The Most Important Ingredient is Love by daughterofshadows  

| | |

Second Age

We continue in the Second Age.
The beginning of Númenor and its end are not as dissimilar as one might expect. Above all, her people know how to persevere.

 

Shout-out to Chestnut and their amazing name list for helping me figure out Isildur's and Anárion's family members.

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.

Table of Contents | Leave a Comment