold does not glitter
Not all those who wander are lost…