The Most Important Ingredient is Love by daughterofshadows  

They stand side by side, stooped over their table as they chop root vegetables. On the hearth, a pot of water simmers, waiting for the vegetables that will turn it into a stew. It is simple fare, but nourishing—and most of all warm.

Outside, the wind howls. Snow has finally given way to rain, pounding on the roof. Spring is coming soon, but for now, winter has them in its grasp for a little longer.

Belemir is showing Andreth how to chop the turnips into small chunks, his large hands guiding her smaller ones, and their niece is watching with a frown of concentration.

Adanel watches them with a smile. It is a blessing to be tucked away safely inside their home, and to be able to share the joy of cooking with the ones she holds dear.

When Adanel and Belemir first wed, and she came to live amongst his people, it was the cooking of food where they first found common ground.

The dishes of her childhood were a piece of home Adanel could take with her on her move to her new household, and as her life and Belemir’s became intertwined, the meals they came to share reflect their union, blending traditions of both their families into something new entirely.

Now they share their recipes with Andreth who will add her own ideas to the pot as she grows older and share them with the ones she loves.

Adanel is shaken from her reverie when Andreth proudly presents her with lopsided chunks of turnip.

“Look! I cut these all by myself!” Andreth proclaims. “Can we add them to the stew?”

“What magnificent pieces of turnip! I will gladly add them to the stew and it will taste all the better, because you had a hand in making it.” Adanel smiles and carefully drops the turnips in with the rest of the vegetables simmering over the fire.

“And now we wait,” Belemir says, “for the most important ingredient of all is time.”

“And love! You said love was also very important!” Andreth adds, climbing into a chair beside him.

Belemir grins. “Indeed! How could I forget all the love we have added to the dish. It would taste much poorer without it. Now, while we wait, maybe we can convince your aunt to tell us a story?”

“Oh, please, Adanel, will you?”

With two sets of pleading eyes turned on her, how can she say anything but yes?

“Very well, my loves, if a story is what you wish for, a story you shall have. It was very long ago by the reckoning of our people, though not so very long ago at all by the reckoning of the elves…”

Belemir spins as she speaks, the spindle turning and turning as he turns fibre into yarn. Adanel, too, knows how to spin, but she despises it and so it is well that Belemir delights in or they would have to trade with their kinsfolk for all of their yarn.

But enjoy it he does, and so Adanel will happily do all of their mending while Belemir spins the thread.

Life is good, Beren thinks as he returns home. They have settled into a quiet existence, here on the edge of the forest, where Dior can sing with the birds and run with the deer.

He has found fresh root vegetables on his walk, enough that they can have stew for dinner. Autumn has settled in, and the air is growing colder each day; stew will be just the thing to warm them up tonight.

It is also a new recipe to share with Lúthien, for his beloved wife did not know how to cook.

She is skilled at baking but cooking she had yet to learn. Beren does not know whether it is because she is—was a princess, or whether there is some cultural reason for it, but he enjoys the opportunity to teach her now.

His thoughts drift back to the day when he first learnt how to make this dish, guided by his mother’s strong hands.

His parents had shared the cooking duties and both Barahir and Emeldir took care to teach Beren the art of preparing meals.

Both brought recipes into the family, dishes they grew up with, dishes they learnt to love as they grew older.

Beren does his best to remember them all so he can share them with his own son one day. He does not have much in terms of a legacy he can give Dior to remember his paternal family by, but he can give his son this.

Recipes that have been passed down through generations, with each new family member adding their own twist to the dish.

The stew Beren intends to make tonight is one his mother brought into the family. Emeldir learnt it from her father, who learnt it from his parents in turn.

Beren puts down his foraged treasures on the kitchen table and gets to work. His family drifts into the kitchen while he works.

“What are you making tonight?” Lúthien asks, head tilted curiously. She reminds him of the cat his neighbours kept around as a mouser. Sometimes it would sit and watch people as they worked the fields, head tilted to the side as if trying to unravel a great mystery. If it had ever discovered the secrets of the world during those times, it chose not to share them with anyone.

Thankfully, the mystery in front of Lúthien is not much of a mystery at all.

“I thought we might enjoy some stew for dinner. The forest gave us fresh vegetables today and it reminded me of a dish my mother made often. It has been many years since I last tasted hers, but I believe I can still manage a passable imitation. I could use some help with the preparations, if you have the time?”

“We have all the time in the world now, my love. Certainly enough to help you with dinner, though you will have to teach me what to do with these.” She smiles at him, still excited to learn new things. That she has lived many millennia longer than Beren ever will is no matter.

A small hand tugs on his tunic and Beren looks down at his son.

“I want to help, too!” Dior pleads, looking up at him with big eyes.

Beren grins. “You are a bit too small to handle the big knives right now, but I would greatly appreciate your help stirring the pot while the stew cooks later. It is a very important task.”

“Really?”

“Oh yes! For you see, that is when the most important ingredient of all is added to the meal. Do you know what it is?”

Dior shakes his head.

Beren kneels on the floor so he can whisper into Dior’s ear. “The most important ingredient, little songbird, is love. When we share this dish as a family, we also share the love we have for each other. Never forget that; no matter what you cook or whom you cook for.”

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They are coming closer and closer to something that might be called a settlement in more than just the loosest meaning of the word.

The island with all its mountains and trees may have risen from the sea fully formed, but that does not mean it is quite ready for human settlers just yet.

There are no ports for the ships to dock—ships that bring the many people who have chosen to follow Elros to these new lands—nor are there buildings for them to live in.

A sprawling tent city stretches across the slopes of Meneltarma, filled with masons and architects, carpenters and blacksmiths.

Strictly speaking, Elros does not need to be here. He has entrusted a competent architect to lead the city’s construction, a true master of her craft, but he wants to be here. He is excited to see Númenor’s first city rise from the ground up, a true sign that the war against Morgoth is finally, finally over.

Sometimes he wonders whether this is how his grandfather felt when Gondolin was built, an almost desperate fervour to finally see long years of planning come to fruition.

He has been dreaming about this city since he was a little boy, lying in bed next to his brother and painting a picture of what the future might look like. It was nothing but a daydream then, but now, it is finally becoming a reality.

Elros offers his help where he can. He is a decent enough carpenter himself, and they have been glad to accept his support, though the other carpenters were wary of the King of all people offering to help at first. Elros often reminds them that he is not King yet and that he can only be crowned once they actually have a city to rule over, so it is only right and fair he does what he can to make that city happen.

They seem to have accepted that argument with little further resistance, and Elros likes to think that by now, he has a fairly good rapport with some of his fellow carpenters.

He is walking through the camp, checking in with people and listening to their concerns and ideas, when he hears somebody call out to him.

It is Hana, with whom Elros has spent the morning making many doors.

“Come!” she says and beckons him over. “Join us for a meal. I doubt you have taken the time to eat much today.”

Elros blushes, because he has indeed forgotten to eat much at all. For a second, he is relieved that Elrond is not with him, for his brother would worry terribly over his bad habits.

Hana smiles knowingly. “It is not much, but we were lucky enough to find some familiar root vegetables while walking earlier today. We have turned them into a hearty stew, and I, for one, am quite curious to find out whether turnips taste different in Númenor than they did in Beleriand.”

“That is an intriguing question indeed! And I would be happy to join you if you truly do not mind the intrusion. We have little enough spare time as it is, I do not wish to disrupt what moments of time you manage to steal with your loved ones,” Elros says.

“We are glad to have you. Now, please sit. The stew will take a moment longer. It is an old family recipe and as my grandfather used to say, ‘the two most important ingredients in any dish are love and time’. We have added plenty of love already, now all it needs is a bit of time.”

Elros laughs. “Love and time. I will have to remember that. I am afraid that I learnt to cook as efficiently and as fast as possible, so I do not think I know any recipes for which this sentence holds relevance, but perhaps I will learn some, one day.”

“What dishes did you learn how to make, if I may ask?”

Elros shrugs. “Oh, mostly elven recipes well suited for wartime. Flatbread that will last for weeks. Simple fare that can be cooked with only a few ingredients and in a very short amount of time. If you are curious, I would be happy to show you, but it is perhaps not the style of food that is in much demand during peace times.”

Hana pats his hand. “Nevertheless, I would like to learn and perhaps I can teach you a few of my recipes in return. But for now, let us eat, and toast to the bright future that lies ahead of us. To Númenor!”

Even days after, Isildur can still feel the shaking planks of the ship beneath his feet. Númenor lies far behind them now, her fate unknown, but his thoughts still drift back to the land he called home, back to the island and to his father. Had Elendil survived? The storm that separated their ships was the worst Isildur had ever seen on land or sea.

He counted his blessings when he met Anárion again in the harbour of Pelargir, where five of their nine ships lie at anchor now, and he hopes that his father was similarly lucky. Isildur does not know when he will find out, but he hopes, prays it will be soon—hopes and prays that whatever luck or fate spared him and his brother, has also spared his father.

The sun slowly sets over the now quiet waves and Isildur shivers. He does not recall how long he has been standing here, watching the ocean, but his limbs are stiff and heavy, so it must have been quite some time.

“Isildur? You have been out here for most of the day, my heart. Won’t you come eat with us? Everyone is waiting for you.” Nixelós reaches for his hands and gasps, “Your hands are all but frozen! Come, Anárion has made stew, that will warm you right up.”

Isildur’s voice sounds hoarse, even to his own ears. “You have let Anárion cook? I do not know if I wish to eat it if that is the case.”

Nixelós rolls her eyes. “Oh hush, you, your brother is a decent enough cook and you know it.”

She takes him by the hand and leads him away from the sea, away from his dark thoughts, and toward the camp where their family has gathered.

Isildur follows her without complaint.

They are living in tents for now, as Pelargir was unable to house the number of newcomers on such short notice.

Isildur is not too worried however, for he doubts they will stay here long. Already he has discussed plans with Anárion to move further upriver and to establish new cities there. Of course, such plans require much care and attention and so it is likely that they will only begin their survey of the lands further north once their people here are more settled.

Nixelós leads him to the tent Anárion share with his wife and children. Isildur can already smell the stew and his stomach growls in response. His wife spoke true: Anárion is quite a good cook. Their father taught them both when they were younger, but Isildur has always favoured baking over cooking.

They step inside the dimly lit tent.

Anárion stirs a pot over the fire, a pleased smile on his face. His wife, Falmalótë, already sits at the small table, nursing their youngest son, Meneldil.

Isildur’s own son, Elendur sits next to her, his younger cousin Úvindë pressed against his side. The little girl is old enough to understand that something is wrong, but too young to fully grasp why her older sisters are gone.

Isildur feels a stab of guilt. He has been so worried about his father that he completely forgot about his nieces. The last time any of them laid eyes on Vëanésa and Vanilómë, they were with their grandfather. Isildur knows, Elendil would not let anything happen to them if it were in his power to prevent it, but with Elendil’s fate unknown, that thought helps only little to soothe his nerves.

“Thank you for cooking, Anárion,” Nixelós says as she sits down at the table.

Anárion grins at her. “You are very welcome, sister. Thank you for collecting my wayward brother.”

She winks. “You are very welcome, brother. He was nearly frozen when I found him, so it was certainly time to bring him inside.”

Isildur sighs and rolls his eyes. “Now you are exaggerating, love. It was not nearly as bad as you make it sound.”

Nixelós, Falmalótë and Anárion all raise a doubtful eyebrow at his words and Isildur sits down with a grumble.

Úvindë giggles at his frowning expression, and Isildur intentionally exaggerates his frown. It is so rare to hear her laugh these days and the sound seems to brighten the tent.

Gathered around the table, it almost feels as if they are back in Númenor, together for one of the many family dinners Elendil insisted on hosting. Conversation flows easily, and Anárion’s stew tastes as good as it smells.

‘Make food with love and it will taste all the better for it.’ His mother’s words echo in Isildur’s ears now, as he eats the stew.

Elendil repeated them often during their cooking lessons. They are the mantra that all of them cook by, and Isildur has repeated them while teaching Elendur, just like his father did before.

If their mother spoke true, Anárion must have poured a lot of love into his cooking today.

Isildur lets the food warm his body inside and out. Nixelós was right—he needed this more desperately than he knew.

Not just the food, though that was certainly doing him wonders, but also the time among family. The reminder that not all is terrible in the world, no matter the losses they have suffered. There are people who love him, who need him and whom he loves and needs in return.

Isildur resolves not to get lost in the past any longer, the present needs his attention now.

Elendil has rarely been as glad to be on dry land as he is now. Númenor is lost to them, but somehow, his father’s plan bore fruit. Nine ships escaped the turmoil of the sinking island and four of them have made it to the shores of Lindon with him.

His sons’ ships are not among them, but Elendil refuses to believe that they are dead. They cannot be dead. Vëanésa and Vanilómë have already been robbed of their home; fate cannot have taken their parents as well.

The elves on the shores of Lindon have welcomed them, offering them as much shelter and food as they were able to.

Elendil finds his granddaughters in the house where they have been granted lodging at least for the time being. With them are Silmenis and Váyórë, two of his most trusted commanders.

Váyórë has been one of his closest companions since they were adventurous youths, and over the years, they have been Elendil’s rock. From the death of his wife to his sons’ marriages, Váyórë has been a steady, comforting presence by his side.

Silmenis has not been by his side as long, but she has proven to be an invaluable navigator over the last decade. It was she who found safe passage to shore when the storm finally receded, and without her, at least one ship would have been lost to the rocky cliffs, Elendil is certain of it.

He finds all four of them gathered around the table, a pile of vegetables between them. Váyórë is showing the others how to cut turnips and carrots, their melodious voice explaining the recipe they are following.

Elendil immediately recognises it as one of his favourites, a recipe that his wife had shared with him in the early days of their relationship. It is a dish that will forever remind him of her, just as it will always remind him of the many happy hours they spent together in a kitchen teaching his sons how to cook.

Váyórë easily welcomes him into their group when Elendil enters the room, allowing him to take over in instructing Vëanésa, Vanilómë and Silmenis in the art of making stew, while Váyórë slips away to prepare a pot of water for cooking the vegetables.

Soon, the stew is happily bubbling away, and silence settles over the table like a blanket. It is a tired silence, that speaks of long days and many new experiences, not the sad silence that has been haunting their footsteps in the last few weeks, and for the first time since landing on these shores, Elendil is content.

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It does not happen often that they are given the chance to come together like this, to spend an evening among friends, family.

An unexpected gift in darkening times.

They share what they have, each of them contributing to the meal they eat.

Candaith offers two rabbits he snared, trading Saeradan their furs for spices he cannot obtain in the Lonelands.

Halros brings a loaf of fresh bread—a rare treat, as the wilds offer little opportunity for baking. Hobbits may be distrustful of outsiders, but those near the borders know who guards them, and they repay his work in the best way they know.

Andreg is the one who cooks their meal, shooing Saeradan away when he tries to help.

They are gathered in Saeradan's home. It is an unspoken rule that the host of these meetings needs not contribute to the meal, for they already give what is most important.

A space where they can come together.

Saeradan's table is marked with memories. This is where they mourned Golodir and his companions when news of his failed expedition in Angmar reached their ears, and where they celebrated Halros joining their ranks.

There are bloodstains from patching up wounded siblings and a burnt circle where they set down a pot still too hot from the fire. It’s not much, but they are undeniably a part of its history.

The Dunedain have left their mark on this table just as they have left their mark on each other.

Andreg puts Candaith to work chopping vegetables and tells Halros which herbs to cut from Saeradan’s windowsill. They work in companionable silence. The time for news will come, but those are best shared over a warm meal.

Soon the room smells of stew. It is no grand meal, but it is warm and filling and there is comfort in its simplicity and familiarity.

Saeradan remembers learning this recipe from his own parents. They thought cooking an essential skill to have, especially for those who spend most of their days travelling the width and breadth of Eriador.

Saeradan cannot help but agree with their assessment. On how many nights has he been grateful for knowing how to cook himself a warm meal, instead of having to rely on hard waybread?

That is why he taught Candaith, Andreg and Halros when they were sent to guard the lands around his post.

The warmth that fills Saeradan’s chest at the sight of those three young men cooking a meal he taught them in his home is not due to the cooking fire.

No, it is the great affection and care that he has for his kinsmen, his brothers, that warms his soul.

Never has he been more grateful for their presence in his life, especially when the world around them grows ever darker and the path ahead of them lies in shadow.

Saeradan is drawn from his reverie when Candaith presses a bowl of stew into his hands.

The younger man smiles at him. “Come eat with us. If it tastes anywhere near as good as it smells, Andreg has done well indeed.”

Saeradan joins them at the table. “I do not doubt it. Andreg has become a fair cook in the time I have known him, and I would enjoy any meal that I can share with my brothers.”

He lets them eat their fill, allowing them to tell stories about their adventures keeping watch over Eriador, before he shares the tidings that reached him but a day ago.

“Halbarad has sent word that Aragorn has need of his kin in the South. He is gathering as many as can be found on such short notice to join him on the journey to Rohan. Will you join us?”

Candaith strokes his chin. “Rohan, you say? That is a long road, and a dangerous one, but no path is too long or dangerous if our chieftain has need of us. I will come.”

Andreg nods. “So will I.”

Halros hesitates. “There are some things I must put in order before I can leave my post in the Shire. Give me two days, and I will join you, though my heart tells me if I leave, I will not return. But I have sworn an oath and I do not intend to break my vow. I only hope I can leave my post in good order for whoever follows in my footsteps.”

“I pray that your heart betrays you, my friend, but there is no doubt that we could very well ride to our doom. Halbarad asks us to join him in Rivendell as soon as we may be able. But let that be the worry of tomorrow. Tonight, we are safe here together, with good food and better company, and if this is the last quiet evening I shall have for some time, I am glad to spend it with you.”

The kitchens are buzzing with excitement today. After the long years of Sauron’s shadow looming over Minas Tirith, the city finally has something grand to celebrate. And what grander celebration could there be than a royal wedding?

Sauron has been defeated; the king has returned to Gondor and now he will wed his betrothed.

Truly, Laegwen cannot think of a better way to celebrate the end of the war. Even if it means staying up late and waking up early to make sure everything is ready, perfect even, for this great day.

Laegwen has never seen the kitchens as busy as they are today. She came to Minas Tirith nearly ten years ago now, leaving behind her home and parents in the Ringló Vale in the hopes of gaining one of the highly desired apprenticeships in the Citadel’s kitchen.

Somehow, she succeeded, and now, ten years later, she has become a master cook in her own right.

“Mistress Laegwen?” Dúvain, one of her apprentices, appears at her side.

Laegwen suppresses a sigh. “What is it now, Dúvain? Not more complaints from Orfion, I hope? You have better things to do than to play messenger for him. Just because all of his work for today was done months ago, he cannot keep distracting everyone else from their duties.”

The cheesemaker does not seem to grasp the stress the rest of the kitchen staff is under to ensure everything is ready for the wedding feast. Over the past few days, Laegwen has received many complaints about Orfion’s inane requests, all of which could be handled much better after the wedding.

Dúvain flushes. “Ah, no, Mistress, not this time. There is a Ranger with a request to make.”

“A Ranger? What does one of Lord Faramir’s men need from us?”

“No, not one of our Rangers. One of the King’s brethren? A Dúnadan, I mean. Should I bring him to you? I left him waiting at the door,” Dúvain explains.

Laegwen looks around her. None of the pots require her full attention right now, and so perhaps she can spare a few moments to talk to the Ranger.

She nods. “Very well, you may bring him here, so long as he will not be dragging dirt all over the floor.”

Dúvain bows. “I will let him know, Mistress.”

When they reappear, it is with a tall man in tow. Laegwen has not seen many of the Dúnedain, but all of them seem to have the same harsh, grim look about them. Dressed entirely in greys and blacks, he stands out in the bright kitchen.

“Master Ranger. I am Laegwen, one of the masters of this kitchen. My apprentice tells me that you have a request to make?”

The ranger bows deeply. “It is a pleasure to make your acquaintance, Mistress. I am Radanir and indeed, I have a request for you. It is an odd one, perhaps, but all I need is a small pot.”

“A pot?” Laegwen asks. “That is an odd request, you are right? May I ask what you need this pot for?”

“Of course. I expected nothing less. As you likely know, my kin and I came from the North to aid our chieftain. We lost many along the way, for such is the nature of war, but there are those of us who have survived, and I would like to provide them some familiar comforts at the end of this long road. We are far from our homes, but perhaps I can bring a piece of home here. And what better way is there to do it than to cook a dish we are all familiar with?”

Laegwen’s face softens. Once again, she has mistaken a grim appearance for unkindness and uncaring. Here is a man who cares deeply for his kin, even though he does not look like it.

Her mind wanders back unbidden to her mother’s kitchen, to the dishes of her childhood that she still makes when she is feeling nostalgic and in need of the comfort that familiarity provides.

The choice then is easy to make.

“I do believe we can find a spare pot for you, Master Radanir, even in this madness, though I am afraid I do not know if we have the ingredients you need. Dúvain will accompany you, so everyone knows you have been given permission to be here. Dúvain, I believe there should be some space near the herb gardens to work.”

Radanir smiles and bows again. “You have my thanks, Mistress. I have all the ingredients I need, so I shall not have to ask for anything more from your realm.”

Then he nods to Dúvain. “Lead the way.”

Dúvain gives Laegwen a nervous smile. “Of course, Mistress. Master Radanir, this way, please.”

The ranger is silent as he follows Dúvain through the kitchen and Dúvain does not know if they are glad for it or not.

“Here we are,” they say and feel pride when their voice only shakes a little. Dúvain clears some clutter away and places the pot on a small table.

A fire is banked in the hearth, the table mostly used when only a small meal needs to be prepared. It was common when the Steward still lived, but now, there a plenty of people living in the Citadel that need to be fed, and the table has seen little use in recent weeks.

“Wonderful, this will be plenty of space for me,” the ranger smiles. “I hope I am not keeping you from your own duties?”

He lays out root vegetables, potatoes, spices and even a dead rabbit, to Dúvain’s great surprise.

Dúvain shakes their head. “No, if Mistress Laegwen wishes for me to accompany you, that is my duty for now.” They hesitate for a moment, but finally ask, “Can I assist you in any way?”

Radanir looks surprised and Dúvain realises that perhaps they have not been able to hide their nerves as well as they hoped.

“If you wish to learn the recipe, I would be delighted to have your assistance, but I will not blame you for using the time to take a break. I am certain all of you down here have been hard at work these past few days,” the ranger says.

Dúvain gathers their courage, and this time, their voice does not waver. “I would like to learn, Master Radanir.”

Radanir nods. “Very well then. It is a recipe that has been passed down through generations. I learnt it from a close friend of mine. Halbarad was his name, and though he died on the Pelennor fields, his memory will live on in every stew I cook, and perhaps now in yours, too. When he taught me, he said: ‘We value this recipe because of its simple ingredients, but also because of its history. Every time we cook it, we remember the generations of rangers who came before us, and we celebrate their lives. So cook this, when you come together with your kin and in your meal, the memory of our fallen kin lives on.’”

“I am honoured to learn this recipe then, and though I know little of your people’s history, I will remember you whenever I make it. You have chosen a great tribute to commemorate your fallen siblings.”

Dúvain watches carefully as Radanir walks them through the steps. It is not a complicated recipe, they have learnt far more difficult things during their apprenticeship, but nevertheless, Dúvain is determined to make no mistakes.

Finally, Radanir puts the pot over the fire to simmer.

“If you are in a hurry, it is enough to cook it long enough that your vegetables are cooked through, but it tastes much better if you give it time.”

“Time and love, those are the two most important ingredients of any meal. That is what my father used to say,” Dúvain whispers. “I think you have added plenty of both to this dish.”

Radanir smiles. “I certainly hope so. Will it be alright if I leave this here until the feast begins? I fear my attendance was requested at the wedding, but I can come and collect it once the ceremony is finished.”

Dúvain nods quickly. “That should not be a problem. Nobody uses this corner these days, but I will keep an eye on it.”

“You have my thanks. I hope our paths will cross again.” Radanir bows again and leaves the kitchens.

Dúvain returns to Mistress Laegwen to learn where they are needed now, but their thoughts return to the ranger and his stew many times during the day.

The ringing of the bells announces the end of the ceremony, and Dúvain watches the doors to the kitchen like a hawk.

When Radanir finally returns, they mumble a hasty apology to the person they are helping to fill pitchers of water and rush over to him.

“Master Radanir? I hope you do not mind, but I wished to gift you something in return for the recipe you shared with me. It is not much, and very lopsided, but I have made it all by myself.” They pull a loaf of bread from their satchel.

It is a day old, but sourdough bread tasted best after a day or two in Dúvain’s opinion. They hold the bread out to Radanir.

The ranger takes it with an astonished look. “You honour me with this gift, Dúvain. Thank you, truly. Should you be able to attend the feast as well, come and join me. I will save a bowl of stew for you.”

The apprentices are released from the kitchens once the main course is served.

Dúvain barely hesitates before they slip into the banquet hall, looking for the tell-tale grey of the Dúnedain.

They do not have to search long. Radanir spots them and waves them over, before doubts can take seed in Dúvain’s mind after all.

A bowl of stew is pressed into their hands as soon as they sit down, and though they are a stranger to all but Radanir, Dúvain is welcomed into the rangers’ midst.

And just like Halbarad once said, they eat and they celebrate. They toast to the dead, and they welcome the dawn of the new age with a smile and the taste of stew on their lips.

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