Bíld son of Bóurr to Bóurr son of Bíld of Erebor, greeting and all filial love.
This message should come to you on the wing of a new friend of our family. Pock is their name (I asked how it is spelled, and from the squawking shrug that followed I believe they cannot read and so hardly care), a youth of Ravenhill, though at some remove from Carc’s direct line. I hope you will shelter and feed them, for they have pledged their service to the children of Bóurr, and for that great honor I would display the due gratitude.
Pock’s history was related to us half in Westron and half in bird-speech, which Lady Cyanite and her companion Mänik translated for us. Of it our understanding is this: a kinswoman ??? kinsraven of Pock took flight from Ravenhill to bear a message to the Woodland Realm, but for a week after her expected return there was no sight of her. Pock worried that she might need rescue and set off to find her, but consequently it was Pock who proved to need rescue, becoming entangled during the search in spider-netting hidden in the forest canopy.
Though they nearly gave up their life uncovering it, this was in truth valuable intelligence, for in my conversations with the Elves here I have gathered that such spiders were assumed long ago driven off, relics of a darker day in Mirkwood’s past. But whatever drew those spiders back, that particular colony is dead now; our caravan’s spears and axes slew them all, and the mystery of what lured them here is left to our Wood-elven allies to solve.
I relate this tale in the hopes that you will be proud that we intervened — though in truth we could hardly do otherwise, when the portent of a white-feathered raven has meaning in our family — and that this will reduce your dismay that your son Maurr was injured in the course of Pock’s rescue. But pray be reassured; he is now well, for while he was grievously envenomed, the Elves of our caravan were somehow able to gain us entry to the Wood-elves’ cavern-city, where Maurr was provided an antidote and the excellent ministrations of their healers.
And for my brother's valor Pock feels an owed life-debt, and so the service of their black-and-white wings have been promised to our family henceforth.
We depart soon from Felegoth, to Loeglond and then, depending on if a raft would be more comfortable for Maurr’s healing injury, by water or by land to Lake-town, Dale, and home. We will arrive before my birth-day — heralded by the white-feathered raven, as my grandfather was on the day of his birth.
I am so fortunate, to return to Erebor as Bíld never could.
He has been much in my mind, on this last leg of our journey.
The High Pass was as gentle to us as it may ever be hoped to be, and after a stop at Hrimbarg we made our way into the Vales of Anduin. We expected to pay the Beornings’ toll at Vegbár and stop there if at all, but there was no room for us; we were ushered on ahead, and we might have been camping solely on the road if not by an exceptional stroke of fortune that won us a few days’ admission to Meadhollow and even to sleep in the Beorninghús, though the face of great Beorn’s son at the sight of us — one Dwarf after another streaming in past the gate — must have been like in its consternation to his sire’s on that long-ago and fateful day.
That the honor of being a guest at that House is an extremely rare one I understand well, and by that and the privilege of following in the Oakenshield’s footsteps I was of course moved. But as beautiful as that country is, and as wonderful as being able to help the Beornings with their activities was, I confess I was not all happiness during our stay there. For though we were received courteously, it was not with warmth; I am afraid that in that place the dislike of Dwarves persists, though we have tried to be good neighbors in the years since the Five Armies.
Mentioned in my hearing was the old grievance: that their people were driven from the Misty Mountains by the stirring-up of the goblins in the War. It shocked me to hear it, but some young Beornings still wish we had never marched on them; it is their belief that if we had left them in the tunnels to multiply, the peoples living atop and around the mountains would never have been troubled by them. I could not have in the moment argued even if I had wished to, rather than hold my tongue out of gratitude to our hosts — I was so upset hearing it I was speechless, and wept into my pillow that night.
It breaks my heart to learn that not only some Beornings think that, but some Elves and Men do likewise, and that there are some Free Peoples out there in the world who think of my grandfather burning in the valley and say ‘good riddance’.
Bíld suffered so much — worked, fought, and died — only for orcs to infest the passes again, a troll to crush his grandson’s hand, to be scorned by ungrateful strangers, and never even to look on the Mountain again and see its snows turn gold with dawn.
But now, I come home.
And not all mourning it has been. Despite that shock, Beorninghús was pleasant, and Felegoth has proven the same, even when we entered it under such stressful circumstances. Certainly in recent years few of our kin have walked freely down its passages, which is a shame, for it is a gorgeous delving. The work is familiar and alien at the same time, graceful pillars blending seamlessly with the roots of ancient trees carving down from above — I wonder if it was made in the image of ancient Menegroth, and if it is true that my Longbeard ancestors helped to carve them for King Oropher, as my Belegostian ones did for Thingol long ago. I admit though that I have been shy of asking, in case my innocent curiosity provokes unhappy recollections, if not unfriendly ones.
But so far no unkind Wood-elf have I met; those who have not been friendly have either avoided us or gawked at our beards in bemusement. A few of those I have tried to make friendly overtures towards, though once I approached a group that apparently spoke no Sindarin, only the Woodland tongue! That gave me a shock. Other times I have played my harp; I am not sure if the reaction was admiration or only amazement that we Dwarves are capable of it.
We did run into one dear acquaintance, Lady Nínimil. She was on a journey of her own in Rhovanion when she had word that our Maurr was wounded and hurried up to Mirkwood to meet us; her concern and kindness for him is touching. Maurr and Maddoct’s involvement came out in the course of conversation, too, and not a cruel word came out of her. Even if few Dwarves she has known, she has always treated with us humbly and as though we are people; she is among those with which I really hope we may build a lasting friendship. And so I hope you will not be exasperated to hear that I invited her to visit your hall at Erebor, though I do not know if she will call soon; we have a mutual friend in the west who recently bore an unspeakable tragedy and are both worried about him.
You are likely to sooner see Lord Celebrinnir and Lord Silwë, but that too is only if other business does not take them away from us before Erebor. Since arriving in Felegoth their moods have seemed somehow changed to me, and I am worried; I hope nothing evil troubles them.
There is only one more thing I must write to you and Mother about before we arrive at the Mountain, which is my birth-day feast. I know every year I ask you not to make a great production of it, yet enjoy it when you do so anyway; this year though I am gravely serious when I ask you not to go to great trouble or expense.
Arlis, my beloved honor-sister, was born just a few days off from me in the calendar (though many years before). And so this summer, on her first pilgrimage to the Lonely Mountain from which her grandmother hails, I would like to have the feast in her honor instead of mine. Yet while I of course wish to treat her with wonderful food and good things, I do not think it would make her happy if we were to show great extravagance. In the Blue Mountains, her family is not wealthy; I fear she carries a little shame for it, and she bristles at what she perceives as pity; you would not believe how hard it used to be to convince her to accept a gift.
I wish therefore to treat her well, but not so boisterously that she might feel that the wealthy Dwarves patronize the poor one. Let us have a cheerful and intimate evening instead, that she may feel loved and accepted by the family of Bóurr. The specific arrangements I leave to Mother, the very most canny of Erebor’s hostesses.
Besides that, I suppose I have nothing to write. I expect this will be the last you read of me off a page for some time, for soon my warm hand will hold not a pen, but yours.
Till then, father of fathers, remain strong.
And I shall remain yours,
For ever faithfully,
Bíld.
