None Shall Mark Thy Going by sallysavestheday

None Shall Mark Thy Going

In the end it is as mundane as it is magical. Turgon is nothing if not a planner. So many bodies equals so much heat and disturbance in the landscape: it is a matter of mathematics, of physics and engineering. A welcome distraction from his enduring grief and growing fear.

The challenge is to manage it with speed, as the nagging feeling between his shoulders will not permit delay. Scouts must double as builders, foragers as planters, hunters as guards. Staggered departures and small groups minimize the risk; a variety of routes ensures they leave no trace. The forward companies slip away gradually; a chain of signal relays advises him when they have attained the hidden way. Now, he can only trust their craft; he must assure himself that they will build and shape and mold the valley to their need before the rest of Nevrast’s migrants can arrive.

He would disassemble Vinyamar if it were possible – those elegant spires and prismed windows and sea-kissed stones have healed him, in some measure, and he loves them as much as any other home. But the goods they travel with must be light, and easily camouflaged. He walks the streets of his city, caressing the walls, singing what preservation he can into their warm, smooth stone. Let them wait, slumbering. He has been told -- and he must believe -- that others will come.

Time runs down with the days, until at last the bulk of the folk have gone, and the foam curls onto the shores unheeded as the beached boats fade in the sun. The forges are still and cold, the markets empty. No children’s voices ring in the streets; no bells toll in the towers. The doors are closed and barred, save those of court and citadel, where the nobles argue yet that Turgon must send word of his plans to the King before he goes.

But he will not. He cannot, at the risk of jeopardizing all. His heart pinches at the thought of Fingolfin arriving all unknowing in the empty city, but he knows he must not permit the risk. His sole concession is a letter in Pengolodh’s careful, elegant hand: a tale of the secret city, beautiful as Tirion, never to be found. Seven names and seven gates; a hidden echo of Eldamar across the sea; the last haunt of their people in the teeth of fate. He seals it with the ring his father gave him and leaves it pinned to the great table in the council room below the arms and armor he gifts to the future. He prays it will be found and read with love.

The final push is the hardest. The city-bred and the goods of court are less easy to convey with speed and secrecy, and there is no way to exit the urban basin without disturbance. Planning, at this point, can only achieve so much. Turgon knows his own limits, and for this last mystery he turns to his sister and her scouts.

The Sindar have a knack for slipping through terrain unseen, and Aredhel chooses the wiliest among them to help her coach those for whom such disappearance is more vexing. No jewels, no armor, nothing that might flash or tangle or make such joyful noises as a train of laden Noldor craftsmen might otherwise create. This caravan must be silent, and dim, and unnoticeable, lest all their preparation come to nought.

Aredhel rode with Oromë with her eyes wide open. In that fierce company, she learned much of concealment and distraction, of camouflage and the silent stalking tension of the hunt. Uncomfortable at court, she has left Nevrast and Vinyamar to Turgon’s leadership, but this she can do, and do well. This task will be her own Great Work.

She weaves a Song of disguise and confusion – a softening of the air that calls the mists down and shades their way. Riding the long column from vanguard to rear and back again, she sings and sings: a tune of stillness, of small ripples in the air that hide their greater waves. Her voice curls low beneath the beat of their horses’ hooves and breaks that rhythm to conceal their number. She sings their rustling into leaves, their breathing into grass. All the wild forests coil in her voice and echo back from the sides of the mountains, veiling their passing in the whisper of the branches and the calls of the tumbling crows.

As the last of the host disappears into the hidden pass, she turns with Turgon to look back down the shadowed valleys from whence they came. The sea is far behind; not even a breath of the salted air remains. Yet some echo of the singing waters shivers in the mists around them. Go, it whispers, Hurry and be gone. Ulmo’s liquid breath ghosts over them; the stars blur and dance in the deepening haze.

Turgon’s face is dark and still, as though carved from the rock around them, but his gaze is bent beyond the West, yearning. He is a stag before the spear, Aredhel thinks, and shivers; he is a hawk jessed and hooded, bating as it waits to be caged.

The last rays of the setting sun break through the mists to crown him: King of silence, King of stone.