His youngest child to Bóurr son of Bíld of Erebor greeting.
I write to you so heavy with grief I near cannot lift my pen. The Golden One with whom you spoke happily by our hearth in Erebor such a short time ago is dead. He and his companion Miss Kithri joined as escorts our little company bound for Rivendell, to which I have traveled in hopes of studying among Master Elrond's students. We met with trouble on the road, something the Elves call a Wood-troll, and Master Motgrouk perished in Kithri's defense. She was injured, but will recover, and the rest of us — Lady Arlis, a doughty warrior who is to me like an honor-sister, Master Finnric, my dear friend and a surprisingly deft spearman, and me, your little dove — are all unharmed and safe in the Valley of the Elves.
But having come all this way, I cannot stay even to gaze upon it through eyes unclouded by tears. I volunteered to be guard-of-the-dead, for while I am not the most qualified in absolute terms, there are not really any others to do it in this foreign land. In a few days we set off west with a Longbeard contingent to put him under stone in Ered Luin.
I am well . I am bearing it. But I worry after everyone else, and I grieve that you will not see him again on our return trip. I grieve for many things that cannot now be, for stories that he cannot now tell me and duets we cannot now play for him, for secrets that cannot now be told, for futures that cannot now be built. But I will not grieve his death, for it was risked in defense of another, honorable and bold, and a Dwarf cannot hope for better. I will instead have pride in his valor and cherish the love me left me, I who was so privileged as to be his nephew niece in affection.
At least, so I will try.
From Ered Luin I cannot yet say where I will go. I know that to read this will displease you mightily, and in such sentiments you are not alone; many, I think, would like to see me safely placed into the trove there, kept behind glass till the time for my return in the spring. But I have been made more determined, not less, by these events, to pursue the purpose that originally drove me here: to learn to soothe the suffering of others. And — for sure I know you will gnash your teeth to read it — to practice a little more the axe.
I would rather be useful than safe.
I am sorry for it, beloved father, but I am not sorry enough to be able to change.
What I will correct is the infrequency of my letters. Mother wrote to me most mournfully to complain of it, and I realize now how much it must pain you to hear nothing from me, even if the reason is that I have nothing interesting to write. Henceforth I will aim for once a fortnight. Of course, that is sure to become once each three weeks, but I do promise the effort shall at least be made.
I love you so much.
Your Blída.
