[It makes its way over the Misty Mountains slow. Sent to Bree-land originally, it must be forwarded, and it arrives in Ered Luin only after Durin's Day.
The script is hard to read; it was not dictated but written by hand in a shaky, meandering wise. Harder it would be to decipher, with its blotches and trails, if the reader was not so familiar with the original hand.]
Bóurr son of Bíld of Erebor to his littlest and greatest treasure, love beyond measure.
In this hall I was once wealthy, for wherever went your footsteps fell emeralds, and whenever spoke you your happy chatter fell pearls. The hall is quiet now, and dim, and I must sit at the hearth clutching tight your four letters, mining every word for the sign of you and the omen of your happiness. Ever have those been to me the most precious of all things; now they are even dearer, which I thought an impossibility.
O my child, darling and sweet, write me no more apologies. Shrink no more in timidity before your poor father, fearing his disapproval and confusion. If you fear his sorrow, I then beg this: no more make yourself small, as if by living you are an obtrusion. My purpose is to see you flourish, my craft to increase you; blessed I have been to live so long, blessed by every sorrow survived and to be by them delivered to the days of my children's maturation, the opportunity to see them realize themselves. No revelation could be more painful to me than the thought one diminishes herself for anyone or any purpose. Swear never again to do that and I will bear all else, even your absence and your grief.
I do not want a stalwart son, sharp of axe and doughty of spirit. I do not want a ladylike daughter, graceful and refined. I want nothing but you, my child, whoever that Dwarf may be and become. Already I think you perfect as you are, but if you were broken in a thousand ways, I would love you just the same; I live for the day you are uncovered and outshine the R—n with your thousand facets, throwing light and color to the roof of Erebor.
Come back and shine, G—l. The fault is not with you. If you cannot fit within the mountain, do not make yourself smaller; never make yourself smaller. It is the setting that must be made bigger to fit.
I will climb from this chair and take the pick to the mountain myself if need be.
No news from Erebor that is not disgusting, dispiriting, or both, so I will not write it. Even so, do not occupy yourself with worrying. I will wait however long you feel you yet need to fly. I confess, though, that I hope it not to be long; I do not think it ever needed to be long, as you never needed to brave the unkind sky. Your freedom is already here, waiting for you. When you are ready to claim it, I will aid you, with pride.
More I would write but I am very tired. But do not fear wearying my eyes, as to Hróda I will listen read your letters with the greatest joy, no matter how long your sentences are and no matter the count of adverbs.
For I remain, of course, lovingly, tenderly, faithfully, eternally, adamantly, tearfully,
Your father,
Bóurr.
