I write to you of winter's eve,
Of my far gone years a-hundred.
When lands were torn by raging storms,
And from kin I was a-sundered.
The snows were a-gushing downward,
In myriads of silver light.
Mine lips were a bruised purple,
Against my skin the frost did bite.
You see, I had been gathering
Stiff bark and kindle in the morn;
My sole desire was to help
Repress my fathers' mood forlorn.
For sorrowed was he on that day;
A-brooding and drowned by mis'ry.
I knew that only by my aid
Would he be returned to cheery.
I hastened through the crooked door,
My mind alight with desperate hope.
Forsaking woolen cloak and gloves,
A-rushing down the iv'ry slope.
No heed I gave to bitter winds,
Nor to the snow unceasing.
The skies, veiled by thund'ry grey
Made promise of storms unleashing.
Yet I do proclaim that, at heart,
I have always been devoted.
P'rh'ps this does explain my need
To see even fiends contented.
At night I was told rev'rent tales
Of light shining in the darkness.
Of you, oh father of my birth!
And of lighted trees of farness.
In all the tales I had heard,
It was light that always prevailed.
You will forgive me, then, my thoughts
Of brightness whence shadow assailed.
So kindling I brought and much more,
Swollen berries and winter fruit.
A-picking from the thick green stems,
Until the owls began to hoot.
I knew then that the night had come
On a sudden from the West.
The fields were bare and glazed by ice;
There was no place for me to rest.
But the brothers two a-realised,
That I had departed long ago.
Thus whilst I huddled a-shivering,
Trouble in their hearts I did sew.
I had not meant to lose myself,
Upon that storming winter's eve.
Yet when the snow came fast and thick,
There was merely no way to leave.
So if they had not rescued me,
I would have drowned beneath the snow.
Instead I sat before their hearth,
Even as I had so long ago.
When our dear home crumbled, Father;
When my cot was roused by their hands.
I could've died but I did not,
Instead they raised us in their lands.
So though I am not reconciled,
With the peril that they a-wrought.
It is hard to not give mercy,
Now that I have my love long-sought.
Did you love me, father truest?
Oftentimes I feel so unsure.
Still I lay awake and ponder,
How your leaving at my heart tore.
As a child I felt so lonely,
In the quiet of the winter.
When no one sung to help me sleep;
Such things made my heart a-splinter.
Yet during that storming night,
The love I held had felt so real.
And if it was a fickle love,
I proclaim it was love still.
Yours, Elrond.