Somewhere above the hushed rushing of the underground river, and the faint flow of music throughout the Halls of Felegoth, a home settles once more into quiet. The embers of the hearth have long been quieted, and the grand dining table – already dusty with disuse from its owner’s continued comings and goings – is scene to a last round of hasty packing. Several wooden staves, of different lengths, colours, thicknesses, and pliability, are bound together near a simple satchel. In one swift movement, the dust is disturbed and both are swept up, the only sound before the room settles back into quiet. Even the footsteps of the lady of the house seem to be absorbed into the stillness and shadow; the door opens, closes, and all is still again.
Somewhere far above, and far away, poor Pock is already long returned to his home, laden down with a missive, and a belly that is perhaps overly full. The hospitality of the Elves of Felegoth, or at least one particular Sinda, has done little to help him in his flight, but who else could be trusted to bear such a message? He is at least left undisturbed in his flight; though it may be slower than the outbound journey, the well-trained messenger knows his route, knows the dangers, and knows where he might alight to rest before finally setting down at home once more with a friendly call of Pock, at your service! Pock, at your service! Hail, hail, hail hail hail! A letter! A letter! A letter from the Lady Nínimil!"
That his journey was, at length, lazily followed by a hawk that eventually wheeled about and turned south back towards Mirkwood was perhaps a token of apology for the heavy meals.
To Maurr, son of Bóurr, Nínimil of Eryn Lasgalen sends warm greetings!
And how could they be anything but warm? The arrival of this good messenger caused something of a stir, no matter what he may try to tell you – and a much-needed bit of liveliness, at that. A rare sight indeed, a raven from the Mountain, perched with pride like a lord upon Dauchanar and refusing all entreaties from the wardens that he hand over his missive to them. I knew at once whose raven that was - it filled my heart with a familiar joy, and my feet with an even more familiar restlessness, for I think often of you all, and of your mother and father. Please do tell them all as much, as well; and tell your sister especially that her handiwork has not left my finger since I put it on, and now serves to bring warm memories of not one, but two families – and their families beyond, by blood or by bond.
All manner of things here remain much as they were on your last visit, all that time ago. I am well, and in good health, just recently back from the Golden Wood, and from a long overdue sojourn with a dear friend. Felegoth is unchanged as ever, though at last I think the legends of Maurr Shirtbeard have died down. But enough of that – what of all of your news! That your father lives is no surprise to me; there was a certain resolve in him last time we spoke. And at any rate, I promised him more conversation when next I came to the Mountain, and I know he would be very displeased if we did not have it. Though now that his grandson is running, there may not be time for an old Elf! Children are, after all, a rare blessing, which I imagine is something Rofda can be heard telling herself over and over as she chases her son down.
I could fill pages upon pages with my thoughts and wishes for all of you – especially Doc, who I fear must be having food forced upon him at all times – but I think perhaps it will be easier to hold all of those thoughts, and bring them with me. I read with great interest your account of the hammer, and I can see only one solution for it. Such a thing is a serious undertaking, as we both know from experience. Even moreso when it stands as a reminder of old oaths, and old bonds. I will of course gather you the wood that you need; I will personally seek out the timber of a few different trees, so that we may judge them together before you set to work on honoring Thríc’s legacy.
Yes, together. I intend to bring them to you myself. As you rightly noted, this is not a simple work, but something that will reflect a time of close connection between the Dwarves and the Elves, and that will hopefully be a testament to our people joining hands again. As to the price, I can’t say that Felegoth will ask for much – simply sparing the Court my continued restlessness will be payment enough! I might also ask for an audience with your good parents, and with Cyanite, or yourself and Doc, or anyone who will have me. Just don’t tell Bíld! His hand was in all of this, I feel, so let it be a surprise.
With luck, by the time Pock brings you this letter, I will be well on my way with Dauchanar. Regardless, know that I am coming. It has been too long, my friend.
Yours,
Nínimil
