Bíld son of Bóurr to Bóurr son of Bíld of Erebor, fond greeting and, I fear, barely anything else, as I write in such a hurry on what is practically the eve of our departure from Bree-land!
I regret to inform you, father of fathers, that your second son has proven himself to possess a terrible flaw. “Done packing,” he says, and kicks up his boots on the table while Rofda and I make all the arrangements for the caravan as a whole. Soldiers! How rarely appreciate they what ladies like Cyanite need for their comfort, nor the extra precautions that a caravan full of civilians must prepare! Quite cross I am; I shall hold this against my brother at least a week. Still, without significant contribution from him, we are all ready: animals, provisions, camping supplies, goods to trade in Rivendell that we may there restock.
I admit the notion is uncanny, plotting a course to the Elves’ hidden Valley, the House of Elrond son of Eärendil, as though it is like to any other stop on the Great East Road where a Dwarf might buy rations and unbraid his beard a few weeks. But it is true that ours is not the only party I have heard of journeying from Bree-land to Rivendell, even this month — indeed an Elf has gone there to convalesce with whom I hope to speak — so the privilege we enjoy in traveling there is perhaps not so rarely bestowed after all. And it is true also that if Imladris is the chief inheritor of fallen Eregion — a land that every generation becomes more a legend to we Dwarves of this Age — then perhaps it could not be more right that the children of Khazad-dûm remain its friend, or at least endeavor to, and endeavor to do right by them whenever we can.
—Such musings waste time that could be spent on my last tasks. I must:
• write a detailed letter to Kithri,
• write to Liffey and Gustine and Addie, if I do not chance to see them,
• leave instructions with the stonemason, though I think I can trust him to carry on without them,
• try one more time to purchase the bits off Mr. Briarwood, though if he passes by me once more without acknowledgment I must assume he’s already found a buyer,
• thank sincerely Mr. Lexand and Ms. Rubiginosa for everything, and see that Rosa is well,
• and no doubt several other things that have fled my recollection at this time. I should write Finchley and Lumina and Leoffrith as well, but that I think I shall do from our first stop at the Inn.
Of what other news can I write you, beloved father?
My honor-sister collected the bounty on an evil Dourhand, a grim triumph with which Maurr assisted. For that I can truthfully forgive him his slacking, for even if he needed not wet his axe-blade, his emotions must be worn. I am glad that he has the company of Maddoct to be balm for his soul.
Arlis has taken a hurried trip west to deal with consequent issues; I cannot write freely of some of them, for they are not my secrets to tell. But I am glad for her and her family, and I hope that these events help all of them make their way, meandering, to the road of healing.
A farewell feast we enjoyed, at which we ate Durin as promised. Bittersweet was the merriment there, not only for the parting but because I met there a friend of Miss Finchley’s whom we leave with troubles unresolved and melancholies numerous. But as much as my heart aches — we cannot take on the troubles of all those we meet, not when the sworn date of departure lies right before us.
A part of me does not wish to go.
As my many letters have told you, Bree-land is a place. The affairs of the Men and Hobbits here are irregular and strange, chaotic and troublesome, with much to disappoint and appall. Even so, hearts of true gold I have found here, too, and friends I will not forget and hope shall not soon forget me. My own heart breaks a little to part with them, even to part with the dirty Mannish tavern (though really its filthiness is much exaggerated), and as much as I ache to be home again, in society Dwarvish and more importantly yours, in truth I am reluctant, as well.
Your dove flew free for one year, flew to strange lands where he was a stranger, just a Dwarf indistinct from any other to the eyes of Men (who care not to distinguish us regardless). And for a year he passed invisibly in the crowd, recognized neither as maiden nor seven-times-great-granddaughter of Thráin, wearing no gown nor corset, no tiara nor expectation. And how light he flew, unburdened, and how much he saw, and how full became his heart. I cannot describe it to you, Father; I do not know if it can be described.
Many times I have wondered if my decision to fly was foolish, or selfish, or wrong. I believe now that it was foolish, for certain, and selfish, indeed. But it was not wrong, not for a moment wrong, and more than that — it was right.
It was not my one indulgence, a flight of freedom, but a necessity to again become myself.
But I promised I would journey back to you in Spring; I keep the promise now. For as full as my heart has become in the West — it can never be full to the brim without Mother, Blovurr, and you.
I know you will keep your promise and wait for us before you make your own journey West.
No more from me till the Lone-Lands, but I remain,
Your child, faithful, loving, and true,
Bíld.
