His youngest child to Bóurr son of Bíld of Erebor, greetings.
I apologize, beloved father, for taking so long in the writing of this second letter even when I realized, after the company bearing the first had already set off, that upon delivering it they would like begin speaking to you of “your son Bíld” without you having received the slightest explanation.
I am sorry. I am much given to rashness, especially of late.
Bíld’s is the name I give out of mountain. I hope you do not take offense, for I use it in the opposite of disrespect and flippancy. I cannot explain you my reasons yet, not in full, but I can say it is done with reverence, pride, and love, the same as when I call myself “son of Bóurr”, child of the very best and kindest father in all the Lonely Mountain.
That at least I must explain — yet I do not know if I can, having written and rewritten this in the attempt. Of course I style myself male to strange Men I meet without, as is traditional and proper, and the same to Dwarves when in mixed company, though it be impossible to disguise my features. But I have — I am sorry the explanation is so poor, but I know not how else to say it — a mania for being addressed as “sir” and as “Master”, not only by strangers but by our own kin. The first I was called by masculine suffixes in the sacred tongue I wept for joy.
Never have I been properly gold-drunk, but I have no other metaphor to use for this wedding of giddiness and greed — as for all the pleasure it gives me, satisfaction never comes alongside, and the more I indulge the compulsion the more I am compelled. Yet neither can it be stifled, which has been my project these past thirty years. It is a queer affliction, and though I have perhaps some idea of its provenance, I can explain nothing with certainty.
Yet despite its queerness, I have found it is not a singular madness at all — and not only that there are others who are like me, but, too, that they we are astonishingly numerous. Through them and the wisdom of a learned healer I have discovered that not uncommonly are people this way, the cause of it is not known, and there is neither a cure nor a need for one in order to master a craft and live a rich life.
I am still afraid of what you will think. I afraid Mother will consider it impossible because I wear a dress and tiara so well. But — as much as my current circumstances require me to disguise and conceal myself — it is not this garb that is the costume, but the dress and the tiara that was.
I am afraid you will be ashamed of me. I am afraid that on my return to the Mountain I will bring you disrepute and dishonor. But more than anything I am afraid that you will blame yourself for doing wrong somehow in my rearing, for failing to spot my suffering, or for in any way contributing to it. It is for this fear above all that I have held my tongue, for I love you, and Mother, Blovurr, Maurr, and Seimurr, more than all the treasures of the earth, and I near cannot bear the thought of bringing you pain.
But it is clear now that it is inevitable, so I must face it squarely.
I must decide, too, the shape of my future. I promise you to return, but even if I have in many ways a lady’s disposition, I do not know if I can bear to live under mountain the rest of my days. I have wondered if it is my destiny to become a merchant and wander on roads that let me indulge my peculiar fixation, though I do not know if I would be so allowed without a male protector, either Blovurr or Seimurr or a husband who would have me despite and in any case if I were really to make trade my calling I would have to change my spendthrift ways. I suppose puzzling out this question ought to be the real purpose of my westward jaunt, and I promise you to give it much serious thought.
My thoughts are very often of you and your health. As no Raven has yet arrived with a summons, you must still be bearing things stoically. I know no Dwarf stronger than you, Father, and to speak your name or recollect your deeds fills me with pride; yet even for the strongest, it cannot be easy. Know that wherever I may go, you travel as well, inside the vessel of my heart.
Troublesome, disobedient, and full to bursting with love,
Your child,
Blída.
