Over tall snowy mountains raking teeth against the sky, through craggy valleys tangled with trees, the raven flies. Over yellow hills and plains flies Pock, till the green of the Chetwood erupts at the border of Bree-land. The raven’s westmost destination is just past those trees — a shabby house in a little village, marked by a far less shabby, stone-reinforced windmill, sweeps turning vigorously in the stout Spring breeze.
Inside the house, there’s a scratching, then a rattling, and then a prodigious fall of dust and detritus from the rafters. And suddenly — right through a hole in the ceiling pokes the dark head of a bird. With a shake to fling dirt off their feathers and puff them out, they begin to cheerfully yell: “Arlis! Arlis! Pock, at your service! A letter from the son of Bóurr!”
Maurr son of Bóurr to his honor-sister Arlis greeting!
How fares our family in the West? Are you and Amliri well, and how treats you the Regiment? How fare your kin in the Blue Mountains? Does that one-eyed Dwarf yet behave himself? And how are Byrge and Tiarvi — is their infant large enough to get into mischief yet?
All is well under Erebor. Rofda’s son Hár is walking; he may not yet talk, but he certainly yells. Every day is an adventure with that beardling romping around, and it seems Father is determined to cling on a while longer, to see where those adventures lead. He complains much of pain and weariness, but if you could see the light in his eyes, you would agree that Hár is the best medicine that could ever be devised for that old Dwarf’s ills. I am glad of it; I may be over a hundred, but I am not ready for him to go.
I still have not gone to Járnfast with Maddoct. I had been using Father’s health as an excuse before, and while he is better now, I’m still haunted by worries of traveling out to the Hills and then getting word of ‘dad’s sudden decline. But perhaps I am inventing reasons to procrastinate. I am not afraid of what Haddoct might say to me, but if I were the cause of a breach for him? You understand, Sister.
I also remain in Erebor for Bíld, who is well, too, though he misses his friends in Eriador. So far, no one has dared to give serious insult to him or to Rofda. Between Father’s status, Mother’s money, and the presence of Blovurr and I at home, I am confident it will stay that way. Gold and lineage are despicable when abused, but in this case we can leverage it to keep our neighbors polite. They will learn to tolerate our family as eccentrics; I hope soon after they will learn to love us as patriots and stout-hearted fellow Dwarves.
In short, I have no grim news, save for this.
Domarr son of Grímarr is dead. He had a flock of apprentices at his funeral to bury him with all the honor and luxury he wished. But he was alone at the end, which makes me extremely sad. His line died out — no heir to hear his dying wish and carry it forward, his legacy just scattered across all his students because he never picked any one of us to let inside his heart. I do not fear dying without a son, though I feel guilty for denying Maddoct one because my love will be in Bíld and Hár and many others. But when a Dwarf’s line ends like Domarr’s, it’s awful. It happens too much these days and it’s a loss to the whole Mountain and to the Longbeards, when a chain breaks and we lose all the memories, griefs, loves, wisdom and knowledge and skill handed down the patriline all the way from Durin’s Day.
And now Domarr’s not alive to help me with this job I’ve suddenly got. An Elf wants a hammer made for her in Khazad-dûm repaired, and Bíld told her I could do it without asking me first or mentioning that “his brother the smith” has got but the one hand. A Second Age hammer made in Moria by a master smith, entrusted to me, a lousy one. It is Khazâd-steel, a later and more advanced sort than Melgrum’s buckle, adamant-hard and tough. I am not qualified for this at all and am worried I will do a stupid job.
But it has an inscription on the head. Thríc made this hammer for his Elvish friend — he called her his friend, his student, and his master. Holding this hammer in my hand and reading those words, I can feel that Dwarf’s sentiments. In its shape and weight, I can feel the pride he must have had in his skill, the care he took to make a helpful and worthy tool, the concern he must have had that after he died, he’d not be around to look after her, so he’d better make something that would for Ages to come. And Thríc did die, millennia ago. Since then, Khazad-dûm fell. Maybe a descendant’s alive somewhere, but so many have died in the Third Age that there’s a fair chance his line is ended. If so, the teachings, memories, loves he passed on to his sons is lost — the last trace of him is here, in this hammer.
It must be picked up, remembered, repaired by a Longbeard, brought back to life and returned to the memory of the Mountain. And I am not much of a smith, but I am a Longbeard. And I guess Domarr did force us to learn something about Khazâd-steel before he died. Can souls in the Halls of Waiting be smug? I hope so, for he’s entitled.
I will do this job. I wish you were here to be a second pair of hands, but I will manage, and I have Maddoct at my side. It mostly just needs a new handle, thankfully; I will work with a carver to make something just right for her hand and the weird weight of the Khazâd-steel. The Elf will get her hammer and Durin’s Folk will get back Thríc. I will make him my ancestor, like Domarr, and give them both to my nephew and all the other Longbeards I hope to be brother or uncle to, before my years are spent.
I hope you have many years yet in the Blue Mountains to make fresh memories with your grandmother. But I hope someday you come again to Erebor to meet my nephew and make him yours, as well. None of us are just saying it when we say you have honored us by becoming part of our family. And it really would be an honor if you make us among the inheritors of your line. If you should become mother or aunt of an heir someday, I hope I can pass on what has been given to me by Thríc, by Domarr, and by Bóurr.
That’s all this time, besides my faithful love,
Your brother,
Maurr.
