It was not announced to the Mountain when it happened, and so the crowd that gathered in the plaza was at first only small. Even so, when the doors of the grand home built high on a terrace above flew fully open, bend towards them did the attention of most neighbors standing on the stone walkways around; and when three Dwarves exited, the two flanking in robes brilliant enough but the one between them shining like a polished lapis set in silver and gold, the attention of all the neighbors followed them.
Under the lights of Erebor his satiny coat glistened not only bold blue, but with tones of green and amber from the glowing crystals above and the glowing braziers below. Even at the distance those onlookers stood they could see from the glint and flash the line of adamants and colored beryls all along its hem, trailing into chains of silver and white gold braided into the yellow gold of his beard and flowing hair.
At the sight the Dwarves waiting in the plaza below took up the poles they’d brought with them; so spread the three cloth canopies, themselves shimmering with fine geometric embroidery, edge-to-edge. The two at the side were white as clouds, crisscrossed with silver; the one at the center white-embroidered red, billowing, blood-colored, under the Mountain’s lights.
And at that sight every onlooker knew the party’s purpose, and every one turned in full to see.
The groom descended to the plaza and turned to look up the way he came, and a minute later, another group came out through the hall’s gates. At its head was a single dark-haired Dwarf in dark formal garb, gripping both front poles of a litter. Borne behind him on a chair of wood painted gold and draped with cloth of Longbeard blue was an immensely old Dwarf, long white hair flowing past his shoulders, white beard spilling out of his lap. He was wearing just a circlet and robes, but from the former hung plates framing his face like a helmet’s cheek-guards, and shining all across the latter were goldworked squares of thread, like a coat of plates, rippling like flame as his litter-bearers descended step by step.
Every Dwarf who lived in this quarter knew this was Bóurr, son of Bíld, one of that dwindling number of Dwarves who smelled the smoke at Azanulbizar.
There were two Dwarves to carry the back poles of the litter. One was broad, with the thick curls of a Blacklock but in Járnfast red; the other was brown-haired, with a brow and nose the same shape as his father’s in the chair. Either looked strong enough to carry the back half on his own, but many of those watching already knew that the bright steel gauntlet on the latter’s left arm contained no hand. So three Dwarves together carried their elder down from the hall, slowly, slowly, till they reached the others waiting under the canopies. There, at the head of the party, they set the litter down; and then all eyes went up again, to the door of the hall.
There exited the old Dwarf’s wife, shining like a sapphire — and his daughter, shining like the sun.
Below, one of her brothers blew a horn, and, like the sunrise down the mountainside, she descended.
From a distance the chiming of jewel on jewel and metal on metal could not be heard, but it could be seen. Every step light flashed off the hundred mirrors of her adornments, glittering on her from head to toe. It was her mother’s 120-year-old dress, sewn in Ered Luin for a much shorter lady; several inches had to be filled with underskirts and trim. But those, too, flickered with silver around the peeking toes of her gold-tipped shoes, the heavy dark velvet of the dress swaying above, shimmering with old jewels and twice as many sewn in new, amethysts and fancy sapphires, green garnet and topaz and tiny adamants. Her whole beard was covered in pearls, dark waves crested with dancing white, like a turbulent dark sea; her hair was the same, braided at the top, dissolving into curling dark ribbons below.
Like a mote she drifted gracefully to the group beneath the canopy. It was quiet; Bóurr looked on her and smiled. Then in his hand the gilt hammer was raised; the party of Dwarves thronged around.
“Hear the zarb that binds Huldaur son of Nafarr son of Nefir to my daughter, Rofda daughter of Bóurr son of Bíld! Mukhuh nê matanthari hiturul id-kemthel!”
Maurr son of Bóurr to his sister Rofda greeting.
We are already on the far side of the Misty Mountains from you, where you and Huldaur must be making snug for winter inside the Mountain. Our road was unusually easy, thanks probably to the mildness of the weather, and we arrived at the Elves’ Valley without incident. In Wilderland I somehow ended up caravan-leader, I suppose because I have the most experience, but now I shall be happy to give that role over to Arlis, and next time we travel together I hazard she will be ready to helm the whole way.
Bíld wanted to give some rough gems to that Elf who forged Huldaur’s crist, but it seems that he and his company are still off in the Blue Mountains doing whatever it is they are doing. We cannot delay long, as the baby he and Maddoct have been asked to deliver is due just about the minute we land in Bree. Hopefully I shan’t be needed for more than cheering them on and installing the mobile we commissioned in Dale for the parents.
It makes me think about you and Huldaur (though to be fair, I could probably not keep that excitement out of my head regardless). As much as I can barely believe that I might receive that long-coveted title of ‘Uncle’ as soon as next year, I am wholeheartedly ready! Only, Sister, try if you can to hold any beardlings in until we are present at Erebor, for I would very much like to be witness to the expression our father makes at seeing it for the first time.
It is funny to think that none of us would be where we are now if Bitty Bíld had not fled the Mountain two springs past. I would never have met Maddoct if I had not come to Bree and you had not recommended him as a healer. And perhaps you would not have met Huldaur, or at least not met him in the way you did, if Bíld and I were not there constantly and obnoxiously encouraging you. What a different Durin’s Day this would be for you and me if our little brother had never left home. I would write that I cannot imagine what my first year with one hand would have been like without Maddoct, but I fear that I can, and I do not like it.
On boring stretches of the East Road I think about that, and I think of the sight of you coming down from the hall in Mad’s wedding dress, and that makes me smile again.
You know, you were always meant to wear it. I am sorry the rest of us did not realize it sooner. But I am glad we did not realize it later, so all of us, including Dad, could see you do it.
And I can hardly believe that I ended up crying more than Bíld!!
That is all I can think to say to you, Dear Sister, other than that you always have my love and my bursting pride. Count on me to do my part keeping Bíld from falling down a hole and Arlis on the level. I’ll write again when we are in Bree-land, and that letter might even reach you first if Bíld’s Raven is available to fly it to you.
Until then,
I remain your loving and devoted brother,
Maurr.
