I have reached the border of the Shire. The waters of the Baranduin are slow and steady, a great comfort to a weary traveler. Did you know that in this land, they more oft call the river by the name “Brandywine”? It is a peculiar and particularly charming mispronunciation. There is a small settlement of Hobbits (they seem to be amused yet slightly offended at being called “periannath”) in which I stay this evening. They are not quick to trust, but are used to travelers, and my songs and coin were enough to persuade them I mean no harm.
I can barely fit into their tiny houses; therefore I sleep under the stars. It is a reassuring way to rest, watching the constellations move through the sky as I listen to the river’s waters flow nearby. There is something inexplicably soothing about hearing a cricket play its song, or the rustling of long grass in the wind. It helps me recognize that the world does in fact continue to move, heedless of my whims or heartbreak. Logically I have known this all along, but this does not mean that I feel it in my heart yet.
The reflection of the sun against the rippling waters of the Baranduin was bittersweet, even as the Hobbits assured me it would lift my spirits. How could they know the fiery red of the sun and vivid blue of sky yet undarkened, dancing upon water, would remind me of that I wish to forget? Their gesture and kindness were appreciated, regardless.
My candle supply is limited until I find a proper town with traders, and so I must cut this short. The Hobbits assure me my letters will make it through what they call “the post,” which is their courier/letter system. This shall reach you when it reaches you. May you, Father, Thurinon, Merileth, and all their children, fare well. I will find treats for each of you on my travels, particularly Arassiel. Hobbit-sized is what we could consider child-sized; perhaps a writing desk or easel… Ah, my thoughts run away. Fare well, Mother.