Work Text:
January 2, 1852
My dear sir:
I write in the full understanding that we have not always been on the friendliest terms. While a point of grief and discomfort, I do rally my hopes as middle age settles and softens us all. Nonetheless, my current assignment from Washington will keep me very occupied in the central mountains and valleys, and I see no cause to renew my interest in your ranches at this time.
The railroad shall bring changes that behoove us all, and if you do have a desire to send some of your people to reap its fruits, through the worthy toil of its construction, I should be delighted to accommodate them among my ranks of workers.
This is the future, sir!
Yet I know how much you cherish your land and your traditions—indeed, as much as you cherish that lovely daughter of yours, who must be full a woman at the time of this writing. What a beautiful child she was. Her face has been often in my thoughts, sweetened by the promise of future pulchritude.
Now, onto the most unsavory message I have for you: and that is merely a friendly warning. Feanor Finwean, who in his endless hubris now calls himself Feanorian—lest you be confused by the appellation—has lately settled not far from the path of my work. This is a regrettable development for many reasons, not least of all because I know that you and Feanor met some years ago, and did not do so happily. Due to an unfortunate gap in oversight, which has since been remedied, I was not able to be concurrently apprised of those developments. But this is a new day and a new decade, and should you need a sympathetic ear as to your concerns about the encroachment of that man, rest assured that I remain,
Yours cordially,
Melkor Bauglir
January 8, 1852
(translated from Spanish)
Your letter, which no one here deigned to read as it was written in plodding English, was burned upon arrival. Whatever it contained, I assume you continue your meddling interest in my land and family, and so long as I live with Mexican soldiers ready to ride north, and a thousand capable ranch-hands spread through the southern valleys, I will continue to damn you to hell as I see fit in two languages—neither of them your own.
- Elu Thingol