The village of Alderdale, nestled by the swift-flowing Snowbourn, was a place of simple lives and simpler concerns. Its people rose with the sun and labored with their hands, finding purpose in the bounties of the river and the soil. In the time of peace that followed the fall of Sauron, life in Alderdale moved like the steady current, unchanging, predictable, and tranquil.

Among the villagers, none knew the river better than Calen, son of Edric. At twenty years of age, he was strong of limb and sharp of eye, with hands calloused from years of pulling nets and steering the small fishing boats that dotted the riverbanks. Yet, for all his skill and strength, Calen was the subject of whispered jests and sidelong glances. For in Alderdale, it was unthinkable that a man of his years should remain unwed.

“Calen, the eternal bachelor,” the fishmonger’s wife would chuckle as he passed her stall in the mornings. “Perhaps he waits for a lady of Gondor to sweep him away!”

“More likely, he’s married to his boat,” another would chime in, drawing laughter from the gathered villagers.

Calen bore these jests with a quiet patience, though they stung more than he cared to admit. He had no desire to marry merely to silence wagging tongues. His heart yearned for something undefined, something beyond the quiet life of Alderdale. Yet, in a village bound by tradition, such thoughts were often dismissed as foolish daydreams.

Each day began the same. Before the first light of dawn touched the peaks of the White Mountains, Calen would rise from his small, thatched home. His mother, Elfrith, would greet him with a warm loaf of bread and a kind word before he set off for the river. His father, long passed, had been a fisherman as well, and the craft had been handed down like an heirloom.

Calen’s mornings were spent upon the river, guiding his small boat through the misty waters. The Snowbourn, fed by the melting snows of the mountains, was a lifeline for Alderdale, and its fish were prized in nearby villages and towns. Calen’s nets would slice through the water’s surface, their weighted edges sinking into the depths before he hauled them up, glistening with silver-scaled trout.

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By midday, the sun would crest high, and Calen would return to the village with his catch. He would lay the fish upon the market tables, their shimmering scales catching the sunlight. The older fishermen would gather, their faces weathered like old oak, and speak of the best spots for the season or the strange movements of the water. Though Calen was respected for his skill, he often felt like an outsider among them. They spoke of wives and children, of family lines and legacies, while he had only the river and his quiet thoughts.

Afternoons were quieter. Calen would repair his nets, sitting under the shade of the willow trees that lined the riverbank. He found solace in the rhythm of the work, the weaving of rope, the tug of knots, the creak of the boat beneath his feet. The village children would sometimes gather nearby, daring one another to splash into the cold water or cast pebbles as far as they could. Calen would smile at their games, remembering a time when he, too, was carefree.

In the evenings, the village square came alive with the hum of voices. Families gathered for meals, smoke rising from chimneys as the scent of roasted fish and baked bread filled the air. Calen’s evenings, however, were often solitary. He would sit by the river, watching the stars emerge one by one, their reflections dancing on the water’s surface.

Yet even in the stillness, a sense of longing gnawed at him. He did not envy the older men with their stories of grandchildren or the young couples with their laughter. What Calen desired was a purpose that lay beyond the reach of Alderdale’s quiet shores. He could not name it, but it stirred within him like the unseen currents of the Snowbourn.

On one such evening, as the village settled into its nightly rhythm, Calen lingered by the water’s edge. The moonlight glinted on the river, casting long shadows across the reeds. He thought of the stories his mother had told him, of battles fought by kings, of far-off lands where great deeds were done.

“Perhaps,” he murmured to himself, “there is more to this world than nets and fish.”

The river whispered its response, a soft gurgling that seemed to beckon him onward. But the call of adventure was distant and faint, like a forgotten song.