Blume's Letter to Mrs. Chard

Dear Mrs. Haricot Chard,

When I first encountered your son who introduced himself as Captain Haricot Chard, I assumed this was a military rank. 

As time progressed, however, I became increasingly convinced it was instead the symptom of a head injury, further supported by the fact that he proved entirely incapable of maintaining employment longer than twenty-four hours.

We are not, at first (or second but likely third) glance, friends. Nevertheless, he was a colleague whose presence I gradually became accustomed to, particularly after we discovered a shared appreciation for black powder, which I now realise may have contributed somewhat to his downfall.

Please believe me when I say that although enthusiastic, Harry was a bit stupid.

I mentored him excellently on a number of occasions. I taught him how to present himself properly (despite this he carried on with that big yellow hat feather for more than one season), how to summon a servant, how to clean a pistol, and, most importantly, bombs explode.

Of course, one could argue I should have taught him these things better, but that was not my responsibility. I am not his mother.

Harry created a dish he proudly called scramborridge that I will never forget. It was bland even by halfling standards, and I have certainly eaten better. And yet that miserable bowl sustained us through many journeys, battles, and several uncomfortable nights floating down the Reik aboard Dasboot.

There is also the matter of a physician, a man I continue to regard as an absolute charlatan. He once declared that Harry should sleep in my bed due to nightmares, and that Nanny should sing him to sleep. I remain convinced this diagnosis was fraudulent, particularly since Harry later concealed a diseased rat-man in the ensuite.

Nanny was very upset.

The horrors that porcelain has witnessed in that room have left me with irreparable emotional damage.

So, as you can see, despite him, I kept him around. One does grow fond of such creatures.

It was during the unfortunate business with the rat-men and their absurd plan to destroy the moon that matters ended as they did.

The bombs, I should clarify, were very much a joint enthusiasm. I had every intention of deploying them myself at the appropriate and dramatically satisfying moment.

Harry, however, decided the appropriate moment was immeediately once the fighting began.

Despite my best efforts to keep him alive,  including personally and heroically dispatching a rat ogre that had set upon him, Harry’s hatred of rats meant he ran off to blow them up with tremendous urgency.

So, like a lemming possessed, he committed fully to the cliff.

Unfortunately, sometimes less is not more, and this is particularly true when it comes to fuses. Harry had already lit rather more than the situation required, and had cut the fuses down to a nib.

And such, the moon remains in its proper place whereas Harry, regrettably, does not.

I am grieving his loss more than anyone, and I suspect he knew that. Because I was clearly his favourite, I believe he must have spoken to the gods on my behalf. Not long after his death a Baron rather dramatically entered my life via hot-air balloon!  Literally sweeping me off my feet!  and has since taken it upon himself to ensure I am not left unattended.

So it is almost as if Harry were here, but only better!

We considered sending his body by courier, but what remained would have required transportation by mop and bucket.

So I hope you are not expecting compensation.

Unfortunately any property Harry accrued during his adventures either exploded with him or must now be used to pay for the replumbing of the bathtub at Hausnung following the aforementioned rat-man incident.

I therefore hope his death does not cause you too great a financial hindrance. Perhaps one of your many other children might take up the slack during this difficult time, though I do understand you are not suffering quite so deeply as I am. In the absence of payment, please accept instead my small but invaluable gift: a haiku.

I hereby grant permission for it to be circulated and read at whatever celebratory rituals halflings consider appropriate for such occasions.

Small hands held the fuse

Fireflowers split the dusk sky

Moot ash falls like snow

With deepest condolences,

Frau Hoffnung

Ps. Although the bombs were loud, Harry's absence is deafening

P.s.s. I'm sure the others would like to write something, however, as I am the more aggrieved party I thought you would like to hear about the news from, and how it's affected, me.