7 Nórui (June), Third Age 2771
Some memories are not etched by danger or victory, but by the quiet solace of still waters and the patient tug of a line.
It was in the wilds of Eriador that I first found time to slow my steps. The ruins of the Elves lingered there—stone whispers beneath ivy and songbirds—and the streams ran clear and silver, fed by mountain snow. The land bore the sadness of loss, but not the presence of Shadow. It was a good place to breathe.
I had heard whispers of the trout in those waters, sleek and quick and clever. And so, I fashioned myself a pole from an ash branch, smoothed and carved with care. I baited hooks with crushed flyleaf and silver-threaded fernseed, and sat beside the stream until the birds no longer marked me as intruder.
It became a ritual. Cast. Wait. Listen to the gurgle of water over stone. Feel the current tug at the line and the wind stir the leaves above. Sometimes a fish would strike, leaping like a flash of starlight beneath the surface. Other times, I caught nothing at all. But each time I rose, I felt steadier. More aligned.
Fishing was not new to me. Years ago, when the Elves of Mirkwood began trading with the Men of Dale, I learned to fish from them using a fine Elvish rod—one I still carry and maintain. I rarely fish for leisure, but when food is needed or the world grows too loud, I return to quiet waters.
The rarest trout I have ever pulled from Middle-earth came from two places far from Eriador. One was beneath the old stone bridge at Trestlebridge, in the North Downs. The water there is fast and deep, and the trout rise boldly in the shadow of the arch. The other is near Tinnudir, along the banks of Lake Evendim. At twilight, the waters gleam like glass, and the fish shimmer with colors of the dying sun.
I’ve tasted them roasted on cedar bark and with crushed pepperleaf. I’ve offered them in trade and in thanks. Yet the true gift was never in the catching, but in the stillness it allowed me.
When I walk again through places of shadow, I carry with me the peace of silver streams and the memory of trout rising like stars from quiet waters.