The rowboat rocked gently as Lake Evendim caressed it with waves lifted by a soft southerly breeze. ‘Zephyr’, Cutch had decided to christen the little boat, which was old, unnamed, and felt so at home here on such midsummer days that to leave it nameless was disrespectful. The sixteen-year-old boy sprawled, leaning back against the stern, his wiry frame adorned with only an unbuttoned, over-sized gauzy shirt, trousers shortened halfway up youthful thighs, and a wide brimmed floppy hat. The summer had tanned him everywhere he had left bare.
By his naked feet, the rough sack holding his fishing gear rocked gently port to starboard and back, rolling with the motion of the boat, and inside he could hear the soft clink of an empty mug tapping the side of a wooden lunch box. Across one hip rested the end of his pole, held firmly, while the other end dipped rhythmically with the rocking of the boat. The line was out and baited, and with drowsy eyes he watched the bobber dreamily rise and fall.
A perfect day.
A perfect place.
Somewhere on the shore birds chirped, busy in the work of perpetuating their part in Life. Skimming the water, a pair of mating dragonflies droned by the boat. Cutch blinked his eyes open against the lull of the moment just in time to notice the bobber wiggle with a motion that had nothing to do with the water’s undulating surface. His toes found a grip on the ribs in the bottom of the boat, and he snapped the rod up, grinning as he felt the resistance of the hook setting into the fish’s mouth, and then the fierce writhing of attempted escape. It was another big one.
Trout were wildly beautiful and new to Cutch, and they were in great variety and numbers in this lake. They were a challenge to catch, being both wily and strong, but he’d quickly gotten the hang of it as evidenced by the large, low, and wide water bucket secured under the seat in the bow of the boat. Under the bucket’s weighted cover, a half dozen trout lay in cool water drawn from the lake, all worthy of keeping. The seventh would suffice as his contribution to the evening meal for those who would gather around the large cookfire on the sandy beach near the dock. Cutch had become a rather good trout catcher and cook, earning him some status amongst the residents in Tinnidur Keep.
After hauling in and securing his final catch, the boy set his oars in their locks and began rowing back to the dock. He had earned his time on the lake by diligently seeing to his chores and knew that if he wished to have this kind of time to himself in the remainder of his stay at Tinnidur, he must not be late returning the boat. For his board and keep, the rangers expected him to do tasks not dissimilar to those he did for his parents on the homestead where he was raised in the Wildwood, although here he was expected to spend more time being schooled in reading, writing, and learning the history of the Dunedain.
Sometimes, the history lessons included excursions into the Annuminas ruins, which always excited Cutch. Before, the largest town he’d seen was Bree, but that village paled in comparison to the ancient city. Bree, although alive and bustling, seemed puny and inconsequential next to the massive albeit mostly silent ruined city. Cutch would scramble over fallen walls ever on the lookout for any small trinket that may be found, or clamber along the crumbled structures partially submerged in the lake, peering into the waters at streets that continued down into the waters. 
Perhaps he would have paid more attention to the lessons begin offered, most often by Calenglad, had he known that the Dunedain were most of his ancestors, and not the Dunlanders. The Vow, however, kept that truth from him. The reason, the rangers said, for his mandatory schooling was to prepare him for life in the larger Eriador, where the Dunedain influence had been pervasive, and to understand the peoples of the ancient kingdoms that once flourished there and whose descendants still endured.
Cutch accepted that answer out of faith, unable to dispute it with knowledge to the contrary for he was still far too young to have accumulated any.
As summer greens grew tired and the first hints of autumn arrived, harvest trade caravans began to lumber through Evendim from other lands. To Cutch’s mind, the most alluring were those of the Dwarves, whose wares were not just of their own labor, but included those traded for along the road. The dwarrows were cheerfully industrious, canny hagglers, and reveled in drink and games with a fierce gaiety. When trading with them, one could get a good deal, but could not help but to suspect the deal was better for the dwarf.
“You should come with us, bucko!” Leitholf exclaimed, clapping Cutch on the shoulder as he sat amongst the dwarf traders around the cookfire one night. The other dwarves nodded and murmured their agreement around mouthfuls of Cutch’s venison. “We can always use a good hunter, fisherman, and cook.” Some of these dwarves Cutch had met in Othrikar when he and they happen to cross paths while he was still in Esteldin. They seemed to genuinely like the boy, and he was fascinated with them as well. Travelling in a trade caravan seemed an ideal life. “And..”, Leitholf leaned close, “we can teach you the cunning trader skills of the Dwarf. You’ll never be poor, and you will drink ale better than found all the kingdoms of Men or Elves that have ever risen or fallen.”
Some of the other dwarves expressed some concern about revealing their ‘secrets’, but all agreed in their invitation to the boy, who was beginning to feel more like a young man those days.
And so, Cutch hitched his near future to the Dwarf caravan, despite the reservations of some of the rangers, but to the relief of others. Calenglad did not object to Cutch’s decision but did wish to continue the young man’s education, perhaps another time. In the end, the elder ranger deduced that this was the time for Cutch to begin finding his own fate and bade him good fortune.
