Bíld son of Bóurr to Bóurr son of Bíld of Erebor greeting, and apology (as ever) for the lateness of this letter.
I confess I have struggled for a long time in the writing of this letter. My first draft was full of cheerful talk about all the new acquaintances and little dramas I have experienced this time in the Valley; then Maurr received the letter from Mother about how you have been faring, and , learning that, I found I lost my spirit for chattering on about such inane topics, and indeed for doing much besides weeping.
But I thought upon it, and spoke to my brother and my sister, and — it was my conclusion and their encouragement that I should still write to you of all that your children west of the Misty Mountains have been doing, for Hróda to read and you to hear. For after all, during these days you must be in want of some distraction, and by providing that perhaps I may be of better use to you than if I used my pen only for transcribing lamentations.
Be heartened, Father-among-fathers, that all of us are well, your children and our friends and loved ones in this caravan. Across the Bruinen and the High Moor we traveled swift and safe, arriving in Rivendell in the escort of Hîr Celebrinnir. My first time gazing upon the Valley this was not, but the first in spring; awesome and magical enough I would find that vista even without the glory of the season, all pink and white and peridot shining between the boughs of the trees. And tripled was my delight in this time being able to acquaint more friends with its wonders, especially Maurr and Maddoct.
Our stay was chiefly to wait out the last blizzards in the High Pass, so that our large caravan with its waggons and ladies could be sure to take it safely, but its secondary purpose was, as you know, to give me again an opportunity to study among the students of Master Elrond and expand my knowledge of healing as much as a month would allow. I spoke again with the Elves who mentored me during my last visit, Híril Ealendil and Híril Manadhlaer, and to share with them my progress in my particular area of interest wrote for them a scroll on everything I had learned. This I presented thinking it just a novice student’s report, but I was surprised and immensely flattered by their praise of it; the former even asked me to present my research to other healers of their organization. A little Dwarf-child, teaching Elves! I have trouble even believing that it happened, or that their interest was sincere and not merely feigned out of politeness — or amusement at the over-high aspirations of a little naug.
But I suppose it is believable, having thought about it and discussed it with my friends; it is after all a very specialized field of healing in which I am interested, and that healing is of obscure and mysterious wounds to the invisible fëa, which cannot be said to be well-understood. Here and there a learned healer or lore-master may know about one aspect of it, but if all that knowledge has ever been compiled and analyzed in text, I have never heard of the tome; and the Firstborn, though our wise teachers, do seem oft to rely on the memories of great individuals, and many of those, if they come out of their scattered sanctuaries at all, do so to sail West.
We who remain east of the sea must learn and write down what we can as fast as we can; therefore I take this narrow field of knowledge as a charge of mine and hope to bring back to the Mountain everything that is known — and from the Mountain spread it out to the valley and beyond, for the betterment of all we who stay behind.
Other Elves I met, too, and other business I had, almost totally pleasant.
First our family chanced into an acquaintance with an Elvish smith, one Master Golvagor, who was eager to speak with visiting Dwarves on matters of craft. Maurr and our honor-sister Arlis conferred with him on blacksmithing, I think, before Rofda and I were able to furnish him with some rough stones for use in his upcoming study of gemcutting; we made a trade of them for a fine Elvish crist that Rofda gifted to her Master Huldaur, for that sailor-Dwarf to perhaps wield on the high seas when Kheledûl we hold again. I was delighted to facilitate this arrangement, and I think when we are soon to set off from Erebor I will venture a letter to find out if there are any choicer stones we might be able to bring from the Lonely Mountain, as this trip we came only with a common assortment.
I believe I briefly mentioned a Híril Nínimil in one of my letters past; we crossed paths again with her in the Valley and I forged, I venture to hope, a young friendship with her, over conversations on music and history (even a very little bit of romance). Of the Woodland Realm is she, and so nearly our neighbor — but a part of me suspects she may not have had much chance for long and pleasant discourse with Longbeards before, making the chattiness of Maddoct, Maurr, and myself an unusual novelty. I cannot place the fault with her for that, for to us she has been pleasant and polite always; instead I wonder, heavy-heartedly, if the surliness, real or perceived, of our folk has to this point prevented easy conversation.
If so, I wish even more to be part of an open-hearted generation, embracing friendship and dreaming dreams of the great works that by cooperation we create. And with more decades’ study perhaps I will speak Sindarin near as well as my ancestors to whom it was cradle-tongue, and — if my destiny it proves to walk oft outside the Mountain and back and forth upon the roads, perhaps I can use it to spread and nurture empathy and good feeling.
Unfortunately, not everyone so aspires.
Just a night past I was speaking to another new friend of ours, Híril Belrossiel, about how disheartening that is. At every moment each of us has a choice between the memory of amity and the memory of grievances, between kind forgiveness and petulant belligerence; sometimes the former is more difficult to choose than the latter, when one’s heart stings from personal loss, but in truth for many of us both options are equally easy. And yet so many intentionally opt to pick fights, deliberately misunderstand, and heedlessly and selfishly destroy alliance that others have long and delicately labored to build and repair. Every time I see it causes me such discouragement, and I question the wisdom of my hopeful notions of friendship.
But then, rarely — something will happen that fills me again with those notions, as in my last week here, when in response to one Elf acting bully to my honor-sister and me, the rest of the Elves assembled swept over to defend us and denounce his bad behavior. Some were known to me and some not, but by the gesture I was near moved to tears, and it renewed my determination: I should strive for peace and friendship always, even if little difference it oft seems to make — because sometimes, it does.
And these are not the only friends I made. A young Elvish couple making the arrangements of their betrothal and worrying over each others’ safety and, no doubt, the shape of their married roles, as surely all those who take partners do; a friend of the Iron Garrison whose eager friendship with our people heartened me but whose eagerness to pronounce this or that Khuzdul word I found less pleasing; a builder, a stonemason I believe, of Eregion, mention of which ever makes my eyes mist because I think of Khazad-dûm; sundry others of Ealendil and Manadhlaer’s ‘House’, including their very gracious ambassador whom, if I am ever so fortunate as to take tea with her as she hoped, I may ask for advice on becoming a builder of peace between our peoples; an old Elf full of fire and vengeance for the demise of great Gil-galad; and others, many others, enough to make me wish for the memory of an Elf, which the Elves must need to remember the names of all the other Elves.
Though I think my most bittersweet smile must be at meeting one particular Elf here in the Valley, near a year after I first saw him in the dim light of the Prancing Pony, playing a fiddle as if it were stringed with starlight. Only one year, yet so long ago it feel like that was; before I had ever visited this Valley that was, before Motgrouk the Golden had died. The little Dwarf who played for him the Song of Durin, shyly and very poorly, seems so distant from who I now am — and if I feel that way, I wonder what you will think of your youngest child and who he has become, when he crosses the threshold of your hall again.
I was so happy to meet that Elf, Master Celithir, again, speak with him about our shared calling, and play my harp for him with much more skill, but I grieve that our meeting was so brief. I am heartened, at least, by the explicit invitation to write my wordy letters to him, an invitation that was also extended by a few others among my new friends. Even when we reach Erebor my pen will not be idle, and I am glad of it.
While we were here, the anniversary of Rofda’s birth came around, as you know; though modest we kept it, we made sure to celebrate it, for in a way it was my sister’s first. And attending that modest celebration were two other friends we have made: one I have mentioned already, Hîr Celebrinnir, and the other Hîr Silwë, a great lord of the Gwaith-i-Mírdain. Of all those we have met on this trip, we owe them the most: the latter for not only helping us with a terrible problem into which we blundered but allowing Rofda and Maurr the use of the workshop in Imlad Gelair and aiding our dear friend Miss Finchley when she had need of a draught of miruvor, and the former for guiding me in several areas of my study and — pricelessly — agreeing to see us through the Forest Gate and Mirkwood, thereby allowing us to take the most direct route to your side.
Long have we weighed the north way past Skarháld against the dangers of Mirkwood — but Mother’s letter decided it for us. We will go to you by the fastest route possible.
And so our company swells by two as we look east to those high Towers of Mist scraping the heavens. Though headache it will be to make up worthy guest quarters for them, I do beg you to do so, for of all Elves I deem these two of the most worthy of being known, and, too, ones whose acquaintance may bring you and Mother great pleasure.
Pack away my writing-desk now I must, for my candle burns down to a nub; the hours I have left for preparation are running out.
Tomorrow morning it must be that I give this to the messenger, as well as my messages for our friends in the south; then we take our waggons northward, trade some of our ponies for goats at the Dwarf-camp, and brave the winding mountain road. And — not so long after that will it be, I have faith, that we will walk through the Front Gate, every face bright and well, Maurr with his new and adorable little frog-bead, Rofda with her braids in her new style, and me, your little dove.
Please hang on until just that time.
For ever I remain,
Your child, who loves you tenderly and always,
Bíld.
