[A letter written—or at least begun—in a bold and elegant, upright hand.]
Maurr to Bóurr his father greeting.
That greeting I wrote a week ago, but it has not been only procrastination that then delayed my pen. As I was thinking what to write, a message came to us that an acquaintance of ours—one Yurri of Erebor, whom I think you do not know but I might guess wrongly—was nearing his end, and we dropped everything to attend his deathbed and then funeral. A sad business it was, but it is over with, and now I sit at my desk again thinking of what to say to you, my father.
It must first be that I love you with faithful affection and am every day grateful for the century of loving support and constant guidance given me, Father of all Fathers.
It must second be that I am sorry to repay that perfect upbringing with the misery of the following news.
Though I apologize for wearying your eyes, I would rather you read this yourself rather than by Mother’s dictation.
I know the captain wrote to you about what happened, but I am not sure of the detail. The short of it is that while we were patrolling near the High Pass we came unexpectedly upon a group of goblins and one troll. We were not prepared, and we suffered for it. By the end all the filth was killed, at the cost of several casualties. I was one. I was stood too close, and when the thing toppled I was knocked down and pinned between it and the rockface. I cannot remember exactly, having blacked out, but the healers said I had one gauntlet crushed and submerged in troll-blood.
They tried to save as much as they could. Just a few fingers went at first. But a corruption entered the bone—probably troll-filth, might have been some poison—and it would not heal. The rest of the hand went next. Then they took the wrist, and after that it at last started mending, and I finally came out of the fever after close to two months.
I found out Rórin had died in camp the night after being carried back. And I found out Húni had died next to me in the healing-house two weeks later, of wounds that also would not close. They had already been buried and mourned by the time I was told of it. I suffered of that near as much as the pain.
It was very hard. I was in a very bad state. I have not really spoken to anyone of how bad it was; I am ashamed of it. The captain decided to release me from duty for the year and said it was to give me time to be fitted for afthâk and to help you with Blída, since your letters had then just arrived, but I think really those reasons were given to help me save face. In truth, my mind was not fit.
My heart is heavy, revealing these things to you. I have so long delayed writing because I have hesitated in what to say, how truthfully to relay it, because I know how badly it will grieve you to hear. But I have decided to lay it out to you in full ugliness because you have also lived that ugliness and know it.
Half my heart would beg you not to rage against the King and army that for his faithful service took your son’s hand just as they did your legs many years ago, nor to fret and grieve; the other half itself aches to rage and scream, as well as to be pitied and cried over. I hate for my lack to be noticed—horrible embarrassing, like a show of weakness or, worse, carelessness, losing a part of this body my Mother and Father for me crafted—or to be looked upon as sad and incapable. And then a fit of mourning seizes me and I wish nothing more than to be held and babied like a beardling-in-arms, for someone to remember what I suffered and to care. Then I slap myself and think, know yourself for a Dwarf! think of how much worse your father suffered in Dunland! and hold it together for a day or two more before falling apart again.
I am afraid my character has changed, too. I fear I have become resentful, irritable, selfish, and cowardly. I do not feel like myself. I do not even look like myself; I still cannot even do my own beard, and the sight of the remnant still makes me feel ill. I feel alternatingly like a ghost and an impostor, pretending to be easy, smiling Maurr, who died many months past and was laid under stone with Húni and Rórin. At times I feel, like a petulant child, that my life is over, and I hate all my friends and the mountain and the world for expecting me to carry on regardless. And I hate myself for the thought, and I hate the troll and my hand for making me the sort of person who thinks and feels such things.
I hate it so much.
I write that, Father, and mean it. It is a bitter, bitter brew, and I revile it. But I also write at a few months’ remove from that crossroads, and in truth the pain now is not so great. Rofda Seimurr’s company has been a balm; it rescued me from the pit of despair. Little Blída, who goes about as Bíld now, has been further help, and in truth there has been no need for me to rescue my sister, instead to be rescued by the stout and brave little lad that my sister has become. And I have made new friends in the west, such as the healer who fitted me for afthâk; I have hardly spent the full day in my bed staring at the ceiling since then.
The afthâk itself is magnificent even though it is incomplete. Receiving it, I thought of your account of the completion of your first chair. No ‘crutch’ it feels, nor a badge of incompleteness or weakness, but a tool of independence and freedom, and even from the first day I wore it I felt it looked more like my hand than the remnant does. We’ve designed it to take interchangeable attachments so that I may wear a variety of tools as my hand; right now I have but a simple hook, but upcoming are like to be an articulated ‘hand’ with locking fingers, a pair of tongs for smith-work, and a long spike for stabbing orcs.
In truth, though, I know not if I will put that lattermost to use.
The axe was my tool, soldiering my craft, and through it my joy and fulfillment. As the forward-axe of a unit, patrolling the roads, making Middle-Earth safer for all Dwarves but especially Dwarves of peace, I had my purpose. It remained so even through those times I was wounded or my friends died; I wept, but I bore it with courage and with pride in those friends, in myself, Dwarvish warriors.
This time is different. I was not able to bear it. I still cannot bear it; thinking of taking up the axe again makes me feel sick and afraid. And though a true Dwarf ought to hope that after his year of respite he would be healed and ready to return to service—right now I hope never to be healed, never to be deemed fit, never to go back, never to fight again.
Perhaps this is a stage of the process. After all—I am not sure who he would be, the Maurr Bóurrul who is not an axe in defense of peace. I would make a poor trader, and a crafter ever at home in the Mountain I fear not much better. For now it must be one foot before the other, marching on through the winter to the spring when all your children will gather at your wheel in Erebor once again.
I am sorry your last days must be full of such anguish as my news brings, and at the very moment you and Mother must be so worried about my younger siblings, too. (Maker grant that Blovurr shall not be coming home from the Iron Hills with an even bigger shock!) Yet at the same time I am glad beyond gladness that despite it all, you are still here for us. You are here yet to listen to my cry of despair and to tell the young ones they are loved.
Ever have I been in awe of your strength and courage, and now that I am grown I find I am moreso, not less. How you have endured it all and endure more yet, still full of tenacity and optimism for your children, is almost incredible. I know you claim you are not in truth remarkable, but in my estimation you are a Dwarf among Dwarves, equal to Dáin. And sometimes I think I shall never live up to your precedent.
Other times I think that I am Maurr, Bóurr’s son, and if even a bit of Bóurr lives in me, I can survive anything.
And so I remain, with filial constancy,
Your son,
Maurr.
