Over lake long and forest vast, a raven with two white feathers flies. Every wingbeat, those feathers flash, a bright gleam moving among stone and tree. In the past, it made the raven a little nervous, worried those unusual feathers would draw the eye of predators or worse.
But two years now this youngster has been under the tutelage of Arcah, training to be a flyer, a scout, a messenger, a real Raven like in the folk-tales of their people. Once they flew East and West, the sky-masters to the mountain-masters, the Dwarves, who brought up such wonderful, sparkling things from the deep earth to gift to their friends. Ravenhill had long lain too quiet, but now the mews were clamoring with their language again; Pock’s voice would be among them, they were determined, and those two white feathers upon their wing would become a proud symbol of the Dwarf-house they serve — the signet impressed on the wax sealing their messages, the herald of the sons of Bóurr.
From the air Pock sees Tham Aeldés and circles, following the paven path from above to a trail winding through trees bit by bit less coiled and angry and more hale and green. Here it should be safe to duck below the canopy; Pock coasts lower, weaving through the branches, towards the soft glow of Elf-lanterns. Alighting on an old stone colonnade, the raven cloaks and looks around. And — there, through the trees, the shaggy fur of a large beast ambling slowly along, nibbling on the pure grasses and leaves. Flapping closer to check, indeed, Pock recognizes him — not by the antlers, which are a new velvet-sheathed pair still growing back at this time of year, but by his dark brown color and the pattern of wear on his distinctive caparison.
Above him, Pock lands and excitedly shouts: “Pock, at your service! Pock, at your service! Hail, hail, hail hail hail! A letter! A letter! A letter from the son of Bóurr!”
Maurr son of Bóurr to Lady Nínimil, greeting!
Too many seasons it has been since we have exchanged words with you, though oft does my little brother Bíld bring up your name and wonder if you are well and my little sister Rofda hope that ring still sits tight on your finger, snug as the embrace of familial love. Tell us that you are hale, that your bow is strong, and that your challenges fall before you swift as the arrows that spring from it!
All we who dwell in the halls of Bóurr are well. Not only does my father still live, but I am convinced he is losing white hairs and growing brown ones, so invigorated is he by the sight of Rofda’s son, Hár. The beardling is not quite old enough to run, but do not tell him that; my mother says he is just like me when I was small, which is apparently both sweet and a whirlwind of chaos. My Maddoct is at my side, of course, though still too skinny. Lady Cyanite has made the Lonely Mountain her chief residence and has been swiftly and effortlessly rising to its social peak. We are all merry, though we would be merrier if you visited us again.
And you will have cause to, if you are able to help me with a trade I must make in order to complete a job dear Bíld volunteered me for without asking first. A party of Elves came to Erebor, one of which, a Lady Nardhwen of Nargothrond, sought a Dwarf-crafter to repair a hammer made for her in the Second Age in Khazad-dûm. The head is as hard as it was then, but the handle is cracked and must be replaced. My brother asked why she did not seek an Elvish woodcarver, as your people are the most skilled in that art — proof of which we have seen from your own hands — and she said that as it was made by Dwarvish hands following Dwarvish arts deep inside Durin’s Halls, it should be remade the same way, in the new home of the Longbeards.
I am a smith, though a poor one, and it is a wondrous thing to hold this hammer wrought by Thríc in my hand. Not only is the craft masterful and the material astonishing, it shines with the passion of a maker who poured pride and affection into this gift for his friend. Thríc made this to be a tool that would serve Lady Nardhwen for Ages, sure and nimble as her own hand. I am a little horrified its repair has come to me and not a better Dwarf — but if it has come to me, then I must inherit his sentiments and bear them in full when I return the hammer to her, vital and strong again.
Thríc used wood from Hollin for his hammer made in Khazad-dûm. Today, those lands lie empty, and the years of that friendship are over. But Durin’s Folk are not gone, our hammers ringing still here under the Lonely Mountain; nor is the friendship of Elves and Dwarves dead, here in the Three Kingdoms of the North. We may not be as close with Thranduil’s folk as we were with Celebrimbor’s, but we sons of Bóurr all bear the earnest hope that we will continue to understand and treat each other better with time. Therefore if Maurr of Erebor is to repair Thríc’s hammer in the Third Age, the new wood should be that of the Greenwood.
Could you obtain for me a sturdy length of wood, untainted by Shadow? It must be strong and hard, flexible but not bendy. Whatever price Felegoth requires for the trade, we will happily pay; we can send the sum to be picked up by Loeglond. Then, could you or your messenger bring the wood to Dale or Erebor? If you come yourself, my father would be delighted to again give you food and wine and introduce you to his eldest grandchild. And you know Bíld would burst of joy!
Pock will take your letter to us, or you may have the Raft-elves send it up to us, as is convenient for you. Whether or not you can aid me with this, we would all be very happy to hear from you, and happier still to see your face.
No gelin idh raid lîn, a no adel len i chwest,
Maurr.
