His youngest child to Bóurr son of Bíld of Erebor, fond and loving greeting, even if this time spectacularly tardy.
If I write that this month not much has to me happened here, it would be true enough. The state of my affairs is the same — I am hale and well, studying and practicing and drinking and making new acquaintances every day as I wait for the time of our caravan’s departure.
It is true also that my life shall from this point be never the same.
Of late I have thought about those who curse and rage at the stars, as if they choose to visit pain and tragedy on us. It is a comfort to many, perhaps, to have someone to blame that is not themselves, and to indulge in anger rather than hopelessness. But my disposition is different; raging at the heavens does not console me, and rather than search for a blameworthy party, I would rather hope that no one is guilty at all.
Even so — I now understand the impulse a little better.
So it is as well with my honor-sister and a Dwarf from her past. I feared that the meeting between them I engineered and mediated might swerve angry or even bloody, but to all our surprise it came out that we all have today a common concern. A peaceful détente was thus reached, and they are working together now, with Maurr to help them. And though I am very worried about everything, the part of me that is not constantly fretting is almost glad for it — for that Dwarf did grievously wrong by Arlis in years long past, and for that she bears a right to vengeance and he deserves punishment; but much better I think it if he is able to pay for the suffering he dealt her family in the past by serving her family in the present, rather than with the toll of blood, which only gives hollow satisfaction and more grief.
And, my anger now cool, I feel compassion for him, and pity. Even so — forgiveness is not something for which to hope, I think.
I cannot write much more about it without violating the privacy of others, but what I may unceasingly do is thank you, father of all fathers, for devoting and sacrificing so much of yourself to raising us, your four children, without suffering or pain or any reason to doubt that we were cherished, valuable. The longer I live the more rare and precious I find your love, and already long ago it was priceless.
Things are mostly quiet as I wait for word of developments from Arlis and Maurr. I would involve myself and aid them, but I am not sure they would forgive it, as they wish to keep me safe. So I confine myself to peaceful and boring activities, such as putting stitches in Men bleeding on the floor of the Prancing Pony.
My friend and mentor Maddoct and our mutual friend Miss Finchley returned recently from a short trip west. Maddoct had before that acquired a young dogling, named by him Beetle, who was yet a little young and troublesome to take on the road with him; Finnric and I therefore volunteered to look after him, along with the stonemason Byrge and the millwright he hired, Tiarvi. Beetle will however come with us on the road to Erebor, and though he will be a little older then, that road is not easy, and the Misty Mountains are, as they sing, cold. So while waiting I made use of my needle and tailored some Dwarvish fashions to fit him — and Beetle loves them, I would hazard, by his eagerness to be dressed. He is so cute in his little robes and hat and booties; I must and shall beg you to allow him to stay in the halls, for he is such a sweet thing and such a pleasure to dote upon.
It is not our custom to keep petting-animals, I know, and hardly even our custom to keep animals for work and eating, but among the Dwarves who linger here in Bree-land a cat or a dogling is not unknown. Miss Rubiginosa, our host, keeps a little enclosure of chickens right outside her home, and I am fond of them for more than their eggs. And now having spent a year in the company of all variety of creatures, I appreciate now how characterful each one is. My steed Potato, whom I hope to bring all the way to Dale, is delightfully obstinate and cares for no danger, only food; my favorite hen Pudding is affectionate and shy and will allow herself to be carried with nary a peck. The truth is that, now that I know so many, I am not sure I can feel cheerful eating the flesh of their fellows anymore. I am embarrassed to tell anyone, especially Maurr, and regretful, because o how meat is so good. When I was visiting an injured friend, a goodly Elf even offered me a slice of boar he hunted and I accepted unthinkingly, mouth watering — and then my eyes, too, almost watered, as I had to give it away.
But I shall not bring with me Pudding, nor the tater Miss Finchley brought for me from the Shire that is the size of a beardling, which I named Durin. Alas, you shall not meet Durin, for we plan to eat him anon.
What chiefly occupies me now is preparing for the wedding of two Mannish friends of mine — I have finished an arrangement for my harp if they ask me to play, but I still have not decided my outfit nor finished my material gift! — and then the journey East.
Although a few more have expressed an interest in travel to Erebor, I think our party is now established, and we cannot easily add more without making our family caravan into an outright convoy with hired guards. It is possible, though, that we may seek for one more in Rivendell before we depart, as we have not definitively decided against the Forest Gate yet. My Sindarin I ought to begin refreshing now; I did have opportunity to practice it, when I chanced into a new acquaintance with one Híril Nínimil while talking with a bard about good and ill stars, but from her face I am not sure the words I said to her were comprehensible.
Maurr has news for you but I will let him write to you of it himself, when he is ready.
And so there is no more at this time but for me to contemplate on what path I have this year walked, under what stars, good or evil — foolish, perhaps, but perhaps beyond help.
And perhaps that is all right.
With sighs sweet and bitter, looking towards the East,
Your child,
Bíld.
