#lithcynd

She patrolled the muster fields of Dunharrow like a general reviewing troops, only rather than inspecting the riders who crowded the dewy green grass, she looked instead at the means to support them. The clean, sharp edges of tautly pitched tents, the swiftly moving lines at the ration distribution points, the carefully color-coded flags that marked which sections of the picket lines belonged to which éored’s horses. The fates of six thousand men hung on these simple matters of organization and provision, a war to be won or lost before a single arrow was loosed or sword unsheathed. Another pair of shoulders so slight might have buckled under such a burden, but Lithcynd felt these men’s fates not as weight dragging her down but as wind at her back. They were her purpose and her duty, and they pushed her forward. There was much to do for them, and she would see it done.

It took well over an hour for her to get from one end of the crowded meadow to the other on her patrols, stopping often to point a wayward man to the weapontake or to note a company in need of the crushed herbs used to deter lice and fleas, and every moment yet more arrivals poured in. Fresh faced and battle hardened, high spirited and reluctant, at ease and terrified, she greeted as many of the riders as she could, vowing that they would be warm and well fed and safe, at least for as long as they were in her care. 

The common men were settled in the Firienfeld among the clover and spring’s earliest crocus flowers while the captains and marshals of higher rank were nestled above, in booths and pavilions at the top of a narrow road with many winding turns. But soon they would all be gone, king and commoner alike, marched off into the gloom of a dawnless morning on a path to destiny. Dunharrow would sit quiet and calm once again, and Lithcynd would wait to learn if she had the victory or not. 

**********

Protected by mountains on three sides and a river crossing at the fourth, Dunharrow was as secure as any place in Rohan. Stores and provisions were always kept there in readiness for a time of emergency, and it had been the designated muster point of direst need ever since Fréaláf King had ridden out of the valley to liberate nearby Edoras from invaders at the end of the Long Winter. Each of Harrowdale’s lords since that time had inherited the solemn duty to shelter and equip the entire éoherë when called upon, a riding that had only been gathered a handful of times in all the years of the Riddermark. But when the latest call finally came, Lord Dúnhere had found himself far afield, caught in fighting in the Westfold and yet to make his way home. And so the duty had fallen to his wife.

To shrink from a challenge was simply not in Lithcynd’s nature. Before the call to muster had even been fully spoken, she had already started a list in her head of what supplies were required, who would need to be brought in to help, how she could wring the most out of every scarce minute available to her. She had gulped a breath and jumped in head first, trusting herself not to drown in the enormity of the job and unreasonably certain that no one else could do it as well as she would.

That is not to say that everything had then gone smoothly or without setback. Despite best efforts, rarer provisions ran out early, with leather being in such high demand that some men had to repair their stirrups with rope or even boot laces instead. The local sheep farmers were near hysteric about the effect of so many horses on their traditional grazing lands and had to be given extra coin to quiet their concerns. Lithcynd had even quarreled with the king’s nephew when he arrived and immediately attempted to overrule her order to exclude any rider who showed up with signs of fever or nausea. We are in no position to turn away willing hands, he had snapped. You’ll have no hands at all if you let a flu or stomach ailment take hold in my camp, she had flung back at him. He eventually conceded, being wryly counseled by his uncle that he had taken on an opponent beyond his measure, and since she held no grudges, she had made it up to him with a blanket and pillow from her own bed for his tent before turning back to her voluminous to-do list.  

Any other misgivings about her methods or manners had quickly fallen to the wayside in the face of her evident competence. There were rows upon rows of tents made in part from the commandeered bed linens of Underharrow, hastily waterproofed with beeswax from the hives of Upbourn’s mead brewery. There were rough turf ovens, overflowing now with ash, that had turned out enough hardtack to keep the army fed for a week before needing to forage or be resupplied. The weapontake had seen every unarmed man outfitted with a spear and shield worthy of a rider of Rohan. Even the arrow-straight lines of the latrines, kept tidy by any standard and filled in regularly as needed, were a source of pride. She already had a running tally of improvements to make should there ever be a repeat occurrence, but they had accomplished something truly special, an achievement of war no less epic for having taken place far from the field of battle.

If the success of the muster had seemed improbable, she knew its architect looked no less so. Still a woman of barely thirty years, striding around in the clothes of a laborer with a messy top-knot and a mouth that inclined toward profanity, no outsider would have pegged her as the Lady of Harrowdale or the finest logistical mind in the Mark. Plucked by Dúnhere from the obscurity of tiny Wítscylp, first as an effective advisor, then a trusted friend and eventually a beloved wife, it had taken the people of the valley time to adjust to her bottomless stores of tenacious energy and her lack of concern for conventional matters like protocol or etiquette. But the skepticism of others had never bothered her.

Even as a child, she’d had an unusual intensity about her. She was always in motion, much to her minders’ chagrin, and she exhausted her elders with endless streams of questions on nearly any subject. She loved a game or a race, anything that offered a chance for victory, and was known to immediately — and perhaps aggressively — demand a rematch on the rare occasion that she lost. She had punishingly high standards, but she applied them to no one more vigorously than herself and she shared the bounty of her accomplishments freely.

The drive for excellence was a trait she’d been born with, though she claimed it from neither her father, who was notoriously shiftless, or her mother, a timid woman who spent much of her life seemingly mortified by her daughter’s ambition and self assurance. Lithcynd can be a bit much, her mother would say by way of introduction, a preemptive apology offered to newcomers along with a nervous smile. Lithcynd had never really understood the criticism. Much what? She was curious, confident, full of ideas and opinions, yes, but those hardly sounded like faults to her. And fortunately, Dúnhere had never seen them as faults either. 

**********

He returned, mid-muster, at the head of a column of bedraggled riders, what remained of his éored after the disaster at the Fords. His shield, decorated with the bright emblem of the House of Hild, was splintered and bloodstained, and his left arm was tied up in an improvised sling. But he was in good spirits as always and never more so than when his eyes landed on her at the entrance to the lower camp. He cracked a grin at the outrageous tumult all around her, the acres of hammering and shouting and clanging of metal in the midst of what was usually a quiet mountain meadow and with one small woman seemingly holding it all together by sheer force of will. I see you’ve been busy, he laughed, gently brushing aside each of her persistent attempts to get a closer look at his injured arm. 

While other men might be surprised to return home to find their wives deeply enmeshed in a spirited debate about how best to burn an army’s worth of rubbish, Dúnhere seemed to have expected nothing less. Alone among the men in her life, he had both recognized the imposing nature of her talents and never sought to diminish them in order to make his own seem all the greater. From the moment he’d found her back in Wítscylp, efficiently carrying out her father’s neglected duties as village reeve while the old man steadily drank himself to death, Dúnhere had only ever encouraged her. Do more. Be more. Speak even if others expect quiet, lead when others look for deference. My family is descended from the mighty sister of Hammerhand, he would say. Give me a wife who could wrangle the very sun from the sky if she set her mind to it.  

So she had freed herself to try her hand at anything that seemed useful or necessary, finding that if she threw herself repeatedly at an obstacle eventually she would either discover a way around or create her own way through with the blunt force of her determination. She never felt more alive than in that hard fought moment when the last of a string of barriers finally crumbled before her and the path to victory was suddenly clear and open for the taking. And whenever she felt herself getting swept along with enthusiasm for some new challenge, rushing headfirst into ideas and proposals while hardly stopping to even draw a breath, Dúnhere would only smile and shake his head. Thank Béma you’re a force for good. I’d hate to ever run up against you from the other side. 

**********

Theirs was a brief reunion at the camp gate, much briefer than she would have liked, with just enough time for him to give a quick account of himself and to hear her own. His sudden appearance caused a stir, those unacquainted with the ways of Harrowdale turning now to him in expectation that he would lead the muster from here out, but he quickly made clear that he had no such intention. Just put me to work wherever I can be of most use to you, he offered, and though she would see him take some rest and tend to his injury, he assured her that he was made of sterner stuff. And so she loaded him with tasks, avoiding only those that would trouble his slinged arm or allow others to exploit his famously generous spirit in order to increase their own allotments of the most sought after provisions. 

She left him with a kiss and headed off to inspect the booth being erected for the king, though a casual glance back over her shoulder revealed a troubling truth. Believing himself to be out of her sight, he prodded gingerly first at the injured arm and then at several ribs and a knee, though he had failed to mention hurts in those other places. The grimace on his face sent a pang of worry echoing through her heart, and she resolved to find a healer to look in on him, even if he would object — even if she had to pay the healer twice the usual rate to get him to insist on an examination of an unwilling lord of the Mark. But in the meantime, there was nothing else to do but get on with her work.

In action, at least, she found some useful distraction from the concern for her husband that now lingered at the edges of her thoughts, a vague sense of unease that as of yet had no firm shape or size. The simple satisfaction of solving problems couldn’t erase those worries, but it did at least quiet them. There was the final readying of the ration boxes to see to, and she was certain another day’s worth of food could be fit through more efficient packing. There was a complaint from Dunharrow’s horsemaster that the guinea hens brought in to control the proliferation of flies around the pickets were instead upsetting the horses with their noisy squawking. With each issue settled, another two sprung up in its place, and it gave her much to think about beyond whether Dúnhere was truly as well as he professed himself to be.

She saw him only occasionally over the chaos of the next days, often at a distance as they both went about their separate work but sometimes in closer company as well. They carved out time for rushed meals together, standing over a work bench and trading updates and suggestions between mouthfuls of apple or bread, and after the king’s arrival, they sat side by side at the meetings of his war council, Dúnhere’s large hand resting familiarly on her knee while she reported on the state of supplies. Each twilight they met in the darkened shadows of the standing stones, brief trysts hidden from view where they would love one another with eager words and hands, forgetting the rest of the world to just be husband and wife for a few stolen minutes. 

Every time they met, she studied his posture, his gait, the subtleties of his expression as he shifted and moved, any little sign or tell that might speak to his actual well being more accurately than his own representations. He was infuriatingly skilled at deflecting her questions on the topic and found endless ways to keep her from getting a direct view of the parts of him where his injuries seemed to be. The mountain air gave him reason to always be bundled in the bulk of a fur lined cloak, and the directive to light no unnecessary fires let the gloom of the night obscure any clear glimpse of his battered chest or bruised knee in their rare private moments. 

Still, no obfuscation or dodge could entirely hide the apparent truth that he was suffering more than he let on and worse as time went by. Though he could rally as needed, his shoulders were often stooped, his mouth drawn tight when he thought no one else was watching. The healer she had paid to look in on him finally succeeded, reporting that her husband was in no imminent danger but needed rest and quiet to avoid aggravating his wounds, which were indeed more numerous and more serious than admitted. He promises to dedicate himself to recovery, the healer relayed, just as soon as he’s completed his duties.

Knowing she was not the only stubborn one in the marriage, she conceded that there was no use in trying to push the point. And so, as much as she thrilled to the excitement of the muster, the energy of its unrelenting pace, the undeniable pleasure of claiming respect and praise from those who had underestimated her, she began to urgently wish for its swift completion. The sooner the éoherë was ready to depart, the sooner all distractions would be gone and Dúnhere could be prevailed upon to join the other wounded and take the rest he clearly needed at last.

Amongst her other labors, she began now to also draw up plans for how she would restore him to health in the weeks ahead. Perhaps she would take him back to Wítscylp, where they could enjoy the slow transition from winter to spring high up in the mountain passes, above the troubles of the rest of the land. There he could sleep as much as he needed or soak his aching body in the mineral spring just outside the village. They could have leisurely meals and spend long hours in the fresh air, watching the great birds of prey who made their aeries in the crags of the Írensaga or the playful otters who roamed the source of the Snowbourn. She would help to hold his fishing line as they sat on the banks of the river, swollen with melting snowpack, and when the catch was in, they’d warm themselves by a fire, wrapped up together in a single blanket. She would make his health and happiness her only goal, and she never failed to achieve her goals. 

But until then, the work of the muster continued on. By that point, the camp had grown to the size of a small city, and every supply and support was stretched near to its breaking point. Finally, on the night of the king’s own arrival, two errand riders of Gondor also appeared. Soon after, the news swept through camp of a morning departure for Minas Tirith, a race to see if the famed riders of the Mark could get to the city before it fell under siege. After days of relentless activity, the sighting of a successful end just hours away gave her renewed energy, a second wind to push through to the very last moment and leave no need unmet for lack of effort.

She labored deep into the night, each task leading seamlessly into another and another, always one more problem or question or concern to address. A leaking water cistern was slowly turning the bedding space of a company from Grimslade into a mud pit, and a wolf was sighted near the edges of the pickets, where the horses made tempting targets to those lean and desperate animals who had endured a long, hungry winter. On her way among and between the tents, she found lone riders huddled here or there, stunned by the sudden reality of departure to battle and kept from nervous panic only by the comfort of kind words and gentle hands, which she gave as freely as she could. 

By the time she made it back to her own accommodation, it was more morning than night, and she expected only to check on Dúnhere and swap her dirtied work attire for a respectable dress and braid before setting out again ahead of the dawn to see off the king and the éoherë at last. But Dúnhere was not asleep as she had hoped to find him. 

He stood, half clad again in his armor, with the remaining pieces at his feet alongside boots, his sword, and a new shield so freshly painted that its leather covering still gleamed wet in the meager candlelight. He had taken off the sling and rebound his arm with bandages, down to his hand where several fingers were splinted with wood scraps. A tonic from the healer sat nearby, evidence that he had accepted some treatment for his pain, though his face had taken on a slightly ashen look, making the light spray of freckles across the bridge of his nose stand out all the more. Still, he met her with a sheepish smile and pulled her in with his good arm, resting his lips on the crown of her head in an embrace that felt at once like a comfort, an apology and a farewell.

She spoke her protestations without looking up, the words muffled into his chest, but she knew even then that she wouldn’t really try to stop him. She heard his explanation — things in Gondor were more desperate than expected, the greater good required every man who could sit a horse, even one at half strength would be worth something to the effort — but none of it really mattered. What mattered is that he wanted her support, and that was something she would always give, a price paid willingly to one who was her own first and most enthusiastic champion. 

But if she would make a rare concession, a thing that no other man in the Riddermark could hope to win, she would still do it her way. With the decision made that he would ride out, there was much to do to prepare him, and she would yield that job to no one. She helped him dress, braid his hair out of his face, assemble anything he’d need that wouldn’t already be provided by the éoherë’s own supplies. She slipped a few special things into pockets where they might be discovered later, small surprises to bring a smile to his face in distant and difficult places where causes for happiness would be few and far between. A handful of the little molasses treats he loved, a bundle of fragrant garden herbs tied with a lock of her hair to carry the scent of home. She gave him whatever she could for his comfort and protection, knowing that good fortune and his own skill would have to provide the rest.

**********

When the hour of dawn arrived, they walked together to collect his horse and join what remained of his éored. Its ranks had been replenished with men whose companies lost their captains at the Fords or the Hornburg, as well as more than a few of the farmers, shepherds and tradesmen who belonged to no éored but had heeded the call to arms of their king. 

Fear hung unmistakably in the velvety morning mist, and she wouldn’t add to it by allowing any of them to see her own. She took this challenge as seriously as any other and forced those feelings down, giving them space to take hold in her gut and heart as long as they kept clear of her face. Straight spine, dry eyes, lifted chin. She walked at his side with a confidence as false as the strength of his step, which relied on her clasped hand to take some of the weight that his knee would not.

There was no great oration, no blowing of horns or singing as the éoreds formed and waited their turns to file out onto the road that led to the mouth of the valley. Dúnhere said a few quiet words to his own company, and she listened, in a fashion, among her own thoughts. But it wasn’t until he prepared to lift himself into his saddle and she felt their last few seconds together slipping irrevocably away that she managed to say anything herself.

You will return home safely. It was a hope, a conjuring, a question, a challenge. Perhaps most of all, an order, one she had no authority to give but had given nonetheless. She held his eye, defiant, though her voice had quavered. 

If you command it, then I have no doubt it shall be so. He smiled and kissed her cheek. Your will is never long thwarted. 

And then he was off, swinging atop his horse with a low sigh of pain that only she could hear and leading his éored into the long, slow procession to wind its way back down the path toward Edoras and then on to Gondor. 

**********

She held her place at the road’s edge long after the plume of his helm had disappeared into the quiet murk of the absent dawn. She waited until the last of the éoherë had passed, until the solemn elders and small children who had gathered to watch had drifted back to their lodgings, until the Firienfeld was once again a quiet, grassy meadow in the lap of stark mountain peaks still crowned in snow.

Alone with the bees and rabbits, she felt a sudden fatigue, a leaden weight on her limbs and in her chest, and the thought of her bed had never been more tempting. More than rest, she longed to lose herself to the vague and timeless wanderings of a sleeping mind, to drift away the days in abstract dreaming and wake only once the army returned, once Dúnhere was back and life restored to how it should be. She turned her eyes up the valley, where off in the snowy distance sat little Wítscylp, peaceful and calm. She could retreat there, waiting out whatever time it took in solitude without witnesses to her anxious marking of each day and hour without him. 

But in the miles between her and that little mountain idyll, there was still much that needed attention. There were laborers to be paid, emptied stores to restock, a whole valley to run while its lord was away. There were things she could do, things that would make him proud and reward his confidence with the proof that he was right to trust her. As her eyes swept over the remains of the camp, a list began to form in her mind, and ideas and possibilities began to crowd out the fatigue. If she used her time well, there was no telling how much she could get done before he came back. If he came back. When he came back. And so she got to work.

If you don’t recall what happened to Dúnhere in the books, maybe just don’t look it up.

Other random/self-indulgent notes:

1. There are, like, 3 of you who will remember Lithcynd from her brief appearance in Where Now the Horse and the Rider, where she took a break from being ruthlessly efficient to be charmed by Guthláf (whomst among us?) and give him and Wíd a sweet private tent.

2. The title and the little verse at the very beginning come from an old proverb that’s been around since at least the mid-1600s. Benjamin Franklin wrote out a longer version for his almanac that runs like this:

For want of a nail, the shoe was lost; For want of a shoe, the horse was lost; And for want of a horse, the rider was lost, Being overtaken and slain by the enemy, All for want of care about a horse-shoe nail.

It’s meant to speak to the phenomenon of unforeseen consequences of minor decisions, which it does, but to me it also speaks to the importance of logistics (something that is key to my professional life though not in a war context). Your epic war will be lost if you haven’t given enough thought first to the simple matter of nails. Someone has to attend to those details, and that person owns the victory every bit as much as the warrior who rode the horse.