The Most Important Ingredient is Love by daughterofshadows  

---

Third Age

Things end with the Dúnedain. Sometimes, you don't share blood with your closest family, and the comfort of home is hidden in the small things.

All rangers are taken straight from Lord of the Rings Online, because they won't stop making me cry, which I'm making everybody else's problem.

Once again, Chestnut's list (see previous chapter) proved invaluable for the OCs, mainly Dúvain and Laegwen.

---

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.