On Not Leaving Gondolin by Himring

This is the Square of the Tower in Gondolin.
Well washed with rain, well swept with wind,
the streets of the city are long picked clean.
The tower has fallen. One wall still stands.
A flight of stairs leads to an open door
from nowhere to nowhere, for no one to pass.
Its stone frame faces Crissaegrim.
Below lie the bones of Turgon the King,
who would do all to reach Tirion except leave Gondolin.

Now the eagles desert Cirith Thoronath,
and the mountains shudder--far in the north,
doors of iron broke--they feel the blow.
The air rumbles with avalanche.
The last walls of Gondolin totter and slide.
Amid clouds of dust, the stairs descend.
The door frame tilts.
It no longer faces Crissaegrim.
Bury deeper the bones of Turgon the King,
who would do all to reach Tirion except leave Gondolin.

Soon the sea will come rolling in.
Bury deeper the bones of Turgon the King.
He would do all to reach Tirion except leave Gondolin.

Chapter End Notes

Written for B2MeM 2012. 

Prompts: The former door where the dead feet walked in (Th. Hardy / Snippets of Verse),  Mountain gap (Landscape),  Cloudy (Weather)

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On the morning after Tuor had arrived with Ulmo’s warning, Turgon sat up in bed and his very first thought was: ‘We’ll have to start packing now.’

He put on his dressing gown, fetched his writing materials and did a quick calculation: number of wagons available, number of draft animals, number of boxes, etc., etc.

Then he started drawing up a list with three categories: yes (for things to take along), no (for things to leave behind), and maybe (you can guess what that one was for).

Three hours later, on his list he had: 5 items under yes, 2 items under no, and 763.5 items under maybe.

‘No good’, said Turgon grimly. ‘I’ll have to start again.’

Another five hours later, the floor was covered knee-deep in crumpled lists and Turgon was tearing his hair.

‘Utumno!’ he grumbled, finally. ‘There’s no way I can cope with this.  I’ll just sit here and wait until Morgoth flattens everything. It will be so much easier than evacuating Gondolin.’

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'My dear Tuor,' said Turgon, leaning next to his son-in-law out of a window high up in the Tower of the King, 'we can't possibly evacuate Gondolin in the middle of a heat wave. We're just past the Gates of Summer and you know what it's like outside at noon. Can you see the air shimmering in the heat above the rooftops?'

Tuor sighed. Turgon had turned out to be a past master at procrastination. His long list of excuses for not leaving Gondolin had to be heard to be believed.

'I thought elves were supposed to be impervious to the heat,' he nevertheless tried to argue feebly, although his own forehead was beaded with sweat.

'My dear boy,' said Turgon, in honest astonishment. 'Wherever did you get that idea?

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