[A letter in a beautiful, neat, upright hand.]
His youngest child to Bóurr son of Bíld of Erebor, greetings.
This letter comes to you in the hand of a honorable Dwarf who, without so knowing, bled twice for our family. Two centuries ago he came with Náin to Azanulbizar and so saved your life, and many years after that came with Dáin to Erebor and so ensured the mountain remained ours and I, its child, could someday there be born. He is a dwarrow of the best iron who has given me guidance when I was lost. Please receive him with all the honor and warmth he is due, and do not allow him or his companions to leave the halls of Bóurr hungry.
It was your expectation, I am sure, to receive word from Seimurr or perhaps from my own lips. I send you this instead, for Seimurr has elected to stay nearby both to tend his business and to look after me, but still you deserve word as soon as possible so that your hearts may be set somewhere closer to ease.
I am truly sorry for the grief I have caused.
I am hale, wholly uninjured, and well-fed. At present I am staying in Bree-land, my employment in the village of Knotwood. Every night I sleep in safety and every day I am surrounded by friends. And so, though I know that to tell you not to worry would be terrible folly, I hope you will at least not fear for my survival.
I will stay here some time. I cannot yet return.
An explanation is the least I owe you, not just as thanks for the undeserved permission to remain out of the mountain but as the most meager requirement of filial duty. I read your letter full of kindness and love, and Seimurr promises me that your only desire is to understand. Even so, I fear that I cannot explain, for I myself do not wholly understand.
On Bíld's beard I swear — never once was I mistreated in your halls. Never have I suffered from you a single cruelty, and never have I doubted your love, nor that of my mother and brothers. You raised me with forbearance, generosity, and the greatest, greatest love, and no good daughter could wish for anything more than what I have already received.
It can only be, therefore, that as I was unsatisfied, I am not a good daughter.
Every day I think of you with heartache and fondness. I wish I were at your side to hold your hand and soothe your hurts. But I am too much drunk on the open sky; I am a dove who has lived too long in the close air under the mountain and cannot yet return, having at last learned to fly. Never in my life have you made any attempt to stifle me — but still, I live now as I have never lived before. I am myself.
But I will not forever be a wandering prodigal. I will begin my journey home in spring of next year at the latest. Till then I promise to often write, if you promise me not to go to Mandos before hearing me play at least once more.
With gratitude, tears, and pride,
Your child,
Blída.
